#but i plan to get both their swords so it is a Temporary Measure

[lionbearfox]

im so fucking ready for furina

[chanfictions]

Akatsuki reader, partners...mmmmm maybe Hidan and Kisame.

Again, fem! The reader gets hit by someone else's technique.

(Or she was stupidly thrown something that she didn't have time to dodge).

The reader gets aroused and suddenly wants to have sex, whines, rubs herself against Kisame and Hidan, and they decide to help her ;3

(Either arrive at the base and fuck there, or right where they got rid of the opponents)

Hey anon! Sooooo, I know this isn't exactly what you requested. I couldn't for the life of me fit Hidan and Kisame into the same box to make this work, so I just stuck with Kisame. It started with your ask. One thing led to another and this happened. I got carried away with plot. Again. Hope you still enjoy! 

Cupid

18+ Content! Minors DNI!

Kisame x Reader

Smut with a splash of plot. Unprotected sex-ish. Reader is assumed to be on birth control. Public sex-ish. Aphrodisiacs. Mentions of blood during combat.

You were sent on a mission together to retrieve a special relic that had some unexpected side effects.

3.4k

This mission was doomed from the start.

Pain had partnered you with Kisame on an infiltration and retrieval mission to acquire a powerful ninja tool being housed in a fortified military compound not far from the Hidden Sound. Stealth was your forte, so this sort of thing was right up your alley. While you had no hard-hitting combat skills to fall back on in the event that something went awry, you weren't particularly worried. As a phantom thief with a perfect record in your high profile heists, the thought of getting caught or needing to participate in a fight hardly crossed your mind. You insisted to Pain that you had never needed backup in the past and could easily do this yourself, but Pain disagreed. Kisame was assigned to you more or less as a bodyguard whether you liked it or not.

Kisame had been running solo since Itachi's death and had gotten a tad rusty when it came to fighting alongside another person. Your battle techniques got along about as well as oil and water. You favored covert sabotage and traps, and Kisame, well, Kisame was Kisame. Nothing that man did was small. He transformed every battlefield he encountered into a shark-infested lake before completely obliterating his opponents.

That's how everything went sideways. Kisame, bless his blue heart, was not subtle. You donned your camouflage jutsu and got ready to slink into the compound. "I'll pop a flare if I get into trouble. It's going to be much easier to sneak in and out without a 6'8" sword on legs following me. Just wait here."

Staring at the spot where he thought you were probably standing, Kisame's face twisted slightly. "This really isn't a good idea, Y/N." Unfortunately for Kisame, you were already long gone, and he was having a conversation with the wind. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back against a thick tree, focusing on the compound not far off in the distance where you would be poking around on your own. He didn't like the idea of you going in there alone. You were still relatively new to the Akatsuki, and your skills had yet to be formally tested. Kisame got along with you quite well and rather liked you, so allowing you to dive head first into danger without any real offensive jutsu in your arsenal left him on edge.

That overprotective nervousness regarding your safety was what sent everything spiraling out of control. An alarm sounding from within the walls of the compound left Kisame bristling and looking skyward for a flare. As the seconds ticked by into minutes with no cloud of smoke rising into the sky and the clear sound of soldiers mobilizing inside, Kisame made the executive decision to throw your plan out the window.

What he didn't know was that the alarm you set off was a decoy. Oh, shit. After plunging the base into chaos, it occurred to you that you had neglected to tell Kisame as much. At that moment, you realized that Kisame was probably about to charge in, sharkskin blazing. Shit, shit, shit! Every profanity you knew blared across your stream of consciousness like ticker tape as you hurriedly snatched the relic longbow you had been sent in to retrieve. A gooey sap coated the slick wood which left you quickly wiping your palms on your thighs to clean your hands before making a beeline for the exit. The growing cacophony of chaos outside announced Kisame's arrival.

As you expected, things outside had gotten a little out of hand. Kisame was in the heat of battle, taking on an army by himself and winning. Jutsu flew across the battlefield like exchanges of elemental cannon fire. Half of a battalion was encased in water prisons and the other was fleeing from shark filled orbs of water. Kisame was grinning ear to ear as he swatted off one after another like whiffle balls with Samehada.

You quickly scurried across the scene, sneaking up behind Kisame and whisper-screaming to get his attention. "Kisame, you big dummy! It was just a diversion! I'm fine!!"

Surprised, Kisame turned an eye to where he assumed you were while sending another enemy flying with a swing of his greatsword with an amused chuckle. "Next time, you might want to tell me what your plan is. Here I thought you were fighting off an army all by yourself."

"No, that's just you! Come on, I got the thing. Let's go!" You danced around him to avoid the swings of his sword, still wanting to keep yourself out of sight. Upon seeing his feet shift, you turned around just in time to see a flurry of arrows flying your way in such a wide spray that dodging them was going to be a feat.

Kisame blocked what he could with Samehada, but not knowing where exactly you were, wasn't sure he had protected you. A yelp answered his question. You shimmered back into sight just in front of him. He missed one, and it had plunged straight through your thigh. A stain of your blood quickly began mixing in with the sap you had wiped on your pants earlier. "Damnit!"

"I'm fine! Let's just go!" You shouted over the clatter of weapons and incoming pursuit, getting ready to run. With a snarl, Kisame reached down and snapped both ends off of the arrow before unceremoniously throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and retreating.

Fortunately, the soldiers had been so devastated by Kisame's onslaught that they hardly had the numbers to launch a fruitful pursuit. In the chaos, they had yet to notice that you stole the very item this outpost had been built to protect. Once he had put sufficient distance between you two and the base, he searched briefly for some cover to deal with your leg wound and leapt down from the towering branches to set you down with your back to a barky trunk.

You were beginning to feel flushed and hot as a shiver of heat rattled through your body and left an oddly pleasant knot in your belly. Blood roared in your ears as your heart began to race. When you looked up at Kisame, something felt… different.

Kisame knelt down to look at your leg. "You should have been standing behind me," he chided while setting one large palm on your thigh to brace it while he used the other to remove the broken arrow shaft. An ache built in your core as you caught your lip between your teeth. The warmth of his hand sent a tingling sensation rippling through your body. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to hurt."

With massively dilated pupils, you stared at him hungrily. "It… didn't hurt," you breathed. With a deep inhale, you wondered how you never noticed how good he smelled.

Kisame stared back at you critically. "You're awfully sweaty for someone who wasn't running." Shock washed over his face after touching your forehead. You were positively boiling. "Y/N, are you feeling alright? Was there poison on that arrowhead? Your eyes..." Concern was beginning to bubble as he pulled the item in question from his pack, examining it, completely oblivious to the wild fantasies bubbling in your head.

He was so close. Your body hummed to life as that heat in your belly began growing in size. An ache throbbed through your core. Your heart was in your mouth. Every inch of your skin pricked with the need for contact. And Kisame… how had you never noticed just how hot he was? Sure, you had some occasional dirty, late night fantasies about him. But now? You couldn't tear your eyes away from him. The muscles rippling across his torso were hardly concealed by that black cloak. Even with those unusual features, his face was remarkably handsome, not to mention each time he spoke, shocks seemed to travel straight through your body and into your clit. Still with your lip caught between your teeth, you let out a sultry breath and ghosted your fingertips along his firm bicep. All that seemed to do was make your hunger worse.

Kisame, entirely oblivious to what was unfolding behind your eyes, just looked confused. The arrowhead didn't appear to have any substance left on it, and he couldn't think of another cause for your apparently unwell state. He unpacked some rudimentary first aid supplies from his pack and wrapped some gauze tightly around your thigh as a temporary measure to staunch the bleeding. Thinking that your stare focused at him was vacant, he snapped his fingers in front of your face to try to get your attention. "Hey, talk to me. What's going on with you?"

While his arm was extended, you latched onto it like a lifeline, nuzzling your face into his bicep and inhaling deeply. "Kisame..." You couldn't resist. You needed to touch him. Following that arm back to his torso, your hands traced every ripple of muscle while Kisame froze in shock.

You were his partner. While he undoubtedly found you attractive, this seemed like an odd time to suddenly declare your own desires. "What's gotten into you?" He wrapped his hands around your wrists, engulfing them entirely, as they traversed his muscular chest.

"Dunno… I just really… really need you." You used the grip he had to pull yourself in, burying your face against his neck and breathing deeply again. "You smell so good…"

A light heat rushed across Kisame's cheeks as you abruptly began coming on to him. Between your strange behavior and the thrill of the battle he had just been in, he was amped up. Your body being pressed so tightly against his was causing some complications to arise. His pulse quickened as you nuzzled and rubbed yourself against him. Feeling your breasts against his chest and your heated breath on his neck was distracting him from the issue at hand. "Y/N…" He let out your name in a low growl, intending it to be a warning, but it didn't quite come off with the bite he had intended. Hearing that word fall from his lips in such a tone just set you ablaze. A little moan escaped your lips, and you coiled yourself around him like a lusty little boa constrictor, trailing little bites and open mouth kisses on his neck, savoring every salty inch of his exposed skin. Another deep growl rumbled in Kisame's chest as he ran a strong palm up your spine to the back of your neck. "You're under the influence of some kind of jutsu," he breathed heavily, trying very hard to resist biting you back as his own desire built rapidly. There was no denying how steamy this situation was growing.

"Don't care," you whispered, nibbling at his ear as your hands wandered the chiseled landscape of his body.

"You're injured," he continued, now getting sucked into your lusty riptide, grazing your neck with pointed teeth.

"Don't care," you breathed again, beginning to unzip his cloak.

"We're in enemy territory," he murmured between bites on your throat that no doubt left marks before swallowing you in a crushing kiss. Those calloused hands ran up your sides, wanting to explore more but seeming hesitant.

"Don't care," you mewled, reaching for the waist of his pants, your fingertips grazing the impressive package Kisame was concealing, wiggling your hips for any kind of relief from the needy heat that was driving you to the brink of madness. Your panties were drenched. Your core ached. It was like you had been edged for two days straight without any kind of release. Every nerve in your body was hypersensitive to touch.

Another deep sound rattled in his throat. You ensnared him in this whirlwind, and there was no going back now. You undressed each other in a flurry of zippers and fabric, discarding one item after another in a heap upon the leaves scattered across the forest floor. You didn't care about the dirt. Nothing else existed to you right now outside of the deft hands moving across your body, making you arch your back and moan. His scent flooded your head. You were drowning in Kisame, yet felt like you were dying of thirst. You wanted him. Needed him. Your brain and body shared a singular focus. Neither the mission nor your bleeding leg mattered right now.

Kisame picked you up by the backs of your thighs, pressing your back against the rough trunk of the tree while leaving a trail of branding bites along your neck and collarbone, drawing a whine out of you. You wrapped your uninjured leg around his waist, grinding your soaked pussy against him and letting a lewd moan drift into the sky. That little bit of friction alone was nearly enough to send you over the edge. Your hands wandered, caressing every ridge and ripple of the muscle coiled like steel cables under his skin. This man was built. By now, you were well aware that he was hung like a horse as well. That impressive appendage was currently teasing the hell out of your hungering little hole. You could feel that broad head rubbing through your slick folds as you shifted. "Kisame, please," you whispered with a breathy lust, rolling your hips against him.

A low, raspy chuckle tickled your ear. "You're going to scream and give away our location," he teased.

"Then kiss me so I can't." Your desperation to have that massive girth inside of you dripped from every pore as you tangled your arms around his neck to pull him into a hungry kiss.

Unable to decline such a delicious request, Kisame shifted you to begin impaling you on his impressive cock painstakingly slowly, stretching your walls around him. He smothered your wails with his mouth. Your back scraped across the rough bark behind you, but you didn't care. This was divine. You tensed and whimpered, both aching to be filled and struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him. You clung to him for dear life, gasping and catching his lip between your teeth as he finally sheathed himself. Your core throbbed and pulsed. Nerves ached for input. You used your good leg to try to pull him in even deeper. Another little chuckle rolled through him at your enthusiasm and impatience. "Someone is eager," he teased again with a single thrust to punctuate his statement.

You mewled before biting his neck. "Kisammm-" He silenced you with a bruising kiss before any more complaints or moans could escape your lips as he began drilling you into that tree. Birds fled from the branches above from the force of his motions disturbing their roosts. You clawed his chest and back, screaming into his mouth as he repeatedly buried himself in your fluttering core. You were on fire. Each time your hypersensitive clit rubbed against his body, stars erupted behind your eyes. Sweat slicked your bodies as a steamy heat began to rise. The drag of your nipples against his skin sent rippling shocks of pleasure through your entire being.

"Fuck, Y/N," he growled in your ear, large palms tightly gripping your ass as he drove himself into you again and again. You buried your face against his shoulder to let out a muffled wail as he sent you right over the edge. Your walls clenched tightly around him, eliciting a primal snarl from his lips. He sank his teeth into your neck as his powerful motions set impressions of that tree bark pressing into your back. With your good leg, you pulled him even deeper, arching into him as you flew off into orbit. A palm slammed over your mouth as he railed you into that tree to stifle the litany of cries erupting from your throat. Your head hit the wood behind you. He kept you pinned firmly there while fucking you into oblivion.

Your world melted away into nothing but the input of pleasure ripping through your body. The surrounding forest faded away. All you could hear was your own muffled heavy breathing, Kisame's grunts, and the slick sounds your bodies made between rhythmic contact. Every inch of you pulsed and throbbed with heat. Orgasm after orgasm tore through you in a continuous wave that left you with numbed legs and a soaked core. Your head was adrift in the clouds, the situation seeming impossible. Your new partner railing you against a tree in enemy territory was not your plan for this mission, but hell, you weren't going to question it. Your body ached and hungered for more. You kissed him as though he were your only source of air and you were suffocating.

Kisame picked up the pace, digging his fingers more firmly into your ass while keeping a tight clamp over your mouth to muffle the inhuman sounds you were making. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you lost yourself in another powerful crash of an orgasm, strangling his impressive girth with the crushing grip of your walls. A low growl and a series of curses rumbled through his body into yours as the depth of the thrusts increased until the hold your pussy had on him sent him over the edge and milked him dry. He growled your name through his release, gripping you tightly against his firm body. The combined sound of your heavy panting was the only thing that could be heard over the breeze rustling through leaves overhead.

That fog in your head slowly began to lift as you caught your breath. Your muscles trembled with fatigue as you dropped your head against his shoulder. "Fuck," you whispered through heavy breaths, slowly running your palms up his chest to his shoulders. Still pinned against the tree with his length buried within you, it took a moment for you to remember where you were. A soft hiss escaped your lips as he shifted your weight, reminding you that there was still a bleeding hole in your thigh.

"You good?" A raspy chuckle rumbled under your head that you had resting against his chest. He maintained his grip on you for the moment, not sure if you were about to go weak in the knees and collapse into a heap if he let you down.

"Yeah, I'm good," you giggled, turning your heated cheek against him before grimacing again when you looked down and saw the rather unfortunate state your leg was in.

Kisame slowly slid his length from you before gently setting your feet back down into the crunchy leaves littering the forest floor. With an arm still around your back for the sake of your stability, he glanced down at what you were eyeing, spotting your wound and what looked like a stain of pink that wasn't blood still flushing the surrounding skin. He carefully brushed his fingers against it, picking up a swipe of the gooey substance that you had wiped on your pants earlier that had seeped through the fabric and into your wound when you were hit. "What's this?" He inquired curiously, giving it a sniff.

"Some sap or something that was oozing from that bow," you breathed, shifting your weight onto your good leg and breathing heavily still as you leaned into him.

Kisame let out a hearty laugh. "You didn't wear gloves when you handled it, did you?"

Your face paled. You had entirely forgotten Pain's instructions regarding the handling of that weapon in your haste to leave with it during Kisame's little rumble with the defending army. "Oh, god -- damnit." An embarrassed laugh started shaking your shoulders as you defeatedly let your forehead fall against his chest.

"That bow is made of cherub wood. While it makes excellent longbows, its sap is also the primary ingredient in aphrodisiacs," Kisame teased. The embarrassed giggling overtook you and melted into genuine, hysterical laughter.

"Woops."

[wolvesandpetals]

Loki x Sylvie Playing House Part 3 (Humor, Romance), Rated T. Full on Sylki hijinks, as promised!

Masterlist of my Sylki fanfics here.

---

The first thing she does when Thor leaves is Google herself. Apparently, she was a child actor and made a fortune there, before transitioning into modelling, and later into a successful influencing career.

"That makes perfect sense to me", Loki comments. "If I was not a prince, I would have chosen to be an actor too. Just imagine, legions of fans screaming your name, begging for your attention for just one moment, hanging onto your every word, willing to worship the very ground you walk on. Now, that is the dream." He pauses, cherishing the image in his head. "There's also the money. Looks like you and I will never have to work a day in our lives. We can just live off your money."

[[MORE]]

Sylvie feels the muscles in her laws instinctively tense. This is not her life, or her reality. She can't imagine spending eternity here. She looks at Loki sternly. "We can not. We have to return to the TVA."

"Yes, of course." He agrees immediately. A part of him likes this life. But another part of him knows there is never a gain without a loss. The universe finds a way to make him pay for every bit of happiness he ever gets. Who knows what the price may be if he chooses to stay, with his family, and with Sylvie right here?

Sylvie sets down the laptop on the bedside table, ignoring the danger of Loki's glass being knocked over and drenching it. She cannot let herself be concerned with such simple things. Ignoring them is the surest way to covince herself she hates it here. "I was wondering, if Thor can get into this town, and if he remembers us leaving this town in the past, does it mean we are free to leave?"

Loki studies her features, the resolute glint in her eyes and the defiant stance of her chin. It is clear that she will stop at nothing to get back to the TVA. "We should test it out." He says, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Where do you wanna go?"

"Maybe we can go to Oklahoma? See my supposed parents?" She attempts to play it off like it's nothing, even though she knows exactly what it means- temptation. The urge to see what this life looks like is ever-growing.

"Why can't we go to Asgard and see my parents instead?" He counters immediately.

Sylvie purses her lips, trying not to reveal her emotions. She doesn't remember her Odin or Frigga at all. A part of her longs to meet this version of them, but another part wonders how overwhelming it would feel, watching Loki occupy her place, have her life, her "parents" in this timeline. "Fine. How about we pick a neutral location first?"

"Fine." He replies curtly.

"Fine!" Her irritation escalates. She grabs the laptop again, opening up a tab to a travel website, ready to book a flight.

"LA?" He suggests.

"You just want the paparazzi attention, don't you?" She points out, but doesn't resist. "Alright."

September 1st. The date is set. They will be off to LA within three days, and if whatever being that has placed them here does not want them to leave, they will know by then.

---

"Do you really need all of these sunglasses?" Sylvie asks, after Loki stashes the fifth one in his backpack.

"Of course, I do." He defends. "Style? Remember?"

"Travelling light, remember?" She hits back, taking out two random pairs and throwing them back on her dresser. "Just take what you absolutely need."

"I absolutely need my sunglasses." He says stubbornly.

She can either give in on this trivial matter, or she can dig her heels in and fight it out with him. A stupid pair of sunglasses is not worth the effort. "Fine." And in return, there's something that he has to compromise for her as well. "Only if you help me get my swords past security."

"With pleasure." He says with a grin, and with a wave of his hand, the newly arrived swords from eBay are magically cloaked.

Sylvie looks at her own luggage. She has never really owned anything. She jumped from one apocalypse to another, with only her life, and sometimes food supplies for a few days. It feels surreal to look at the clothes in her wardrobe now. The thought of carrying them with her feels even more foreign.

She looks at the tons of products on her dresser, skin creams, lotions, toners, cleansers and heaven knows what else. All the luxuries she never had.

All the luxuries she does not want.

"I'll just pack a change of clothes." She says finally.

"You don't want anything else?" He asks, surprised.

"These are just things, Loki." She explains. "They can be replaced. I have no attachment to them."

---

She regrets not booking first class. She has been on planes before, using crashing aircrafts as a temporary hideout spot to regroup when the TVA was on her tails. As a stowaway, she never realized just how annoying a plane journey can actually be.

Loki graciously offers her the window seat, noting her unease as soon as they board. She thanks him with a smile, and they nod in mutual understanding.

She stares out of the window, at the town that is supposedly her home, and for the first time ever, she feels a pang of homesickness for a place that is not Asgard. She has been here for just five days now, yet, the thought of sleeping in her own bed is so tempting.

Sylvie notices how she is thinking of the bed as her bed now, but tries not to dwell on it too much.

The plane takes off without incidence, and she dozes off quickly. When she wakes up, she notices a thin comforter wrapped around her shoulders. Turning to her side, she sees Loki sleeping as well, his mouth slightly agape. She snuggles close to him, suddenly needing the comfort of his warmth, and the woman on the aisle seat gives her a dirty look. There's a baby crying somewhere in the back, and what feels like the beginning of a massive headache. But all that fades away when she lays her head on his shoulder.

---

When the flight arrives at LAX, they are both a little scared to leave its comfort. They are about to find out if they are free to travel wherever they want, or whether the action had any consequence. Sylvie is the first to take a step out, and they are both relieved to see nothing happens. The baggage claim goes smoothly, though slowly, and they get a cab quickly. Sylvie hides her grin when she sees Loki put on his sunglasses.

"So we're here." He says, staring at Sylvie, while she stares out of the window.

She only hums in response.

"Is this your honeymoon?" The driver asks.

Loki laughs nervously. "No, no. We've been married for quite a long time. This is just... a vacation."

The driver recommends them a lot of tourist places. Sylvie tunes him out. This is just a test. She has no interest in touring LA. They have their return flight scheduled for the next day.

They check into their hotel room, and she plops down on the bed immediately. "It seems we are free to leave the town. Just not the reality, I suppose." She runs her hands over the silky sheets, amused. "I must say, whoever placed us here has taken every measure to make this prison comfortable."

Loki follows suit and takes a seat beside her. "I suppose that is indeed generous of him. Or her."

Sylvie turns to the side to look at him. "So how do we get out of here then? Got any plan?"

He shrugs. It's not like there's a book called What to do when you find yourself trapped in an alternate universe with your alternate self for Dummies. "Right now, the plan is to get some dinner, then some sleep. Then perhaps in the morning we can see a bit of LA?"

"You want to play tourist?" She asks in a neutral tone.

He replies in kind, testing the waters. "We are here already, and we have the time, so why not?"

"Okay." She replies, a little unsure, but not entirely opposed to the idea. The weariness of the journey starts taking its toll on her. She messages her temples with her fingertips. "Should we order room service?"

Loki contemplates for a moment. On the one hand, she looks really tired, and she could use a good night's sleep. On the other hand, she has been completely on edge and razor focused on the mission since they got in this mess. Well, since they met, actually, and probably for centuries before that. She could also use a bit of fun and relaxation.

With that in mind, he carefully voices his proposal. "I was thinking maybe we can go down to the restaurant and have a proper dinner."

Sylvie looks up, grinning mischievously. She's about to call his bluff. "What, like a date?" His deer-in-the-headlights reaction makes her laugh. "Calm down, I'm just teasing you."

---

It's not a date, but it kind of is. It's a four course meal and a fine bottle of champagne over candlelight, after all.

"Was it like this? Back at Asgard?" Sylvie wonders.

"Mostly. But Asgard was grand, elegant. This is..."

"A cheap replacement." She completes.

Loki smiles. "Precisely."

They talk about their Asgard bedrooms, the similarities and the differences between their safe haven in the palace. An hour passes swiftly.

"The wine is good." Sylvie comments, sipping on her first glass of wine, when the champagne is drained.

"Yes, quite good." Loki agrees, on his first glass as well.

The tiniest buzz starts to take root in him, and his mind wanders into the realm of possibilities, the future he can have, here and now. His eyes focus on the brighest object in front of him- Sylvie.

She feels her cheeks flush under his gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You are just so..." He blinks. What is another word for Asgard's Sun when it disappears into the azure lakes? "Breathtaking"

Her lips curve into a shy smile. This is the beginning of the same foolishness he showed on the train in Lamentis-1 that almost got them killed. But right now, their life isn't in imminent danger. Right now, she is just amused. "Wow, you really can't hold your liquor, can you?"

"Of course I can. I am Loki, Prince of Asgard." He declares proudly.

"Yes, yes, I've heard the speech." She says it with a smile and an eye-roll. "We should get you upstairs."

He objects immediately. "But I'm not done yet."

"Oh, I think you're quite done." She beckons the nearest waiter. "Can we get the bill, please?"

He can still walk surprisingly well, but she holds his hand tightly, just in case he decides to take a detour, and drags him into the elevator.

"Blonde looks good on you." He comments out of the blue. "Maybe I should go blonde too."

She grins. "Like Thor?"

He glares at her. "You're a buzzkill."

---

Sylvie opens the door after fumbling with the keys for a minute. She is starting to feel the effect of the alcohol as well. She takes off her shoes and her earrings, while Loki runs to the loo.

"Why did you book a room for two?" He asks in a serious tone, leaning against the door-frame of the bathroom.

Sylvie freezes, her hand hanging mid-air for five uncomfortable seconds before she awkwardly drops it to her side.

Why did she book a room for two? She could have just rented separate rooms, or at least ones with separate beds. It's not like she and Loki are actually together.

But they have been. At least for the past few days. Why do they need separate rooms here when they share a bed back home?

Home. Sylvie realises with alarm that she's thinking of her prison as her home.

Is this reality starting to mess with her mind now?

"It's okay, I don't want to leave you either." Loki's voice pulls her out of her inner monologue. She turns around quickly in his direction. He's still drunk, and it shows, but he has a look on his face that she has never seen before- a mix of resolution and fondless. His eyes whisper silent vows of loyalty, and something else, something he can't quite express yet. "I will never leave you."

Sylvie smiles, closing the distance between them and standing next to him. Her hand finds his by sheer instinct. "Good to know."

"I mean it, Sylvie." He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, before he tugs her along with him as he sits down on the bed, unable to stand any longer in his inebriated state. She is grateful to be seated too, and she's unsure whether it is just the alcohol. "I know you hate it here. But I like this." He indicates at her, then at himself, then back at her. "I like falling asleep next to you, and walking into the kitchen first thing every morning to see you cursing at the microwave. I like how you hum in the shower and scream at the TV."

Sylvie listens quietly, her eyes focused on the feeling of his hand in hers. She is trying to memorize this moment, burn the shape of his fingers and the feel of his touch into her brain, so that when it's gone- when he is gone- like everything in her life always is, she will have another good memory to relive again and again.

Loki continues. "I like the way you burn the pasta every time you try to cook."

"I don't burn the whole dish." She retorts playfully. "Just the bottom part."

He shakes his head to show he disagrees. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Her heartbeat quickens. Is he going to confess that he has feelings for her?

Does he have feelings for her?

"Sure." She barely whispers back.

Loki double-checks. "Promise me that you will never tell yourself?"

She laughs softly. "I promise."

Loki tenses, suddenly looking sober. He lets go of her hand, to rest his by his side, his fingers clenched into a fist. Mastering all his courage, he finally speaks. "I don't want to leave. Ever. I like it here."

Sylvie looks away, suddenly needing air. Hearing Loki say that makes her feel irrationally angry. He promised to be on her side every step of the way, but the minute he finds a life he likes, he's ready to throw in the towel.

A part of the anger stems from the fact that she knows, a major reason he wants to stay is her, this life he has with her. Two Lokis on any other timeline will cause Nexus events. But here, they are free to be together. Timelines don't start branching off like a growing vine on timelapse video every time they touch. And he wants that. She knows this because he has all but said it with his words and his actions.

And because she wants it too. Damn it, she wants it so much. She is getting sucked into this reality, indeed.

But she knows she has to finish what she started- she owes it to herself, and to the people out there who need her help, who will be robbed of their lives if she doesn't stop whoever is doing this.

She wants to-

- But she can't.

"Loki, I-" she stops when she turns around to see he has already fallen asleep. Wordlessly, she wraps the comforter over his sleeping form, before crawling under it herself. Turning to her side, facing away from him, she wonders what's next for them.

[the-volume-is-astronomical]

The Crown, The Sword, and The Gay

Not So Stormy Knight

A/N: there's a lot more people in the taglist lol. I'm still working o an upload schedule but yeah enjoy! (its on of the shorter chapters I have writing but yeppers)

(also let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist!)

First | Previous| Next

words: 1490

summary: Virgil doesn't want to deal with this mess but he was sent to deliver a message so, theres not much he can do

pairings: eventual prinxiety, eventual intrulogical, eventual moceit, Remile

warnings: some potty language (not much), stress, anxiety, pretentious character, violence (near the end), talking down to someone

(let me know if there's any other)

Virgil didn't want to deal with this weird shit so early but, he didn't really have a choice. He made eye contact with who he could only assume was the prince, who was not panicked in the slightest and just shrugged. When Virgil got a good look as to who this servant lady had pinned to the ground he almost laughed out loud, it was none other than the stuck-up, self-centered, overall piece of shit Trent. Now he was actually glad to be delivering this stupid message.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Virgil was awoken in the early hours of the morning (incredibly rude but that's besides the point). “Get dressed and meet me at the workstation in 20 minutes.” When Virgil's brain finally decided to be awake enough to process words, his blood ran cold as he realized who was speaking to him. Commander Arlott. Virgil knew better than to question his superior so he did as instructed.

The Commander wasted no time to speak as Virgil arrived,“Virgil, I need you to deliver this message to Sir Trent Ortiz” Arlott held a letter with the royal crest sealing it “Sir, with all due respect, why not send one of the squires?” Virgil had always been careful with how he spoke to people in power since they could make or break his entire life plan, “Since Trent is ...assisting King Leonardo, by keeping Prince Roman safe, he is in an undisclosed location. I need someone of trust and my Seneschal recommended you.”

Commander Arlott always talked slow and calmly, no matter how much stress he was under, Virgil always appreciated that. “Understood?” Arlott sounded a little irritated, “Yes, sir.” Virgil didn't want to make that worsen, he knew his commander was known to have a temperament.

As Virgil loaded his things, he took a moment to examine the map. The Commander had explained it was going to be a three to four hour trip, so at least he could get back the same day if he was quick enough.

He arrived, about three hours later, at this secluded tower in the middle of nowhere. He had almost believed he was lost as he couldn't see the tower from above but it was meant to be a lot lower than the trees around it so as to not be spotted and spark curiosity. The Tower was incredibly daunting. He had to admire the measures taken for the tower to be hidden. They built the tower deep into the forest, very far away from the path, they made the tower shorter than the coast redwood trees surrounding it, and they made it incredibly hard to find as the path was infuriatingly confusing and it was located in a dense part of the forest.

After he got over how intimidating a tower can look, he noticed a carriage near the entry of the scary building. Virgil remembered how his Commander had told him there wasn't supposed to be anyone there other than Trent and the Prince. But he could clearly see someone waiting in the carriage.

Virgil noticed how his stomach felt like it was a black hole, he didn't really want to be the person to inform the death of a Royal. He left his horse near the edge of the forest and started sneaking closer to the Tower, as to not be spotted by the man in the carriage. He quickly climbed the steps of the tower and reached a door, yet there were more steps. He decided to check anyway, when he opened the door he saw nothing but a room with a few recognizable belongings, similar equipment as his, definitely where Trent was sleeping, that or the prince had an affinity towards knight equipment.

He heard some commotion at the top of the tower, so he begrudgingly headed up the steps. As he heard the voices rise even more, he quickened his step and tried to listen in. He wasn't able to make out what they were saying but he recognised Trent’s unpleasant and overall irritating voice and a random lady. As he reached the door he heard the voices stop and a thud, followed by groaning.

Virgil opened the door to see something that till this day he will say was one of the most hilarious sights, Trent Ortiz being held at an armlock by some servant woman. He tried his hardest not to laugh at the sight, which was pretty easy considering he still felt anxious and overwhelmingly confused, as funny as the sight was, what in the world had happened? As he raised his gaze to look around the room, as if it would have any answers, he locked eyes with a browned eyed boy, who he quickly identified as the prince Trent was supposed to be protecting, his robe gave it away. The prince just shrugged and yawned as if this was a common occurrence, which it may as well have been, he didn't know much about what being a royal felt like.

Ruth looked up and spotted the young knight with a terrified look on his face, in an effort to comfort him, she gave him a smile “Hi darling, what brings you-” she stopped talking as Trent tried to get out of her grasp “Don't struggle, you’re going to break your arm!” she tried to warn him.

“As if, get off of me, witch!” Ruth sighed and was about to give him another warning but Trent saw Virgil and spoke up again “Virgil, what are you doing standing there?! Get this old hag off of me!” Before Virgil could do anything, Trent continued trying to break free from Ruth’s grip but ended up breaking something else. His arm to be exact. Trent screamed in pain. Ruth immediately let go, it was never her intention to actually hurt him. Trent curled up holding his arm close to his chest.

Roman wasn't really paying attention to the situation, until he heard the scream. He got close to see both, the knight and nurse were okay. Ruth pushed him back as Virgil kneeled down to try and help the knight in pain. Ruth went to one of the trunks and got some fabric that could be used as a temporary sling. She tried to get close to Trent but he backed away slightly, Virgil spoke up “Maybe, I should put the sling on him.” Ruth nodded and gave him the fabric.

When Virgil finished tying the sling, he stepped away from Trent and Ruth decided to speak “It’s in his best interest to see a doctor, he should probably head back.” Virgil nodded, seeing that as the best option. Ruth spoke again.

“You should probably take him back soon, we don't want the injury to get worse.” at that Trent broke his silence “Prince Roman is supposed to be under knight supervision at all times.” Roman rolled his eyes and tried to reason with him

“My father will understand. You’re hurt and need to go get your arm checked out. I can be without a knight for a few hours.” Trent didn't budge “No. Your father gave me a direct order and i’m not going to disobey.” Roman looked at him like he was mad.

Ruth decided to ask the young boy who had stayed silent in the corner. “Virgil, was it? Honey, are you a knight?” Virgil looked up and nodded. “Well, he can stay with Roman and I can take you to a doctor in the carriage.” Trent scoffed. “They made me the Prince’s knight because of my skill; you can’t just replace me with someone who acts as a messenger.” Ruth did not like that at all, Virgil reminded her of Remy and her motherly instincts were kicking in

“Right now you arent of any help because you're hurt!” he fired back quickly “And who’s fault is that?” Ruth didn't want another screaming match to start “I warned you didn't I? Just let the boy be Roman’s temporary knight and later on they'll find a ‘better fit’ replacement as you put it.” Trent looked annoyed but begrudgingly agreed.

Virgil looked at the Prince as the other two were arguing, he was quiet and his eyes seemed to be distant, his posture made him seem annoyed but his face didn't show it. Ruth signaled him to help Trent to get down.

Virgil seemed to be doing the same as the prince and ignoring Trent arguing ‘how Roman couldn't be left alone in the tower’. He helped Trent into the carriage and turned back to see the servant lady talking to the prince, she gave the royal a hug and turned to the carriage, Virgil helped her in.

Roman and Virgil watched the carriage leave. Virgil turned to tell the royal how it’d be better for them to head inside. But he saw the monarch already headed to the tower, and he quickly scrambled to catch up with him.

taglist:

@meowthefluffy @shade-romeo @pattonsmile @sevencreepycatsinacoat

@mychemically-imbalanced-romance

@innerpostturtle

some aren’t working i’ll see if I can fix it :(

[botanicallyinclinednerd]

*sigh* I entertained the cursed thought of Evil!Leon and now it won't leave, so fuck it: bullet point frame work

Warnings for blood, temporary character death, graphic injury, murder, attempted murder, angst with a happy ending, magic reveal

First of all this is also immortal Leon, because I could

Morgana is discovered by a patrol headed by Leon and he's the only one of the round table there.

For some reason or another Morgana is having a really bad life day and completely obliterates the patrol in her rage.

And for narrative purposes/ the man is very sturdy, Leon somehow survives the assault, but he's not in good shape

Morgana, in her full sadistic glory, offers a painfully dying Leon a second chance, he need only pledge himself to her and she would heal him

Leon, while chocking on blood, defiantly glares at her, declaring "You're wasting your time Morgana, I will die before I betray Arthur"

And at this something hardens in Morgana's eyes and she lunges forward with a dagger and plunges it into Leon's heart, twisting it violently while hissing "so you shall" before pulling it back out

This, obviously, kills him

And for some reason or another, maybe its a part of why Morgana is having a no good very bad terrible awful day, she sticks around the site of the massacre for a bit rather than immediately leave.

Which is how she witnesses Sir Leon, whose heart she plunged a dagger into not an hour ago, take a gasping breath

This, quite understandably, scares the shit out of both of them

It scares the shit out of Morgana because she knows she killed him, there is no way he's alive

And it scares the shit out of Leon for much of the same reasons, he knows she killed him, why the fuck was he breathing (he did not know he was immortal before this point)

And while Morgana is still in shock, Leon asks angrily what she did to him, why did she bring him back (while he is scrambling for his sword and to rise, because that worked soo well for him the first time)

Morgana tilts her head at him, a slow sinister smile spreading across her face as she replies "I did nothing my dear knight"

And it is in this moment that Leon realizes he fucked up

Morgana probably kills him again for good measure, to see what will happen, and sure enough, he's back again in a little while.

Leon is freaking the fuck out and Morgana's day just completely turned around because she has Arthur's most loyal knight, his first knight, and he can't die

To make a long process short, she kills him for transport to where ever she's hiding, kills him a few more times because she can, and as she does so she formulates a plan. Since it has become quite obvious that Leon was not aware of his allergy to death, Morgana reasoned that no one back at the castle would know either. And if she could control Leon... well. Camelot and Arthur's head on a platter was as good as hers.

Since her last attempt to kill Arthur by proxy through a creature ended poorly, Morgana decides on an enchantment.

I’m thinking maybe the spell has a caveat, the only way for it to be broken is if Leon was killed by another Immortal's hand, something Morgana is certain is impossible, and is sure to gleefully inform Leon of this so in his last moments of free will, his hope and spirit would break

When Leon returns to Camelot, he doesn't act strange. A little haunted maybe, but not outwardly out of character

He says he was the only person to survive the attack by Morgana, and he barely made it away with his life (she either roughed him up to make this believable, or he did it himself)

Everyone is relieved he’s safe and back home

Arthur makes a light hearted joke about how this was the second time Leon was the lucky sole survivor of an attack, and he really needs to stop scaring Arthur like this, he’s starting to think he's doing it on purpose

And in the first indication that something might be off, Leon smirks at this, his laugh much darker than usual, and he makes a returning dark joke. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, nothing that couldn't be explained as him having survivors guilt and being exhausted and in pain

And for a while everything seems fine.

Everything is not fine.

Leon is a much more subtle assassin than Merlin was. Much more patient as well. His first attempt is in a patrol in the woods, where he tries to catch Arthur off guard.

Arthur notices in time and fends him off, expressing confusion, and Leon pulls what he pulled in Servant of Two Masters when he finds Arthur behind the tree: awkward apologetic smile (much more sinister this time, his eyes are much colder)

He apologizes profusely, being a bit self depreciating as he admits that he was still a bit jumpy from his last trek through the woods and was on edge

Arthur accepts this and just tells him to be more careful, though ultimately there was no harm done

Arthur turns away and Leon frowns/glares

Maybe Arthur makes a passing mention of it to Merlin, asking him if he noticed Leon jumpier than usual, and Merlin replies that he hasn't really seemed jumpy per say, but definitely quieter and more closed off

Again, this isn't a huge red flag considering that he went through, but Merlin starts to pay closer attention to Leon, just in case

Leon seems fairly normal. He's a little quicker to temper, and his humor is much darker than usual, and his smiles are more smirks than anything, but he's not really treating anyone any differently

His behavior isn't suspicious, he's not in questionable places, he's just Leon with some survivors guilt and trauma. So Merlin relaxes.

When a mystery assailant keeps setting traps and ambushes for Arthur in cleaver and subtle ways, Merlin is at his wits end trying to figure out who it is. And he’s getting worried, as the last two attempts very nearly succeeded.

Leon is a very patient assassin. This drives Morgana nuts

She demands he meet her outside the castle walls one night when he's on solo rounds of the castle to demand what is taking so long

"Do you want him dead or not?"

"Of course I want him dead, I want him dead NOW. Stop dragging your feet and kill him already!"

And let me tell you, Morgana may have taken control of his loyalty and twisted his motivations, but she could never rid Leon of his sass

"Morgana, this is why you've never managed to kill Arthur. No patience. No attempts on Arthur's life have ever succeeded for a reason, I'm avoiding those mistakes. You can have it done quick or done right, I'm trying to do it right."

In the end, Leon had a valid point, as it was Morgana's impatience that demanded Leon sneak away from his rounds to meet her, and caught Merlin's attention as he saw Leon sneaking into the woods

Merlin follows Leon and sees him meeting with Morgana and every alarm bell goes off in his head. Because Leon despises Morgana, and he would never betray Arthur, never. Not willingly at least. So Merlin figures out that Leon is compromised, and all those near misses on Arthur recently that Merlin couldn't figure out the source of must have been Leon's doing.

Leon tells Morgana she just needs to wait one day more, as he plans to kill Arthur the following night. Morgana hisses at him "see that you do" and leaves

Merlin follows Leon back to the castle where the knight continued on his rounds, prompting Merlin to run to his and Gaius's quarters.

Gaius isn't happy to be woken in the middle of the night, until Merlin explains what he saw

"Leon? Working with Morgana? Are you certain?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. I heard Leon tell Morgana he was going to kill Arthur tomorrow night. Leon would never betray Arthur, especially not to Morgana. She did something to him, I know she has"

They quickly rule out a femora and eventually conclude that it must be an enchantment. One so powerful to bind and manipulate one's loyalties and will would have to have a very specific condition to break it. The only way to stop/ save Leon and protect Arthur is for Merlin to figure out what it is so he can break it

He does not manage to figure it out

So when night comes and Leon is acting shifty as he heads in the direction of Arthur's chambers, Merlin has to do something, prepared or not

He comes up with an excuse or another to get Leon to come with him, its urgent, blah blah blah

Merlin pulls Leon into an empty room where no one would be likely to find them or interrupt them. And Leon tolerates Merlin's rambling excuse for pulling him aside for a few moments before he's had enough and brushes Merlin off, trying to leave

And Merlin doesn't let him, blocking the exit.

Leon is still trying to maintain his cover, but his patience is finally beginning to run out

He tells Merlin to move, he has duties to attend to, and Merlin cuts to the chase. “I can’t let you hurt Arthur, Leon”

And Leon studies Merlin, nods, and breaks out into a wide smirk. “Took you long enough to figure out. What gave me away?”

And Merlin is thrown by the sudden shift in behavior, but as long as Leon is talking he isn’t killing Arthur, so he’ll take it. 

“I saw you talking to Morgana. I heard you plotting to kill Arthur.”

And Leon nods, tutting. “I really wish you hadn’t seen that Merlin.”

And Merlin is in desperate ‘try to reason with him’ mode, which is obviously not working because Leon is under a powerful enchantment. And while it was amusing at the start to toy with Merlin, Leon has had enough.

All patience has run out. 

"Merlin, if you do not get out of my way and keep your mouth shut, I will kill you, and do so gladly"

Merlin of course does neither of these things.

Leon attacks Merlin, and Merlin barely dodges the sword. Merlin is, understandably, pretty scared. This is someone he considers a close friend, a brother, and he's currently trying to kill him. Merlin tries to talk Leon down, but its not working. There is taunting involved, and some very evil smirks

All the while Leon is swinging at Merlin with his sword, coming very close to hitting Merlin.

The final straw is when Leon knocks Merlin down, stands over him with his sword to his chest, and taunts Merlin that he is going to kill him, and then he's going to kill Arthur, and there is nothing Merlin can do about it

Well. Yes. Yes there is.

Merlin's eyes flash gold and before his eyes can even widen in surprise at this unexpected development, Leon is thrown backwards into a wall. Hard.

His head hits the wall with a sickening crack and collapses into a still heap.

Merlin is very much panicking as he scrambles up and over to Leon, feeling for any sign of a pulse.

He can't find one.

Merlin desperately tries to cast a healing spell but its not working. Leon's dead.

Important note for the record: Merlin did not know Leon was immortal. Merlin also did not know the stipulation that would release Leon from Morgana's enchantment.

So Merlin thinks he just killed a man he viewed as a big brother

He takes this about as well as could be expected: absolutely horribly.

He’s crying, babbling definitely, the words "I'm so sorry" "I didn't mean to" "please wake up" are mixed in there and repeated a lot

And then, lo and behold, Leon woke up

Its hard to say who was more surprised: Leon or Merlin

It would be fair to say Merlin, as his brother he accidentally killed ten minutes ago was sitting up in his arms, definitely alive

But it would also be fair to say Leon, who decidedly was himself again, free of Morgana's enchantment. Which should have been impossible, save from dying at the hand of an immortal. So not only is Leon dealing with being himself again, but he's also processing the information that apparently Merlin is immortal. And oh yeah: killed him by using magic

So they are both freaking out

And Merlin stammers out a mess of words that boils down to "what?? How are you alive? You, you were dead, I know you were dead! Oh gods, you were dead, I killed you, I swear I didn't mean to, you were trying to kill Arthur, you were trying to kill me, I was just trying to stop you, I didn't mean to kill you..." and he's clinging to Leon during this, and is totally not still crying

And Leon eventually manages to get a word in and halt Merlin's rambling with an exasperated and slightly hysterical "Merlin, I'm not dead!"

"You were!"

"Can we focus on that later? Is Arthur alright?"

And now Merlin is instantly back on alert, drawing back a bit to study Leon's face, but still holding his shoulders. "He's fine." At Leon's sigh of relief, Merlin asks slowly "Do you still want to kill him?"

And Leon is instantly horrified and shaking his head vehemently declaring "No!"

And then he stops, thinks, and realizes he truly meant it. He no longer felt any distain towards his friend and king, the sickly poisoning influence from Morgana's enchantment gone

Which was only possible at the hand of another immortal.

Leon's brain is going a million miles an hour, his often misused or missing brain cells taking longer than they should to come to the obvious conclusion, but in his defense, he had a lot to process, and it is a pretty unbelievable conclusion

"Merlin, you said you killed me?"

And the guilt is right back with Merlin apologizing and defending with "I swear I didn't mean to!"

"But you're sure YOU killed me? Absolutely positive?"

And Merlin's starting to get a bit annoyed, why the fuck would he lie about killing a man he viewed as a brother? "Yeah Leon, I'm pretty sure. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it"

If this had been normal circumstances, Leon may have comforted Merlin, but these were most certainly not normal circumstances, because if Merlin killed him, that had to mean one thing:

"Merlin, since when are you immortal?"

What ever Merlin was expecting Leon to say, it sure as fuck wasn't that (friendly reminder that Merlin doesn't know he's immortal at this point)

So it is with very real confusion that he says slowly "I'm... not?"

"Clearly you are, or I would probably be trying to kill you to get to Arthur right now"

This is clearly the wrong thing to say, because Merlin now thinks this is an elaborate trick, and somehow, has come to the conclusion that this isn't even Leon, or if it is, he's a Shade like Lancelot was.

So Merlin scrambles to his feet, grabbing Leon's sword and pointing it at him. Leon raises his hands in alarm and also to placate Merlin (he’s still not used to being immortal and forgot that the sword can’t actually do him permanent harm)

"Merlin, I'm not going to kill you. The enchantment Morgana had over me is gone, you broke it" ("with magic" is screamed loudly in his head, but one earth shattering topic at a time)

"I don't believe you"

"The enchantment had a condition to it: the only way to escape Morgana's control was if another immortal took my life. You killed me, and now that control is gone. I have no desire to hurt Arthur or you, or anyone else in Camelot." I swear to you on-" he goes to say his life and realizes that maybe that wouldn't mean as much anymore and adjusts "I swear to you on my honor as a knight of Camelot."

Merlin doesn't know what to believe. He wants to, but he doesn't know if he can. So he makes Leon explain everything, which he does. Leon still has all his memories, though some of them seem a little distorted and distant, but still there are the same

When Leon finishes, Merlin puts down the sword, approaches Leon and makes him promise again. He does so, and Merlin finally believes him

He collapses into a sitting position next to Leon, looking exhausted but relieved. They are silent for a bit until finally...

Leon eventually decides its time to address the elephant in the room: "Merlin, how long have you been practicing magic?" It’s said in a way that aims for nonchalance and misses by several miles

Merlin, naturally, goes pale and plays dumb

"Merlin, I saw your eyes glow gold and then I was being flung across the room. That's magic"

And Merlin's still denying it, fiercely, and Leon has had a very long day and an even longer month

"Merlin, I'm having a hard enough time knowing what's real and what's not right now, please don't make me question this too"

And what was Merlin supposed to do? Continue to deny what Leon clearly figured out?

"I was born with it" is whispered, a scared admission

"I didn't think that was possible"

"Yeah well, I'm special"

"I could have told you that Merlin"

This is going much better than Merlin thought it would. He expected anger, yelling at least. Not teasing, as tired as it sounds

"Are you going to tell Arthur?" Is asked in that same scared voice from before

He should. Leon knows he should. As a knight of Camelot, it was his duty to uphold the laws of the kingdom, and magic is against those laws.

But it was also his duty to protect the king, a duty, through no fault of his own, he had abandoned and gone against. Where as Merlin did his job for him.

That and he could not deny his friendship to the younger man, the protective nature he felt for him

Seeing Merlin stare at him with fear and resignation, like he had already been condemned to death, Leon realized there was really only ever one possible response he could give:

"No. I'm not"

Merlin did not expect this.

When he sees Merlin's surprise, Leon gently bumps Merlin with his shoulder. "Merlin, I know you. You would never hurt Arthur, would never do anything to put Camelot in danger. Magic or not, that doesn't change. I would not risk condemning you to exile or death when you have done no harm"

At Merlin's pained look between Leon and the wall, Leon sighs. "I'm fine Merlin. I'm more than fine, you broke Morgana's enchantment. It was not... ideal, but it was the only way"

Merlin shakes his head "Leon, I didn't know. I didn't know you'd come back. If it was anyone else, they wouldn't have. I killed you, using magic. How do you not hate me?"

"Merlin," Leon waits for Merlin to make eye contact, putting a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Magic has saved my life, in the past. And as far as I'm concerned, it saved my soul today. Am I wary of it? Yes, because I have seen the harm it can do in cruel hands. But I also know that it can protect and heal in kind ones. How many times have you saved Arthur's life?"

Startled by the sudden question, Merlin answers honestly "I've lost count"

"How many times have you used your magic to protect, to save?"

"Always"

Leon ruffles Merlin's hair with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I could never hate you for upholding the same ideals I live by Merlin, regardless of your methods of doing so."

And finally, finally Merlin gets it. He's not going to be imprisoned, he's not going to be outed as a sorcerer, Leon is alive and himself again and has no intention of hurting him, and Merlin doesn't have to worry about losing his friend anymore because apparently he's immortal and he is too but he is not about to deal with that right now (and also let's be real, he’s still going to worry about Leon)

It is with this that Merlin finally relaxes for the first time in a long time, shuffling closer to Leon and leaning against him, the knight putting an arm around him and pulling him close, each taking comfort in the presence of the other

It's a lot to take in, and it will take many conversations and explanations over the next few days and weeks to even begin to unpack and comprehend it all, but for now, each man was left with the relief and knowledge that they were safe with the person beside them.

The end! This is not at all what I thought it would be when I first started to write it, but I'm okay with that. If anyone wants to write this into a proper full length fic feel free to do so, I just ask that you please credit me and send it to me so I can read it!

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 11,809

Chapter Warnings: swearing, manipulation, mind control, blood, violence, su.icidal ideation, panic attacks, and temporary character death

Chapter Summary: Dream’s broken out of prison.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Eleven: take a drink of that promise land

His thoughts fly apart. His heart pounds in tandem with his feet. There is room for one thing in his mind and one thing only, the words curling around themselves, the end running into the beginning, and it’s Sam is dead and Dream is coming Sam is dead is dead is dead and Dream is coming Sam is dead and Dream is is is—

And under that, Sam’s words echo: As long as I live, he will never set foot outside this prison. Delivered with such confidence, meant to be a reassurance, a promise. But Sam is dead.

He bursts into the Egg’s chamber at a dead sprint. And then draws up short, eyes darting around the room. There: Puffy, arguing with Bad, Sapnap by her side. Next to Bad: Ant, Punz, Ponk. Standing back from the Egg a bit: Tommy, Tubbo, Techno, Phil, Ranboo, a measure of distance between the former two and the latter three.

But they’re all alright. None of them are bloodstained. There are no cries of pain. No clash of weapons. No eyes gone blank and empty, no items scattered across the floor to indicate a first or second death. They’re all alright, haven’t even come to blows yet, it seems, and for a moment, Wilbur is the only one in the room who knows. He is the messenger, and he must deliver the news, even though he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to voice it, doesn’t want to make it real. It’s a crushing weight in his chest, stealing his breath, making his head spin. He holds his communicator tightly in his hand, a death grip. Checking it one last time changes nothing. The words are still there.

No one’s seen him yet.

“—did not sign up for this,” Techno is saying, an aside to Phil that he doesn’t bother to keep at a murmur. “I’m here to fight, not watch a domestic dispute. This is really awkward, Phil. They’re just screamin’ at each other.”

“Feels a bit scuffed,” Phil agrees, voice slightly distant. His eyes are fixed on the Egg, his fingers absently fiddling with his sword hilt.

“Dream’s coming,” Wilbur says.

He doesn’t say it as loudly as he intends. His voice cracks slightly on the second word. But the room goes silent, and all eyes turn to him

(and it’s a terrible imitation of things that once were, of his voice strident and powerful and his words potent and inspiring, and his speeches commanded armies, once, led people to die for him, but this is not that, and he is as much a harbinger as the crow that perches on Philza’s shoulders)

at once.

“What?” Tommy says, his voice a pale shadow.

Mutely, he holds out his communicator, as though they can read the print from this distance. But it provokes all of them into pulling out theirs, and he watches the transformation, watches the realization dawn. Watches Techno raise an eyebrow, watches Phil frown, watches Puffy’s face contort in visceral horror. Watches Tommy mouth the words to himself, disbelieving. Watches him look up, make eye contact, and there is a sheen in his eyes, a desperation for this to be untrue, and he wishes he could give him what he wants. Wishes he could say that this is some kind of prank, a joke in poor taste.

If there is anyone laughing, it isn’t him.

“Well, shit,” Phil says.

“No,” Tommy says, “no, no, no, no, no, there’s no way, the prison is supposed to be secure, there’s no way this is real, oh holy shit, holy shit what are we going to do—”

“Does this have to mean he’s out?” Tubbo asks, practically a plea. His ears have folded back, almost plastered against his skull. “There’s no way that he could still be in there? And that he just, got in a lucky shot or something?”

It’s a possibility, technically. A possibility that Sam let his guard down around the prisoner, that Dream somehow managed to overpower him, even after months in solitary confinement, muscles atrophying, managed to get one over the man armed to the teeth and wearing full netherite armor. A possibility, but not a likely one, and he knows in his heart of hearts that it isn’t true, knows that

(you looked at that mask at that blank smiling mask and you did not need to look in his eyes to know what lurked did there did not need to look to feel his gaze crawling down your back and you bloodied his nose and yet he looked on you like dirt like an insect like a puppet)

Sam would never have been so careless. If Sam is dead, has lost a life to Dream, then Dream is out.

“How could this have happened?” Puffy asks. “Sam would never have let his guard down!” There is more than fear lining her words, but Wilbur can’t pay her much attention now. Because Tommy’s breaths are coming in quick, shallow, edged with a hint of a whine, and he knows very well the beginnings of a panic attack when he sees one.

(and it was never supposed to happen to Tommy to his little brother to his baby brother and he doesn’t know if it was the war but if not the war it was everything that came after and the blame all comes circling back to him in the end)

Phil steps forward, concern written on his face, but Wilbur brushes past him.

“Tommy,” he says, and takes Tommy’s hand in his, keeping his grasp light and loose, so that Tommy can break away if he wants, “breathe with me, alright? In and out.” He breathes, loud and exaggerated, and it is a miracle that he can keep the rhythm steady when he was so scared only a moment ago, when he still is scared, when he expects footsteps to echo down the corridor at any moment, the worst nightmare become reality. But this is for Tommy, and for Tommy, he can put aside his own fears, can forget where they are and what they’re doing and push away the growing static and do what needs to be done. Do what he has promised to do.

Tommy grips his hand so hard he can almost hear his bones creaking. But gradually, he comes back, and his darting eyes focus on his face, clarity shining back through, though the fear does not dissipate.

“He is going to have to go through all of us before he gets to you,” Wilbur says lowly. Another promise. This one, he will be better about keeping to the letter. But Tommy shudders.

“That’s what I’m fucking scared of,” he says, in a voice that tries to be harsh but instead just sounds young.

(child soldiers, child soldiers, lives too short and graves too long)

“I’m not going to let anything happen,” he says, and wishes Tommy would believe him. But he cannot fault him for his lack of faith. Not after anything. Not after he’s grown so accustomed to family letting him down time and time again, not when he’s grown so accustomed to being burnt every time he extends a hand. Wilbur has wielded that fire himself. He can hear it even now, crackling around the edges of his consciousness, held at bay now only because he can see its destructiveness for what it is, can look past the horrible glory to the inglorious horror.

Or. No. That’s the Egg. The crackling is whispers.

He’d almost forgotten. He’s been focused on the other problem, almost forgetting about the first. But the Egg is here, gleaming red, pulsing, blood-drenched. He blinks, and his vision wavers, and there is blood beading on its surface like condensation, like dew, rolling down its sides and pooling beneath it. Spreading outward. Reaching for him.

People are talking. Discussing.

“He’s not going to go through all of us,” Techno is saying. “Don’t be so dramatic. He’s not that good. And he’s homeless again. I’m not goin’ down to some homeless man.”

“Do we even know that he’s coming here?” Phil asks. “He wouldn’t have any way of knowing where we are, right?”

Bad is soaked in it, soaked in the blood, and Ant, and Punz, and Ponk are soaked in it, and it is creeping up onto everyone else, staining their trousers, and he can hear the whispers, can hear the promises, can hear it again he can hear it again—

Sing blood, sing fire, it says to him, sing a requiem, sing of sleep, sing of what you want, if only you choose, if only you give in, I can give you all you’ve wanted, I can fulfill your dreams, and you ran once but you have returned to me now and I am in your blood and so is the fire and so is the void and you cannot deny yourself for long, gunpowder child.

(please not again please not again please no he won’t he won’t he won’t)

Tommy yanks on his arm.

“Wilbur,” he hisses.

(it asked you to hurt Tommy it asked you once and it will ask you again stop listening to it stop stop stop)

He blinks again, and the blood is gone, though the room is still bathed in red, from the egg and from the lava. Tommy is pressing something into his hand, a bottle of holy water, and Wilbur takes it with only a second of hesitation. The water goes down cool and fresh, and his mind clears. Not all the way. But enough. The whispers dissipate back into the static, indistinguishable from white noise.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Just keep your head on straight, big man,” Tubbo says, and—oh, it’s Tubbo who gave him the water. Tommy’s still holding his hand, but Tubbo’s pressed close to both of them, and whether he’s looking to protect or to be protected, Wilbur doesn’t know. Perhaps both.

“So obviously, this changes things,” Ant is saying, slow and considering.

“Does it?” Puffy asks.

“Of course,” Bad says. “We think that Dream should be in prison just as much as you do. He did bad things. He should be locked up.” He pauses, tilting his head, and Wilbur thinks that this is the most like the old Bad that he’s sounded. “So, how about we have a truce? We work together to take care of this, and maybe you’ll see how much the Egg can help, and then we won’t have to fight at all!”

“Right, because teaming with the people we were about to commit extreme violence against five minutes ago is a great plan,” Techno says. “I don’t see what could go wrong with that at all.”

Wilbur’s glad he said it. He understands the idea, of course, understands the concept of the enemy of my enemy is my friend, but he cannot work with those he does not trust, and he does not trust Bad or Ant or Punz not to stick a blade in his back as soon as he dares to turn it. Wouldn’t, even if there weren’t a mind control egg involved, even if they didn’t follow the very thing that has attempted to coerce him into betraying the only thing left he holds dear, the only people. Even if he still didn’t feel the thing sticking its tendrils into his mind, trying to find purchase.

He takes another swig of water. Tries to loosen his grip on the neck of the bottle, and fails.

“I don’t know that we have a choice,” Puffy says. Her shoulders slump. “If Dream is coming, we can’t be fighting among ourselves. We have to present a united front. Anything less, and he’ll walk all over us.” Her face is tight, but there is no real fear in it. Just pain. Perhaps regret.

(and you know that face you have seen it before that is the face of a parent who believes they have failed their child their light their beloved gone wrong and snuffed out and unrecognizable and they wonder if they could have stopped it and do not know which answer would be worse)

And as if the words are a summons, there are footsteps.

Footsteps. Unhurried, casual. Echoing down the corridor, loud as drumbeats, loud as a death knell. Footsteps, and the room goes quiet, unnaturally so. The Egg, that constant hum, stops, and that is the most terrifying thing of all. The world balances on the edge of a coin, teetering, ready to fall one way or the other. An anvil hangs overhead, waiting for the lever to be pulled, an anvil if the anvil knew the taste of blood and longed for it. An anvil if the anvil delighted in the death it caused.

(that day is blurry and out of focus, all its darkest implications slipping from Ghostbur’s memories like butter. he remembers showing Friend to Techno. and he remembers a flash of gold, brilliant and consuming and orienting the sky on a new axis. was the idea planted then, he wonders? the possibility that Ghostbur sought out so ardently? trade a ghost for a villain and try not to count too dearly the cost?)

“Shit,” Phil mutters, and just like that, everyone in the room takes on a defensive position, eyes trained on the entrance, half-hidden by vines as it is. Phil and Techno shift closer together, in sync as they always are. The Egg’s cohorts bunch up together. Sapnap strides forward a few paces, standing just a bit in front of everyone else, and no one moves to stop him, not with the scowl his lips are twisted into, not with the ready way he holds his sword.

(he is coming he is coming dark and twisted the poison at the core and you are all out of time)

Wilbur places himself between the entrance and the boys. It probably says something that they don’t try to stop him, that Tommy doesn’t call him out for babying him, that Tubbo doesn’t protest.

The sword falls into his hand. He hates

(himself, what he can do with it, but he has no crossbow so he must carry something and this sword is what he has even if he doesn’t want it but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter and self-loathing is thick in the back of his throat)

it, but he can use it, and that’s what matters most. Has always been what matters most, ever since the day he left home, guitar strapped to his back and songs on his lips and eyes still bright and curious, not jaded and dull as he knows they are now. He could use a sword, then, of course; Philza would never have allowed him to leave without the ability to defend himself. But it did not call to him, and it does not call to him now,

(but there is only one thing that calls to him now)

but there is no longer any room to worry about callings. The dog days are over, and he has been a general, and he has been a president, and he has been a traitor, and he has been a villain, and now, he will settle for being a protector. If just this once.

Dream steps into view.

It has always been odd, the power that he holds to command a room. Part of Wilbur knows that it is more their fault than anything; he can command a room because they give him the power to do so, because even after all this time, they still fear him. But Dream steps into view, and he cannot tear his eyes away, even though Dream is only a skinny man in a hoodie and a smiling mask that a five-year-old could have drawn.

It is something in his bearing, perhaps. The way his head is held high even after weeks of imprisonment. The way he strides forward, confident even though he is far outnumbered. The way his actual mouth, just barely visible under the edge of his mask, curls up in a smirk.

(you look at him and he is wrong he is wrong watch the shadows watch what dogs his steps do you see it you must see it)

Or perhaps it is the blood that stains his hands. It glints in the lava light, tacky, not yet dry.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” he says. Too calm. Too even.

“Shit off,” Tommy says, and Dream’s gaze snaps to him.

“Oh, come on now,” he says. “Don’t be like that, Tommy. After all the fun we had together? I had to work hard to make this little visit happen, you know. I’d think you’d be a little more thankful.”

“Okayyy—”

“You’ve got no right to—”

“Oi, you can’t just—”

“Don’t you fucking talk to him—”

“Yeah, I have to say, that’s pretty cringe of you—”

The chorus of voices that comes to Tommy’s defense, including his own, is gratifying. And it seems to bolster Tommy’s spirits, too, makes him stand just a bit taller, defiance flashing in his eyes. But then, one rises above the rest, and Sapnap takes a few steps forward, holding his own sword steadily out in front of him.

“This is the only warning you’re going to get, Dream,” he states. “Go back to the prison, now.”

Dream laughs.

(a laugh, not a wheeze, and that tea-kettle whistle is a distant memory, belonging to brighter days when no storms brewed on the horizon and all of them were friends and the war was a game, once, before it was real)

“Are you threatening me, Sapnap?” he asks, voice light. “What do you think you’re going to be able to do?”

“You know I am,” Sapnap replies, still steady. “I’m sure you’ll take down a few of us. But not all of us. Not all at once. We united against you before, and we’re going to do it again. You remember what happened last time, right? And I’m not holding back,  Dream. I’ve told you. I don’t know who you are anymore. So, last chance. Go back to the prison, now, and we won’t have to do it the hard way. And I won’t have to try and take your final life.”

Dream cocks his head, as if he’s actually considering it.

“You say that as if you think I didn’t know you were all here,” he says. “Like I didn’t know exactly what I was doing. Think I’m going to have to take a hard pass on that one. If you want me back in the prison, you’re going to have to kill me first.”

A flurry of motion. Sapnap swings, and he is no Technoblade but he no amateur, either, and there is power and speed behind his blow, and Dream just stands there. Unmoving. Puffy shouts. Dream still doesn’t stir, and Wilbur feels like he’s watching in slow motion as the blade approaches Dream’s chest, and it can’t be this easy, he wouldn’t just stand there and take it, not when he’s down to only one life, so what is he—

And then, at the last second: Dream’s hand darts out, lighting fast, grips Sapnap’s wrist, and tugs him forward. Sapnap stumbles, off-balance, crashes against Dream, swing going wide, and before he can recover, Dream isn’t there anymore. It’s like he was never there in the first place; it’s just Sapnap, two steps away from losing his balance completely, though he recovers, looking around wildly.

What—

“The thing is, it was interesting at first,” Dream says, and his voice is coming from somewhere else, is coming from behind them, and Wilbur wheels, pushing himself between Tommy and Tubbo and positioning himself in front of both of them, arms outstretched to shield them, perhaps, or to keep them back.

(there is something so very wrong here and if he cannot see what then he will do this much, and if it his life for theirs, so be it)

Dream’s sitting on the Egg. Criss-cross, hands in his lap, swaying side to side slightly. Even the visible parts of his face are cast in shadow, and his mask gleams in the red light.

“Hey, don’t—Dream. Get down from there,” Bad says. Like a parent admonishing a child.

“The prison, I mean,” Dream says. “I didn’t see it coming. I was pretty mad about it at first, but I mean, I can adapt to things. So I thought I’d see how it turned out.” He sighs. “But I’m done playing games now.”

“What the shit,” Tommy murmurs, behind him, “what the shit is he talking about, how the fuck did he get up there—”

“It’s been fun,” Dream continues. “A lot of you break the rules a lot, but I can do that, too, so it was fine. It’s been a good game. But you know, there comes a time when even the best games come to an end. You decide to go for checkmate. Or you run out of cards.”

A jolt runs down Wilbur’s spine. He knows, knows without any way to know, really, that Dream is looking at him.

(his gaze on you is like stinging hornets is like oil poured over your head and down your throat is like a black hole opening in your chest and the black hole watches and cares nothing for your life it is not in the nature of a black hole to care)

“And I have to say,” Dream says, “you guys are kind of irritating. You and your prisons and your rules and your hypocrisy, all of you. I wanted to unite the server, once, and I guess I did that. It was kind of nice to see, in a way, all of you coming together against me. But it’s all fake, in the end. All of it. You play nice with each other on the surface and turn around and stab each other in the backs. This server’s turned into something awful, and it’s your faults.”

“I am about ninety percent certain that’s not accurate,” Techno says.

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Tommy bites out. “You’re the issue here, you bastard. Everything was good until you decided to, to fuck us all over. We’d all be fine and dandy if we’d never met you.”

Wilbur opens his mouth to agree and then

(remembers ravines dark and deep and buttons upon buttons upon buttons and Dream gave him the means but he stood in that room and made the decision himself and he cannot assign more blame than exists, cannot say that Dream is the only thing wrong with this server, cannot say that he, too, does not trail devastation in his wake)

shuts it again.

“You can think what you want,” Dream says amiably. “I don’t really care. Like I said, I’m done playing. I just don’t know how you can call me the villain when half the people here have blown up a country.”

“An interesting line from the man with literal blood caking his hands,” Wilbur says. The words come out soft, but they echo like a gunshot. He’s not sure where they came from, but he knows he’s not wrong. He can’t stop staring, can’t stop thinking about it. He’s seen plenty of blood in his life, has been covered in more than his fair share of it, but given the circumstances, there’s only one person that blood can belong to.

He wonders how much it hurt. If Sam was scared.

(he had all three lives as far as he knows, so he’ll be fine, but fine is miles from good, and Wilbur remembers the first he lost, remembers the pain and the shock and the betrayal and the terror, not just for himself but for the comrades, for the family he dragged down with him, dragged into a traitor’s trap, and how must the warden have felt, dying with the knowledge that he failed in his charge?)

“Are you sure I’m the only one?” Dream returns, just as softly, and Wilbur doesn’t know what the fuck he’s trying to get at, except he’s bowled over by a sudden, irrational fear that there is blood on his hands, that he’s been dripping with it this whole time and didn’t know it, and there is panic and there is static and the Egg is humming and crooning of blood and decay and the desire to be fed, and he can’t stop himself from looking.

His hands are clean. But they don’t feel it. They itch, like a thousand ants, like a dozen layers of mud caked dry and crackling.

“Leave him be, Dream,” Phil says, overlapping with Tommy’s much louder, “Shut the fuck up!”

Wilbur swallows dryly. Downs another sip of holy water. It makes him feel better, though only marginally. There’s not much left in the flask.

“I really think you should get down from the Egg, Dream,” Bad says, slightly more severely than last time. So, a mildly more disappointed parent.

(it occurs to him then: someone should shoot him. he’s unarmored, no weapon in his hand, a sitting duck. someone should shoot him, should take care of the problem right now, while they can, while the opportunity is there, before Dream pulls whatever he’s sure to be planning. so why haven’t they?)

Dream stays silent for a moment.

“I don’t think I will,” he says. “I like it a lot.”

His blood runs cold.

(no)

No.

(but you know the feeling of its claws in your mind slimy and prying and seeking and you know the feeling of Dream’s gaze on your face suffocating and slick and they are similar so very similar they are two of a kind two of a pair so it makes sense but it doesn’t all the same and there is something still that you do not know)

Hello, the Egg croons, hello divine blood corrupted, hello to my brethren, hello to the void that seeps in the cracks, hello to the creature you are now and goodbye to the weakling you were, soft and caring and despicable, and we can do great things together, you and I.

He looks around wildly. No one else seems to hear it. But he’s certain it wasn’t directed at him.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” Dream says. “I’m going to keep sitting up here. And you guys have two choices. You can give in to the Egg. Join it. That’d be fine. If you don’t, they’re going to kill you, and I’m going to help.” He tilts his head upward, and his own smile becomes visible, wide and toothy. “You like those odds better, Sapnap?  You think I can take out more than a few of you now?”

For a moment, Wilbur allows himself to hope that Bad won’t go along with it. That the desire to see Dream put away will overpower the Egg’s directives, whatever they are. But Bad’s expression goes from doubtful to considering to determined, and the red of the room deepens, becomes more vibrant, pulses with a steady beat, with a hum that sounds like victory and power and a thousand dissonant voices calling for blood.

The Egg has accepted the offer. Has welcomed Dream into the fold. They will find no ally in Badboyhalo. No ally in Antfrost, Ponk, Punz.

(the fold is the wrong word. Dream is still separate. somehow, inextricably, he knows that this is an alliance of equals, that Dream has surrendered nothing and gained everything)

(do you begin to see on some level you already know)

An arrow slices through the air. Dream jerks to the side. Its barbed head slices open the sleeve of his hoodie, but draws no blood. A second later, and it would have.

“Fuck that,” Sapnap says. “And fuck you.”

It’s as if it’s a signal. Phil laughs, no mirth in it, the Angel of Death at the surface. He grips his own sword tighter, and behind him, Tommy and Tubbo are shifting, their breaths coming quicker with the anticipation, with the promise of a fight. Their blood runs hot, and they are still afraid, he knows, but they have allies by their side, and that makes all the difference, and six versus six

(is it six versus six? where is he getting those numbers from? those aren’t the numbers from where he’s standing)

is terrible odds when Dream is on the opposing side, but they have the Blood God and the Angel of Death and they will all of them fight to the end, and he was too quick, maybe, to give in to despair, to fear.

(but his mind is still screaming that something is wrong something is wrong)

The Egg’s lackeys stand at the ready. Any second, now, any second—

Blood, the Egg sings, there must be blood and I shall drink of their veins, and we shall drink together, you and I, and what is in me is also in you, and you are not of me but you are greater than yourself, and they are all yours for the taking, are ours for the unmaking.

Dream laughs. Not in submission, but in agreement.

And like a lightning flash, Wilbur understands.

“You’re the same,” he says, and just like that, the momentum of the room is arrested, all attention back on him once again. He doesn’t know what’s going to come out of his mouth until he speaks, but the words ring true. He looks at Dream, perched atop the Egg like a demented kind of bird, and understands that something, intrinsically, about them is the same.

Dream grins. Rises to his feet with a jump, balancing easily on the domed surface.

“You’re starting to get it,” Dream says. “I wondered if you would, Wilbur. We come from the same kind of place, all of us. You know what the void is like. You’re not quite like me, but you know what it’s like, to have something whispering in your head.” His grin widens further. Wilbur blinks, once, a sudden irritation in his eyes, and when he looks again, the smile on his mask is wider, too. More crooked. Has it been that way all along?

Another two arrows. One from Sapnap, one from Puffy, now, slightly off target. He dodges both easily.

“I tried to fight at first,” Dream says. “But it turns out it was right all along. I’m greater now than I ever was before.” He pauses, tilting his head, and when he speaks again, it is thick with condescension. “If it’s any consolation, Tubbo, you tried your best. Not your fault you didn’t have a clue what you were doing. Once you let something in, there’s no going back.”

He dares a glance around the room. There’s confusion, irritation, no understanding. He has no idea what Dream’s referencing, knows only that something dreadful is within him, and with that comes the thought that he cannot possibly be human, and that they have never understood the first thing about him this whole time. But Tubbo jolts, goes pale, takes a step back.

“Wait—” he says, “no, what are you—are you saying—but we got rid of it, we got rid of it—”

“Tubbo, what the fuck is he on about now?” Tommy demands, but Tubbo just shakes his head. Rapidly, panicked, and then there is no more time for explanations, because the Egg’s voice rings out in his head once again, a wash of red takes over his vision, and the world tilts, and it is more than just the Egg, it is the Egg and something else, something deeper rooted, something more toxic, something that permeates the air and the water of this server, something sickly and creeping and dark and powerful, something that says you are all mine my puppets my own to dispose of and I will have you.

(you see it now, too late)

By the time he can make sense of things again, he’s on his knees, his hands clutching his hair, and there’s so much noise, so much noise all around him, and he’s lost time, he must have lost time, because everyone’s fighting, finally, the strange tension that held the room in sway broken at last. But his head spins, and he can’t keep track of where everyone is, the combat nothing but blurs of motion between the red hanging vines.

Dream’s still on the Egg. That much he can tell.

(it was a signal a command a directive and you heard it but did not follow you did not follow you will not follow it brought you to your knees but you will not follow)

“—come on Wil, don’t do this again, not again, please,” Tommy is saying, and Tubbo is holding him by the shoulder, keeping him upright, and he didn’t mean to collapse, hates that he’s apparently so susceptible to this, but if there is a silver lining it is in that it has kept his boys by his side, not in that mess, people clashing together with movements that are difficult to track with pounding head and stinging eyes.

He fumbles for the holy water and comes up empty. Nothing left.

“I’m with you,” he manages. “Sorry. Egg was being shouty. Not fun.”

“Oh, well, if it’s not fun,” Tommy says, visibly relieved, and his attention moves from him to track the battle. It must make more sense to him than it does to Wilbur at the moment, because he frowns. “Stupid fucking Eggers aren’t letting anyone get to Dream. Wish we could kill the fuckers. That’d make it easier.”

“Sapnap keeps firing off shots when he can, but he keeps dodging,” Tubbo adds. “It’s only been a minute. We were gonna join in, but we didn’t want to leave you alone.”

“Okay,” he says. “That’s—okay, that’s good.” Now that they’ve said it, he can pick out the combat easier. Bad’s fighting Phil and holding his own, Punz and Ponk are keeping Puffy and Sapnap busy, Antfrost is barely fending off Techno, and Dream’s overseeing it all from on high, making no moves to join in. They sit in an oasis in the midst of it all, no one seeming to pay them much mind. He’ll take the reprieve while he can get it. “Tubbo, what was he talking about?”

“I don’t—” Tubbo’s face twists. “I don’t know how you picked up on it. But months and months ago, Dream was possessed by a demon. A dreamon, we called it. But we got rid of it. Me and Fundy. We exorcised him for sure. And he’s not, he’s not acting like he did when that was going on, it was so obvious back then, like, his voice was all weird and deep and doubly—”

“Okay, okay, we can figure it out later,” he says. “We can—”

Demons. Dreamons. What the fuck?

(Dream might be possessed but that doesn’t sound right, doesn’t feel right, but it would account for the oil slick gaze and the way the darkness gathers, the shivers down his spine whenever he looks at him, but it’s not quite right, but if Dream is a demon and he and the Egg are the same then what does that make the Egg and none of this makes sense at all)

(he misses the days when the worst they had to worry about was Sapnap trying to arrest them for starting a drug van)

As he looks on, Techno shoves Ant in Phil’s direction, and Phil takes on a second opponent easily, the two of them as in sync as they always are. Phil holds all of Ant’s attention, leaving Techno free to pivot toward the Egg, and the man who still stands there. He holds out his sword, points it at him, a threat, an invitation, made easily as breathing, and Wilbur is reminded that Techno has fought Dream before, many times.

“Has prison made you a coward, Dream?” Techno asks, an obvious taunt, and Dream holds himself very still for a moment before laughing, short and sharp. An axe drops into his hand—and when did he find the time to get that?—and he springs forward, rearing back to strike a blow. It’s like

(it is)

watching a clash of gods,

(and how is Dream so strong after so long locked away?)

and the sound of metal on metal rings out as their weapons connect. Techno grins, fierce and wild, and Wilbur doesn’t have to be able to hear them to know what his voices are chanting.

(blood for the blood god)

And then: a realization.

The Egg is unguarded.

Dream is occupied with Techno, now. Bad and Ant are on Phil, Ponk and Punz on Puffy and Sapnap, and the fighting is spread throughout the room, but centered in the middle, where everyone has the most space to move. The Egg is unguarded, and the three of them have been left out, so perhaps they can still do what they set out to do.

His eyes trace the room. If they hug the wall, they can make it to the corner without attracting too much attention, hopefully. They can—

What is Ranboo doing?

He’d forgotten he was here, honestly. He’s been so quiet, so still. He’s hovering by the wall, hands clenching and unclenching, but other than that, he is unmoving, and he doesn’t seem to be tracking the fight. His eyes stare straight ahead, glazed, and this is something they can’t afford. He’s not sure why Ranboo came in the first place, but he’s a sitting duck where he is right now, and all it will take is one of their enemies seeing the state he’s in before he gets used against them.

Alright. They can do this. Alright.

“Open season on the Egg,” he murmurs, meeting Tommy’s eyes, then Tubbo. He keeps his voice low, inaudible to anyone else. Hopefully. “We creep around the side. Grab your friend along the way.” He jerks his head toward Ranboo, and they both understand what he means immediately. He redistributes his weight and stands, and counts it as a win that the wave of dizziness only lasts a moment. He gestures for them to follow him, and starts picking his way through the vines, keeping his movements as soundless as he possibly can. The noises of battle will work in their favor, that way.

Ranboo doesn’t react to their approach. Wilbur has seen states sort of like this before, has seen people caught up in flashbacks, dead to the world around them, so perhaps that’s what this is. But if that is the case, it’s odd that his face is so blank, that there is no expression there at all, that whatever he is seeing, he is barely reacting to it.

“He sleepwalks,” Tubbo whispers. “He told me. He might be sleepwalking.”

“He—” Okay. Okay, this is fine. “Alright, one of you two grab him. We’re not going to leave him here like this.”

Tubbo grabs his hand instantly, barely waiting for him to finish speaking. Tommy rolls his eyes. Wilbur glances back and forth between the three of them, then turns his back and presses on, inching his way along the outskirts of the room. No one takes notice of them, no one seems to realize what they’re up to, and even the Egg itself doesn’t seem to pay much mind; its hum remains constant, a continuous presence that neither wanes nor waxes.

And then, they’re crouching behind it. Tubbo tugs on Ranboo’s arm, and he sits with them, still absent.

“Alright, big man,” Tommy says. “We just gonna stab it to death? I think we should stab it to death.”

“It’s probably the first thing to try,” he concedes. He peers around its thick shell; the fights so far are inconclusive. Techno’s taken a scratch to his cheek, Dream a slice along his forearm. He doesn’t know how much time they have, and up close, the Egg’s shell is thick, hard. Even a netherite sword is going to need some heavy leverage behind it if it’s going to pierce through, and being this close to the thing makes his head swim, even when it’s not talking directly to him.

“Okay,” he says, and places one heel against a vine behind him, bracing himself. The sword feels unwieldy in his hand, awkward and too heavy, but it’s not as if the Egg will be hitting back. Strength is what he needs here, not finesse.

He brings his arm back, and then—

Weary son, restless son, it croons, its voice scraping against the insides of his skull, you needn’t fight me, wandering son, you only fight yourself and why fight when you can have what you want, that deep sleep, unending peace, the void still calls to you, calls of a world black and unending and eternal, and I can return you there, and you can lay down your steel at last, lay down your iron, lay down your arms at last and only sleep.

He wavers. But—

“Get out of my head,” he grits out, and the other two suddenly look very alarmed. “Shut up, get out, I know your games now, and I’m not falling for them again. Get the fuck out.” But though his voice is angry, it is weak, thin, threaded with pain, and his brothers can hear it, and he knows the Egg can feel it, knows the Egg can burrow inside of him and stick itself into all of the unstable places, all of the hollows in his heart, and tease out temptation.

(but he’s made a promise)

He inhales. Prepares himself again.

If not you then it will be him, it says, and he freezes, that darling boy of yours, golden haired sunshine gone limp and dead and eyes dull and blank and rotting in his skull, if it is not you then it will be him, if I cannot have you then I will have him, we will have him, for he does not hear my voice so he must die, and his blood will nourish my roots and I will grow strong on his life, I will kill him if you let me, and will you let me, blood child, child of death, shall you allow me my due?

“Shut up,” he whispers. “Shut up, stop, I won’t—I won’t let that happen. Shut up.”

“Wil,” Tommy says, “Wil, here, let me, let me do it, okay?” And Tommy’s hand is on his, gently lowering his sword arm, and then he steps forward, his own blade raised defiantly. “Take this, omelet bitch!”

I will kill him, I will do it now!

“Wait, Tommy, wait—”

Tommy drives his sword against the Egg’s shell, and two things happen. The first is that the blade skids off against it, leaving a slight dent, perhaps, but no more than that. And the second is that Tommy goes pale, doubles over, and wraps his free hand around his stomach, wheezing, eyes bugging out of his skull.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, “holy shit, that hurt, what the hell—”

“Tommy?” Tubbo demands. “Tommy, what is it, what did it do?”

“It hurt me,” Tommy says, like he can’t quite believe it. He straightens, some of the color slowly returning to his face. “The bastard hurt me. It was like, like fucking fire in my chest or some shit, what the hell?”

“It said it was going to kill you,” Wilbur whispers. “That’s what it said to me.”

“Oh.” Tommy stares at him. “Well, um, it didn’t. Obviously. Still kicking.”

“But it will,” he says. “That’s why it didn’t bother to try and stop us coming up here. That’s why none of the Eggers care. That’s why Dream felt alright leaving it alone. If we try to hurt it, it can hurt us back. Physically.”

They stay silent for a moment.

“Well, shit,” Tubbo says. “What are we supposed to do now, then?”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. The entire plan revolved around them being able to destroy the Egg. They thought that the people under its control would be the worst problem. And then Dream came along, and that was out the window, but he thought—he thought that he could make sure that this was worth something, that this would bear some fruit, even if they’d have to deal with an even bigger problem afterward. But now, it’s all fallen apart, and the room is still full of the sound of fighting, and what are they fighting for, if they’re not going to be able to accomplish anything without—

I shall spare him if you give in, if you let yourself go, I shall give you peace and keep it from him, my ally wants him alive and I can make concessions, I can be generous, so I put it on your shoulders and the choice is yours, child of—

“Shut up,” he screams, hoarse and jagged, and the red in his vision now is anger, pure and undiluted, and the sudden surge of strength does not feel like his own, and the movement he makes does not feel like his own, because it is impulsive and ill-conceived, but he drives his own weapon into the Egg’s bulk, and understands only moments later what Tommy was talking about, because all the breath leaves his lungs at once, and his chest is set aflame, like there is fire

(fire all around him, fire, fire, fire, beautiful and fitting, fitting that it should end this way, in this utter annihilation of one of his greatest creating, a torch taken to his legacy, and he set down the pitch himself)

racing across his skin and in his heart, in his heart, and his heartbeat stutters, and then just as quickly as the sensation began, it ends, and he is left winded, exhausted, unsteady.

“Oh my god—”

“You stupid asshole, why would you—”

“Sorry,” he manages. “Sorry, it just, it pissed me off. You hear that?” He turns toward it. “You’re pissing me off, you great breakfast food. You are a terrible buffoon, and I hate you.”

You cannot hold out forever, void child.

He winces, bringing a hand up to his forehead. But he glares.

“We’ll see about that,” he states.

And then it all goes to shit. Even more than it’s gone to shit already. Because Dream is still fighting with Techno, and Wilbur hasn’t been paying attention to them for the past few minutes, but they both still seem to be going strong, and his attention is brought back to them by Dream calling out—

“I think I’ll call in that favor, Technoblade!”

And Tommy says—

“Oh, fuck no.”

And Tubbo swears, soft and vehement, and Wilbur is confused, because since when does Techno owe Dream a favor? How would he allow himself to be indebted to the man in the first place?

(another remembrance: following the flash of gold, following the fighting that he paid no attention to at all, because he had Friend and how exciting it was, to have a blue sheep, a blue sheep who he loved very much, who he could show everyone and perhaps make them happier because who wouldn’t love Friend immediately upon seeing them, but on the edge of the square there is a figure cloaked in green)

“Oh yeah?” Techno asks. He sounds unconcerned, but that’s just Technoblade. He takes a step back, disengaging from their fight, and Dram does the same, twirling his axe in his hand. “I’d be careful with that. You never know when I might inexplicably go deaf.”

“You can’t avoid it when I’m right in front of you,” Dream says.

“You’re underestimatin’ my powers of—”

“Listen to the Egg, Technoblade,” Dream says. “That’s the favor. Just stand there for a minute and listen to it. Let it really get to you. Let it sink in. You like blood, right? The Egg likes blood, too.” He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. “A bit messy for my taste, but whatever works, right? I don’t mind getting my hands a little dirty if I have to. We’re the same, in that way, you know.”

“Oh, fuck no,” Tommy says again, and then he’s starting forward, and Wilbur barely catches him by the shoulder in time. He doesn’t want him near Dream. He doesn’t want either of them near Dream. And Dream has to have something up his sleeve, with the way he’s brought this up so suddenly.

(the air feels electric, feels like something is awaited, feels like something is building, building to a breaking point, and he doesn’t want to know what is about to shatter)

“Wait,” he hisses, and Tommy glares, but he ignores him, taking in the battlefield again. Nothing has changed since last he checked, since before they hunkered down in this corner, by the Egg, and that is what is wrong here. It’s all too neat. Sapnap and Puffy have their fight, nicely contained, and Phil has his, and Techno his, and no one has dealt any serious damage against anyone else, and he knows that their side is constrained by not wanting to seriously injure anyone who is currently being mind controlled, but what is holding back the other side?

It is all too neat in a way that battles never are, because the first rule of combat is to keep your head, the second is not to drop your weapon, and the third is that no plan survives combat with the enemy. And yet, here they are, all opponents evenly matched, no side winning, and where is the chaos, the bloodshed?

If there is no chaos yet, it is because it has yet to be unleashed.

“I mean, I hear it,” Techno says, and has it been a minute? Surely not. Tommy and Tubbo have both gone tense. Ranboo is still crouching, right where Tubbo put him. He doesn’t know if that’s typical behavior of sleepwalkers. He doesn’t have time to think about it right now. Because Dream told Techno to listen to the Egg, and it’s a favor, and Techno always honors favors, no matter what, so he’s doing it, he’s listening to it, and somehow, that’s not what he’s most worried about,

(because there is something holding its breath, a leashed tension, a match held loosely, about to drop, and it’s been growing all this time but he senses it only now, only here, only watching his brother face down a nightmare forty paces away, and he thinks he hears the Egg in his mind and he thinks it sounds smug)

“But I hear a lot of voices,” Techno finishes. “Can’t say I find this one very compelling.”

(it should be a relief, a relief, a relief to know that the Egg will not take its red and shove it into Techno’s mind, that he will not look into his eyes and find a monster in his place, but his heart races and something is building, building, building, and there is no way that Dream staked everything on this play, on bringing Techno to his side, so what is the plan here, what is his plan?)

“I wondered if you might say something like that,” Dream says. He doesn’t sound at all like someone whose plans have just been foiled, who has just wasted a favor from the strongest fighter on the server. “I had to try, you understand.”

“Of course,” Technoblade says.

(there is a dam and the dam)

He feels it, then, and he thinks everyone else does too, and Tommy and Tubbo press against him, hands gripping each other for balance as the two of a kind united now and I lend my power to you and together you will succumb or you will perish and I no longer care for which you have spurned me for the last time locked me away and stripped me of the power that is mine and I reclaim it now and our power united united now my strength to yours revenge is sweetest when it is hot and the blood is fresh.

(bursts)

The vines.

The vines on the ground twitch. The vines hanging down sway. He moves his foot as the vine nearest to him spasms like a dying animal.

“What the fuck,” Tommy whispers.

A shout crawls up his throat. It dies on his lips.

It happens too quickly to process.

One moment, Techno is standing there, and the next, there is a red vine around his neck, and the crack should not echo through the room as it does, but it is all Wilbur can hear. All Wilbur can see. One of Techno’s hands comes up, and then it falls limp. His body goes slack, held up by the vine and the vine only, the vine still encircling his neck, the vine that digs into the skin under his helmet, the vine that—

That can’t—

That can’t be—

Technoblade never—

He doesn’t—

And then, before he has time to understand at all, before his mind can shake off the numbness that’s taken him, the complete and utter lack of comprehension, the ringing in his ears that is, oddly, interspersed with an enderman’s distressed warble, before he can come out of it—the world explodes in a brilliant flare of light, golden and pure, a rush of energy that sings of the universe, that sings of life and renewal and second chances, a soul tethered, kept back, returned, re-tuned, and for a split second, he is floating in the void again as the fabric of reality shifts, as the light dances, as the rules are rewritten, and he can see everything, and he is one with the universe and the universe is with him and there are hundreds of thousands of voices chanting—

“Technoblade never dies!” Techno crows, and the golden light of the totem flickers and dances in his eyes, visible even from here, and Techno is sure to feel that later, when his adrenaline comes crashing down. But for now, the laugh that springs from Wilbur’s lips is giddy and relieved and joyful all at once, and the grief that barely had a chance to gather at all dissipates like smoke in the wind.

“How many of those things do you have?” Tubbo yells, right in his ear, and then Phil laughs too, and he brings his sword hilt down on Bad’s, and Bad’s own weapon skitters across the floor and Phil wheels on Ant in the next motion, and Ponk and Punz are being pushed back, and Techno swirls his sword again and leaps for Dream, and suddenly it’s like the tide is turning, like maybe they can win the day and they’ll have time to work out the rest, except then Tubbo shouts again, a warning this time, but there is no time to move before a vine rips the others from him and he is slammed against the surface of the Egg, hard, and—

He can—

He—

(it’s on him it’s on him get it off get it off off off off off off off)

(it’s trying to consume him trying to take in all that he is and spit out nothing not even the bones and if he lets it there will be nothing left of him if he lets it and he fights he struggles and it’s on him and trying to cover him and blood is dripping over him and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he opens his mouth and the blood pours in and he thrashes but its grip is inescapable and he’s panicking and he can’t he can’t he doesn’t want no rest is worth this)

And then hands are on him, pulling him forward, two pairs, and he opens his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them, and he lets himself be tugged away, his lungs inflating, and he expects to see Tommy and Tubbo, but it is Tommy and Ranboo, and Tubbo is hacking away at the vines that attacked him, that slammed him against the thing that tried to—

“Wilbur!” Tommy is shouting in his face. “Wilbur, don’t be an Egghead, don’t, don’t let it fucking eat you, you—”

“It wasn’t my idea,” he gasps out.

“Oh, good, you’re okay,” Ranboo says, perhaps a little hysterically, but there’s no time to calm him down, no time to puzzle over why he’s suddenly awake. “I’ve got no idea what’s going on. Why’s Dream out?” His voice is about an octave higher than Wilbur remembers it being, but at least he’s functional.

“We don’t know,” he says. “We’re dealing with it. Well. Dealing with it. Sort of. Everything’s gone a bit shit. Did you know you weren’t awake?”

“I mean, it happens,” Ranboo says. “I never know at the time. That’s not, um, that’s not how it works? I’m sorry?”

“No time, boys,” Tommy says. “We have, we have so many problems right now.”

The vines writhe, twist, lash out, and it is not all of them, not nearly all of them, because if it were all of them, they would be shredded like mincemeat, but it is more than enough to be a major issue, because suddenly, everyone has to focus on their foes and foliage all at once, and Techno and Phil seem alright, but Puffy and Sapnap begin to struggle under the onslaught, and they’re not going to win this. These vines attack with purpose, with blood lust, and they are seeking their deaths and they need to go. They need to cut their losses, as much as it stings, before someone who doesn’t have a totem loses a life.

(it burns the general in you to retreat now because there is always some part of you that will think in terms of tactical sacrifices and acceptable losses but there is also a part of you that can see when a battle is beyond its turning point and this battle is far past that and it was not in your favor so it is time to sound the horn time to perform an about-face and try not to be burned too badly in the leaving)

“We need to go!” Puffy calls, as if she’s read his mind. “We need to go right now!” She and Sapnap start to back slowly toward the entrance, covering each other as best they can with Ponk and Punz and fucking plants all after them.

“Wait, what? We can’t just—” Tommy starts, but he shakes his head, cutting him off.

“She’s right,” he says. “We stay here, and someone’s going to die. For real. And I’m not going to let that be you or Tubbo.” Tommy’s expression sets into something mulish, but he continues. “We’re not fighting anyone, we just have to make it to the exit. We all cover each other’s backs, and keep an eye out for the viney shit. Nobody’s losing a life to plants today.”

He doesn’t intend to use the old general’s voice, but Tommy and Tubbo both straighten, soldiers called to their posts, and he knows he can trust them in this, at least. They have their orders.

What could possibly go wrong?

(you can still feel him, can feet it, can feel both of them, but you can feel his presence grating up against yours, everything dark and corrupted and poisonous, you can feel it in the vines and in the air like sandpaper against your skin and he is not done yet do not turn away he is not done yet)

He doesn’t even get to take a step. Dream ducks under a blow from Techno and then looks to him, and even from across the room, he can feel his gaze pinning him, piercing him, and

(something is about to happen)

there is a flash of movement, too quick, too sudden,

(but you cannot fight the void, the absence of him, the howling pit that is he and that is it and that is them together)

and Tommy yelps, and then he’s gone, right out from under his hands, being dragged across the room, toward Techno, toward Dream, and times slows down. He lurches forward, hand outstretched, but he’s too slow, too slow, and he is still reaching out, is still stumbling forward, as if that will do anything, as if he will be able to cross forty paces before that vine, thick and red, deposits Tommy at Dream’s feet, and he is useless, powerless, and Tubbo is beside him, shouting, charging forward with more strength than he has in his own weary muscles, more power, but he will not be enough either.

Techno’s eyes widen. He tries to step forward, tries to hack away at the vine that has Tommy in its grip, but Dream leaps forward with another onslaught, so Techno is forced to focus on that and not his little brother, their little brother, now staggering to stay upright, now too close to Dream.

He keeps pushing forward, and his legs strain like he’s moving through molasses. Vines lash out at him, tearing at his clothes, his hair, his skin, and he can feel blood, warm and sticky, trailing down his leg, though there is no pain. Tubbo is beside him still, and Ranboo on his other side, and their swords sing but more and more vines move, now, and there are too many, too many to fight, and the room is filled with a red haze, and they’re closer now, but they’re not going to make it before Dream does something—

Dream launches himself into the air, flips over Techno’s head. He’s going for Tommy.

He’s going for Tommy.

(you promised to protect him you promised you promised and now death stares him in the face and you are now fifteen feet away fifteen feet and closing but fifteen feet too distant fifteen feet too late you cannot watch your brother die but that is the role you are consigned to spectator useless and reaching out for a hand that will never hold yours again)

Then, Techno is there. Techno pushes Tommy to the side, hard enough to fall to the floor. But he has no time to move out of the way himself, no time to bring his blade up to parry, and Dream’s axe sinks deep into his exposed throat, and Dream smiles, and Wilbur knows that this was his plan all along.

All the world goes still.

A crow caws, low and mournful.

He thinks he is screaming, but there is no sound in his ears.

Dream pivots lightly. Yanks the axe out. Blood spurts. Tommy’s mouth falls open, a rictus of horror. Technoblade’s jaw works, and his hands clench, unclench. He says something, and Wilbur can’t hear it.

(he has another totem he’ll be fine he’ll be fine please let him pull out another totem because Technoblade never dies Technoblade never dies please he never dies don’t let him die)

His inventory spills across the floor, and dust dissipates on the air.

Sound rushes back. As one, all of the communicators in the room chime. Just like that, Techno is gone.

“How many people are gonna have to sacrifice themselves for you before you learn?” Dream asks Tommy, axe dripping blood on the ground, and vines crowd him, vines weave around him, absorbing the blood, lapping up the blood, Techno’s blood.

(but Technoblade never dies Technoblade never dies Technoblade never dies)

Time resumes its normal pace.

He reaches Tommy’s side in the next instant. Dream just stands there, observing them, and the smile on his face is the cruelest on he has ever seen on a person, on a human,

(and that includes the times he’s looked in a mirror, seen dark bags and a sallow face and lips twisted into something too dark to be a smile)

but Dream isn’t human, is he? Can’t be. And Wilbur doesn’t know what he is, doesn’t know if he’s a demon himself of if he’s possessed or what, but he takes a split second to look Tommy over for injuries, finds none, and then joins Tubbo in starting for Dream, blade in his hand, even though he has no chance, they have no chance, not even together, because Dream had to resort to dirty tactics to defeat

(but Technoblade never dies so why why is he how can this)

Techno, but even he and Tubbo together do not a blood god make.

Dream holds out his axe. Saying, come get me, then.

And his heart is in his throat because his brother, his brother

(his brother is dead his brother is dead his brother has two lives left but his brother is dead)

was right there two seconds ago and now he has not, and a large part of him

(all of him, since childhood, since the first time Techno went out and came back bloodied and grinning and carrying an inventory full of loot)

has always assumed that Technoblade was invincible, that there is nothing in heaven or hell that could stop him, and that was why he let him into Pogtopia in those early days, because the world was shrinking in around him and there was no one he could trust but Technoblade was the strongest there was and he needed the strongest, needed the power of the blade, the power of iron and steel to take back what was his.

(and part of you looked in his eyes met crimson with your brown and knew deep within yourself that your brother was here for you here for you both and maybe you could let your guard down just a little let yourself be protected let yourself trust and you did, if only for a moment, even if it didn’t last, didn’t save you or anyone else in the end)

They cannot defeat Dream. He, especially, cannot defeat Dream. Not through combat. But Ranboo crouches by Tommy, and he steps up beside Tubbo, and raises his sword.

Phil gets there first.

His blade knocks into Dream’s axe so hard that he almost loses his grip, and Phil doesn’t let up, aiming another strike against his head and another against his chest and another against his arm, and it is all that Dream can do to block the blows, and this, this is the Angel of Death, and there is fear on Dream’s face, and then he is gone, standing atop the Egg again, and Phil almost follows after him.

But then, a mass of vines raises up, all around them. Too many to fight off, even together. Wilbur braces himself, and then there is something around them, covering them, shielding them, something massive and black, and Phil grunts, and—

(and how many times has he protected you like this now)

And his wings—

Thorns sink into Phil’s wings, which are out on full display, and Wilbur can’t stop staring, because Phil’s wings are tattered and torn, and his feathers are sticking out every which way, clearly not cared for, but that isn’t even the worst part, because there are holes in them, holes in his wings where Wilbur can see straight through to the opposite wall, and there are featherless patches covered in scarred skin, and there are places where bone lies exposed to the air, sticking out from flesh and plumage, and he can’t fly on these. There’s no way that he can fly on these.

(explosions around him and the heat scorches his back and he smiles and laughs and then Phil is there wrapping his wings around him and Phil cries out in pain as the walls go down as the fire licks at both of them scorches both of them but he didn’t think to care then and oh gods what has he done what has he done)

(and Phil’s wings are bleeding now as the red thorns dig in and it’s happening again happening again before his eyes and how many times will people have to sacrifice themselves for him before he learns?)

(your father’s bones blackened and twisted by heat and do they hurt do they hurt bones are not meant for the open air and surely the scar tissue aches and they are ruined they are ruined his pride and joy ruined and your father will not fly again will not feel the wind at his back and he loved it he loved it and he gave it up for you and yet you are here again still asking for a sacrifice always asking for a sacrifice at least once more)

He’s panicking. He’s panicking, and he needs to stop panicking, because there panic has no place on a field of battle, and that is a lesson he learned long ago, at the knee of his country, his beautiful country, and for a moment, he is on the walls, orange and black, and he is fighting for his nation, fighting for his people, and then he blinks, and Phil has gathered Tommy in his arms. Tommy doesn’t protest, blank shock painting his face.

“We need to go, Wil,” Phil says. “I need you all to guard me while I get Tommy out.” His voice is steel. No room for argument.

He nods, numbly. Moves mechanically. Doesn’t pay heed to the way the vines slash at him, as long as they’re not slashing at Tommy. There is blood on him.

(but it is his own, so that is alright)

He blinks, and Puffy and Sapnap have joined them. Sapnap’s white shirt is stained red. Blood sheets down from a wound on Puffy’s forehead. But they are alive.

(Techno isn’t)

(Technoblade never dies but Technoblade died and what do you do when the immortal figures of your childhood are no longer so?)

Bad and the rest do not stop them. The Egg does not stop them, though he can feel it, still, humming a victory march in his mind.

Dream, from where he stands on its top, does not stop them. He chances one glance back; Dream offers a mock salute.

(they are letting them go, they are letting them go as the cat releases the mouse, sure of its ability to follow the limping blood trail, sure of its chances of having a meal later, when it is more hungry, when it will be all the more satisfying. they are letting them go, and it is no mercy, and they will be driven forward like vermin, but they have no choice but to go, no choice but to run)

And then they’re going up the stairs, up the ladder, and into the sunlight.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

A Great Treasure

(Jaskier just constantly getting kidnapped by dragons and dressed real pretty? Yeah. I’m into it.)

tw: gratuitous, almost My Immortal levels of outfit description because I am A Ho For The Look, dragons being horny, Geralt being soft as fuck but also kinda horny

---

The next dragon that took Jaskier wasn’t nearly as sneaky. Nor was it green. The great, sapphire-blue reptile swooped down above the road in broad daylight and plucked the surprised bard up with its great talons, disappearing over the tops of the trees before Geralt could so much as think to pull his sword. The Witcher heard Jaskier’s startled cry echo out over the forest and urged Roach into a canter. He departed from the beaten path and took off in the same general direction the creature had been headed. “It hasn’t even been three full fucking weeks yet. Fuck.”

Hello, Jaskier! I’m a friend of Etheid’s, the dragon introduced herself. The draconic method of telepathic communication still bothered the bard a little but the blue dragon’s voice seemed more sing-song than Etheid’s had been. Certainly more feminine. Call me Lythos, or Lyth for short. 

“Nice to meet you, Lythos,” Jaskier muttered, clenching his eyes shut tightly. “Let’s talk more when we’re on solid ground, yeah?”

Afraid of heights, bardling?

“Just a smidgen of a little bit.”

Worry not, we’re nearly to my tower.

“Another tower?”

Whatever happened to talking on solid ground?

“I’ve been kidnapped by two dragons in one month. I’m curious.”

I doubt this will be the last time you’re kidnapped by a dragon, either. Not until one of my brethren gives up during their turn or loses the bet.

“Their turn? What bet?! What are you talking about?”

I will explain the situation to you more fully when we land. There is much to be discussed. Many things to plan. Many rules to be determined and recorded for the others. 

Jaskier sighed, glad he’d left his lute tied to Roach’s saddlebags today, and let himself be carried off to yet another strange adventure. “So you guys are just going to keep swooping in and stealing me away like this because it’s fun?”

Yes. And because Borch said that you and Geralt are kind-hearted and friendly mortals. We dragons don’t meet many such humans in our travels; we’d like to reward you somehow.

“So you’re rewarding me by kidnapping me?”

That’s why we included the second part of the deal, with the elaborately designed outfits. It’s not just because we enjoy collecting treasures from all over the Continent and squirreling them away to play with later; it’s also our form of payment to you. If you’re dressed from head to toe in silk and gold when Geralt rescues you then there’s no time to stop and take those items off before you ‘escape’. You can keep them or sell them; anything you are given by one of us should be considered payment for services rendered.

“And the service that Geralt and I are providing is...entertainment?”

Correct. It would be unfair to use up so much of a Witcher’s time without paying him.

“You’d be surprised how many people do that, actually,” Jaskier griped. “Village after village, turning him away without payment just because he’s a mutant and a freak. It’s horrible!”

Now you understand why my kin are so desperate for something good in the world. The love between you and Geralt is pure and strong, that is the other reason we chose the two of you.

Jaskier blushed. “We’re just a couple of flimsy mortals that happened to bump into each other and get along. Most of the time. It’s a very human thing to do. There are other couples in need of some emotional urging, if you’re looking to orchestrate a romance.”

No, we wish only to further yours. Now, would you care to look through the clothes I’ve gathered? We have at least another day before your Witcher finds us. 

“Less than a day if he chooses not to pause for meditation, the fool.”

He will not risk losing you, Lythos sighed happily. I checked in on him earlier; he is meditating and gathering his strength. He has admitted his love for you now and is determined to prove himself. How dreamy.

“That is absolutely precious! Ugh, I love him so much.” 

Then let us make you lovely, so that when he arrives he is doubly excited to see you.

“I can’t argue with that logic. Not from such an ancient and wise creature.”

Flattery gets you everywhere, bard, Lythos teased. She huffed out a thin cloud of steam and Jaskier chuckled in return. 

“I know.”

---

“Are you kidding me?”

Absolutely not, the dragon shook its snout. Try them on. Unless you don’t like it, of course; I have other options, too.

“No, it’s all very lovely. It’s just...I get to keep them?”

Of course. I don’t want to make you change your clothes in the middle of Geralt’s daring rescue. That would totally ruin the romance!

“I suppose that would be rather odd. Even Geralt might catch on to something like that.” Jaskier held clothes the dragon had preferred in his hands, glancing once more at the suggested shirt. “What exactly is this supposed to be?”

It’s a tunic, of course. What else could it possibly be?

The bard gesticulated towards the dragon, holding the apparent tunic out for inspection as if he was shocked or surprised by Lyth’s choice. “It’s completely sheer!”

Yes, and it will make you look so very delicate, Lythos urged. Just try it on with the pants. Just once. You can change if you don’t like it, like I said. There’s a whole closet of costumery at your disposal, Jaskier.

The bard sighed and pulled the pants on first. They were made of a deep, peacock blue silk and hugged him in all the right places. He turned back and forth, observing their fit in the full-length mirror Lythos had provided. His legs were defined but the material wasn’t overly tight; it hadn’t bunched up near his thighs or ass like silk of this kind usually did. “Were these tailored to fit me?”

Yes, they were. 

“How? I’ve only been here for a few hours and you pulled these directly from the armoire!”

Etheid passed along your measurements to the rest of us so that we could better prepare.

“Right, of course. Dragons. Bets. All that fun stuff,” the bard sighed. He tugged the gossamer shirt down over his head and tucked it neatly into the waistband of his high-waisted trousers. Jaskier glanced towards the mirror again and discovered that he looked...he looked amazing. 

The shirt had been designed with a low, swooping neckline that revealed both his collarbones and a good portion of his chest. The thin, almost translucent white material left whatever the shirt did cover still almost entirely visible. When he blushed it could be rather obviously traced all the way down to his mid-chest. The giddy bard mussed his hair a little and did his best pouting ‘rescue me’ face; oh yes, that’s the way to do it. 

Jaskier looked downright sinful. 

“You are absolutely brilliant, Lythos! Geralt is going to lose his mind when he sees me in this ensemble.”

So you’ll wear it?

“This particular outfit is my new favorite. I’ll have to wait until the next dragon shows up before we can turn a profit from this whole bard-napping melodrama venture.”

There is always the jewelry. I can give you a few extra pieces to sell since you love the clothes so much; I have too much of the stuff sitting around and collecting dust anyway.

“Would you like it if I let you choose all my jewelry? I’m afraid I tend to go a bit overboard.”

Yes, yes! The dragon huffed happily, filling the space briefly with a cloud of steam. I have temporary earrings and bracelets and necklaces. I even have anklets if you so desire. 

“Goody!” the bard rejoiced. “I love anklets! I never have good enough reason to wear them, though. This will be lovely. Do you mind if I roll the pants up to my knees? Geralt does so love the sight of my bare skin. I think it would drive him absolutely mad if we showed a little ankle for the Witcher.”

Please do whatever you see fit, my friend, Lythos insisted. You must sparkle for your White Wolf. You must look the part of the treasure he seeks to find!

“Ah, so I’m a treasure this time instead of a damsel?”

Hmm, yes. I think that makes it more interesting. What kind of treasure would you like to be?

“Geralt’s,” the bard breathed dreamily. The large, winged reptile rolled her eyes and huffed again.

Duh, that’s the point. I meant like...pirate treasure? A king’s treasure? I’ve never done roleplay before. Mostly just burning down the houses of rude nobles and kidnapping some princesses upon request. I’m not incredibly familiar with human treasure.

“Oh! I could be your hoard!”

You’re brilliant! Of course! This will be so fun. What if you laid in my tail when Geralt arrived? Like I was guarding you?

“Well then how would he get me away without hurting you?”

I could make him give a speech? Woo you away from me with your words?

“Oh, that’s very clever. Very dramatic. I love it!”

We do make a good team, I think.

“Do you have any makeup? This look would be excellent with some eyeliner.”

You are definitely as entertaining and fun as Etheid promised. I’m sure that Aramaris will enjoy you just as much.

“Wait, who’s Aramaris?”

They chose the next lot after me. Then, after Aramaris has their turn, Vertos would like a chance to partake. 

“Hold on a minute. There’s a waiting list of dragons who want to kidnap me?”

And see Geralt come running to your aid, yes. It is rather sweet to watch and we are all very bored. We’re going to see who can make you the prettiest and get Geralt the most worked up. 

“So this is just a game to you?”

As I said before, it is both a game and a legitimate matchmaking endeavor. Additionally, we’re compensating you for your time and trouble.

“I suppose,” Jaskier agreed. “Plus this outfit is absolutely to die for.”

Yes, and now to the makeup!

---

Geralt was very confused and very tired. He had tracked the dragon through the woods to yet another ancient, dilapidated tower. Jaskier was hidden at the top, no doubt, probably terrified out of his mind. This was the second dragon to capture his idiot bard in a fucking month, though the first time had been extremely unorthodox. Just plain odd, really, considering Geralt’s previous experiences. 

Oh well, nothing he could do now except climb the tower and rescue Jaskier.

---

Jaskier was waiting for his Witcher to arrive while reclining within the coil of Lythos’s enormous blue tail His pants were only a half-shade brighter than her scales and the contrast was remarkably artistic (perhaps by design). The bard was barefoot and his pants were rolled up to just below the knee. Lyth had insisted on decking him out in lots of jewelry since Jaskier was to be her supposed hoard. It will be more realistic and believable if you’re dripping with silver and sapphires, bard. He found himself unable to argue with her logic once again.

Jaskier had a handful of thin silver bands around one ankle, a silver cuff around his left wrist, and another bejeweled cuff at the top of his left bicep, beneath the shirt. Lythos had added a thin silver chain around his neck, which fell to just above his chest hair and ended with a teardrop shaped sapphire pendant. Some kind of crushed gemstone powder had been dusted atop his collarbones and into his hair, making him seem to sparkle in the midday sun. He’d added a light, smudged layer of kohl around his eyes to widen and darken them like he had once at court. The dragon had also demanded that he slide several rings of various styles and sizes onto his long, tapered fingers. It will draw his attention to your hands, she explained. You will thank me tonight, I’m sure.

That suggestion had Jaskier blushing brightly and Lythos had nearly snorted fire from laughing so hard at the young man’s reaction. 

Here he comes! She announced, bringing Jaskier’s back to the present. His blue eyes fixated on the thick wooden door that led from the chamber where Lythos lay curled and ‘guarding’ him to the bedchamber where he’d stayed the last two nights. Very shortly after her announcement there was a determined grunt, a heavy thud, and the door crashed open to reveal Geralt. 

The Witcher was breathing heavily and his nostrils were flared but he wasn’t wearing his armor. He hadn’t been wearing it last time, either, and Jaskier wondered if he was already onto their little charade. “You know I won’t win if we battle,” Geralt admitted, staring across the room at the lounging dragon.

His eyes flickered to Jaskier for a moment, widened when they took in the bard’s appearance, and then returned to staring down the monster. 

I don’t intend to fight you, Witcher, Lythos said, projecting her bored words into both of their minds. Jaskier knew that she was faking the cold disinterest but his heart still picked up speed when one of her large claws hooked beneath his chin and raised him into a slightly taller sitting position. Though I suspect that you’ve come to take back my newest treasure and I am loathe to let it go so soon.

The Witcher nodded, unable to form words. He was nervous for the life of his bard but he was also slightly distracted by the way Jaskier was being forced to arch his neck and tilt his head that way. The bard looked so fucking breakable and soft, surrounded by scales and held partially aloft by such a strong and pointed appendage. His eyes were wide and completely focused on the Witcher, his own peril seemingly irrelevant even as he gasped against the scraping claw. Geralt shook his head to clear it and narrowed his eyes even more. “Don’t hurt him.”

It’s my treasure, Lythos hummed dismissively. I will do with the human lad as I please. Go away, Witcher, and leave us to play.

“He’s not a toy,” Geralt growled. He reached for his sword and cursed when his hand swiped through empty air. He knew bringing a weapon up so many flights of stairs was pointless but he still should have kept it on him for safety. Jaskier made a gentle, nervous noise and the Wicher flinched. “Please don’t hurt him!”

You would barter for the human? For his safe return?

“Take me instead,” Geralt offered. He held his hands up in surrender and took a slow step forward. Lythos lowered Jaskier back down to his lazily reclined position and raised her scaly brow. The bard was shocked; he hadn’t been expecting the Witcher to do something so drastic right away. He’d anticipated some kind of argument first.

You would sacrifice yourself for him? Trade yourself to me in order to save him?

“Of course,” the Witcher scoffed. Lythos could hear his slow heartbeat starting to accelerate. “I love him. I’d do anything for him.”

Hmm. Little treasure, what do you think?

“I can’t let him do that for me. He’s a Witcher, I am merely a traveling bard. The world has more need for him than it does for me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt half-whimpered. A pleading tone bled into his words as he took another step forward, this time towards the bard, “You foolish man. I know you. You’d grow bored here. You’d grow antsy to travel. You’d try to escape and you’d get yourself hurt or killed or...”

I protect what is mine, the dragon interrupted. He will be safe here. I will keep him happy and entertained.

“Please,” the Witcher sighed. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head forward, white hair falling in a curtain around his ridiculously attractive face. “Jaskier was the first good thing Destiny ever did for me. I can’t lose him.”

I have seen into your heart and know these feelings to be true, Lythos intoned. She spoke as if she was making a very difficult decision and not sticking to a vague pre-determined script. You may take the bard and go, but you must hurry. I may change my mind.

Jaskier clambered out from between the coils of her massive tail and allowed Geralt to sweep him up into those strong, stable arms. He clung to the Witcher’s neck and buried his face to hide his smile. Lythos said her final goodbye to the bard alone; I hope my kin treat you fairly. If they do not, let me know, and I shall take care of it. Thank you for the lovely time.

“Thank YOU,” Jaskier mouthed. 

And then they began to descend the winding tower staircase.

---

“I hope I never see another dragon again in my life except for maybe Borch,” Geralt panted, urging Roach into a slightly faster canter.

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, smiling a little to himself. “Running into another dragon so soon after two nearly identical kidnappings would be very strange.”

[adhduck]

Chapter 3 of But I Can Hope How This Will End is now up, besties, and yes I have chosen violence 😌

AO3

CWs: canon-typical blue veins/disease content; accusation of ‘death wish’ implying suicidal ideation; canon-typical discussions/descriptions of injury, pain, death; several descriptions of blood; slight emetophobia; mentions of past trauma for Zolf; slightly in-depth descriptions of temporary first aid

With Wounds We Can Heal

Wilde almost never goes on missions; even before the curse blocked access to most of his combat skills, he wasn’t built to be an in-field agent. He’s a diplomat at heart, not a fighter, so there’s no need to risk getting him infected when the others can bring information safely back to him.

So when Wilde announces at breakfast one morning he’s going to a meeting, not just in-person but with someone they haven’t verified yet, Zolf is understandably upset.

“Since when do you have a bleeding death wish?” he demands, pushing his plate to the side.

Wilde remains perfectly, infuriatingly calm. “I will admit the risks are higher than usual, but if Mr. Douglas’ information is true, it will be both crucial and time-sensitive. We don’t have a week.”

“Well, isn’t that bloody convenient,” Zolf mutters.

“Does seem like a trap,” Carter agrees. “I mean, he just happens to have exactly what we need, and exactly the right urgency to not go through safety protocols? That’s classic untrustworthy stuff.”

“Which is why I’ve already put in safety measures myself. We will both come alone and unarmed. I made sure the meeting spot was neutral ground, something we couldn’t hide traps or snipers in. Nothing physical will be changing hands, so there won’t be a need for close contact. And just as with his initial report, any information I bring back will be verified before we commit to a next course of action.”

Barnes leans forward, drawing everyone’s attention in that subtle way of his. “What’s your plan if you get into combat? I know you said you’ll both come alone and without weapons, but that doesn’t mean he’ll actually follow that.”

“He knows I’m a talented magic user, and doesn’t know about the shackles, so that should intimidate him into not attacking. And if he does catch my bluff, and my excellent running shoes don’t do the trick—” Wilde shrugs, and Zolf’s hands curl into fists atop the table. “Well, I know I’m none of you, but I can hold my own just fine, I think.”

“Unless you show up and he shoots you right off the bat,” Zolf argues, trying very hard not to picture it. “Or he has a group with, like, invisibility spells or potions or somethin’, and they attack you all at once. Or—bloody hell, Wilde, or anything! There’s no reason to think this man is anything but a danger until he’s gone through quarantine, and even then, he could still be a- a regular ole dick who wants to kill you! You certainly made enough enemies before all this started.”

“Our job,” Wilde says coolly, though Zolf can see just a touch of tension forming in the corner of his jaw, “is to figure out how this blue vein scourge works and stop it. We are saving the world here. There’s no way to do that without a bit of risk.”

“Risk is one thing, but this is just plain stupid,” Zolf snaps back. “If you need the information, fine, whatever, let’s get it. But at least bring one of us with you.”

“That’s not the deal I made with Bo- Mr. Douglas.”

“And? Who says he won’t just break the deal and betray you first chance he gets?”

That, for some reason, brings down Wilde’s façade, but just for a moment—he’s covered it up almost as quickly as Zolf notices. “As I said before, I’ve already done some research on him and the information he presented as evidence of our meeting’s importance. If he’s still himself, not honoring the terms of our agreement will make him back out immediately. And if he’s infected, bringing someone else will almost certainly ensure a fight, and we cannot risk half of our group getting taken out in one go.”

Zolf is going to actually, truly strangle this man. “But we can risk you getting taken out?”

Wilde’s jaw tenses, releases. “We’ve all risked our lives for the cause. This is no different.”

“Yes, it is, because you’re relying on- on bloody trust when the world’s like this—”

The harsh scrape of Wilde’s chair being pushed back cuts Zolf off. Standing over them, Wilde looks every bit the rich, uncaring aristocrat Zolf thought he was all those months ago– save for that same tension in the corner of his jaw. “I’m trusting myself—my research, my insights, my diplomatic abilities.” He sweeps his eyes across the table, lands a few inches above Zolf’s head. “You can trust in me or not, I don’t care. I’m going either way.”

Zolf feels unmoored, suddenly. Like he missed something important, something he’s supposed to say or know. “Wilde—”

“Thank you for breakfast, Zolf,” Wilde says, and it almost hurts more that he sounds sincere. “I’ll be in my office if any of you need me.”

He turns and walks off, and all Zolf can think, a little nonsensically, is I do.

 Wilde leaves for his meeting the next morning, unarmored and alone, and Zolf is absolutely fine about it. Sure, he’s making more bread when he just made some yesterday; and sure, he rearranged the cell five times in some shitty wooden prosthetics because he couldn’t decide whether to put Wilde’s favorite blanket in there. And sure, when he tried to decide on a Campbell to read, he ended up with the only one he can’t read—a Gaelic translation of When Passions Collide Wilde once brought him. But it’s not- he’s just- it’s fine. He’s used to the people he cares about being in danger, and no matter how much he disagrees with Wilde, he does trust him.

So instead of going with Wilde, Zolf bakes bread.

The fussing gets him through the first day of Wilde’s three-day journey with only minimal stress-pacing. He cleans the inn on the second, doing an inventory of their supplies as he goes, and realizes they’re drastically lower on mundane medical supplies than they should be. To be fair, they rarely use them, as all the field agents can be healed magically, but it’s no excuse for this lack of upkeep, especially when Wilde could sustain any number of illnesses or injuries on his mission.

He brings it up to Barnes and Carter, and they agree it’s worth Barnes – who has both social skills and a sword – taking a trip to the village. Zolf gets a firm clap on the shoulder as a goodbye, which he returns with an awkward pat since their height difference doesn’t allow for much else. And for Carter, Barnes curls a hand around his neck and leans their foreheads together; not long enough to make Carter stay still, but long enough to loosen tension Zolf hadn’t noticed from his shoulders.

(Something in Zolf aches.)

Barnes is gone for maybe an hour before Carter gets too antsy to be around the inn and takes off for a run. Since there are no other visitors at the moment, that leaves Zolf alone in the inn besides the owner, who’s manning the bar, so he takes the opportunity to sit by the fire and flip through his Gaelic Campbell, trying to guess which scene is which. He’s doing pretty well, too, and then he spots Wilde’s favorite blanket hanging on the chair opposite him – he’d taken it out of the cell again this morning – and starts to feel the weight of the quiet. How it settles heavy on his heart and lungs, makes the space around him simultaneously cavernous and too small to move in. The deafening loneliness of it.

Zolf’s been around the block enough times to know when he’s starting to spiral, so he heads to the kitchen to make lunch. While he’s at it, he figures he can start prepping soup for tomorrow, which will be easiest on Wilde’s anxious stomach and convenient for leftovers. (Bread, too, but he’s already made far too much of that.)

He’s halfway through getting out the ingredients for miso when he hears the backdoor of the inn open, the muffled sound of his name being called, and his heart does a distinct, worryingly earnest oh.

It only takes thirty seconds to make it to the backdoor; just long enough for Zolf to concoct five or six ways to greet Wilde sans-touch, all of them horrible. Just say hello, you bloody idiot, he tells himself as he rounds the last corner, sees Wilde—

Oh.

There’s this feeling Zolf’s gotten a handful of times in his life, always right before disaster strikes—or after, sometimes, but just before he’s realized. When he kicked the tunnel’s support beam and heard a crack. A breath before he hit the water, already littered with debris and bodies from the ship that used to be his home. Waking in an unfamiliar lab with no legs and Sasha’s organs floating above her chest like some sort of horrible biology experiment. It’s a sort of…grounding feeling, but not in a settled way. Like the last moment before the earth crumbles beneath you, when you’re still on solid ground but somehow you know, you know, you’re about to fall.

Zolf sees Wilde, and he’s falling.

There’s blood—not deathly amounts of it, bleeding out wise, but he can’t tell where it’s from because Wilde’s currently facedown on the ground, weakly trying to pull himself onto his elbows. His clothes are torn, his bag of holding nowhere to be seen. A blood-soaked knife – the only weapon Zolf could convince him to bring – is clutched in one hand.

“Wilde,” Zolf says, and he’s underground again, he’s underwater again, he’s falling.

He starts forward, and Wilde flinches backwards with an alarming burst of energy. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Zolf freezes, forces himself to take a breath. Of course. Wilde was out, he could be infected, they can’t touch. But that doesn’t mean Zolf is gonna let him bleed out. “What happened? Are you injured?”

Finally, Wilde manages to pull himself to his elbows, but hesitates there; he’s leaning all his weight to one side, so probably a broken leg.

“Meeting wasn’t a big hit,” Wilde chokes out, head hanging low; his voice sounds wrong, and not just from the obvious pain and exhaustion. It’s gargled, and sort of twisted up, like he’s got something lodged in the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ noticed, Wilde,” Zolf says. He’s not going to panic. Wilde’s going to be fine, because Zolf’s going to make sure he’s fine, because Zolf is absolutely not going to panic. “Can you walk?”

Wilde lifts his head to look Zolf in the eye, which reveals where a lot of the blood is coming from: there’s a deep wound across his cheek, cutting from below his eye to his chin and ripping through his mouth on the way. He spits some blood, heaves a breath that seems to hurt the whole way in and out. “I could until about thirty seconds ago, yes,” he manages. His arms are shaking; Zolf’s hand twitches.

“Put pressure on that cut, if you can,” he says, trying to sound calmly firm but mostly just sounding impatient. Wilde winces when presses a hand to the wound, but keeps it there. “Good. Now, we’re low on medical supplies, but we should at least have stuff to clean it and sew it back up.”

Wilde nods. “Once I’m in the cell.”

In a show of good bedside manner, Zolf doesn’t outwardly roll his eyes. “Bloody hell, Wilde, I can’t doctor you through the bars. It needs to be before.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I won’t be stupid about it. We’ve got gloves, I won’t touch you at all—”

“No,” Wilde growls, that fierceness rising up again. He breathes in and out, hard, and the anger settles, or at least contains itself. “We get me into the cell, and you work me through how to treat it myself. If I pass quarantine, we’ll do further medical procedures, and if not- well, it won’t matter, because you’ll have killed me.”

Zolf can’t help it; he flinches. “Fuck, Wilde, don’t—look, that cut is bad, okay? You might lose some facial functioning if it’s not treated properly. And if your leg’s broken, which I’m pretty sure it is, you could end up with a limp, or not being able to walk at all.” He winces. “Not- not that not being able to walk is wrong or somethin’, it’s just- I mean, we don’t exactly have the resources—”

He trails off, too panicked to keep track of his words, and realizes that Wilde is…smiling? It’s more of a grimace, but Zolf is almost sure that’s an attempt at a smile. What the fuck, Wilde. He doesn’t answer for a second, either, so Zolf adds, “Wilde? You with me?”

Wilde blinks, then schools his expression into something more formal, nodding seriously. “Your concerns are noted.”

“And?”

Wilde does a rather pitiful attempt at a shrug. “That’s it; I’ve noted them.” And then the absolute bastard starts trying to crawl.

“Poseidon’s soggy arse, Wilde, you’re not making it to the cell like that,” Zolf hisses, looking around for an alternate solution. Gods, why did Barnes and Carter have to leave at the worst possible time?

Spitting some more blood, Wilde bites back, “Well, I have to make it somehow, don’t I?”

“Yeah, but not like—oh, wait, I might have an idea. Stay- stay here.”

(Wilde gives him a particularly withering look at that, which, fair.)

After half a second of hesitation at the idea of leaving Wilde alone and bleeding, Zolf runs for the living area. Wilde’s blanket is still there, and Zolf starts to reach for it, then imagines it stained to ruin with blood, burned to ash as a precaution. He grabs the big quilt instead.

“Here,” Zolf says when he returns, a little out of breath as he presents the quilt. “I can just wrap you up and carry you downstairs.”

Wilde, who is currently trying to work himself into a half-sitting position, eyes the blanket like it’s a vial of bubbling green liquid. “I’m over twenty inches taller than you, Zolf.”

“And yet you weigh about as much as my glaive,” Zolf replies. Wilde still seems unsure, so he adds, “It’s either this or waiting for Carter to get back, and then we can risk two people getting you down there instead of one.”

A muscle ticks in Wilde’s jaw. “Fine. But you don’t touch any part of the quilt that has touched me.”

Zolf lays the quilt out for Wilde to push himself onto—a slow, painful process that has Zolf cursing the world for giving weight to Wilde’s stubborn paranoia. Once he’s settled, Zolf wraps the quilt around him much the way he imagines one would do for a child, focusing his tension into the curl of his fists so the rest of him can be gentle.

He recalls the first night he helped carry Wilde to bed, tucking him in (shoulders, waist, thighs) so he couldn’t wiggle free in the night. This isn’t what I meant, you idiot, he thinks, and pulls Wilde’s half-limp form into his arms.

It’s difficult going, mostly because of the aforementioned two dozen extra inches Zolf has to manage, which also makes it slow. A few times, when Zolf stumbles or is forced to shift his grip, Wilde winces and starts to curl against Zolf’s chest; he always catches himself, though, muffling the noise against the quilt instead. Still, Zolf can feel the ghost of Wilde’s labored breathing on his collarbone, his matted hair against the curve of Zolf’s shoulder. He wants to look at Wilde; he can’t bear to.

They make it to the cell and, miraculously, down the steps, at which point Zolf remembers his legs are, in fact, magical. “Ah, shit.”

Wilde stirs a little from where he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. (Zolf aches.) “What- oh. Your legs.”

Zolf tightens his grip (shoulders, hips) and does as a small a shrug as he can manage. “Only a problem inside the cell itself. I’ll just go on my knees.”

He manages to grab the keys hanging by the stairs with two fingers, leans Wilde more onto his chest as he unlocks the door and pulls it open. When he drops slowly to his knees, Wilde’s heels and then calves touch the ground; this makes Wilde chuckle, which then makes him curl up in pain. His forehead brushes Zolf’s shirt before he manages to turn away.

“Almost there,” Zolf says, trying his damnedest to not sound shaky. He shuffles into the cell’s interior, suppressing a grimace at the sensation of his legs going dead, and gently lays Wilde down. Their eyes meet for a moment, then he shuffles back out and locks the door.

“All right, now keep up pressure on your face, and since we can’t elevate your leg yet, just try not to move it, all right? I need to grab supplies, so just- just don’t go anywhere, or somethin’.” Wilde manages a full glare, which is almost relieving. “Okay, yeah, I know, I just meant- just don’t- you know. Yeah.”

Wilde sighs, nods his head. “As long as you bring me some wine, too.”

“I’ll bring alcohol,” Zolf promises, “but it’s for the wound, not for drinking.”

This earns him a heavy, dramatic sigh, and Zolf lets himself a smile a bit before he heads back into the inn proper. A bard to the last, that one.

He’s pulling out the last of the supplies he needs – which is everything they have – when Carter gets back. He comes in the front door at least, thank gods; Zolf doesn’t want to have this discussion standing over a pool of Wilde’s blood. He intercepts Carter as he enters the seating area, ready to explain, but it’s not hard to guess: bundle of supplies in one arm, alcohol and pillow in the other, what’s sure to be a harrowing look on his face. (Not hard for Carter, anyway, who’s already too perceptive for his own good.)

“What happened?”

Zolf huffs out a steadying breath. “Meeting went wrong, Wilde came back early, he’s not doing well. Got ‘im to the cell, but.” He lifts his full arms awkwardly.

“Shit. Did they betray him?”

“Didn’t ask.”

He nods, frowning. “Yeah, fair enough. Should I—actually, you know what, you should have that covered right now, so I’ll take watch. Make sure nobody followed him.”

Zolf hadn’t thought of that, and he kicks himself for not being more careful. “Good plan. Thanks, Carter.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says; brushes his hand over Zolf’s shoulder, a half-pat, then he’s off again.

When Zolf makes it back to Wilde, he’s in almost the exact same position he was left in: wrapped in the blanket, barely conscious, keeping up a low hum of pain. “Hey,” he says gently, and Wilde stirs a little. “Time to patch you up, yeah?”

“Sorry,” Wilde replies, unfolding the blanket and easing himself into a sort of lounging position. There are clear streaks of tears down his face; his jaw is completely clenched.

“Ain’t gotta be,” Zolf says firmly, sliding the supplies through. “Let’s get the blood cleaned up, see what we’re working with.”

Wilde raises an eyebrow but says nothing as he takes the damp cloth and gets to work. A lot of the blood has dried already, coming off in flaky clumps as he wipes away the worst of the mess on his cheek. He’s incredibly delicate around the wound itself, but there’s a sharpness to each careful swipe across his jaw and chin that tells Zolf he’d be harsher if he had the energy to be.

His mouth is what Wilde gets to last, resoaking the rag for the third time to squeeze out the blood, and as he swipes the corner delicately over where his lips have been torn open, Zolf—gods, it’s horrible, it’s unforgivable, he shouldn’t even be acknowledging it. But in that moment, with Wilde hurt and half-conscious and maybe just days away from not even being Wilde anymore, Zolf thinks for the very first time: I think I want to kiss him.

“So?” Wilde says; Zolf startles, which at least gets a fond little exhale. “What’re we working with, oh mighty healer?”

“Um.” Zolf absolutely cannot look at Wilde right now, but he also has to. He compromises by squinting a little, blurring out everything that isn’t the problem at hand. “Yeah, uh, it’s—you’re definitely gonna need stitches, though I don’t know if you can handle that at the moment.”

Wilde glances down at his shaking hands; the movement briefly unbalances him. “You’re probably right—as much as it wounds me to say it.”

It’s unclear whether that was intended as a pun, and Zolf’s not in the mood to find it funny either way, so he just nods. “We’ll just have to temporarily close it, then.”

Thinking of a way to do this takes several minutes, during which Wilde cleans the wound with an alcohol-soaked rag and a worrying lack of complaints. Finally, what Zolf figures out is to take a piece of surgical tape that’s slightly too small and stretch it across the cut so it’ll pull the sides together, trimming the middle part so it doesn’t stick to the wounded skin. He has to guide Wilde through some complex extra wrapping to stop it from peeling off without covering up his eyes, mouth, or nose; it ends up looking rather ugly and pins Wilde’s snarled hair to his head, but it seems to help.

They clean up a couple other scrapes and gashes Wilde didn’t mention earlier – there’s one on the side of his ribcage, shallow but terrifying with its intent – and then get to his leg. With Zolf unable to examine the injury properly, he can’t confirm what the exact issue is, but it’s not grisly, so Zolf walks Wilde through a basic wrapping and tells him to elevate it on the overstuffed pillow he brought. “We’ll need to do more when you’re out, of course,” he adds. “But right now your job is just to sleep.”

It says a lot about Wilde’s current state that his only response to that is curling up on the blood-soiled blanket, perching his leg awkwardly on the pillow, and falling asleep within seconds. Even with the accompanying ease of tension, he looks awful: clothes ripped and dirty, left trouser leg sheared off from the thigh down for the cast, a mummy-like arrangement of surgical tape crisscrossing his overly pale and pink-stained face.

But he’s also alive, and Zolf allows himself a shaky exhale at the knowledge. Puts his face in his hands when that breath threatens to quicken, focuses on the divine warmth in his chest until the panic fades. He looks back at Wilde, his hand resting delicately beside his face, a few locks of hair obscuring his cheek, and there it is again, that feeling—that terrifying, horribly-timed feeling that prickles at the tips of his fingers and in the pit of his stomach, that stretches languidly in his chest like a stray cat who’s decided to stick around. That makes him hope for something he doesn’t even have a name for.

Fuck.

[orangedodge]

Not really an organized post, but I finished reading SWORD #6 and the September previews, and drew a bunch of probably incorrect conclusions for upcoming books:

I’m going to assume that the high profile “death” that Magneto is responsible for is a real thing, and not just the marketing department somehow phrasing things incorrectly. They’ve both made it clear that Magneto was never comfortable with any of the Wanda scapegoating that goes on in Krakoa, and (from Strange Academy, IIRC), that he’s wanted to reconnect with her and make it right for a while. And the writers/editors have always maintained that the “pretender” scapegoating happened on its own, owing to no one on Krakoa actually knowing the real story of M-Day, who wasn’t there to see it in person. 

With that in mind I think what they’re suggesting right now is that Wanda is going to have a temporary death soon, and that they’re going to use that to undo the AXIS retcon, and finally clear the air for both the mutants and the wider global (and intergalactic) community.  Given that Onslaught was present, sort of, in AXIS, and as Onslaught is currently one of the main villains of the Hickman run, I wonder if they’re just going to claim it was all a fabrication from the start?

An unrelated thing that caught my attention is how Victor’s suddenly turning up in a lot of X-Books. SWORD makes sense as the sister book to Guardians of the Galaxy, but he’s also going to have a role in Excalibur (I assume as a tie-in to his upcoming Darkhold series, which itself could also be a Last Annihilation tie-in, given who the villain there is), and potentially at the Trial of Magneto as one of the global representatives. With Marauders having an upcoming space arc as well, it’s possible they’re also going to be involved in Last Annihilation in some peripheral way, which would also provide the opportunity for yet another X-Book appearance this year.

Victor’s overall role is difficult to parse for me since he’s obviously not an X-Character, and even the cosmic books have only, at most, shared use of him.  Based on the X-Men / Fantastic Four crossover, they seem to have settled on an interpretation that Victor views Krakoa as an intellectual challenge as opposed to as a foe, and something to measure Latveria against. But that’s not really a direction for him, so much as a built in safeguard to avoid changing him in ways that conflict with Fantastic Four’s plans. So it’s really curious that he’s becoming so prominent this year.

I was also thinking about how Peter Quill references going to the Green Lagoon, implying he’s had a diplomatic invite to Krakoa, and how he also references catching up with Kitty. If that’s not just a random one-off, it’s a reminder that one of the X-Men has fairly strong ties to the Guardians of the Galaxy (and to the Shi’ar and Skrulls). Bobby and Bishop have also had their own space adventures, and wouldn’t be out of place traveling to other worlds. The Marauders are getting a space arc in a few months, and SWORD has already directly compared Brand’s plans for Mysterium to Xavier’s plans for the Krakoan Flowers.

So will the Hellfire Trading Company be responsible for distributing Mysterium too? They already have the space ships needed, and they’ve had a presence on Mars since HoxPox, and handling the intergalactic stuff would integrate them more strongly into the X-line’s wider world building after not really doing anything of note these last few months. I’d also be really interested in seeing if they’d start aiding alien mutants too, particularly after SWORD has started reminding readers that they exist. Traditionally the X-Men have gotten involved to protect Skrull mutants, for example, when they’re being mistreated, so that could be another neat way to make the HTC feel more relevant.

And honestly the HTC is a sneakily overpowered cast even without Storm around. Bobby is an Omega class mutant; and Bishop, Kitty, and Shaw have all done things so ridiculous in the past that they might as well be Omega class by another name. Emma herself is just as good as having Xavier or Jean in most situations. The general purpose of the Marauders, in protecting refugees, and in combating gentrification and capitalist colonialism, is a good role for them in the X-Books, but there are no actual real day-to-day threats on Earth that are worthy of a group this over-the-top in what they’re capable of. It makes more sense for them to expand and have the secondary characters, like Callisto and Marrow and now Banshee, take on more of routine shipping concerns, and reserve the main characters for crisis moments.

One last thing, I think I actually could see Ororo Munroe, Regent of Sol, and the new Planet X concept in general, remaining a fixture of the Marvel Universe for a good while. For one, if Wakanda is going to be an Intergalactic Empire for the foreseeable future, there’s not really a barrier on the X-Men having a presence on Mars. And this change had an immensely long buildup. Ororo taking on this role was one of the primary storylines to emerge from X of Swords, and her previous book lost an entire year of issues to it, so there’s been a serious time investment into establishing this as more than a detour for her.

I could see Mars and the people of Arakko outliving the Krakoa era itself, because 1. it’s fairly easy to just separate them from the rest of the X-Books and send them off to do their own thing, if the next writer doesn’t feel like using Hickman’s toys.  2. there’s not really a way to get rid of them that couldn’t be immediately undone, so it probably wouldn’t be worth trying 3. It actually solves a major problem for the cosmic setting.

If everything runs through Mars now, then Ewing, Cates, and their successors, are free to start involving the Solar System in crossover events without worrying about how it will effect life back on Earth. One of the major limiting factors in cosmic events has always been that you can’t fundamentally change the Earth itself. Any long term fallout from cosmic stories risks damaging its ability to serve as a mirror for the real world. Mars does not have this problem, because people do not live on Mars in reality. So by establishing this secondary setting, Ewing has allowed the Solar System to now function as both a real world analogue with Earth, but also as a near-future sci-fi setting through Mars.

[bridenore]

HD fic recs : Unusual careers (part 2)

Here are a few recs in which either Harry or Draco have unusual careers. This is part one of two and focuses on longer fics (more than 30k). Listed in alphabetical order, as always.

***

Beds, Knobs, and Broomsticks by @fencer-x​ [46k]

A long-term mission to the Baltics that will take him far away from London sounds like the perfect time to cash in the embarrassing ‘Butler in the Buff’ coupon Harry received as a birthday gag gift—until Harry winds up injured in the field and sent home to recover three days into the mission, obliging him to endure one full month of inappropriate attentions from horny housekeeper Draco Malfoy.

Black Holes and Revelations by @femmequixotic [38k]

What was meant to be an unexpected one-off in the loo of a Camden bar turns into something rather different, much to Harry and Draco’s surprise.

Call Me, Won’t You? by @aelys-althea [38k]

Draco’s sentence seemed a never-ending drag of groundhog days and melancholy. Ten years of isolation as a means of punishment hadn’t sounded nearly as bad as the threat of Azkaban, but he hadn’t considered just what that entailed.

Phone call after phone call invariably ended with a sigh and a extended series of beeps. Until one call, one unexpected call, hauled Draco from his monotony and back to life for the first time in years.

Changing of the Guard by Lomonaaeren [210k]

Need a perfect stranger? Ask Metamorphosis. Harry Potter runs the business secretly and becomes whoever’s needed for each occasion. He’s not sure whether he should be more surprised, worried, or amused when Draco Malfoy comes to Metamorphosis and requests an actor who can play his boyfriend so that his parents will disown him. Yet Harry has even more dangerous choices after he creates Brian, Draco’s “perfect” boyfriend. Draco doesn’t know who Brian is, but he’s trying to find out—and now so is Harry.

Chasing Time by taradiane [30k]

“Happiness is temporary, but joy is not. After everything that your father took from him, we owe it to him to try and give some of it back. The debts that we owe the Potter boy cannot be numbered, and what we took from him cannot be measured, but you will find a way, and maybe then, you can find a little joy of your own.”

The Destiny You Sold by @tryslora [58k]

In which Draco knits, Harry makes wands, and things get very tangled up between them.

Double Edged Sword by Romaine [554k]

Harry thinks his life has been planned out, but the night he comes of age changes everything.  Now there are decisions to be made and a path to be chosen, and the choices before him will change the lives of everyone he knows.  But when destiny calls, Harry finds himself ready to listen.

This is an epic story of the love between Harry and Draco.  Join them as they journey through their life together, through the good times and the bad, facing obstacles both external and internal, and see how they come to be who they were meant to be. (This story was written after HBP.)

The Dragon At The Bottom Of The Garden by Zopno [52k]

At 25 Harry Potter’s life was simple; he flew, sculpted, and had the vault in the back of his mind to keep all unpleasant business. It was stable, but when Draco Malfoy literally hit him with a giant rock; all that changed.

Embers by @shiftylinguini [41k]

Werewolf Alphas aren’t meant to be alone, or to suppress their ruts indefinitely like Draco has been since he was bitten eight years ago. He needs company, companionship, to knot ― he needs an Omega Heat Companion. At least, that’s what the Healers say, and even Draco can admit contacting the person they’ve referred him to might be nice.

Of course it turns out to be bloody Potter.

Headlights in the Snow by Saras_Girl [71k]

What’s big and purple and smells like tea? Harry is about to find out. Advent fic 2016.

I Am Not Who I Became by mab_di [93k]

Draco left England after the trials and has travelled the world meeting wizards and Muggles from different cultures and with vastly different relationships to magic, each other, and the natural world. Now he's a fisherman in Finland on commercial vessels. Harry has been struggling since the war and has become a recluse while trying to write his autobiography. An invitation to the Hogwarts class of 1998's 15th reunion isn't welcomed by either of them, but neither could predict how the night, and their reunion, will upend their lives.

Jasmine in Bloom by @lqtraintracks [41k]

This is not something Draco can have in his life… Potter overturning all that he’s carefully cultivated. They’re not compatible and never will be. Draco’s been playing with fire. It just so happens that he likes how Potter smoulders before being allowed close enough to burn.

Life Lessons by @bixgirl1 [68k]

On the cusp of a promotion, Harry needs a little help with his image. Enter Draco Malfoy — who doesn’t really do that, Potter — to whip him into shape… and make him feel things he hasn’t for a very long time.

Featuring: odd jobs, surprising chemistry, lots of accidental kissing, the Prophet living up to type, owls exhausted by the carrying of dirty letters, a secret no one can talk about, a merry band of Slytherins (none of whom really approve), and an enchanted mirror (who really, really does).

Light up the Night by  Saras_Girl [98k]

This year, despite his better judgement, Harry’s love life is going off with a bang.

The Magic Behind the Camera by oldenuf2nb / @dianacopland [55k]

Magical Photographer Evan Peverell is an enigma, one magazine assistant editor Draco Malfoy finds fascinating. The ‘rock star’ photog, with his purple hair streak and assorted piercings, is not remotely Draco’s type. And yet there’s just something about him…

The Paradox of Active Surrender by @korlaena [107k]

When Draco shows up as a suspect in a murder case after eight years of no contact, Harry has to balance his professional life and his past friendship with Draco. As suspicion mounts against him, Harry knows he has to keep his distance, but Draco makes that difficult when he starts claiming that they have a Life Debt to settle. Harry wants to trust him, but what is he hiding and where has he been these long years?

Some Kind of Wonderful by taradiane [34k]

Harry is adrift without an anchor after the prophecy that shaped the first eighteen years of his life is fulfilled. Restless and bored, and wanting to stop Hermione from nagging him about wasted opportunities, he decides to spend his time volunteering at a Muggle homeless shelter…then along comes Malfoy, with an anchor of his own that he needs help carrying.

Star Quality by who_la_hoop [118k]

Two years after the war, and Harry’s content with his life. OK, so it’s a little annoying that he keeps winning Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor award, and he’s really not looking forward to the unveiling of an enormous gold statue of himself, but he loves his friends, and he loves being an Auror. And if he yearns for something more, something he can barely bring himself to think about, well, he’ll probably get over it. No one’s happy all the time, are they?

But then everything changes, and Harry’s thrown into a new and dazzling world he’s not sure he can actually escape from. And as time goes on, he starts to wonder: does he actually want to?

Sweet Creature by @whineosaur  [63k]

Harry loves his sheep, his dogs, the tranquil countryside farm he’s turned into a home. He doesn’t need Draco Malfoy screwing it all up. But, god, what else is he supposed to do about Draco Malfoy sleeping with a lamb in his bed?

A Sword Laid Aside by @korlaena [128k]

When Draco’s cover is blown during a deep undercover operation and the Ministry is compromised, Ron takes Draco to the only safe place he can think of—Harry. Hiding out with Harry Potter, who has been missing from the Wizarding World for almost two decades after a shocking fall from grace, is nothing like Draco thought it would be.

Take A Chance On Me by mintaminta [41k]

There’s a DJ on RareFM with a secret.

Or: the one with all the ABBA in it.

Their Kind of Forever by furiosity [34k]

The final part of Harry's Auror training forces him to walk the line between truth and lie, between the wizarding world and the Muggle world, between the life he thought he'd have and the disappointing reality. And through it all, he finds unexpected solace in a most unlikely person's company.

This Life Now by @nerdherderette [38k]

This close up, Draco can see the differences that have occurred over the years. Harry’s hair is longer, although it’s as unruly as ever; his forearms are well-muscled and decorated with ink; and there are small lines by his eyes that look like they would crinkle if he were smiling. Which, at this moment, he most definitely is not. He looks like he’s worn the same clothes for three days and just rolled out of bed, yet Harry’s so unfairly gorgeous it makes Draco’s heart ache.

“What do you want, Draco?” Harry asks, his voice resigned.

The question snaps Draco out of his reverie. “A divorce,” he proclaims as he opens his bag.

Touch by @bixgirl1 [44k]

When Harry is referred to a professional cuddler for the soothing power of touch, he’s dubious — even more so when the Cuddler who shows up turns out to be Malfoy. But in the years since the war, Malfoy’s changed, and over the next several days Harry is confronted by how much he still doesn’t know about this new version of his old enemy — and by how much he wants to learn.

A Thousand Beautiful Things by geoviki [104k]

Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend.

Delicate Sound of Thunder by geoviki [61k]

Draco Malfoy has always known that happily ever after is only true for fairy tales.  When someone threatens to expose his wartime past, he risks his life to protect his secrets, but learns he’s not the only one with something to hide. The sequel to A Thousand Beautiful Things.

Turn by Saras_Girl [306k]

One good turn always deserves another. Apparently.

The Vanishing Department by @dictacontrion​ [47k]

The things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, even if that involves a lot more form-filling, bickering, covert glancing, miscommunication, and flying furniture than we might expect.

we have heard on high by @oflights [34k]

Reeling from the fallout of a bad breakup, Harry decides to find out who his soulmate is. The bad news: it’s Draco Malfoy. The good news: Malfoy doesn’t seem to know they’re soulmates. The worst news: Harry might be falling for him anyway.

What Shall Not Be Unearthed by @iero0 [49k]

At the northernmost point of Shetland, surrounded by pointed cliffs, towers the Ootsta Lighthouse on a small isle in the middle of the open sea. Little does Harry know that he’s not the only new lighthouse keeper. Draco Malfoy is as obnoxious as he always was, with his posh tone of voice and his luxury yacht jumpers. Harry tries his best to avoid the git—who knows what he’s up to anyway?

While working hard on keeping the remote island and his mental health in good condition, Harry tries to fight against increasingly conflicted opinions about Malfoy. He doesn’t like to think about the weirdly tangible dreams that he keeps having and especially the fact that Draco keeps appearing naked in them.

The answers, a confusion of denied attractions and macabre horror, lie buried in a riptide of emotions, dormant in the deep.

What We Pretend We Can't See by gyzym [131k]

Seven years out from the war, Harry learns the hard truth of old history: it’s never quite as far behind you as you thought.

When hippogriffs and pygmy puffs collide by oldenuf2nb [33k]

Harry Potter bakes cakes, brilliantly. Draco Malfoy inks tattoos, brilliantly. Owls deliver post, including messages from clients, with an occasional lack of brilliance.

***

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Whumptober Day 14: Similarly Marked

Summary: Written for Whumptober Day 14. Post-Httyd 2. Eret comes over in the evening to have his measurements taken for his dragon armor. A small misunderstanding leads to Hiccup being reminded of the scar on Eret's chest. It looks awfully familiar to him.

Rating: Mature

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Astrid, Eret

Pairing: Slight Hiccstrid/ Slight Eretcup

Words: 4 182

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “Branding”

Whumpee: Hiccup (+ Eret)

Author’s Notes: That moment when you write a summary, but it's, like, for the second, much smaller, scene.

Written for the prompt: "Branding"

Kinda.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

Ao3

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is still engraved into the front of his mind, the indescribable pain as a branding iron sears someone's mark into his flesh, the smell of his skin burning away. His throat is still raw from the screaming he's done. He's also not quite rid of the trembles he's been feeling, his body weak, hours after the fact.

Hiccup supposes that it's only natural after today's events, after what's been done to him. Honestly, the worst part was returning to the Dragon Riders and show them the mark he now bears with shame.

They reel with shock and understandably so. Their leader and friend now essentially belonged to someone and that they didn't know who only worsened the blow.

Because that mark, that wasn't the mark of the Dragon Hunters. It represents someone else entirely, someone they haven't seen before. But in order for the Hunters to be able to use this mark, they would need to be working together and close enough that the person or group this tribal symbol belongs would allow them to use it.

That means that, whoever Hiccup now belongs to, they can only be bad.

And that means they have to do something about it.

The hunters who put it there didn't manage to capture him and that means there is still a chance they can reject this claim of ownership. But with a brand, the price of freedom means suffering through even more pain than he already has.

Hiccup is sitting in the clubhouse with the other Riders and Toothless, whose head is resting on his lap. They are quiet as they let the shock of this news sink in.

The brand is there for all to see, right on the side of Hiccup's throat.

It was supposed to be on his face, that's where the hunter had originally aimed the iron at, but struggling had caused it to land on his throat instead. It didn't save him from any pain, but it did save him from having that angry red mark of ownership on his face.

Still, his armor and tunic are off. The pain has been radiating and that makes his skin in the surrounding area sensitive to the slightest of touches. He can't stand any clothing on his upper body.

They're all staring at it, at the brand seared into Hiccup's neck. They're all angry at it and they want it gone, but no amount of glaring and hating will make it go away.

But Astrid is standing before him. She cups his face and he leans into it, knowing what's about to happen next and dreading it.

They all want it gone. Not just because they don't want to look at it a second longer, but also for Hiccup's sake.

The Dragon Hunters who put it there are dead, another thing they have in their favor. But should the mark be revealed to any more Hunters, say during a battle that is very likely to happen soon, they could tell Viggo and Viggo would use this as an excuse to wage war on Berk. Because Hiccup belongs to someone and someone is being denied their property.

Clothing, while a good option to hide the mark, is painfully temporary.

But removing it entirely will be painful and nobody is looking forward to it. Not Hiccup, who will be at the receiving end of the removal, and not Astrid, who will be the one to do it.

"I'm really sorry." She tells him ahead of time, her heart breaking and her stomach dropping.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, I should've listened. I'm the one who should be sorry." Hiccup refuses her apology on the grounds of it being his own fault. Or he feels like it is.

"You being sorry should mean you're the one to blame. And I don't remember you specifically asking to be branded. Or doing anything that means you deserve to be." Snotlout growls at him, at the mark. Whenever Hiccup screws up, he'll be the first person to rub it in his face and rub it for hours. But he can't bring himself to with something like this.

Hiccup looks tired and defeated. He hates it.

"So are we going to do it or what?" Ruffnut asks the group. It's not like she wants Hiccup to be hurt, but the sooner that brand is gone, the sooner Hiccup can recover, and the sooner this looming threat has been taken care of.

It'll still be there in some way, this detailed symbol will only be replaced with a bigger and redder patch of damage, but at least Viggo can't make any claims if he can't prove that a brand used to be there.

So she's itching to have it gone. She wants to go ahead with it.

"We'll get to it, Ruff, don't worry. It's just... Are you ready?" Astrid originally addresses one of the twins, but then she turns her attention back to Hiccup. They are the closest to the fire burning calmly in the middle of the room. She tries to ignore the sword whose blade rests in the fire. During the silence, they've been letting it heat up.

"I'm not, but the sooner we get this over with..." Hiccup doesn't look at her, at his would-be brander, and that doesn't sit well with her.

The original plan was for Hiccup to do it himself as he didn't want to put his friends through this, but she'd offered to be the one to do it and she didn't take "no" for an answer. She would not let Hiccup hurt himself for pride and freedom when she could harden her heart and do it herself.

"Can-can you guys le-leave?" Hiccup stutters his request as what is about to happen sinks in and he looks at his friends. They listen as they get up to make their way out, but they're doing so reluctantly. They don't want to leave Hiccup like this, but they also understand that he doesn't want them here for it. They shouldn't see this.

Hiccup turns his attention to Toothless next, who lifts his head as he senses his Rider has something to say.

"You leave, too, Bud. I don't want you to see this." He tells him, holding his face by his jaw, but Toothless pulls away, straightens, and then puts on his angriest "human" face, an expression that is supposed to imitate how humans look angry, much different from how a dragon does it.

"Toothless, come on. Now's not the time to be stubborn." Hiccup tells him, but the dragon lifts a foot and puts it down with a yip.

"I think that's him saying he's not going anywhere. And if something like this had to be done to Stormfly, I wouldn't want to leave either." Astrid sides with Toothless on this. They can't force him to get out of the clubhouse if he doesn't want to.

Hiccup sighs in defeat and pets his best friend, his brother by heart and soul, on the head. Of course, he wouldn't leave. Hiccup wouldn't leave him either.

"It might get ugly. You know that, right?" He asks and Toothless licks his hand before he lies back down again and replaces his head on Hiccup's lap. He can't get in the way like this and he'll still get to support his human.

"I think he knows," Astrid says what Toothless is without a doubt thinking. Hiccup looks up at her, the first time he's done so since she forced her offer on him.

"Are you ready?"

"Again, no..."

"Then let me rephrase it differently. Do you want me to go ahead with it? Right now?" Astrid rephrases her question and Hiccup looks down at Toothless.

"Yeah, do it." Hiccup tells her, stroking the top of Toothless' head and letting his hands glide over his scales and spines, hoping that it will comfort him.

It doesn't. Not enough.

His eyes are starting to water in dreadful anticipation and he hopes Astrid can't see it. The sound of the sword being pulled out of the fire reaches his ears and he flinches already, too tense.

Astrid holds it and stares at the redhot blade. She's trembling now and not because the weapon is too heavy for her. Her heart is pounding in her ears. She doesn't want to do this, she really doesn't, it's wrong on so many levels.

He's her leader, her superior, but more importantly, he's her best friend. He's the one she has feelings for, but whether as a friend or something else entirely, she hasn't figured out yet.

Bottom line is, she doesn't want to do this, but she wants him to do this to himself even less.

Grabbing the sword with both hands, she takes a step closer to Hiccup and brings it even closer. Hiccup is usually good at keeping his cool, but his shaking as he can already feel the heat isn't lost on her.

She hates this. She hates this so much.

"I'll-I'll try to be quick." She tells him, but he doesn't respond. He's too busy bracing himself for what's to come.

Astrid takes the blade closer to the hottest part, to have more control.

"I'll try to leave as little damage as I can."

"Please, just do it. Before it cools too much and we have to wait again." Hiccup tells her and she does as she's being told.

Grabbing his shoulder and leaning down, she gives it a squeeze before laying her hand on the back of his head, her fingers buried in his hair. She pulls, but she doesn't have to pull hard as Hiccup follows and exposes his neck to her.

She doesn't remove her hand or even lessen her hold. In the very likely scenario that Hiccup is going to fight her the second the hot metal touches his skin, she needs some way to keep him from pulling away, as horrible as that is.

She takes a deep breath. She's not the one about to go through an excruciating removal process and still she needs a moment.

"Astrid, just do it. Now, please!" But Hiccup can't take the waiting and so she forces herself to make a move, before the metal cools too much.

Tightening her grip on his hair, she pushes the blade into his skin, ensuring that the brand is completely covered, and she holds it there.

The pain is immediate. The brand itself was already still pulling and stinging with the slightest breeze and now it burns even fiercer than it did when it was placed. The surrounding skin, sensitive as it is, swelters and melts beneath the hot blade.

Hiccup's shivering worsens instantly and the tears that have been gathering come down his face. His hands are fists and it's taking him everything not to grab hold of a fistful of Toothless in pure agony. His teeth are clenched and if he had the mind to, he would fear breaking them.

He wants to stay strong. As his skin burns and the smell of burning flesh embeds itself in his nostrils some more, he wants to stray strong. As the brand burns brightest of all...

But he can't. Failing both Toothless and Astrid, it takes him mere seconds to give in to the want to scream, though he's held out surprisingly long even then.

Astrid flinches and Toothless whines, but the former doesn't stop. She can't, she knows that if she does stop and she hasn't done a good enough job, she would need to do this a second time and she just can't do that to him.

He tries to pull away because of course, he would want this to stop, but Astrid tightens her hold some more and forces him to stay in place. It's the hardest thing she's ever had to do and she hopes nothing will ever come close.

"Stop. Stop!" His hands come up from Toothless' head, but they don't know which to grab. Go for the hand holding his head in place or the one holding the sword?

Astrid begins to cry as well and she finds herself thinking how she hasn't started crying earlier.

"Stop! Astrid, please, stop!" The others can probably hear him screaming at the top of his lungs and Astrid is certain she will be hearing them in her nightmares.

"ASTRID, STOP!" She finally lets go, but whether it's because enough time has passed or because Hiccup grabbed both of her hands and tore out of her hold, they don't know.

The chair he was sitting on is knocked over in the action and Hiccup ends up falling to the floor. Toothless is by him instantly, lying flat and placing a paw over his Rider. He purs comfortingly, nosing his hair.

Panting heavily, Astrid glances at the sword and drops it immediately, as if it's something vile now. Not the safest thing to do with a wooden floor, but she can't help herself.

"Fff-fuck. Fuck." He lets out a rare f-bomb as he lies on the floor, hands wanting to go for the injury, but not daring to actually touch it.

Forcing her heavy body to move, Astrid reaches for one of the buckets of lukewarm water they'd readied for this. Toothless pulls away to make room and she kneels and aims. Careful not to get any of that water in his mouth and nose, she pours it gently over his neck. To save as much water as she can and to make sure the stream isn't too rough on him.

The new wound is definitely bigger, but the water distorts its shape. She can see it, however, and that's more than enough.

She did that to him. It was with good intention, but she still did it. She hurt him and a sob leaves.

The bucket runs empty much quicker than she would've liked and she goes for the second one.

This isn't going to be easy. Burns are always difficult to treat properly, the chances of infection, especially with a burn so deep, is always enormous. And then there is the matter of telling Stoick and how.

The door to the clubhouse opens and the other Riders dare themselves inside. The worst part is over, now they want to help treat it.

Hiccup passes out soon after, the experience too much for him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Hiccup asks him to come over in the evening, Eret is at least a little bit nervous to come by for a visit. Hiccup has that effect on him. His Chief, as he calls him, Eret has never been more comfortable with anybody else in his life but him, and yet at the same time, he feels so strangely nervous when they're alone. Nervous in a good way.

Hiccup has asked him to come over earlier that day to have his measurements taken and that's why he's here now, just shy of opening the door.

The Chief, he's quite the inventor. When he first landed on Berk, it didn't take Eret long to find that out. The troughs of water above every Viking home, the dragon wash, the strange stables, Hiccup's left his mark all over the village and it's made everyone's life easier.

He understands why Hiccup is held in such high regard. It's not just that he's their hero in trying times, but he's also the one solving all of their problems. In the last nine months, Eret's admiration and respect for him has only grown.

Blowing out a lungful of air, Eret knocks on the door and soon receives a muffled "come in!" from the other side. Opening it up, he can see Hiccup standing near a table while Toothless lies by the fire.

"Ah, Eret, there you are!" Hiccup greets him, smiling, and Toothless rumbles a hello of his own without even lifting his head, much too comfortable on the floor.

Eret nods their way, gaze falling on the measuring lint on the table.

Hiccup has had the bright idea to create armor based on their individual dragons. His Dragon Riders having such little protection during battle has bothered him more than it used to and he's finally putting an end to that. And as the plan is to use the shed scales of their dragons, chances are they might even be fireproof.

The twins only reluctantly agreed because of their armor's cool design.

According to Astrid, the passing of Late-Chief Stoick the Vast has something to do with Hiccup's want to suddenly control what his Riders wear during their battles. It's something all the Riders think and it's the biggest reason they're listening to Hiccup's wishes, stubborn as they are.

Closing the door and walking further into the room, passing Toothless, Eret reaches his Chief.

"So what do you want me to..." He asks, wondering what exactly Hiccup wants him to do.

"Well, if I want to take the correct measurements, I'm going to need you to take that off." Hiccup tells him, gesturing broadly at the furs he's wearing.

"Okay," But Eret misunderstands, believing Hiccup is asking him to take it all off instead of just his furs, and with his back then turned, Hiccup can't tell him otherwise.

By the time he turns back to Eret, measuring lint in hand, his furs are off and his tunics are nearly off as well.

"Oh Eret, I just meant the furs!" Hiccup quickly stops him, hands up, and a smile on his face.

"Oh! I see." A feeling of embarrassment wells up.

"Completely my fault, I should've been more clear." The other tells him, realizing that his instructions must've been unclear. He needs Eret to wear his tunic as the armor will be worn above at least one layer of clothing and that means Hiccup needs to measure him with his clothes on.

"Well, just so you know, I'm always ready to strip." Attempting to cure his embarrassment with some hilarity, Eret makes a joke, causing Hiccup to laugh.

"So you are!" His laughter is something the new Rider finds himself enjoying.

But then Hiccup suddenly stills, his gaze falling on the blemish on the other's chest. When Eret notices what he's looking at, he, too, grows silent.

The air in the room grows tense then. Hiccup brings a hand up to it, but he doesn't touch it. His hand simply hovers there instead.

"I bet that must've hurt a lot."

Eret looks away, hand covering the brand. Drago may be dead, but that doesn't take away any of the trauma that still clings to it.

Knowing that he's gone makes him feel only a little safer. Having Hiccup here helps as well, surprising as that may seem to those who don't know him.

Hiccup stares at Eret, seeing the broken look on his face. He understands the pain that a brand brings very well, the physical, the mental, and the emotional.

But what he can hardly imagine is carrying that brand and not being able to escape. That must've been his reality before Drago met his demise, to serve a cruel man knowing he can never escape, the threat of punishment, or even death looming above his head every day.

Hiccup's heart aches for him. He's safe now, but that doesn't erase what's been done to him.

But maybe there's something he can do about it. He might not be able to make it better, but maybe he can at least tell him that he's not alone. Or rather, show him he's not alone.

Hiccup nods to himself, reaffirming that that is what he's going to do.

"Let me show you something." Eret looks back at him when he says that.

Hiccup draws away from him and removes his armbraces, leaving both of them on the table nearby before taking off his chest piece. It'll be the first time he's seen him without his armor on and Eret feels like he needs to hold his breath.

But he quickly sees what Hiccup intends to show him. On the side of his throat, there is a nasty, nasty looking scar and he points towards it.

He's always known that there is something there, he could always see just a bit peeking out from the collar, but now he has a full view of it and it makes him cringe. That couldn't have been pleasant and it's not old either.

"This... is from a brand, too." Hiccup drags out his first word of that sentence. It is difficult for him to talk about and the only reason he's bringing it up now is for Eret.

Eret is overcome with surprise.

"Ah-Astrid removed it before anything could come of it. The person who put it there is dead and so are the people who were there to see it, so no one was alive to tell anybody about it. Which means nobody got to claim that I... belonged to someone." It is difficult, much too difficult. Hiccup is breathing hard, memories of the branding, and the removal of said brand coming back in horrible waves.

Even though it was to help him and he knows this, he didn't let Astrid touch him for weeks. It made her feel terrible and that is something he regrets enormously. Fortunately, it ended up not causing a rift between them, but it almost had.

"Do you know who it belonged to?" Eret inquires. Hiccup nods, but he needs a moment before he can say it.

"Drago." So he says and watches the new Rider's face change from horrible surprise to utter shock.

"I didn't know until we met and I saw the exact same brand on you." He hadn't thought much of it at the time either, much too focused on getting Stormfly free the four of them out of that sticky situation.

"I can't imagine how terrifying that must've been." He really can't. When he got branded, as horrible as it was, he at least knew who he belonged to. Hiccup couldn't say the same thing, not until he'd already gone through the trouble of getting rid of it before this mystery person could make their claim.

"But he's gone now. And he never got his hands on me and he can no longer get his hands on you. After everything that's happened, after all the pain this thing still causes me, I can't be more grateful than I already am." But even despite this dark conversation, this confession, and the fact that he's now shaking a little, Hiccup still smiles as he talks and Eret is stumped.

He already knew he had Hiccup all wrong. When they first met each other, Hiccup seemed like a naive boy who was much too good for this world. A heart too big for a world so small-minded. Someone who somehow saw something in the dragons that Eret previously thought wasn't there, but someone that he saw as needing to be protected from Drago's cruelty. It was why he tried to stop Astrid from talking about Hiccup in front of the madman.

Because even though they were on opposing sides, Eret didn't want him hurt. Far from that.

But then Hiccup lost his father and Eret thought for a moment that was it. Drago was a man who left his opponents destroyed. Physically, mentally, emotionally, didn't matter so long as they were defeated and couldn't oppose Drago any longer.

Eret has seen it happen too many times to not expect the same thing to happen to Hiccup. His father had been murdered trying to protect him and his best friend had been used as a weapon, anyone would've been broken by this.

But that isn't what happened. Instead, Hiccup gathered whatever strength he still had left, traveled back to Berk, and finally beat Drago, something so many before him had failed to do. That alone, that show of strength, the reassurance that Eret could count on him, his kindness, all of that was what made Eret want to come live on Berk and follow him as his Chief.

The bonus of getting to ride dragons helped, too.

And tonight, he realizes he has Hiccup wrong again. Young as he is, positive as his mindset is, he is no stranger to strive. And yet, he told him about his brand and then lightened the mood with a simple smile and a few encouraging words.

"You really aren't what I expected. I've been living on Berk for months now and you still surprise me." Eret says, leaning on a nearby chair.

"Oh, I won't stop surprising you for at least the next few years. If I haven't come up with a bunch of new surprises by then." Hiccup tells him ahead of time, nodding, and Eret chuckles.

"I look forward to every one of them."

They let it sit for a moment as it's a really nice one, but Hiccup inevitably has to decide that they better get to what Eret's come all this way for in the first place.

"Come on, let's get to measuring."

[embeanwrites]

Recklessly Chapter 5

Recklessly Masterlist

General Masterlist

AN: Courscant’s flag is the Jedi order symbol and here’s the Mando’a translations!

Ori’vod – big brother

Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod – Are you look for a smack in the face, mate?

Al’verde – Commander

Udesii – Take it easy!

The Princess found herself back in her room looking at herself in her very own armor. The armor felt good, it felt right. She had been measured a few times for dresses and by the glean in the armorer’s eyes, she had already had her measurements and armor ready to go. Save for a few touches the Princess requested. 

Wolffe attempted to deny her pestering, but she had a feeling Anakin had made sure armor would be ready for her by the time it was needed. The armorer also gave her a dagger and an iron shield with the royal family symbol on it, a rising sun with sun beams.

That night she got no rest and instead she had nervously reorganized her room and packed a small sack with things she may need. She really should’ve talked to Anakin about what she should bring, but she just had to trust her instincts. She knew she shouldn’t bring much, but she remembered when Anakin left. He had been wearing his crown. She walked over to her closet where she kept her tiara. She hadn’t had to wear it since before the war and even then, she hated how it felt on her head. The pins were sharp, and she had to weave her hair for it to stay without issue. She would need to make sure the tiara in place on the battlefield. 

She sat on her bed across from her mirror and began to weave her hair into a Dutch crown braid. It felt weird braiding her hair, her hands weaved quickly from muscle memory. When she was done, she sighed before taking a long look at herself in her pajamas. She knew she still had hours before Wolffe would retrieve her, but she was ready to get into her armor. She quickly undressed and begun to put herself together. 

She looked at herself in front of the floor length mirror. Underneath her armor she wore a simple brown tunic and pants which wasn’t a completely uncommon look for herself, but the armor itself was stunning. The polished silver armor fit her like a glove. The cuirass itself was very simple and light. She assumed it was because they wanted her to move quickly and freely but she was drawn towards a very small wolf face was carved into the armor near her pauldron. Which brought a smile to her face, she wondered how Wolffe got the armorer to do that. Her faulds held three layers with chain mail going several inches past the end. Her surcoat was very similar to her brothers, a deep blue with a black patch with Courscant’s flag. The armor came with greaves, but she opted for just her riding boots since they were sturdy and allowed her to move quickly. 

Any doubt she was feeling prior to wearing the armor melted. She had been training for this for some time and both her and Anakin had war tactics and medic training with their tutor Mr. Kenobi. The only difference between the two’s skills should be Anakin’s strength. But where Anakin was strong, she was faster and nimble. 

A knock at her door brought her out of her admiring. She quickly grabbed her sword and clipped its sheath to her belt. Opening the door, she’s met with Wolffe standing with his hands behind his back. He was in his full armor instead of just the chain mail he would wear around the castle. It had been a while since she had seen him in full dress, and it hammered in what was about to happen. She was going to the front lines. She was going to fight. 

“Well, Princess. Are you ready?”

Without Prince Skywalker on the front lines things had quickly gone to shit. The front lines have been chaos, more so than usual. Cody felt like he was at the end of his rope. Within one week of the prince being at the front lines he had somehow managed to break his arm and in the week without communication from Coruscant they had become more spread out. Cody feared the lack of the troops left behind opened them to a surprise attack, or worse a siege against Coruscant. 

Cody prided himself on his study of warfare and tactics, but Serenno had a habit of somehow being one step ahead of them. He was currently leaning against a tree near the middle of their temporary base camp, watching his men eating, sharping their weapons, and chatting near the campfire. The idea of their being a spy had crossed his mind a few times, but he rarely discussed plans far in advanced instead opting for having small groups initiating surprise attacks and recon missions. 

Maybe it was time for a more direct approach, but without any support from the royal family there wasn’t much he could do. Cody couldn’t just switch tactics without any Skywalker okaying the decision. He hoped that by the time the Princess got her she would be subdued by how the front lines really are and follow Cody’s lead. But Cody tended to not be very lucky these days. Cody sighed and put his face in his hands. Within the hour his brother Wolffe and the Princess would be arriving, and Cody was already beginning to dread the times to come. He had met her a couple times before the war started. She continuously made Wolffe’s life more difficult and had a habit of being hot headed. Which was the last thing he needed. The prince was ready to dive in headfirst and he could barely imagine what the Princess’ first suggestion may be. 

“Ori’vod? Are you alright?” Rex’s voice once again reminding him that now four of his six brothers were on the front lines. Leaving only Boba who was too young to fight and Echo who was a messenger. Cody got up from his seating position to look at his younger brother. Rex had decided to stay behind with Cody, much to his own dismay. Cody clapped his brother on the shoulder and nodded. 

“I’m alright, just tired.” He responded with a tired smile. 

“What are you thinking for our next move?” Rex asked worriedly. Cody knew Rex had to be anxious about not having the prince on the front lines. Rex was use to sticking by his side and protecting him and him retreating back to Coruscant without him clearly made him uneasy.

“It depends on what the royal brat decides to do.” Cody joked, making Rex frown and shift uncomfortably. 

“Royal brat huh? I wish I could say that’s a new one!” The Princess’ voice responded behind Cody. Before he could turn around, she was next to Rex, smirking. He took a moment to size her up, she was in correctly fitting armor and her hair was braided into a mock crown with her tiara sitting proudly on top. There was a thin layer of sweat covering her face as if she had run the entire way here, which there was no way it was over 100 miles. Cody held his breath and weighed his options. She didn’t seem upset, but with one command she could easily send him back to the kingdom. “At ease, Commander.” She said with a smile. “Me and you are going to have to learn to get a long!” Cody looked over at Wolffe, who for once in his life, was attempting to hide a smile. 

“Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod?” He growled at his brother. 

“Al’verde! Udesii!” The Princess responded, looking him dead in the eyes. She had a wolfish smile on her face. Now, Wolffe didn’t hesitate to hold back anything, and he began chuckling at his older brother’s embarrassment. Cody felt his face pale, most royals weren’t even close to being fluent in Mando’a, but here she was. Speaking back to him as if it was her first language. “Don’t worry, Commander. We’re in this together!” The young princess smiled and leaned against Wolffe. 

“She’s got a point, Cody.” Rex mused, causing Cody to sigh. Before he got the chance to say anything else on the manner the group all jolted when they heard alarms going through the entire camp. 

“Wolffe, keep the princess protected. Rex follow me.” Cody quickly made his exit from the group as Rex followed. 

Much to Cody’s dismay he could sense the princess and Wolffe trailing behind him.

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (4/6)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 15,080

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

NOTES: 

I got about 10k words into this chapter before I realised I needed to split it up, otherwise it would be stupidly long. Plus I was going mad trying to scroll through my monstrously large gdoc last chapter and I didn't want to do that again. So, here you go. An early present.

Next chapter will be some big battles and then they finally smooch or something idk don't ask me 

--

This time, Sylvanas did not ask. 

“I am taking your cavalry,” she told Lucille.

For the last few days since the battle of Barrowknoll, Lucille had turned into Sylvanas’ primary point of contact among their new allies. She acted as an envoy between Sylvanas and Jaina, when the two of them would refuse to speak with one another. She had been puzzled by the abrupt change, but had not complained. 

Now, Lucille blinked at her, opened her mouth to dispute this, then thought better of it when she saw the look on Sylvanas’ face. Raising her hands as though in surrender, Lucille said, “They are yours.”

She found Hayles and the others enjoying a spot of Drustvar tea, which she had come to learn was normal tea with a healthy dose of whiskey tipped in for good measure. It was the third day since the battle of Barrowknoll, and their little army was still fortifying the town after wrenching it from the hands of the Ashvanes. Anya was there, playing dice with the cavalrymen, who had grown leery of her around cards and now insisted she use their dice. Somehow she still won nearly every round, and a few of them groaned about the luck of the dead as they handed over coins. 

When Sylvanas approached, Hayles glanced up from where he sat on a pile of bricks being used to repair the church. After their victory, he had warmed up somewhat to the Horde forces, but he was still wary of their leader. Still, he lifted his mug to her. “A good morrow, Warchief. Can I help you?”

“Gather up a scouting party, Captain. No more than thirty,” Sylvanas ordered coldly. “We are riding north.”

Hayles drained his mug then slammed it onto the ground. He wiped excess tea from his beard with the back of his hand as he stood. “Been waiting for clear orders from the Lady Waycrest. What’s the plan, then?”

“The plan is we are going scouting,” said Sylvanas.

“Aye, but we was hoping for a bigger picture. Are we wintering here?”

A number of his men were openly eavesdropping on the conversation now. Even Anya had stopped rattling around a set of dice in favour of listening. Sylvanas swept her gaze over them, then said brusquely, “Get on your horses.” 

With a shrug, Hayles pulled his gloves from where they were tucked into his belt and began tugging them over his hands. He looked over his shoulder at his men, who had not yet moved. “You heard the Lady!” he barked. “Get off your arses, you fussocks!”

Immediately, they began shuffling about, shrugging on their cuirasses over their buff coats, buckling their helms over their heads, and clasping their pistol belts around their shoulders. Hayles’ cuirass had a touch more tooling than the others and a broad white sash worn over it to denote his rank, but otherwise he appeared very plain. Anya herself had continued to favour the dark-washed cavalry buff coat she had won earlier that week, wearing it over her usual Ranger leathers, so she could still pull her hood up. Even from a short distance, she would have blended in with the rest of them without trouble. She rode at Sylvanas’ side, when the others preferred to stay a length or two behind the Queen of the Forsaken. 

“Are we looking for something in particular?” Anya asked. Somewhere along the way, she had acquired herself a living horse, one of the deep-chested smoky chargers bred in the area. 

“The enemy,” said Sylvanas, her tone curt. She did not offer any more explanation. 

Sylvanas' skeletal horse was out of place among the flesh and blood beasts of burden ridden by the cavalry. That and her armour meant she stuck out like a sore thumb, but she was long past caring. The Ashvanes by now knew who they were up against. Or if they didn't, they were fools. 

Scarcely an hour later, and they were riding north along the road to Fallhaven. They would not hope to reach it today -- not when it was another three days trek from Barrowknoll -- but there was plenty of evidence of the Ashvanes' retreat. Not even the downpour over the last few days could hide it. She would have joined the scouting expeditions sooner, if not for the rain. Until finally she could not stand staying still another second, and taken Lucille's cavalry for her own. 

They stopped every now and then to read the landscape. Hayles at one point disputed Sylvanas' tracking, claiming that the Ashvanes had clearly gone west. In response, Sylvanas had glowered at him until he sighed and fell back in line. She was not about to discount a few centuries of experience tracking game and leading armies in favour of a man who, in her culture, would barely be considered old enough to wipe his own backside. They headed east at a fork in the road towards Carver's Harbour, until midday when Sylvanas pulled back on her reins. 

She frowned down at the tracks in the ground. "They doubled back south," she murmured, pointing. 

Hayles grunted in agreement. "Not all of them, though. Just a lightly armoured company, if that." 

"On horseback, no less." Sylvanas tugged at the reins so that her skeletal horse veered off in that direction. 

Hayles followed, kicking his horse forward to trot after hers. "If we're unlucky, we'll get caught on both sides." 

Sylvanas ignored him. She urged her horse to a canter, loping ahead of the rest so that she reached the treeline first. Behind her, she could hear Hayles cursing and the sound of him drawing his weapon. The cock of a pistol clicked, echoed by dozens of others as his cavalrymen followed suit. She did not bother drawing her own bow slung at her saddle beside the matching quiver. 

Her eyes scanned the woods. They were a far cry from the dense and foggy Crimson Forest, though they were nothing at all like the woods of her homeland either. The trees here wended across the gentle slope, their trunks moss-covered and sporting growths of white fungi. She guided her horse briskly through the trees. Her ears twitched at the faintest sound -- the rustle of tack, the snort of horses behind her, the creak of branches in a stiff breeze, the chattering of birdsong, the purl of a stream narrow enough to step over. And finally the faint strains of human voices. 

Lifting her fist into the air, Sylvanas pulled back sharply on the reins. Without turning, she made a gesture and then dismounted. Anya was by her side in an instant, arrow already nocked in her bow, eyes bright and alert. 

“Four hundred paces dead south,” Anya whispered in Common for Hayles’ benefit, as he crept up beside them on foot. 

Sylvanas turned to Hayles, keeping her own voice low. “Do you know the area?”

He nodded. “Aye. There’s a small ridge by a stream just up ahead. Barely a feature, but it’s something.”

All it took was a meaningful glance from Sylvanas, and Anya vanished through the trees like a wisp of smoke. Hayles blinked at her sudden absence, trying to get a good look after where she had gone.

“Wait here,” Sylvanas told him. “Keep the horses quiet. When I give the signal, you will approach with me on foot.”

“Begging your pardon, Warchief, but that kind of defeats the purpose of bringing cavalry in the first place,” he said. “We’re not dragoons.” 

“Which is why they chose to hide in the woods rather than risk skirmishing out in the open. Now, hold your tongue.” 

He huffed, but said nothing further. His troops dismounted and tied up their horses. They drew their sabres and stuffed extra pistols into the broad sashes tied around their breastplates. Rain drizzled from the pointed brims of their lobster-tailed helmets. On horseback, they were confident and easy-going, but on foot they appeared uncertain and ungainly. They would occasionally exchange puzzled looks and shift their grips upon their swords while they waited. 

The smell of smoke drifted through the air, though Sylvanas could not make out a fire through the thicket. The Ashvane scouts had obviously set up a small temporary camp further from their main body to feed back information. The lack of movement on the part of the Waycrest and Drust forces over the last few days would have puzzled them. 

Anya returned on utterly silent feet. She ghosted through the underbrush like a shadow, stopping when she reached their position. Her hands started relaying the information she had gathered using Ranger signs, until she realised Hayles and the others wouldn’t understand anything. Picking up a stick, she drew formations on the ground and held up five fingers, then four and five more. 

Sylvanas nodded in understanding. She pointed at Anya then at a few of the cavalrymen behind them. Anya inclined her head, then motioned for a group of five cavalrymen to follow her. When one of them stepped on a fallen log, his foot snapped through the wet and rotten wood with a noise loud enough to make the birds go quiet. 

Sylvanas closed her eyes as though praying, and grit her teeth. When she opened her eyes again, the cavalryman in question was being glared at by everyone in the platoon. One of his squad mates smacked him upside the head, so that his helm tilted down over his eyes. 

“You fucking moron,” someone hissed. 

Hayles shushed them, and they fell quiet again. The man carefully pulled his foot from the log, and the little group went off, following after Anya. Sylvanas gave them a head start, counting in her head until she was satisfied. Then, she gestured to Hayles and without looking back, she crept forward on silent feet. 

Her trained ears could hear the rustle of their own approach. The cavalrymen creeping along in her wake were accustomed to scouting by roaming broad countryside and hills atop their horses in easy formations. They were not used to this. Just ahead of them, Sylvanas prowled forward until she could see the peaked rise of tents over the underbrush, until she could hear individual conversation, the crackle of campfires, and the stamp of horses’ hooves. The horses were tethered on one side of the camp, their noses stuck in their feed bags. A few of them merely flicked their fuzzy ears upon seeing the approach of the Waycrest cavalry, but raised no alarm. 

Sylvanas raised her hand in a fist again and stopped. The men behind her hid behind the trunks of trees and in the thick underbrush, lying low on their bellies and squinting beneath the rims of their helms at what awaited them ahead. Peering carefully around the trunk of a tree, Sylvanas quickly counted men. Forty-five in the camp, according to Anya, who had counted rightly. Five more on the ridge. That was nearly fifteen more than they had brought themselves. Another glance around the tree trunk, and she spied Anya and the small group of cavalrymen in position at the ridge, waiting. 

Sylvanas caught Anya’s eye. They exchanged a brief nod, and then Anya struck. Quick as a bolt, she had a knife pressed against the throat of one of the sentries. The group of men with Anya burst forward as well, pistols raised, sabres at the ready. 

Straightening, Sylvanas stepped out from her hiding spot. “Gentlemen,” she said, lifting her voice, “how good it is to see you again.” 

A cry of alarm went up, and the men in the camp leapt to their feet. They tugged their weapons free, but their helms and cuirasses were still packed away. Their Captain drew his pistol and sabre, levelling the gun at Sylvanas. It was the same young Captain Ashvane that she had seen during her reconnoitre before the battle of Barrowknoll. His eyes were dark and sombre as he took in the situation -- the men with Sylvanas, the soldiers on the ridge with his sentries at knifepoint. Anya tightened her grip in the hair of the man she held steady when he tried to struggle, drawing a line of red at his exposed throat. 

Sylvanas spread her hands open to show she held no weapon, though Hayles stepped up to stand beside her, his expression grim beneath his heavy beard. “There needn’t be violence,” she said. “Cry ‘quarter’, and I will ensure you are well looked after.” 

Captain Ashvane grinned at her over the top of his flintlock. “Shame,” he said, cocking the weapon with his thumb. “I rather like a bit of violence with my afternoon tea. And you’ve come just in time, too.” 

“We have you surrounded, boy,” said Hayles, aiming down the sights of his pistol. “Best give up and come quiet now, yeah?”

Captain Ashvane swung his arm around so that his own pistol was now pointing at Hayles. “Not a chance, old man.” 

Hayles opened his mouth to speak, but the blast of a pistol snapped through the air. Captain Ashvane’s arm recoiled, the tip of his gun emitting a gout of smoke, and Hayles staggered back, grasping his shoulder. 

All hell broke loose. The Waycrest troops opened fire, and the air was filled with the crack of gunshot and shouts. Red-coated Ashvane scouts returned volleys, only for the two sides to toss aside their one-shot pistols and fall upon one another in a clash of swords. Hayles swore and fired his pistol at Captain Ashvane, but missed. The shot went wide, hitting a tree and scattering bark on the ground. On the ridge above, Anya had drawn her blade across the throat of the soldier she had been holding at knife point. His body was slumping to the ground as he gurgled and grasped at the tide of red spurting from his neck. She was already pulling back the string of her bow and firing arrows down into the camp. 

Captain Ashvane shoved his first pistol into the wide sash at his belt, and pulled out another. He aimed it at Hayles, whose eyes went wide. Moving quickly, Sylvanas shoved Hayles to the ground, and the shot narrowly missed. The Captain drew his sword and advanced upon her, arm raised, slashing down. She danced easily out of reach, moving away from Hayles so that the Captain would follow her instead. Foolishly, he did. He swung his sword in broad strokes, and Sylvanas avoided every blow with a calm assurance that only seemed to anger him. His face grew red. He pulled his lips back from his teeth in a silent snarl. 

When one of the other Ashvane soldiers tried to attack her as well, an arrow sprouted from his back. Sylvanas did not need to even look to know that Anya had shot it. Hayles switched his sword to his good hand, and was fighting a group of Ashvanes with his own men, rallying them together for something more elevated than a mere brawl.  

The Captain did not do the same. He was content to let his superior numbers do the talking for him, leaving him free to pursue Sylvanas, who continued to elude his slashes. He was no slouch with the blade. She could tell by the familiarity with which he handled his sword. A young nobleman trained in gentlemanly pursuits used to getting his way. When he drew too close, she grabbed his wrist and tightened her grip until she could hear the crunch of bone and tendons beneath her hand. 

The Captain cried out. He tried to kick her away, but she stepped aside so that his foot hit nothing. She did not let him go. Instead she twisted his arm expertly so that he was forced to drop the weapon or risk breaking his arm as she jammed his hand into the small of his own back. He was a tall man, and strongly built. But standing behind him, she planted her foot behind his knees so that he was forced onto the ground. 

“Call them off,” Sylvanas murmured into his ear, while he jerked futilely in her grasp. “Or I will make sure you never swing a sword in your life again.” 

He continued to struggle, grunting in pain when she pushed his arm a little further up. He grappled for purchase at her leg, but could do nothing to dislodge her. She leaned in closer to speak again, when she saw a flash of silver. With his free hand, he had pulled the knife from her boot and struck blindly at her over his shoulder. 

Reeling back, Sylvanas clutched at her face. She hissed, feeling the cut at her cheek, which bled black and sluggish. Captain Ashvane was scrambling to his feet. He rounded upon her, brandishing the hunting knife given to her by her mother when she had come of age. The same knife that had been used in the ritual to summon undead ghouls from the sacred Ardfert bogs not four days past. She could feel the anger boil in her lungs, frothing white-hot and wild, welling up in her throat until she was nigh drowning in it.

Captain Ashvane’s expression changed as he watched her. Smug certainty gave way to confusion and then to fear. He took a step back, holding the knife before him like an animal backed into a corner. Some of his men did not notice. All they saw was their commander continuing to fight and break free of the enemy. Several of them moved into position around her, swords raised, while Anya continued to fire into the fray. 

Shadows coiled at Sylvanas' feet, slowly gathering around her. Rage was a living thing in the crucible of her lungs, burning like liquid fire, clawing at the backs of her teeth. With a wordless snarl, her form flickered. In a blaze of black necrotic smoke, Sylvanas swept over the Ashvane men advancing upon her, over half a dozen including the Captain. The coils of shadow billowed outward, curling around them and swallowing them whole, until the air was filled with the sound of a shriek that tore itself from her mouth, drowning out all else. The note shivered high over the treetops, sending a startled flock of birds to flight. Everyone in the camp -- friend and foe alike -- clutching at their ears. Some fell to their knees. Others cried out in agony, blood dribbling from their noses, dripping from their open mouths, choking them until they could not make a noise. 

When the boiling black fog faded, Sylvanas stood in the centre of a group of dead Ashvanes crumpled along the ground. Their bodies were contorted into foetal positions, their skin grey and clinging to their bones as though the very essence of life had been drained from them. Sylvanas' shoulders and the tips of her fingers twitched. Her face was an uncanny mask, her eyes burning like red coals through the gloom. 

Those left untouched staggered weakly to their feet. The camp had gone eerily quiet, the absence of noise in the wake of the banshee scream almost as loud as the wail itself. They were all staring. Hayles' eyes were wide and uncertain, taking in the scene before him. His beard was wet and dark with blood. Even Anya watched warily from the ridge, waiting to see what would happen. 

Breathing out a long ragged sigh, Sylvanas straightened. It took effort to animate herself again as she usually did, as though her body had forgotten what it was like to pantomime life. When she turned her gaze upon a few of the Ashvane soldiers further away from her, they took a step backwards, gripping their weapons tightly to their chests. 

"Put those down," she said, and though her voice was soft, it still echoed with the vestiges of dark power that lingered in her chest like an unspoken threat.

Immediately they threw their weapons to the ground and raised their shaking hands. She turned her attention away from them, looking instead down at the dead body of Captain Ashvane. His fingers were still curled tightly around the hilt of her hunting knife. Reaching down, Sylvanas tugged it free. She took a moment to inspect the blade and clean it on his sash, before slipping it back into its hilt nestled away in her knee high boots. 

Hayles approached her slowly, his steps tentative, as though he were approaching a wild animal that might snap his arm clean off with one bite. "Your orders, ma'am?"

"Take them prisoner, and we'll drag them back to Barrowknoll for questioning."

"Pity about the Captain," he said, glancing down at the man's corpse. "He would've had the most information." 

Something in her expression must have changed, for Hayles went very pale and said hurriedly, "Not that it's a problem, mind. I'm sure the others'll have plenty to talk about when we bring them back to camp, ma'am."

Sylvanas tried to school her features into something resembling calm, but it was difficult when her muscles did not want to react normally. Her soul twitched in her body like a man wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes. It would take her a few hours to get used to having skin again. So, she merely nodded sharply at Hayles, then turned and began walking back in the direction of their horses. The Waycrest cavalrymen parted before her, staring as she passed. She lengthened her stride and paid them no heed.

Anya was at her side in a moment, trailing after her like a faithful shadow. She looked concerned, but said nothing. Not until they reached the horses, at least. While Sylvanas hauled herself into the saddle, Anya remained standing by the skeletal horse's side. She gazed up at her Queen, as if waiting to receive instruction.

"What is it?" Sylvanas asked. 

"Do you need me to fetch you an Apothecary, my Queen?" 

Sylvanas considered the offer for a moment before shaking her head curtly. "No."

Anya did not quibble. She just clasped her hand over her heart and bowed low. Then, she strode towards her own horse and climbed into the saddle. When she tried to urge the living horse towards Sylvanas however, it shied from the prospect, turning in a wide circle rather than get too close. Sylvanas pretended to not notice. 

By the time they returned to Barrowknoll, it was nearing the evening. On their ride back with prisoners in tow, it had begun to rain. Suddenly Anya’s fixation on an oiled buff coat did not seem so foolish. Sylvanas’ cloak was not nearly as effective as combating the elements in Kul Tiras. It was slower returning to camp than leaving it. The prisoners were not allowed to ride their horses. Rather, their hands were bound and they walked behind the Waycrest cavalry. Their horses were tethered individually to the Waycrest horses; it wouldn’t do to leave them behind. Horses were expensive. One could always find work for them in an army. 

Their return earned a few appreciative murmurs. Waycrest and Drust soldiers gathered round and asked questions of their friends in the cavalry as they rode into Barrowknoll. Jeers and hard looks were aimed at the Ashvane prisoners, but they were otherwise left alone before they were carted off for questioning. Hayles was approached by a Waycrest infantry Captain when he dismounted. Sylvanas eyed him sidelong as he clapped the man on the shoulder and began to speak with him boisterously. 

As if sensing her gaze upon him, Hayles turned. He caught her eye, and to his credit he did not look away. In fact, swept his helm over his heart and inclined his head towards her respectfully. Fearfully, even. 

Rather than reply, Sylvanas slid smoothly from her own saddle. She strode off, giving Anya a sharp gesture to imply that she wanted to be left alone. Anya did as commanded without question, returning, presumably, to the cavalry unit she preferred to haunt for company these days. 

Sylvanas headed towards her own quarters in Barrowknoll -- a repaired house near the Church, which itself was being used as the new headquarters. She quickened her step when she drew near the Church, knowing full well that certain unwanted parties often lingered within. Before she could make it past however, a voice called after her. 

“I see you’ve returned victorious from your little hunting expedition.” 

Going still, Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder. Katherine was walking towards her from the Church. Planks had been erected in a webwork of pathways across the muddy ground. The end of Katherine’s cane knocked against wood with every other step. 

With one last longing look towards her own private quarters only a few paces away, Sylvanas turned to face the Lord Admiral. She tucked her hands behind her back in an officious pose, trying to seem natural even when she knew she appeared stiff. “I did,” she said. 

Katherine stopped before her, and folded her hands over the top of her cane, leaning her weight upon it. She was undeterred by the rain. “Did we learn anything new?”

“Not yet.” 

Katherine cast a critical eye over her. “You look more dead than usual. Did something happen?”

“Your concern is touching,” Sylvanas drawled. “But unnecessary. I am fine”

“Hmm.” Katherine pursed her lips. 

“Unless there is something else you wished to discuss, I shall -” 

Before Sylvanas could finish speaking and try to slip away however, Katherine interrupted. “There was, actually. How good of you to ask. I was wondering when we might all have a strategy meeting. Since you and the High Thornspeaker seem to be conveniently busy whenever I try to get you both in the same room these days.” 

It was true. Any time Katherine or Lucille would try to convene a meeting to discuss their next steps, Sylvanas would find an excuse to be elsewhere. It was at least gratifying to know that Jaina was doing the same. Though she doubted it was to avoid her. Most likely it was to avoid her mother. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “These are busy times, Lord Admiral.” 

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, my dear. We all know what times these are.”

Sylvanas blinked. Not at the swearing -- Katherine was prone to cursing as fluently as any sailor worth their salt -- but at the endearment. Sylvanas had heard Katherine call people ‘my dear’ only when they crossed a certain unspoken threshold. For Tatanka it was with the first cup of tea. For Anya, after their first card game. For Arthur after exactly three seconds of conversation. For Sylvanas, apparently, it took nearly seven months and a victory on the battlefield. Some had more hoops to jump through than others, it seemed. 

"I want to know what the plan is," Katherine continued with a face like cold iron. 

"Since when was this my army?" Sylvanas sneered. "Last I looked, my people and I were just a resource for you to use."

Katherine scoffed. "Like you didn't want it that way. Still -" she shifted her weight so that she could tap her cane thoughtfully against the wooden planks beneath them. "I do wonder what the High Thornspeaker promised you to get you to deploy so many troops into Drustvar."

Sylvanas thought of the treaty in her personal quarters, stashed safely away, signed and sealed. Copies of it had been distributed to Jaina as well as to Durotar, so that no party could cry foul of the agreement. "That is between myself and the High Thornspeaker."

Katherine arched an eyebrow. "Not even a hint for an old woman?"

In reply, Sylvanas merely glowered. 

"You really think you can keep your arrangement a secret?" Katherine asked. "The truth will out eventually."

"Yes," Sylvanas said. "But not today." 

"I don't see why the secrecy in the first place."

It was so tempting. She could tell her so easily. Jaina's secret hung by a thread in Sylvanas' hands, ready to be severed with a single swipe of a sentence. There was little to gain by telling Katherine, but the pure spite of the deed was almost enough to sway her.

Almost. But not quite.

Finally, Sylvanas said, "I have died for secrets in the past, Lord Admiral. You’ll not suss them out of me with conversation alone.” 

There was a bullish squaring of Katherine’s jaw that followed. Sylvanas had seen it many times before on Jaina; the two shared more mannerisms than they likely knew. 

Sighing, Katherine said, “At least tell me what the plan is for the next week? What have you and the High Thornspeaker discussed?"

Sylvanas’ face darkened. In truth, she and Jaina had not exchanged a single word over the last few days. Every time Sylvanas so much as saw her, she began walking in the other direction. Thankfully Jaina never gave chase. "Ask her yourself,” Sylvanas said. 

"I tried. She refuses to talk to me.” This time when Katherine rapped her cane against the planks, it was annoyed. “I figured you would know, seeing as you're close allies, supposedly. Though I'm having second thoughts, now."

"Then ask Lady Waycrest," Sylvanas said. She turned away and continued striding towards her lodgings. 

"I wasn't aware I was marching alongside children,” Katherine called after her before she could take more than a few steps away. 

Stopping, Sylvanas glared over her shoulder. "I'm older than you."

"Physically, perhaps. But in other ways? Evidence suggests otherwise."

Taking a few steps after her, Katherine stopped and fixed Sylvanas in place with a look sharp enough to skin a hare. "If you ask me -"

"I'm not."

"If you ask me," Katherine repeated, undeterred. "This sounds like some petty row."

When Sylvanas did not answer, Katherine clucked her tongue in an admonishing sort of way and shook her head. "Dear me. Do I really need to encourage you and the High Thornspeaker to use your words? Sit down? Have an adult conversation?"

"The same way you used your words with your husband?" Sylvanas sneered. "Yes, I can see why you ended up widowed and childless."

Katherine went still. Her eyes were like chips of ice. "You mean to shock me, throw me off my tracks and derail the conversation. But I made my peace with myself years ago."

"Clearly."

"What's more interesting is that you would compare your relationship with the High Thornspeaker to mine with my late husband." Katherine sniffed delicately at the notion. "Well, if I'd known this was a lover's quarrel, then I wouldn't have intruded. What a messy business."

Sylvanas growled, "It's not. And we are not having this conversation."

"Might I suggest leaving what goes on in the bedroom out of our military affairs?"

Again, Sylvanas turned to leave. She had scarcely stomped a few steps away, when Katherine called after her, "Kindly pull your head out of your ass. Before we all die, preferably." 

When Sylvanas did not stop this time, Katherine raised her voice, "Do you really intend to let the Ashvanes take the initiative? For such a storied military leader, I honestly expected more from you."

Sylvanas froze with her hand gripping the handle of the front door. Her grasp tightened. She could feel the wrought iron handle crumple beneath her fingers like paper. Behind her, she could hear the intermittent thump of the cane against the sodden wood walkways until Katherine stopped just behind her.

"We cannot winter here," Katherine said firmly, yet softly enough that they would not be overheard. "You know it. I know it. Lucille knows it, but only because I told the poor girl. Does your High Thornspeaker know it?"

Without turning around, Sylvanas said, "She is not 'my' High Thornspeaker."

"I don't care what or who she is," said Katherine. "What I care about is winning. If I had to play go-between for the two of you, I would. But neither of you seem very inclined to speak with me, despite my best efforts. Now, if I can condescend to try and settle this debate or quarrel or what have you, then you can eat crow and talk to that Tides-forsaken druid for five minutes. I'll settle for three minutes, even. Enough for us to agree on a plan and execute it. Have I made myself clear?"

Unclenching her fingers made the iron door handle screech slightly. Pulling her hand away, Sylvanas straightened her shoulders. She rose to her full height and turned, her movements too smooth, too mechanical. Even with a slight stoop due to her leg, Katherine still stood a few fingers taller than her, but the implacable expression on Sylvanas' face made her brow furrow. Katherine leaned back slightly, her eyes suddenly wary. 

When Sylvanas spoke, her voice was quiet; it slithered like a dark echo. “I have no intention of losing. You will have your victory, Lord Admiral. Make no mistake. But do not presume to tell me how to handle my affairs, personal or otherwise.”

Katherine scowled, but this time she did not try to stop Sylvanas as she turned to tug the door open. Walking inside, Sylvanas shut the door behind her, hearing Katherine mutter to herself, "Damn high-handed elves."

Even in the cold damp reconstructed house, there was little peace and quiet. Nathanos was bowed over a table, arranging reports and maps and ledgers in preparation for her arrival. He straightened when she faced him. 

"Anya told me what happened," he said. "She also told me that you refused an Apothecary." 

"I don't need an Apothecary. Or a mother, for that matter. So, you can drop the act," she added snidely. Crossing the sparsely furnished room, Sylvanas rounded the table and sat behind it. "What I need is the latest news from the ships sailing to our position, and the movements of the Great Fleet. If the Zandalari ships don't manage to slip Lord Stormsong's noose, those reinforcements will never arrive, and we might as well abandon this for a lost cause."

"I wish you would," Nathanos replied. “I wish I could sway you to leave.” 

She had considered it. A few times over the course of the last few days, if she were being honest with herself. Leaving Kul Tiras would have been the more sensible approach. There was no use throwing good coin after bad, as her father had been so fond of saying. And knowing when to cut one's losses was a key trait in any military leader worth their salt. Still, the idea rankled.

It was about more than thwarting the Alliance, now. This was personal. And if there was one thing Sylvanas hated, it was losing. 

Sylvanas pulled the first report Nathanos had arranged for her on the desk. Her eyes skimmed over the lines, but every now and then she would glance at him over the top of the parchment. Despite her earlier rebuke, Nathanos hovered nearby. He seemed to have no intention of leaving her alone right now. Annoyance prickled at the back of her spine, but it was tempered by a grateful flicker of feeling as well. 

She did not often use her powers. It was never pleasant -- mostly for others, but for herself also. There were no days, no minutes where she could pretend she was anything than what she had become at the hands of the Lich King, but there were certainly times that were worse than others. An Apothecary could only do so much with their potions and poultices. Her body was a mere vessel for the spirit chained within. They could but settle her corpse, urge it to be soothed for a brief respite. She generally only submitted herself to their care for the sake of others rather than herself. The Forsaken -- her Rangers included -- felt better if they believed she was properly looked after. As though the thought of her distress or loss caused them pain of their own. 

It was the threat of her absence more than anything else. What it would do to them as a people and as a society were she to no longer be there to guide them at the helm. 

The thought rose unbidden in her mind, then. Jaina's offer. Being 'cured.' The possibility of it ached. How would they see her if she lived once more? What would they do? Would she abandon them? Would she stay? Would they even want her to? 

"Is there something wrong, my Queen?"

Sylvanas lowered the report back to the desk. Others found Nathanos difficult to read, but she had never found that to be the case. His careful veil of uncaring haughtiness was the most inhuman thing about him, but his actions were his ultimate tell. He would say one thing, and then do another. Spiteful words of ridicule in one hand, and selfless acts in the other. For the longest time, even back when they had been alive, he had thought she never noticed, but she was not one to reward skill alone. One had to have the proper disposition. 

Now, he hovered, and it was anxious despite his cool tone and his perpetual lofty sneer. 

Lifting her hand to her face, Sylvanas explored the cut on her cheek with her fingertips. She could withstand blows that would kill any living person, but her body did not heal normally, not like it once did. It would take time for the necromantic powers laden upon her spirit to knit this corporeal form back together. The process was slow. The flesh was weak, but the bond between body and spirit was weaker. She could get her Val’kyr to mend her, but she did not like wasting their powers for such trivial matters. 

Finally, she said, "Bring me an Apothecary, then. If it will soothe you, Nathanos."

"It is not I who needs treatment," he said, lying to himself. Sylvanas let him. He bowed and strode out of the house. 

With a sigh, Sylvanas leaned back in her seat and waited for him to return with an Apothecary in tow. Perhaps after letting herself be fussed over for an hour or two, she could get some actual work done. 

Nathanos returned not long later with an Apothecary at his heels and -- to her surprise -- a familiar raven on his shoulder. Now that Nathanos knew about Arthur, he was tolerated rather than actively despised. Arthur had taken to ruthlessly abusing this change in status, much to Nathanos' annoyance and Sylvanas' amusement. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"He saw me getting the Apothecary, and wanted to see how this worked," Nathanos explained, shutting the door behind them. "I told him that it was not my decision to make."

With a shrug, Sylvanas rose to her feet. "He can stay, if he wants." 

"Yes," Arthur whispered triumphantly under his breath.

Since discovering what he was, she had watched his interactions with the Forsaken in a new light. Suddenly his queries about their undeath made sense. She had initially thought them to be curiosity, or him digging up information for Jaina. And perhaps there was a bit of that, to be fair. But it certainly was not the whole picture. 

The Apothecary was a mass of heavy robes. Strapped to his chest and back were darkly lacquered boxes, filled with all manner of potions and reagents. His rotting face was hidden behind a deep cowl, but his eyes gleamed golden through the dim light like candles. He limped as he walked, and even with his hunched stature he was still taller than Nathanos. When Sylvanas turned her gaze upon him, he bowed low. 

"If it would please the Dark Lady," he said in a gravelly voice. 

"It would," she murmured. 

He shuffled closer and began to disassemble the boxes upon the desk. They folded out with clever hinges, revealing a labyrinth of compartments within. While he worked, Sylvanas walked around the desk to stand before him, waiting quietly with her hands clasped behind her back. 

Candles were lit as well as incense. Soon, the room was filled with the smell of chrism and rose oil. The Apothecary took his time. He swung a thurible by its chain, walking around her and murmuring in Gutterspeak. She stood still, allowing the ritual of the process with a bored kind of familiarity. The air grew thick with smoke. When various bowls and vials and candles had been arrayed just so, the Apothecary bowed before her once again. Without needing to be told what to do, Sylvanas lifted her arms somewhat to allow him to begin disrobing her. Every piece of armour and scrap of cloth above the waist was removed and placed aside, handled with care and reverence. He even waved the thurible over her pieces of armour, muttering more incantations. 

On the other side of the room, Nathanos had turned his back for this process. Arthur on the other hand, shuffled around on Nathanos' shoulder to keep watching. That was, until Nathanos plucked one his tail feathers in admonishment.

"Ow! Hey! What was that for?"

"Keep your eyes to yourself," Nathanos growled.

"You always were an awful prude, Nathanos," said Sylvanas, watching them with some amusement. "I do not care if he watches."

There was a bit of dark grumbling at that, but Nathanos said nothing more. He maintained his own discretion, keeping his back turned, while Arthur looked on curiously. 

When her torso was fully revealed, Arthur made a whistling noise. Nathanos appeared on the brink of strangling him, but Arthur only said, "Does that still hurt?"

Sylvanas did not need to look down; she knew what he was referring to. The Val'kyr could mend many things when they reconstructed her body, but the wound made by Frostmourne was not one of them. The gash slanted across her abdomen just beneath her ribs. Along her back, the exit wound was a mirror. It had been expertly sutured back together and packed with a variety of reagents that she did not care to know more about beyond the fact that they smelled of warm myrrh and smoky incense. 

Rather than answer, Sylvanas countered, "Do your old wounds still hurt?"

"No," Arthur said.

"Well, then. There you have it." 

It was not strictly true. Sometimes, she could still feel the cold presence of that cursed blade as though it were sliding between her organs anew, splitting against her lower ribs. Those times were mercifully rare, and usually only occured when she used too much of her powers or spent too much time out of her body in nothing but spirit form. As though returning to her body reminded it of the very concept of pain. Today was not such a day. 

She lowered her arms, and the Apothecary began to unstitch the wound. He went carefully yet expertly, snipping the sutures loose and tugging them free with a pair of pliers and scissors plated in silver. Arthur craned his feathery neck to watch, trying to gain a bit more height to peek over the Apothecary kneeling at Sylvanas' feet and treating her. 

"Are there more Undead among the Drust?" Sylvanas asked. 

"There are lots of them!" Arthur said. "But not like me, no. They're mostly ghouls or restless spirits. They don't remember who they are or anything." 

The Apothecary was repacking the old injury now. His hands pressed the cavernous wound full of reagents. She did not flinch or even glance down at what he was doing. Instead she continued speaking to Arthur, "Do you have a difficult time remembering things?"

Arthur shuffled his wings. "Sometimes, yeah."

Immediately Nathanos' head twitched. Though he did not look around or speak, Sylvanas could tell he was listening very intently to the conversation now. 

"Does Jaina tell you to do things, and you seem to wake up later, not able to remember the past few days?" Sylvanas asked.

Even the Apothecary paused in his ministrations. Sylvanas glanced down at him sharply, and he returned to his task, though he too was now eavesdropping. 

Meanwhile, Arthur cocked his head in bemusement. "No?" he said, sounding confused. "I've never had anything like that happen before. The first year or so after she raised me though, I struggled with basic things. Walking and talking and stuff. I got better at it. She was very helpful."

"How?" Sylvanas tried to keep her tone light, so that Arthur would not get suspicious of this line of questioning.

"You know. She would make potions for me, and braces for my legs, and stuff. But she never could help with the wounds or anything." Arthur blinked, his eyes pale blue and filmy. A corpse's eyes. "I don't think she's very good at necromancy, to be honest. I mean, she's good at a lot of magic, but every magic user prefers some things over others. Like, I can turn into animals all day, but I'm terrible at healing people." 

Sylvanas frowned. "But if she gives you a direct order, can you disobey her?"

An incredulous caw was Arthur's answer. It sounded like a laugh. "Oh, yeah! I disobey her all the time! Why?"

The tension drained from the room. Sylvanas, Nathanos, and the Apothecary all relaxed, as though a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Sylvanas even let out a little sigh.

Bemused, Arthur looked between the three of them. "Is there something I'm missing here?"

But Sylvanas merely shook her head. "It's nothing. Nevermind." 

Arthur leaned down over Nathanos' shoulder, his tail feathers jutting up into the air for balance. "Have you ever raised anyone from the dead?" 

"I have," Sylvanas said truthfully. "Never without their permission. If you had been given the choice, would you have come back?"

For a long moment Arthur puzzled over that query. He shifted his weight back, and shuffled his tail. "I don't know," he finally said. "Maybe. It's not great, but I like it enough. And I didn't like dying. At all."

A surprised huff of laughter escaped Sylvanas then. Even Nathanos chuckled quietly. 

"No," Sylvanas mused with a faint smile, her killing blow on display. "No, I can’t say I did either." 

The rest of the procedure went forth without trouble. The Apothecary stitched her back up with a hooked needle and thread. He anointed her in oils like a god king, until she fairly gleamed. Death magic was woven heavy in the air, heavy on his fingers, as heavy as incense. By the time he worked his way to the more recent wound on her face, she already felt calmer, as though the Apothecary had sewn her soul more firmly into place. 

There was little more he could do about the cut on her cheek than stitch it together and seal it with fragrant chrism and a necrotic spell chanted from his lipless mouth, but it would help quicken the process along. 

The Apothecary helped her back into her clothes and armour, his bony fingers as deft with clasps and buttons as they were with a needle and thread. Soon she was shrugging her cloak around her shoulders, and allowing him to buckle her pauldrons into place as though he were dressing a high priest of the Light in sacred vestments of office. 

A knock came at the door. Sylvanas waved at Nathanos to answer it. When he did so, she could see a number of Forsaken soldiers clustered around outside. News of her minor scrape must have spread through the ranks like wildfire. She had to hold back a grimace. 

"Arthur," she called, gesturing for him to fly closer.

In an ungainly flap of wings, Arthur flew from Nathanos' shoulder and landed on the back of the chair behind the desk. "Yeah?"

"Change into your usual form."

After a moment's hesitation, he did so. There was a whirl of druidic magic, and he stood behind her chair looking curious but faintly uneasy by the way Sylvanas and the Apothecary were eyeing him up. When Sylvanas waved for him to approach her, Arthur rounded the table to stand before them, his pale gaze flicking between the two of them.

Tilting her head to one side, Sylvanas reached out and touched the rent flesh of his wrist. His clothes were scuffed and worn, but not in rags. They were a mark of a man who did not care for clothes, rather than a mark of neglect. His shirtsleeves had been rolled back above his elbow, revealing his hands and forearms, large portions of which had been peeled of flesh and muscle. 

"See what you can do for him," Sylvanas told the Apothecary. 

Without question, the Apothecary bowed to her, then gestured for Arthur to stand where Sylvanas had stood not moments ago. 

Arthur balked. “Oh - I don’t - I don’t know if -”

“Jaina’s speciality is not death magic. It is this man’s, however,” said Sylvanas firmly, indicating the Apothecary. “You will feel better after. I promise you.” 

Sheepish, Arthur allowed himself to be herded where the Apothecary wanted him to stand. He awkwardly held his arms out to the side, all while shooting Sylvanas a look that she could only describe as abashed.

Rolling her eyes, she turned away from him and walked towards the door. He was not so bold when it was himself being undressed in front of others. 

Humans, she thought to herself with a wry shake of her head. 

Nathanos was shutting the door once more when she reached him. “Did you tell them they could stop their worrying?” she asked.

“I did, though doubtlessly they will remain outside until they see you.”

She made a disgruntled noise.

“I also received word from Captain Hayles,” Nathanos continued. Lowering his voice, he said, “Apparently, one of the prisoners you brought back from your little scouting expedition has decided to talk.” 

Sylvanas’ ears canted up in surprise. “That was fast,” she murmured. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder back towards Arthur and the Apothecary, she said, “Do we know the High Thornspeaker’s current whereabouts?”

Arthur was not paying any attention to them. He was too busy pestering the Apothecary with rapid fire questions, which the Apothecary answered in a dusty wheezing voice. 

“The people I have assigned to watch her informed me that she vanished from camp sometime this morning,” said Nathanos. “Nobody has been able to ascertain her position since then. She has a habit of disappearing without a trace and reappearing again. I suspect portals and other translocation magics are at work, but none of the Forsaken mages I’ve designated can crack where she goes to so often.” 

Sylvanas hummed a contemplative note under her breath. “I have an inkling.” Tugging the hood of her cloak over her head, she said, “Stay here. Keep an eye on the camp while I’m away.”

Nathanos’ brows furrowed. “And where are you going?”

“Belore. You’re as bad as the others.”

“Incorrect,” he said with an affronted sniff. “I’m worse.” 

With a snort, Sylvanas reached past him to open the door. “I am going to speak with Hayles and the prisoner. And then I’m going to do something I will probably regret.”

He stepped aside to let her pass. “Which is?”

“I’m going to find the High Thornspeaker, and have a conversation.” 

  The fang was heavy in Sylvanas' hand. She weighed it in her palm, considering her next actions very carefully. Then she lifted the token by its string and said, "Take me to Jaina, please." She growled out the last word like it was a penance. 

That feeling hooked behind her gut as though latching onto her spine and pulled. In an instant blur of colour and darkness, she appeared at the entrance to Jaina's cabin. The fog had returned. A chill nipped the air. A shallow shower of snow dusted the grounds. On one side the cliffs were shrouded in white, and on the other the dark vastness of the trees seemed to vanish into the mist like the long march of time itself. As though this place were caught in a stasis, torn between the woods and the sea. 

Sylvanas tucked the fang back into her belt pouch. She stood before the front door, which had been hung with a wreath woven from blackthorn branches. The berries were dark and clustered along the wreath. Whether it was purely decorative or served some greater magical purpose, she did not know. She used studying it as an excuse to not knock on the door. Eventually, steeling herself, Sylvanas reached out a hand and rapped her knuckles against the door. 

There was no sound from within. Brows knitting together, Sylvanas leaned to one side in order to peer through one of the windows, but the glass was misted from the chill outside. It was impossible to see anything but the indistinct shape of furniture within. 

She knocked again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Rocking back on her heels, Sylvanas tongued at the back of her teeth contemplatively. She had been so sure that Jaina would be here. Or perhaps she was, and she knew it was Sylvanas outside. Perhaps they were both avoiding each other. 

She was reaching for the door handle, when she heard a voice behind her.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Jaina said. 

Sylvanas whirled around. It wasn't everyday someone could sneak up on her. The only people who could consistently pull it off were her Rangers. And, apparently, Jaina. It was so reminiscent of their first meeting, that Sylvanas narrowed her eyes warily. 

Jaina stood behind her, wrapped in a robe. A towel was slung over her shoulder. Her feet were bare. Her hair had been undone from its usual braid so that it hung, wet, over her shoulders. It was a rare occasion to see Jaina with her scars on full display, the neckline of her robes a low-draped décolletage revealing the rope burns at her neck and the hint of a sword wound over her heart. She faintly steamed in the cool air, as though she had just stepped from a pool of hot water.

Which was, Sylvanas realised, exactly what she had done.

"I have the house warded," Jaina explained. "If you try to force your way inside...well, it's not very nice. Let's just leave it at that."

Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. "Noted." 

They looked at one another for a long moment, until Jaina cleared her throat and stepped past her. "I suppose you'll want to come inside. Unless you really were hoping to rifle through my things without my being here."

"I wanted to talk," Sylvanas said. 

"Now, I'm really worried," said Jaina dryly. 

There was a rusted old lock on the door, but Jaina used no key. She did not need to unlock the door. It opened at her touch without any trouble. Sylvanas wondered if she even locked it conventionally at all.

Jaina did not wait for her guest to follow after her; she simply stepped inside and left the door open behind her. Sylvanas removed her shoes, but hesitated to leave her weapons behind. Eventually however, she balanced the bow and quiver and knife against the outer wall of the cabin, and walked inside. 

The door shut itself softly behind her as though a draught had caught the edge. Jaina was standing before the fireplace. When Sylvanas had peered inside, there had been no light emanating from within. Now, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Jaina stood with her back to the flames and toweled her hair dry. 

The skull mask glowered at Sylvanas from its customary spot hanging on the wall. This time, the scythe-like staff was leaning against it. The runes carved into them glowed stronger when she drew near. Sylvanas moved past them both, entering further into the cabin. She made no motion to make herself comfortable. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back as though awaiting an infantry inspection on parade. 

Jaina pulled the towel down, her hair a mess until she began raking her fingers through it. "You're very quiet for someone who came all this way to talk to me," she said. 

From this angle, the fire lit Jaina from behind so that she seemed gilded. The soft fabric of her robe was brighter at the edges, more saturated, so that her body beneath was but a silhouette. 

Tearing her gaze away, Sylvanas wandered over to the table strewn with books and scrolls and various maps. She dragged her fingertips along the ragged edge of a vellum map. “I’m sure you will have already heard that I took Captain Hayles and a few of his men for a reconnoitre this morning.”

“I did,” said Jaina. Her footsteps were soft as she crossed the room and joined Sylvanas, careful to keep the table between them.

“We caught a few prisoners. Fortunately for us, one of them decided to cooperate.”

That got Jaina’s attention. She draped the towel back over her shoulder, and asked, “And what did they say?”

“There is a feature just to the northeast of Fallhaven,” Sylvanas said. “They call it Watermill Hill.”

“I am familiar with it, yes.”

“The Ashvanes have orders to take it from the defenders, and use it as a fort to bombard the city.”  

Jaina fell silent. Her eyes dropped to the table, and she began digging up a more detailed map of Fallhaven and its surrounding countryside. She pulled out her ledgers, placing them atop the map and scowling down at the both of them. 

Finally she said softly yet vehemently, “Shit.” 

Sylvanas hummed in agreement. 

Sighing, Jaina sank down into a chair. She rubbed at her eyes, scratching at the scar on one side of her face. “I had hoped to gain control over the peninsula by taking Carver’s Harbour from the Ashvanes.” 

“It is far too late for that, now.” Reaching over, Sylvanas tapped at a section of the map between Fallhaven and Carver’s Harbour. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t make life difficult for them in the meantime. We just need to take the initiative.” 

Jaina nodded. She lowered her hands and opened her eyes. “So, we march for Fallhaven, and hope we can arrive in time to reinforce Watermill Hill. Otherwise we’ll have to take it back before they can blast through the eastern walls with artillery and create a practicable breach.” 

“And then we winter at Watermill, and harass their position at Carver’s Harbour until they wished they had never set foot in Drustvar.” 

“It’s a good plan,” Jaina admitted. “Though somewhat predictable, given the present company. I understand guerilla tactics are a favourite of yours.” 

Sylvanas gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. “We all cling to our little foibles. Mine happen to involve a penchant for shock and hit-and-run doctrine.” 

Jaina smiled, but it was a fleeting thing. Her face looked raw and recently scrubbed. She held Sylvanas’ gaze and said, “You smell like death.”

“Don’t I always?” Sylvanas drawled.

“No,” said Jaina. “Not like this. What happened?” 

Sylvanas tried to make her shrug nonchalant. “I got a little carried away during the scouting expedition.” 

Jaina looked at the cut on Sylvanas’ cheek and murmured, “I see.”

"To add insult to injury, your mother cornered me upon my return."

"Oh?" Jaina's tone was light, but she would suddenly not meet Sylvanas' eye. She fiddled with the ends of the towel slung over her shoulder, picking at stray threads, her actions uneasy, faintly apprehensive.

"She wants to call a meeting to discuss our strategy moving forward."

"Good thing we have one now, then," Jaina said, gesturing to the map of Fallhaven. 

Sylvanas caught Jaina's eye and said, "I don't think that was all she meant."

In reply, Jaina swallowed thickly. The apprehension was more than faint now. She gripped the end of the towel tightly in one fist until her knuckles were white. A flicker of fear and uncertainty flashed across her features. She did not say anything.

"The truth will out," Sylvanas said. "That was what she told me. And she's right. This war will end, and our agreement will come to light. You cannot hide forever."

Inhaling deeply, Jaina lowered her hands to her sides and said, "I know." She chewed at her lower lip for a moment before asking, "What happened with you?" 

Sylvanas frowned in quiet puzzlement.

"When you -- you know -" Jaina made a strange motion with one hand. "When you saw your family again after you had died? How did they react when they saw you like this?"

The map was suddenly incredibly interesting. Sylvanas traced circles around Watermill Hill and its surroundings, wishing beyond all else that they could return to topics of war and strategy and killing, things she was infinitely more comfortable discussing. Not this. 

"My younger sister, Vereesa, was the first to see me,” she finally said, her tone blank and matter-of-fact. “It was awful."

"What happened?"

"She hugged me," said Sylvanas.

Jaina laughed, until she realised very quickly that Sylvanas was not laughing at all.

If she thought too long and too hard, she could still feel Vereesa’s arms around her, crushing her with a warmth that scorched. It hurt to touch her. To be reminded of the heat of life she could never again share. To want to be the person her little sister remembered and idolised -- a yearning so strong it tore her up inside until she thought she could feel a blade piercing her ribs.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Sylvanas said before she could sink too deeply into that melancholic memory.

“Please,” Jaina said, sounding relieved, almost eager for any scrap of advice in this surreal situation.

Sylvanas glanced up at her sharply, and her eyes burned crimson. “Don’t wait too long. The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

A little huff escaped Jaina at that. “I think we’re well beyond that, now. She’s thought I’ve been dead for years. Since before she even became Lord Admiral. I’m sure she’s made her peace by now.”

“She hasn’t. She told me she had, but she is lying.” Sylvanas ran her hands along the back of a chair tucked beneath the desk, her thumbs counting the rings of polished wood grain. “Grief is reaching out in love and finding nothing, and then filling it with something, anything to make that void a little less yawning, a little more manageable. The longer you wait, the more disruptive your return will be.”

Firelight played faintly about the strands of Jaina’s hair. She engoldened in the dim glow. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment of silence. “For assuming what you wanted. It's just that back in Ardfert bog, I thought -”

Sylvanas shook her head curtly. “No. Stop.” 

“Sylvanas -” 

When Jaina tried to round the table, to draw closer, Sylvanas slipped further away. She used the table as an obstacle to keep them apart. “I am not here to accept your offer. And I never will.”

Jaina did not try to pursue her further. She stopped, her hands coming to rest on the desk between them, just lightly touching a space between a stack of worn, well-read books. “I still don’t understand,” Jaina said slowly. “But only because given the choice, I would leap at the chance.”

The cabin was warming up, the fire lapping at the hearth and filling the space with a pervasive roiling heat. Sylvanas wished nothing of warmth. Not now. It was too close to body temperature, and she could feel her own skin begin to react to the heat, to drink it in and hold it fast as though hungry for it. “It is not just about what I want. I have an obligation,” she said, and the words felt as though they were being scraped from her throat. “To more than just myself. I cannot be selfish. I will not be.” 

That was how it always had been. Self-sacrifice above all else. Living for others and not herself. Wishing she could be selfish, but knowing she could never do so; she would hate herself if she did. And she did not need any more reason to hate herself. Especially now.

“If there is one thing you are allowed to be selfish about, it is your own life,” Jaina said, her words chosen with care and precision.

But Sylvanas was already shaking her head, even as Jaina was speaking. “Not mine. And not yours. Not anymore. We are more than people. We are symbols and titles.”

A scowl crossed Jaina’s face, though not one of anger. “Do you allow yourself nothing?”

“You are new to your position. Relatively speaking,” Sylvanas added when Jaina opened her mouth to protest. “There is a balance you must find between personal wants and public needs. I found it long ago when Quel’Thalas demanded a military leader of my family. It is easy for you now. You want to save Drustvar. You want what is best for you people. But there will come a time, when you will do things that go against your better conscience not because you want to, but because you must.” 

“And you believe you must remain dead?” Jaina asked incredulously.

Sylvanas’ answer came without err or hesitation. “Yes.” 

With a sigh, Jaina shook her head. Again, she raked a hand through her hair, which by now had begun to dry somewhat. 

“Your relationship with your mother is a prime example,” Sylvanas began, watching her reaction. “You don’t want to reveal yourself to her, but you know you have to eventually.” 

Jaina chewed at her lower lip again. Her brows knit. Finally she relented with a nod. “Yes. I know.” 

“It is easier if you think of yourself as two different people.” Sylvanas lifted her hands, palms facing up as though weighing objects between them. “The future Lord Admiral, and Jaina Proudmoore.”

A bitter smile twisted Jaina’s lips. “It seems you need more hands, if we’re going to talk about your personae,” she said with a nod towards her. 

Sylvanas lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “When you live as long as elves do, you might need more than two, as well.”

“I will.”

At that, Sylvanas blinked. She looked at Jaina for clarification. 

“Druids live as long as elves do. Even human ones,” Jaina said. Then she grinned, amused by Sylvanas’ confusion. “It’s a perk.” 

“And here I thought the Kul Tiran nobility would be clamouring for you to conceive an Heir the moment you became Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas drawled. 

“Oh, they probably will anyway. But they’re going to be very annoyed when they find out that I’ll outlive them by a good few centuries at least.” 

“I can hear the cries of outrage from Boralus already.” 

Jaina’s grin widened, then softened. Her fingers played with the cloth belt holding her bathrobe together. “I have to say, this certainly has been a surprise.”

Sylvanas cocked her head to one side.

In answer, Jaina gestured between the two of them. “I thought this conversation was going to be far more unpleasant.”

"I can make it unpleasant, if you would prefer."

Jaina made a face. "Please, no. I thought we were doing so well."

When Sylvanas smiled, it did not reach her eyes. Her fangs glinted in the firelight. "Make no mistake. I am still very angry." Her gaze seared crimson.

Jaina made a noise at the back of her throat, something between a hum and a grunt. "I can see that. I don't suppose there's anything I can do?"

"More concessions when you become Lord Admiral wouldn't go unappreciated."

Rolling her eyes, Jaina said, "Anything that doesn't involve me whoring out my nation?"

Sylvanas tapped at her chin, pretending to think deeply on the subject. Finally she said, "No. Nothing."

With a snort of wry amusement, Jaina said, "Well, do let me know if that changes." 

"I will keep it in mind." A keen expression crossed Sylvanas' face. "I never forget when I am owed a favour." 

"Now, that is just ominous." 

"Good. It was supposed to be." 

The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, the sky had fallen dark as night swept across the land. Glancing through a window, Jaina sighed. "I suppose I ought to make myself presentable and face the firing squad."

"I very much doubt your mother will draw a pistol on you, though I will admit that she is a difficult woman to read." 

"That's an understatement," Jaina muttered under her breath. She had begun to pick her way up the stairs, manoeuvring through the stacks of books haphazardly arranged along the steps. 

When she reached the mezzanine, she dropped the towel onto the bed and untied the belt of her robe. Sylvanas pulled the maps closer to herself to study them while she waited, but her eyes would stray up to where Jaina was getting dressed. There wasn't much to see through the pillars of the balustrade and the piles of books. Glimpses of skin and cloth here and there as Jaina pulled on a fresh set of formal robes. There was an exit scar on her back, where Gorak Tul had struck her through with a sword, right between her shoulder blade and her spine. 

A few minutes later, Jaina descended the steps, still tying the laces of fabric at her throat to hide the scars of her neck. Her cloak was draped across the back of the couch, and she shrugged it over her shoulders. The fabric rustled like the wind through dense branches. Sylvanas had long since given up the pretense of pouring over the maps, and stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Are you ready?" 

Jaina fiddled with her loose hair for a moment, as though contemplating taking the time to braid it. Eventually though she nodded. "Yes. Let's go." 

When they reached the door however, Jaina stopped. Her hand had immediately grabbed up the sickle staff, but she hesitated at the mask. Sylvanas waited patiently a step behind for Jaina to make up her mind. 

"No," Jaina said softly to herself, turning away from the mask. Before she could take another step towards the door though, she turned back to the mask. "Or...? Well...? Hmm." She grabbed the mask. "Yes." Then almost immediately she put the mask back on its hook. "What am I thinking? No."

Sylvanas sighed. "You are worse than a cat at the door."

"All right, yes." Jaina snatched up the mask, spurred into action, and pulled the door open. Once outside she placed the antlered skull over her head, and her shoulders relaxed somewhat, as though the idea of extra layer of protection was soothing. 

Sylvanas followed, closing the door behind them. She took a moment to pull on her boots and greaves. Once she had slung her bow over her shoulders, she pulled the fang from her belt pouch, but Jaina just held out her hand instead. 

"I'll take us back," she said, hand outstretched, waiting. 

Slowly, Sylvanas tucked the token away, and reached out for Jaina's hand. Jaina clasped their fingers together. Her skin was warm and calloused. Sylvanas could feel it even through the supple leather of her gloves. 

The dark sockets of the skull's eyes glowed with pinpricks of light, and Sylvanas tensed. Jaina tightened her hold, as if she were afraid Sylvanas would wrench her hand away while the spell was still taking form. And then that familiar hook-like sensation gripped at Sylvanas' stomach and gave a mighty tug. When the world righted itself again, they were standing on the second floor rafters of the church at Barrowknoll. 

The roof had been reconstructed with rough-hewn lumber. Stacks of bricks and munitions were piled up all around. The space was dimly lit from candles scattered around the main floor below them, and the sound of voices floated up the nearby set of stairs. 

"Tides help me, if you don't tell me this instant, Lucille Waycrest -!"

"I don't know anything! You must believe me, Katherine. If the Warchief or the High Thornspeaker had said something to me, they would have said it to you as well. I swear it."

"You’re hiding something. You all are. Oh, don't give me that doe-eyed look! You always were a terrible liar."

"I told you, I don’t know anything!" 

"You know I was there at your birth? Your mother held my hand. Nearly squeezed it right off, if you ask me. That woman had a death grip like no other."

"Yes," Lucille sighed wearily. "I know." 

"And when Meredith fell to the Coven? Who was the first to offer you aid?"

Lucille mumbled something under her breath.

"Speak up, my dear." 

"I said: You were."

"That's right. I was. And when those fools at Corlain attempted to burn you at the stake for some far-fetched witchcraft conspiracy, who got wind of it and rallied the Marshal for a rescue attempt?" 

"You did."

"And yet you have the nerve -- the absolute gall -- to look me in the face right now, and lie to me." There was the sound of boot steps, and the faint clack of a cane against wooden floorboards. When Katherine spoke again, her voice was low but not at all soft. "I had thought I could rely upon you, the last of my family, distant though you are. But I see I am cursed to live a life of disappointment, through and through." 

“That’s not fair,” Lucille sounded like she was choking on the words, or trying to hold back a wave of tears. “You know I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. 

"You have a very poor way of showing it." 

"What am I supposed to do? Perform every action of my life as though I'm grovelling at your feet just to show how thankful I am?"

"Of course, not. You're being ridiculous."

"Don't say that! Don't you say that to me! You know I can't stand that, Kath!"

"Don't you 'Kath' me, young lady!"

As they eavesdropped, Jaina was gripping Sylvanas' hand hard enough that her fingers trembled. Sylvanas stole a quick glance at her. It was impossible to see what her expression was beneath the mask, but her back was too straight, her shoulders too rigid. 

Sylvanas squeezed her hand back, and Jaina's head jerked towards her in surprise, as though she had only just remembered that Sylvanas was present at all. But it was only to get her attention, for Sylvanas jerked her head meaningfully at the stairs, and gave Jaina a pointed look. She could hear a faint indrawn breath beneath that mask, and then Jaina let go of her hand. 

At the first creak of the floorboards beneath Jaina's feet, the two voices went silent downstairs. Sylvanas followed as Jaina descended the stairs, her own footsteps silent as a whisper. 

Lucille and Katherine were standing very close together before the large rectangular altar that had been converted into a planning table. Scrolls and scraps of notes, missives and ledgers and stacks of maps were strewn across the altar. The papers were weighed down with bits of brick and bronze lamps. Both of them appeared startled at the interruption and the idea that their conversation was being listened to. Katherine recovered more quickly, grasping the falcon head of her cane in both hands and schooling her features to their usual hard neutrality. On the other hand, Lucille’s lower lip trembled. Despite that, her gaze was sloe-eyed and unyielding. 

"Forgive the interruption," Jaina said, her voice cold beneath the horned skull. "But I thought I should step in." 

Lucille jerked her chin up and said steadily. "It's fine. We just got a bit sidetracked from a strategy discussion." 

Jaina hummed. She approached the altar, her hand reaching out to rest upon the stone surface. "Sylvanas has informed me of new developments that we all need to discuss." 

Hearing this, Katherine shot Sylvanas a look that could only be described as startled, though she tried to hide it. In return Sylvanas gave away nothing. She did not draw nearer the altar, keeping her distance, watching Jaina, waiting for what she would do. 

"I'm glad to hear you two are talking again," Katherine said carefully. Then she turned her attention upon the altar, waving Lucille and Sylvanas over to join them. "Shall we -?"

"No, not yet," Jaina said, cutting her off. Her voice was determined, but there was the barest hint of shakiness lingering beneath the surface. "You were right. There was something Lucille was keeping from you. And I think -- for all our sakes -- we ought to clear the air."

Lucille's eyes widened. She gave Jaina a panicked look. 

Jaina gave no indication that she noticed. Slowly, her hands reached up and clasped the base of the skull mask, lifting it away to reveal her face. Katherine was watching her with a bemused frown, which only deepened when Jaina set the mask atop the altar. Opening her mouth to speak, Katherine paused. She blinked. Then she went white a sheet, and her jaw slackened as the realisation visibly dawned on her. 

Katherine shook her head. “No, that’s - that’s not possible,” she breathed. “You died. They’d told me you died.”

“Yes,” Jaina said. Her hands were gripped into tight fists at her side. She held herself as though expecting to be struck.

From this angle Sylvanas could not see Jaina’s expression, but she could see Katherine's with all too much clarity. Something raw and painful shifted across Katherine’s pale face. Anger and anguish, disbelief and dread. Her hand tightened around the cane. She rapped the end of it against the ground, her jaw tight but her eyes welling up with unshed tears. “I planted a sword in the grave for you,” she rasped. “And yet here you are.” 

“Here I am,” Jaina echoed.

“If this is some trick, I swear to all that’s good, I’ll -” Katherine cut herself off with a rough swallow, breathing in heavily through her nose. 

“I’m real.” 

Katherine opened her mouth to say something, but words seemed to escape her. Hesitant, she reached out with one hand, but Jaina’s shoulders stiffened, and Katherine lowered her arm before she could touch her daughter. She had to muster up the ability to speak again. “You’ve grown very tall,” she said, a weak smile trying but failing to take shape. Her eyes flicked to Lucille and Sylvanas, and then her face hardened, her voice gaining strength. “How long have they known?”

Lucille looked like she would rather die on the spot than answer that question. Sylvanas herself kept her mouth firmly shut, letting Jaina answer. “Long enough.” 

Pain twisted Katherine’s features. “And you didn’t tell me? Why?” 

“Are you really asking me that? After what you did?” 

Katherine drew herself up to her full height, but the top of her head barely passed Jaina’s chin. “I did not want to, but I had to,” she said. “Everything I did, I did to safeguard Kul Tiras. I will not apologise for that.”

“Letting Tandred hang was all part of your plan to ‘safeguard Kul Tiras’?” Jaina asked incredulously.

“You were too young to understand,” Katherine snapped. “The political situation at the time was volatile. I did everything I could to change Daelin’s mind, to find some work around, to exile Tandred instead, but he would have none of it. And the gentry were baying for blood after the orcs had killed so many during the First and Second Wars.” 

Jaina scoffed. “Oh, great. So, dad wasn’t just a power-mad bastard. It was all because of politics. I see now why I should have come back to Boralus the moment he died. How foolish of me!”

Katherine’s face was quickly regaining its colour again. The two of them were locked in a glaring contest, tempers rising, mingling with grief and years of bitterness. They continued speaking as though they had completely forgotten anyone else was in the room. 

“That’s not what I meant!” Katherine said hotly.

“Then what did you mean? Enlighten me.”

“You should have told me! Have you never heard of a letter? ‘Dearest mum, I am alive. Love - Your daughter, Jaina.’”

“You’re unbelievable! You -!” 

As silently as she could, Sylvanas crossed the room and murmured to Lucille, “Come. Let us leave them be.”

Lucille nodded without hesitation, and the two of them slipped away. Neither Jaina nor Katherine seemed to notice. 

“I could have protected you!’

“Oh, yes, because you’ve done such a good job of that in the past!” 

“How dare you! I am the reason why you survived at all!”

“You don’t know anything about what’s happened for me to survive! Or have you already forgotten? You threw me away!”

“I did no such thing!”

Sylvanas shut the side door to the church behind her, so that the sounds of their voices were muted. Outside, the night was dark and drizzly. Most of the soldiers were camped in the fields just to the north, but some still wandered the town performing their duties. Sylvanas kept her hand firmly on the latch of the door as though afraid it might burst open at any second, while Lucille leaned against the outer wall with a ragged exhalation, staying beneath the shelter of the eaves. 

Sylvanas studied her profile, then said, “You did well. I thought you would crack immediately under questioning.” 

A soft shaky laugh escaped Lucille at that. “Thanks,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. She glanced towards the door. “Should we wait here? How long do you think they’ll be?”

Sylvanas’ only answer was a shrug. “They will take as long as they take.” 

“Then they’ll be a while. ‘Stubborn as a Proudmoore’ they say in Tiragarde Sound.” Lucille ran a hand across her brow. She pushed herself away from the wall and said, “Would you like to join me for a drink? I desperately need one.”

“I don’t drink. And alcohol is wasted on me. It does nothing.” 

“Right. Of course. My apologies.”

One of Sylvanas’ ears tilted towards the door, hearing the rising volume of the voices within. She grimaced. “On second thought, I will join you.”  

“Thank the Tides,” Lucille sighed, already gathering up her long hems so that they would not trail in the mud. 

Sylvanas followed Lucille out into the rain, the two of them making a dash towards a nearby reconstructed house. She may not be able to enjoy a drink, but it was a better proposition than staying put; she had had enough eavesdropping for one night.

  Lucille had nearly finished what remained of the flask of whiskey she kept hidden in the drawer of her work desk, and Jaina and Katherine still had not emerged from the church to the Tides. Sylvanas sat in a chair beside the fire, while Lucille nursed a glass. Conversation was halting at first, but eventually Lucille's tongue was loosened by drink. Sylvanas took the opportunity to suss out any additional helpful information about Jaina and Katherine. Most of it she already knew. Some of it however, she did not.

"I wanted to go to Jaina's burial in Boralus, but my mother forbade it," Lucille said. She had draped a blanket over her legs to ward off the cold, and her chair had been pushed nearer the fire. 

"Why would she do that?" Sylvanas asked.

Lucille sipped at the amber spirits in her glass. "In hindsight, I think it was because she had already well fallen under the influence of Gorak Tul. But it wasn't just that. There really was bad blood between the Houses back then."

"Unlike now, where you all get along swimmingly," Sylvanas drawled.

Lucille snorted a laugh into her cup. "I didn't think you would actually have a sense of humour, you know. It's kind of nice."

"I'm a woman of hidden depths." Sylvanas waved for Lucille to continue. "Now, you were saying about the Houses?"

"Yes. Well. Katherine was right back in the church, really. Terrible business, the First and Second Wars. There aren't many people in Kul Tiras to begin with. Then nearly a quarter of the entire population died fighting the orcs. We are still recovering as a society. I don't know if we ever will. Not really." Lucille cradled the glass of whiskey between her hands as though praying that it would warm her. "Derek Proudmoore, Jaina's eldest brother, was one of the people to fall. Daelin and Katherine were crushed. But he wasn't the only one. Lady Ashvane's Heir died. Her husband, too. And some of Lord Stormsong's family. Everyone was affected. Then Tandred goes off and helps those shipwrecked orcs? I know he was being kind -- he was a kind soul, if a bit of an ass at times -- but it was a scandal. Everyone wanted him to hang. My mother included. The Proudmoores nearly lost the Admiralty over it. There was talk of overthrowing them back then. My mother said theirs was a whole line of traitors. That they weren't to be trusted. And there were plenty of people who shared that sentiment. An example needed to be made."

Sylvanas hummed. "A sacrificial lamb led to the altar to appease the masses."

Tipping her glass towards Sylvanas as though in a toast, Lucille said, "Exactly that."

"Which doesn't exactly bode well for me."

"Oh, definitely not," Lucille said. Alcohol made her earnest and far too honest. "I think it would be a disaster, personally."

Sylvanas gave her a dangerous look. "How reassuring," she said in a silky warning tone.

Usually Lucille got the hint, but not when she was four glasses deep and reaching for the flask to pour herself a fifth. "The only thing that might salvage the relationship is the fact that you're not an orc. Kul Tirans tend to be a bit -- uhm -- how do I put it nicely -?"

"’Negatively predisposed towards those of orcish descent?’" Sylvanas supplied dryly.

“That works, yes.” 

“And what does this have to do with Jaina’s burial, exactly?”

“Well -” Lucille expertly balanced the glass on her knee while she screwed the top back onto the flask. For a moment Sylvanas thought the glass was going to crash to the floor, but Lucille was apparently as Kul Tiran as any, for she snatched up the glass without fail or fumble. “There wasn’t a body, obviously, but Katherine wanted a funeral anyway.”

“People often do.”

“Anyway, it was a big public event. The Lord Admiral couldn’t keep it secret that she no longer had an Heir. Before that, she’d told everyone that Jaina was living with us in seclusion at Waycrest Manor.”

“Ah,” said Sylvanas. She leaned back in her seat and crossed an ankle over her opposite knee. “Yes. I see where this is going.” 

Making an affirmative noise into her glass, Lucille finished her sip of whiskey and continued. “When my mother refused to let any member of House Waycrest attend, it was a public indictment in all but name. A show that the Lord Admiral’s power was slipping in Drustvar. And to top it all off, my dear mother was already neck-deep in her dabblings with Gorak Tul and the Coven, so of course she wanted the Lord Admiral out of her business, so she could take over Drustvar without any hassle. It was a damn mess.”

Sylvanas tilted her head to one side. “And what do you want for Drustvar?”

“Me?” Lucille blinked, as though surprised at being asked that question at all. 

“Yes, you. You are Lady Waycrest, are you not?” 

Turning her gaze to the fireplace, Lucille stared into the flickering hearth. “I want a Drustvar free from corruption and at peace with itself. I want to clear the smirch on my family’s name. And I want to follow a Lord Admiral who has a clear vision for Kul Tiras.”

“And you think Jaina will give you those things?”

“I do,” Lucille said with real conviction. 

“Even if it means aligning yourself with people like me?” Sylvanas gestured to herself. 

Lucille’s mouth opened, but before she could answer the front door swung open hard enough that it hit the wall and bounced back. Jaina stormed into the house, skull mask beneath one arm. Rain was caught in her cloak and her loose hair, droplets gleaming like stars. Her eyes were red-rimmed as though she had scrubbed recent tears from her cheeks. 

Katherine was conspicuously absent. 

“Right,” Jaina said, slamming the door shut behind her and stomping towards the fireplace to stand between their two chairs. “Well, that was awful.” 

Wordlessly, Lucille held out the glass of whiskey. To Sylvanas’ surprise, Jaina took it and slugged back its contents as easily as though it were water. 

“Welcome back,” Sylvanas said.

“Why did I listen to you?” Jaina asked, handing the glass back over to Lucille for refilling. 

“Think of it this way: you only have one surviving family member, so you’ll never have to do it again,” Sylvanas pointed out. 

“Thank the Tides,” Jaina grumbled.

Lucille handed the glass over to Jaina, filled with a good three fingers of whiskey. “Do we have a plan?”

“We have a plan.” Jaina took the glass. This time she did not immediately drain it in one gulp. Rather, she tipped it back and forth as though admiring the way the liquid slid against the interior of the glass. Then, she took a sip and said, “We march to Windmill Hill tomorrow morning to chase off the Ashvanes and wait out the winter. Or -” She craned her neck to peer out the nearest window, where the faintest sliver of dawn was creeping over the horizon. “Later today, actually. Ugh, but I need some sleep.”  

“And the Admiralty?” Sylvanas asked.

“You’re looking at the official Heir to the Admiralty and Scion of the Great Fleet. Cheers.” Jaina lifted the glass in the air, and tipped it back. What few drops remain, she cast into the fire, which spit and hissed furiously. 

Lucille and Sylvanas exchanged silent glances. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sylvanas said. 

“Yes,” Lucille agreed, though she sounded far less certain. “Congratulations, I suppose?”

In response, Jaina heaved a weary sigh. “Fuck me.”

[melancholicumsomnia]

The Redeemers (A Mandalorian Fanfic) Chapter 3

All warnings/pairings and other info to follow per chapter. For now, this is safe reading for everyone. If there are any spelling or grammar errors, I’ll be correcting them at a later date.

Sorry I wasn’t able to post this chapter last week. I was so busy with rush deadlines.

To @pedrocentric, I know I showed you a bit of this chapter earlier. Well, here’s the whole Chapter 3. Thank you so much for your friendship!

Previous Chapters can be found here:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE REDEEMERS

By

Rory

 Chapter Three: Refuge

The deafening noise of a descending spacecraft caused Rebel General Hera Syndulla to emerge from the thatched hut that was her temporary home on the moon of Endor. Already, Ewoks were running excitedly to the clearing, which served as a rudimentary landing field.

Hurrying after the furballs, a broad smile formed on Hera’s face at the sight of the freighter and the familiar figures emerging from its open hatch. At once, she raised both arms and cried, “Ahsoka! Bo-Katan! It’s so great to see you again!”

Grinning, the two women allowed themselves to be drawn into a warm, exuberant hug.

“I wish we could say that this is a pleasure call, Hera,” Bo said with a rueful smile, giving the Twi’lek’s back a congenial pat.

“Yeah, I heard the full story from Ahsoka,” Hera replied. “You’re in luck though. I have a…friend…who is supposed to be dropping by here on Endor.” She rolled her eyes. “…Unless that bucket of bolts he calls a ship decided to call it quits and take him along with it. He’s late…as usual. But he did promise that he’d come. He’s the only person I know who is good friends with another Jedi. I don’t even know this Jedi’s name, much more seen him. From what I’ve been hearing though, he seems to be a closely guarded secret among the higher echelons of the Rebel Alliance.”

“Well, we can wait,” Ahsoka reassured her friend. “In the meantime, we can help you out with your little problem here.”

“It’s more of a pest problem actually. I thought we had completely wiped out the Imperials who are stationed on this moon. Well, those remaining Imps turned into pirates and have taken to raiding villages and capturing Ewoks to be enslaved or, worse, slaughtered and made into Ewok Jerky.” Hera couldn’t help shuddering in disgust. “We were able to track down their hideout in the far side of Endor. I need your help to free the villagers that they are holding captive there, so they can be reunited with their children and elders that we are sheltering here.”

“We’d be very happy to help you in any way we can. It will be like the old days,” Ahsoka said, reminiscing inwardly about their battles years back against the Empire.

“In fact,” Bo-Katan interjected, “I don’t think we should waste any more time waiting for your backup. I say we attack them now and get those villagers out of there.”

“Thank you, my friends. So…” the Twi’lek general’s brows lifted in anticipation, “…Where is this patient you’ve been telling me about?”

Suddenly, they heard the awed chattering of the Ewoks gathered in front of the hatchway. The little creatures then dropped to their knees and started bowing fervently, making worshipful noises, as Koska and Axe, with Dr. Pershing standing at the side of a floating gurney, descended from the freighter. Koska was carrying a bag in her right hand. Judging from the telltale silver gleam from the bag’s opening, the contents were clearly beskar armor. Seeing the patient’s helmet, she readily confirmed him to be a Mandalorian, same as Bo-Katan Kryze.

However, the reason why the Ewoks were giving the patient their profuse obeisance was because the Mandalorian was levitating a foot above the gurney’s mattress.

“Uh…whaaat…” Hera stammered, pointing to the Mandalorian as the gurney moved past her.

“We don’t know,” Ahsoka admitted with a shrug. “I’ve began calling it a form of Force sickness.”

“O…kaaaay…”

Bo took Hera’s arm. “We can discuss the matter later. I’m assuming that the Mandalorian will be safe here?”

Hera could only nod, still flabbergasted at the sight she beheld.

“Good. Once Koska and Axe have Din Djarin and Dr. Pershing settled in, they’ll come join us. Let’s go and free those Ewoks for now, and we can talk about it on the way to the Imp hideout.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Din Djarin felt like he was floating in a warm sea, calming at times but, more often than not, turbulent, the waves battering his body with scorching heat and pain. But the pain could not compare to the raw, empty hole in his chest.

Why? He would ask again and again. I know I’m not perfect, but haven’t I tried to be a good father to you?

The answer to those heartbroken questions never came. Just those merciless voices telling him “You can find him”, “We have given you the power, so use it”, “All you have to do is reach out.” The voices of two men – one older, commanding, the other younger, seducing – and a woman, kind and understanding.

He didn’t know how long he had been floating in that sea, just listening to those voices and trying to fill that gaping hole in his chest with memories of the past. Of him. The voices kept pestering him to stop dwelling on past and concentrate on the now, because he was needed. That the universe was in disorder. That he needed to restore balance again.

But he couldn’t care less about the universe. All he wanted was an answer to that simple question: Why?

And then he felt her die. It hadn’t been a quick death, that much he was sure of. He had felt the excruciating pain of merciless torture. A torture demanding an answer to the question Where?

Where what? What are you searching for?...STOP!

He had lashed out then. Sending out…something…to try to stop her agony because he knew he couldn’t save her. Couldn’t spare her from more pain. At that last moment before he had extinguished her life, she sent back one final thought to him.

Thank you. And then nothing.

Yet, he felt no comfort in those words. He had killed a comrade, a sister-in-arms, a friend.

Tap!

That sharp, metallic tap pierced through the fog of his misery. Stop it! Leave me in peace!

??? Then a softer, apprehensive, tap.

With trembling hand, he reached out, but instead of soft, fuzzy skin like a peach, what his fingers encountered was fluffy fur. As Din’s vision cleared, he gaped, surprised, at a tiny Ewok that was gazing back at him.

Groaning, Din tried to ease himself up on one elbow. The Ewok let out a squeal as it ran to a dark corner. He raised his hand again, about to tell the little creature not to be afraid of him. But then, something slipped down to his lap. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of the Darksaber lying before him. With a cry of loathing and distrust, Din flicked the sword away, letting it fall with a clatter on the floor.

At that sudden noise, a man appeared at the open doorway. Judging from the trees outside and the crudeness of his current dwellings, Din realized that he was in an Ewok village, most likely Endor if his memories served him correctly. Dressed in an Imperial uniform, Din recognized the man, but he couldn’t remember his name.

“At last, you’re finally awake!” the man said happily and with obvious relief. “Don’t worry, sir. You’re safe. I swear we are not in an Imperial base. I’m no longer with the Empire. We’re on Endor. Ooh, they will be so happy to see you when they get back.”

“Who are…”

“Oh, I’m sorry. In my excitement, I just kept blabbering away. I’m Dr. Pershing. We first met on Nevarro. You know…those lamentable circumstances with the Client…and the Child.”

“The Child is gone. The Empire will never find him.” Din fell silent at that last. He knew that Grogu was lost to him as well.

Noting the sad tone in his words, Dr. Pershing could only nod. “I know, sir. But we can at least find some comfort in that, that he is safe. He is safe, right, sir?”

Unconsciously, Din found himself reaching out with his senses. And there it was – a wink of light, before it flickered out.

Yes, Dr. Pershing was right. He is safe. Even with the bond between them gone, there was a small measure of relief in knowing that Grogu was out there somewhere.

His attention was drawn back to the Imperial scientist when the man squinted at the figure in the corner and demanded, “Chicklet, is that you? What are you doing here, little lady? Didn’t I tell you that you should let him sleep? You shouldn’t believe what the others are telling you. He’s a Mandalorian, not a god!”

The Ewok emerged shyly from the shadows. She was an adorable little thing, furry like others of her kind. But her fur was pale with dark brown patches. There were dark brown patches over her eyes, so that it looked as though she was wearing a mask.

“It’s alright,” Din reassured the scientist. “She can stay.”

Before Dr. Pershing can stop her, the Ewok clambered over the bed and curled up on Din’s lap.

“Rogue Stormtroopers attacked her village,” Dr. Pershing explained, as he ruffled the fur on the Ewok’s head. “She and her fellow survivors managed to make their way here. Ahsoka Tano, Lady Bo-Katan Kryze and her Nite Owls, and General Syndulla are heading to their hideout right now as we speak. They plan to rescue the villagers before they are shipped off-moon. They told me to stay here with you, and to await a comrade of the general’s who is arriving anytime soon.”

Din shook his head guiltily. “I should be with them. They’re the ones who saved me, right? I’ve been such a huge bother to them. I should be there to help.”

“They are worried about you, sir, but your health and safety are more important to them.”

“I don’t deserve their concern,” Din said bitterly. “I…It was I who killed Cara Dune.”

Dr. Pershing’s eyebrows raised at that confession. With a small shake, he stated, “Now is not the time to talk about that, sir. But knowing the ways of the Empire after all these years, what you did…it was necessary. You wouldn’t have wanted her to suffer.”

“It doesn’t make the pain any less though. She was my friend.”

“And a brave, loyal friend she was. You did her a great service by giving her an end that she deserved…whatever it was that you actually did do.”

Dr. Pershing sighed and leaned over, draping the blanket over the Mandalorian and the Ewok. “Please get some rest, sir. You need to heal.”

“Let me just sit up for a while, Dr. Pershing. My body feels so weak and my back is stiff from lying down for too long.” He then quickly added, “And please call me, Din. My name is Din Djarin.”

“Thank you for your trust, si-…I mean…Din.” As he straightened up, Dr. Pershing saw the Darksaber on the floor. Picking it up, he was about to give it to the Mandalorian when Din recoiled from the sword, weakly scrambling to the other side of the bed so that his back hit a thatched wall. He had wrapped his arms protectively around the Ewok, so that the little furball let out a soft ‘woof’.

“Keep it away from me!” Din hissed. “I don’t want it!”

“I know why you don’t like this sword. Bo-Katan explained to me what the Darksaber means to the Mandalorian people. But you must keep the Darksaber with you for the time being. I still don’t understand what’s happening with it because I don’t have the equipment to do the tests, but this sword, in particular, the kyber crystal inside it, has bonded with you…” Din moaned at that. “…And it is healing you.”

“I don’t understand,” Din exclaimed, forlorn. “I’m so confused!”

“Things will be clearer when Ahsoka and Bo-Katan return. In the meantime, please do take it so you can heal faster.”

Din was about to object, but the Ewok grabbed the sword and pressed her tiny form close to the Mandalorian, keeping the Darksaber wedged between their bodies.

Smiling, Dr. Pershing said, “Looks like the kid has more sense than you. Well, I’d best leave you two alone then. If you need anything, just let Chicklet come and fetch me.” He was about to go when he paused at the doorway. “You’ll rest more comfortably if you remove your helmet. You’re among friends, Din. It’s safe here.”

Even with the doctor gone, Din continued to stare at the open doorway and the trees beyond it. His attention was drawn back to the present by another soft tap on his helmet. Gazing down, he saw the Ewok looking up at him, still with that curious expression on her face. With a cautious fingertip, she stroked the helmet’s smooth, gleaming surface.

Din felt a sudden pang of loneliness. Grogu had done the same thing that last time they were together. Sighing, he slowly lifted his helmet, laying it on the bed beside him. The Ewok’s face brightened, beholding him at last. She was making sweet, high-pitched noises, like Grogu had done.

“Chicklet…” Din mused, unable to contain his amused grin. “That’s a funny name for an Ewok.”

At these words, Chicklet pressed both hands over Din’s cheeks with a loud clap. Before Din knew what was happening, the mischievous Ewok gave him a noisy smack on the lips. Ignoring the Mandalorian’s surprised sputters, Chicklet curled up in a tight ball, squeezing her form and the Darksaber into Din’s belly.

Din exhaled in defeat. Those times with Grogu reminded him that he would always surrender to the whims of a youngling. Gently, he lay back down on the bed, cradling the Ewok in his arms, and settled back to sleep.

TO BE CONTINUED

[imaginaryelle]

New chapter of the soulmates role reversal AU is up!

Or read it below the cut (~5k). Thanks, as always, to my wonderful betas, @morphia-writes and @miyuki4s!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 |

*

Lan Wangji’s sleep is fitful, even moreso than the snatches of rest he’d achieved those first few nights in this new body. Twice he wakes fully, disoriented: once with the certain conviction he is once again trapped in that blood-soaked prison, and once, even more unsettling, with the image of his brother holding the discipline whip stamped into his mind.

His room is clean and the door unlocked. He can leave at any time.

His brother has never held the discipline whip in his life. He certainly had not carried out Lan Wangji’s punishment. There are no wounds on his back. 

He times his breaths, counting slowly, and sleeps again.

The slow seep of dawn brings no answers. The wounds on his hand are less livid, and his spiritual power flows, sluggish, through his meridians, but his morning meditations offer no new solutions to questions of his core or the curse. It is difficult to complete a full qi cycle, to stabilize the flow; somewhere in his body there is something that slows the process to a trickle. He moves to the training yard and attempts to put his questions from his mind entirely, but they linger in every movement, haunting his footsteps: What would drive a Lan disciple to such lengths? What are Jin Guangyao’s crimes, if they exist, and what does Lan Xichen know of them? Who is responsible for the confinement of beings both living and dead, and the compound’s subsequent destruction?

Frustration creeps over him, causing his movements to falter, his strikes too forceful and his steps too eager, overbalanced. He had thought his path would be clear at Wei Ying’s side. New and precarious, perhaps, but not like this. Even a single log bridge is not always beset by fog and darkness, secrets concealed on every side. At some point, the haze should burn away.

Wen Qing finds him just as he’s beginning to search out the archery range and whatever peace a bow might bring him. She sweeps him back to her study for a light breakfast and another exam. She holds his wrist as he practices breathing exercises and qi circulation, and then checks his meridians’ reactions to acupuncture once more.

“The placement of the curse mark is part of your problem,” she says as she draws the last of the needles out again. “It crosses all three of the principal meridians in your arm. The initial damage over your middle dantian will be easier to address if we can limit the curse’s influence.”

She fetches a new handful of talismans from her desk.

“Wei Wuxian delivered these last night. A temporary solution while we work on something more permanent.”

“Where is he now?” Lan Wangji asks, trying to distract himself from the unsettling drain of power as the old talisman is removed. 

“At the Mass Graves, with A-Ning.” She examines the wound for a moment and reaches for a pot of ointment. “The spring floods damaged some of the walls and wards there.” She smooths the new talisman into place and secures it with a small seal. “I’ll get Sizhui to escort you.”

“No need,” Lan Wangji assures her. 

Wen Qing pins him with a stern look. 

“Is that, ‘no need, I will wait until he returns’ or ‘no need, I found him in a tiny village he wasn’t even supposed to be visiting and I can find him again’?”

Lan Wangji meets her gaze, but doesn’t answer. Wen Qing sighs.

“If you try to go alone, you won’t be able to get back through the gate without him. And while I don’t doubt your skills, your current level of spiritual power may not be enough to overcome the misdirection wards.”

“Misdirection wards,” he repeats.

Thinking of himself as subject to such things—usually intended to stop common villagers and traveling merchants from interrupting major workings or places where a night hunt is planned—causes unpleasant twists in his center. They are also a clumsy measure he would not have expected of Wei Ying.

“There are people who think—well, so many of us lived there for so long, and Wei Wuxian has made no secret of the source of his cultivation path. We still drag people out of there a few times a year, despite every precaution and wall Wei-zongzhu constructs. It is a well of resentment.” Her hands wave, dismissive, even as her lips tighten with displeasure. “It doesn’t wish to be tamed or confined.”

“But he is trying.” Lan Wangji knows he must be. Wei Ying had said he still used the Demon Summoning Cave as a workshop. Such a space could not exist without some attempt at controlling the restless dead that inhabit the earth there.

“Stubborn.” Wen Qing looks away, gathering her tools onto a tray. “You have that in common, at least. I’ll call for Sizhui.”

*

The Mass Graves feel different from his last visit. The seeping resentment is still there of course—even Wei Ying, for all his genius, could not change that—but it is distant. Muted. Perhaps even weakened. As he follows Wen Sizhui’s sure-footed steps through the scrubby underbrush, Lan Wangji can feel that the mist curling around his ankles is only mist, the earth under his boots no longer dry and dead as freshly fallen ash. There is life here now, if of a stubborn, begrudging sort. Free of corruption. That much alone is more than generations of cultivators managed to achieve. 

It’s good Wen Qing provided him an escort. The misdirection wards outside the graves are not strong enough to influence him, but he can feel their tug at his thoughts more than he would have expected, and while he would have been able to find Wei Ying through the soul bond, Wen Sizhui brings him to the damaged area by a circuitous path he would not have discovered alone. They see Wen Qionglin first, hauling a stripped-down tree twice his height into place along the base of a freshly repaired mud-and-bamboo wall. There are other fierce corpses too—normal ones, with no consciousness in their eyes or ease in their movements. They appear to be collecting the mud and packing it into place, sealing gaps. Wei Ying supervises with Chenqing in-hand, but he has clearly done some physical work as well: His sleeves and skirts are tied and tucked out of the way, and his arms are patchy with dried mud to the elbow. 

“Ah, A-Yuan!” Wei Ying waves, his smile cheerful and his voice nearly a shout. “You didn’t have to trek all the way out here, we’re almost done.”

Wen Sizhui waves back, but doesn’t speak until they are close enough to converse at a more normal volume. 

“Qing-gugu asked me to show Liang-gongzi the way,” he says. “He was looking for you after breakfast.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Wei Ying’s expression shifts as he seems to mark Lan Wangji’s presence for the first time. He looks away quickly, refocusing on Wen Qionglin. “What do you think? Good enough to reactivate the ward?”

Wen Qionglin studies the wall. He nods, decisive. Wei Ying grins and raises Chenqing to his lips. 

The song is not one Lan Wangji has heard before. It starts slow and a soft, gradually building and increasing tempo. Wen Qionglin steps back from the wall. The other fierce corpses, the normal ones, retreat further up the hill, inside the border. There is a surge of resentful energy, like a rush of wind, and a flash of light like sword glare, and then Chenqing falls quiet, and Wei Ying jumps down from the wall looking smugly proud. He meets Lan Wangji’s gaze.

“Care to look around inside?” he asks. “I want to show you something.”

Lan Wangji nods, despite his reservations. If nothing else, time away from the sect grounds will give them better opportunity to discuss matters openly. 

“Qing-jie expects you to return promptly.” Wen Qionglin is frowning. At both of them. 

“So we’ll be quick,” Wei Ying says, waving dismissively as he jerks his layers of yi back into place and re-winds the bindings on his sleeves. “Just tell her I’m with Liang-gongzi, it’ll be fine.”

Wen Qionglin does not look particularly reassured, but he offers no further protest. 

Lan Wangji turns to Wen Sizhui.

“Thank you for the escort.” It seems almost foolish to have troubled him now, if Wei Ying would have returned so quickly. 

Wen Sizhui bows acknowledgment. “I wish you luck with your investigation,” he says. “I know I speak for my sect siblings as well; if you need further assistance, we will be happy to help however we can.”

“Ah ah ah,” Wei Ying reaches out and squeezes Wen Sizhui’s shoulder. “I know it’s a very intriguing situation, but don’t let your aunt hear you promising yourself so freely. And to someone you just met! Haven’t we taught you more caution that that?”

Wen Sizhui looks more amused than cowed. 

“You trust him,” he points out. 

“Not the point,” Wei Ying insists. “Wen Ning!”

“Wei-zongzhu is right,” Wen Qionglin agrees readily. “Following his example is not always correct.”

“Wen Ning!” The look of exaggerated betrayal on Wei Ying’s face is likely entirely for Wen Sizhui’s benefit, but Lan Wangji catches himself smiling, even as Wen Sizhui laughs. Wen Qionglin is unrepentant. When Lan Wangji looks back, Wei Ying has dropped the expression, and is only smiling. 

At him. 

“Sizhui will be late for morning sword forms,” Wen Qionglin says as the boy’s laughter fades. “I will escort him back.”

“Mn,” Wei Ying agrees, as if his thoughts are far away. “Train hard,” he adds, waving them back along the path Lan Wangji had arrived on. Then he turns, gesturing in the other direction, to the well-worn path that runs alongside the wall.

“Shall we?”

They walk in silence for a few moments, but it is too reminiscent of another walk together, another time when they lingered in these shadows.

“Is he the same Wen Yuan?” Lan Wangji asks, eventually. He has assumed this is the case, but clarification is reassuring, lest he say the wrong thing, as he so often seems to with Wei Ying.

“The same toddler you met in Yiling?” Wei Ying nods. “Yes, that’s him. I suppose that’s pretty strange, isn’t it. He’s nearly seventeen now.”

“He has grown well,” Lan Wangji observes, and Wei Ying smiles again, a little proud, and perhaps rueful.

“I don’t think I can take any credit for that,” he says. “Wen Qing’s the one who made sure he learned those manners.” He laughs softly, at some joke Lan Wangji is not privy to. “I almost called you Lan Zhan back there,” he says, changing the subject entirely. “It shouldn’t be so hard to remember another name, but...” He rubs at his chest with one hand, leaving flakes of dried mud on his outer robe. 

“You had no trouble at dinner,” Lan Wangji points out, but Wei Ying rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t surprised to see you, then.” He shakes his head. “And it was still—hard to remember. Maybe I should practice more. I wouldn’t want to get it wrong in front of everyone else.” He sighs. “Liang Feihong,” he says, nodding to himself. “Liang Feihong.” He frowns. “Do you know his personal name?”

Lan Wangji searches his memory. He was not close to any of the outer disciples, and Liang Feihong had not stood out to him. “No,” he admits.

Wei Ying nods again. “Could be tricky,” he says, as if they have reached some form of agreement. Lan Wangji is not certain what question they were considering. 

Wei Ying slows his pace, then stops. 

“You might want to brace yourself,” he says, as he turns to the wall. “Some people find this part a little… difficult.”

Wei Ying whistles, and talismans flicker across the stretch of wall before them. A doorway appears, mud and bamboo and wooden slats shimmering and fading to reveal an open gap. Something of a reverse of the gate at Cloud Recesses.

“Come on,” Wei Ying urges, and grabs Lan Wangji by the sleeve.

There is more than one ward wound around the Burial Mounds. That in itself is unsurprising, but the feel of them, as Wei Ying pulls him through the doorway and then deeper, is unusual. The first feels like pushing through a silk curtain, the second like standing too-near an open fire.

Wei Ying grips his arm more firmly. 

“Hold on to me,” he says, “and don’t let go.”

Lan Wangji turns his hand to grab Wei Ying’s closely-wrapped sleeve in return. The next step feels like plummeting through the sky without a sword under his feet. Daylight snuffs to the dark of a moonless night. There are screams that reach past his ears to screech at his core, and unseen hands tug at his clothes. Another step, unsteady and wavering. Another, as resentment howls at his heels. And then there is another ward, a rush of summer wind off a lotus lake, and the clawing spirits go silent like a blown-out candle. 

His robes are intact. The only lingering sign of the experience is the clammy sweat on his palms and the back of his neck. 

“Sorry.” Wei Ying’s hand falls away.

“Was that a well?” Lan Wangji asks. “Like your—blood pool?”

“Only for emergencies,” Wei Ying confirms. “And I haven’t found one dire enough to use it since I made it, so really it’s just another kind of wall.” 

He looks as if he might say more, then shakes his head. “Not much further,” he says, and they set off again. 

This part of the Mass Graves is more familiar. The gate Lan Wangji remembers stands open, the lanterns and talismans long-since removed. The remaining structures beyond it are barely a shell of the haphazard buildings and farming plots he saw so many years ago. From the outside, the Demon Summoning Cave is unchanged. The ward, as they step over the threshold, gives him the same cool tingling sensation it did on his first visit.

Inside, Wei Ying’s ‘workshop’ looks much different. For one, it is actually a workshop now, rather than serving dual purpose as both workshop and living quarters. There are at least two tables that Lan Wangji can pick out for certain, one stacked high with manuscripts and the other covered in small chips of stone and curls of metal.The blood pool is now only water, and no longer stinks of rot. A transportation array is sunk deep into the rock before it. Opposite that is a clean-swept area that looks intended for array design, with chalk and ink arranged beside it. Beyond it, a completed array, activated and glowing dimly orange. In its center, a familiar severed arm is bound into place, the fingers twisted to point northeast. 

“I had to reinforce that three times,” Wei Ying says. “Whatever spirit haunts that arm, it’s a strong one. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He gestures further into the cave, beyond a screen. A stone desk with talismans in various states of completion sits on one side of the makeshift room, and on the other … a guqin, laid carefully in the center of a purification ward strong enough to scald the unwary.

“You can have it, if you want,” Wei Ying says, his voice turned flippant and casual. “No one here can play it properly, anyway.”

Lan Wangji watches him. 

“I tried,” he admits after a moment. His hand tightens around Chenqing at his belt. “I think my attempts would offend you to hear. Better for you to keep it. Give it a real voice.”

Lan Wangji considers. 

“The ward?” he asks.

“Oh, just.” Wei Ying bends to deactivate it, then steps back. “Just keeping it uninfluenced,” he says. 

Given the other projects he is likely to have worked on in this space, the precaution is warranted. Still, it is obvious no one has touched the guqin for some time. While no dust has gathered, the strings have lost their tension. When he touches it, there is no answering swell of spirit to meet his fingers.

“This is not a spiritual weapon.” Not that it could truly replace Wangji, even if it were. But his old guqin is likely locked away in Cloud Recesses, and might not recognize this different, damaged core even if he held it in his hands.

Wei Ying shrugs. “No, but a regular instrument is still useful. Good for cultivation, right? And I thought maybe we could—play together. If you want to.” He offers up a tight smile. “Rest, maybe. For the arm? Even with a small amount of spiritual power, another instrument might help.”

Music is, indeed, good for cultivation. He has been missing it, these few harried days, and it would be—satisfying, to play with Wei Ying. They have not done so since the war ended, and even before, opportunities were scarce. 

“It needs new strings,” he observes. The slack silk is barely holding together and will not survive a tuning intact, despite the traces of preservation talismans that wind through it. The strings must have been here, unused, for quite some time. 

“Ah,” Wei Ying grimaces, shuffling his feet. “Of course. I’ll find some for you tonight.” He looks disappointed. Perhaps guilty. But it’s unlikely he was expecting to go from building a wall to presenting this gift. It was Lan Wangji who surprised him. 

“Thank you,” Lan Wangji says. The words carry more emotion than he intended, and he drags his eyes away from Wei Ying’s cautious smile, down to his new hands pressed against dark, polished wood. 

“I hoped you’d like it.” Wei Ying’s voice is unexpectedly soft. The cave suddenly feels as hushed and still as the library at Cloud Recesses. “Even when I first found it I hoped—”

A bell rings, one of a hanging line of them behind the talisman-covered desk, and he cuts himself off. It rings again, the long purple tassel below it swinging gently in the still air. Wei Ying sighs.

“That’ll be Jiang Cheng,” he says. “We should get back, before he stomps up here looking for me.”

“He’s visiting?” Lan Wangji studies Wei Ying, but his body language has hardly changed. He’s shifted focus, but doesn’t seem overly worried. “Did Jin Rulan not arrive safely?”

“He did, he’s fine,” Wei Ying reassures him. “I got the butterfly last night, he’s good. This is something else, probably.” He bites his lip. “What do you think, should we walk? Or use the transportation array?”

Lan Wangji eyes him, even as he carefully picks up the guqin. 

“Where is Suibian?” he asks. 

Wei Ying shakes his head, clearly annoyed, brushing the question aside with a waving hand. “The array is faster.” He quickly strides back across the cave and draws a needle from his sash once more, pricking his finger and activating the iron-lined array. Lan Wangji takes his place in silence. Wei Ying only looks at him long enough to confirm he’s in the correct position before he raises Chenqing to his lips and begins the transition.

It feels different this time. There is a snag around Lan Wangji’s center, a blast of humid warmth, then aching darkness, then burning heat and icy cold. The wards, in reverse. Yiling-Wei’s gate slams into existence with the rigidity of a mountain, and Lan Wangji finds himself swaying slightly on his feet in the main courtyard. Across from him, Wei Ying is wavering and pale, his skin damp with sweat. 

Lan Wangji reaches for him.

“Wei Wuxian!”

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying turns away, towards his brother, pasting a smile on his face. “Don’t you have an archery tournament to plan?” Behind his back, he clenches both hands around Chenqing, white-knuckled. 

Lan Wangji draws even with Wei Ying’s shoulder; if he cannot support Wei Ying physically he can at least present a united front. Jiang Wanyin is storming towards them from the other side of the courtyard, Liu Weixin trailing in his wake. Both are focused entirely on Wei Ying. 

“Jin Ling traveled with you for a night hunt, not as a tool in you starting another war,” Jiang Wanyin all but shouts, and Lan Wangji stiffens. Wei Ying, in contrast ... slouches. The tension in his shoulders melts away.

“And we went night hunting,” he insists, now almost playful in his manner. He nudges Lan Wangji’s shoulder as he shrugs. “Is it my fault other people were also night hunting in that village?” 

Jiang Wanyin stomps right up to them, well inside sword range. “Do you think I’m deaf?” he demands. “You think I haven’t heard about your argument with Zewu-jun? Do you have to antagonize the Lan Clan every time you see them?” 

Wei Ying looks away. “Who’s antagonizing?” He scowls. “I’m not antagonizing, I’m just here, existing.” 

Jiang Wanyin glares and Wei Ying doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes. Somehow, Lan Wangji is certain this is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. 

Jiang Wanyin turns to Liu Weixin, expectant.

“We did meet with Zewu-jun,” the young disciple says, his hand tightening around his scabbard, “He didn’t talk to Wei-zongzhu much, really. He was more interested in Liang-gongzi, offering him help, but Liang-gongzi said he wanted to stay with us instead.” 

“That is true,” Lan Wangji says, when Jiang Wanyin looks unconvinced. “Lan-zongzhu only wished to ensure the night hunt would be completed, and the arm reunited with its owner.”

Jiang Wanyin looks him up and down and is clearly unimpressed. Lan Wangji is aware that he must look shabby and unimportant, in borrowed, mended clothes and clutching an unstrung guqin with no sword at his side. Still, something in him bristles, and he returns Jiang Wanyin’s gaze with a cool, unwavering stare.

“This is—Liang Feihong, formerly of the Lan Sect,” Wei Ying says. “He helped with the hunt, and sought our expertise afterward.”

Jiang Wanyin’s eyes narrow.

“You’re the reason my nephew’s going on about someone dying of lingchi, aren’t you.”

“That’s a completely different thing.” Wei Ying steps just slightly in front of Lan Wangji, drawing his brother’s attention again. “Weixin, take Liang-gongzi to the music hall, will you? He needs new guqin strings. And when you’re done, tell the kitchen I’m meeting with Jiang-zongzhu in my rooms.” He pokes his brother in the ribs, already drawing him away. “We have those honey cakes you like, I’m sure they’ll send some.”

Jiang Wanyin moves at his side, not mollified but—it’s clear that this is a pattern they know well. “If you’re making promises to Zewu-jun you better be keeping them,” he scolds, and Wei Ying laughs.

“I will, I will,” he insists. “Jiang Cheng, really! You worry too much.”

Wei Ying seems at ease, largely recovered from whatever stress the transportation array had put on him. He looks entirely unworried by his brother’s presence.

It is not Lan Wangji’s place to protect Wei Ying from Jiang Wanyin, but he wants to. The impulse is no lesser now than it was thirteen years ago, watching the young Jiang Sect leader stand against Wei Ying at Nightless City. His feet stay firmly planted, despite the urge to follow as the pair turn a corner, to make sure Jiang Wanyin never draws his sword on Wei Ying again. 

“Liang-gongzi?” Liu Weixin is fidgeting at his side. “I’ll show you to the music hall?” he asks, tentative. 

Lan Wangji casts one more look at where Wei Ying disappeared, and nods.

*

Jiang Wanyin’s visit extends through the late afternoon, and even after he leaves, looking at least slightly less angry than when he arrived, Wei Ying retreats back to his rooms and doesn’t re-emerge even for the evening meal. 

Lan Wangji spends most of his day on the guqin: choosing new strings, cleaning it, tuning it. There is another meeting with Wen Qing--who is always Wen-yishi to her apprentices and patients, he confirms, and seems to bear no other Sect title--and who frowns over him and sends him away with instructions to procure a practice blade from her brother, in the hope that Liang Feihong’s body and core might react better to something so familiar.

The results are mixed. Wen Qionglin presents him with a practice blade that is well-made, strong and balanced, but working through sword forms does not help Lan Wangji’s spiritual power flow any more smoothly than the unarmed forms. Still, it is reassuring to hold a blade again, even if it bears no spirit. He practices until his limbs tremble, trying to reach that state of untroubled existence that used to come so easily. If he gains nothing else, perhaps his mind will produce more useful thoughts when his body is sufficiently tired. 

And perhaps if he is tired enough, he won’t dream.

In the evening he sits in his room with the windows unshuttered and the door half open and plays warm-up songs, and Clarity, without spiritual power, until his fingers no longer stumble over the notes. He has just finished a final, perfect repetition when Wei Ying knocks at his door, a teapot and cups in one hand and a jar of wine in the other.

He looks--softer, in the moonlight. More relaxed, with his sleeves unbound and his hair hanging loose and damp around his shoulders.

“Wen Qing said you’re to drink this.” He holds up the teapot, his sleeve sliding down to reveal the bare skin of his wrist. Lan Wangji swallows back a too-familiar want, and nods, and lets him in. 

“How’s that talisman working?” Wei Ying asks as they settle at the table, the guqin set carefully aside. He sets down the wine to pour tea for Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji, in turn, pours the wine into the second cup. Wei Ying looks surprised, and then pleased. Lan Wangji looks away from his smile.

“Wen Qing replaced it after dinner,” he says as he hands over the cup. The wine smells faintly of lotus. 

“Any improvement?” Wei Ying asks. He offers the tea, and Lan Wangji takes the cup carefully. The soulbond is no secret, now, but he will not drive Wei Ying away with uninvited touch.

“Some.” The tea is acidic and bitter, most likely another spirit-boosting blend. Lan Wangji resolves to finish the cup quickly. “My reserves are not quite so low, when Wen-yishi removes it, and it stands up to sword drills.”

“That’s good.” 

For a moment there is a sort of companionable silence. Wei Ying sips from his wine and again fills Lan Wangji’s cup with tea as soon as it’s empty. 

“Three cups,” he says. He pulls a small silk bag from his sleeve and sets it on the table. “Another three in the morning.”

Lan Wangji drinks the second cup without comment. Wei Ying’s face scrunches into what is probably unnecessary sympathy.

“I had some this afternoon,” he says. “Wen Qing worries too much.” 

“The transportation array is costly,” Lan Wangji observes. 

Wei Ying downs the rest of his drink in a single swallow.

“It works better with more cultivators,” he admits as Lan Wangji refills his cup. “I don’t often use it like that, but it’s not nearly so bad as Wen Qing thinks it is. I was fine as soon as I ate something.”

Lan Wangji keeps his thoughts on Wen Qing’s expertise to himself. 

“Have I caused more trouble for you?” he asks instead of commenting on Wei Ying’s white-knuckled hands and unsteadiness as they’d arrived. “With Jiang-zongzhu,” he clarifies when Wei Ying looks confused.

“No, no.” Wei Ying shakes his head. “He mostly wanted to talk about sect stuff. Family stuff.” He sighs. “He’s right though, Zewu-jun will be much less forgiving if I’ve made no progress piecing together our angry friend when we next meet.”

Lan Wangji finishes his second cup and watches Wei Ying’s hands on the teapot. Remembers his brother’s stony expression, his coldness. “You care so much for his good opinion?” he asks, meeting Wei Ying’s gaze.

For a breath Wei Ying stares back at him, his eyes dark, the line of his lips soft in the lantern light. He picks up his wine again, looking away.

“Lan Zhan.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth in disapproval. “Do you know how many cultivation conferences I’ve had to sit through, these thirteen years? There are some people who will never be happy with me, but your brother is fair.” He draws straight lines in the air between them with his free hand, smooth and decisive as sword strokes. “So long as he knows I will keep my word, he will hear me out.” He sighs, letting his hand fall. “All the Great Sects will attend Yunmeng-Jiang’s archery competition. That’s just a few weeks away.” He takes another drink, a long swallow that empties the cup again. “The arm points northeast,” he muses. “Too inaccurate to teleport. I suppose I’ll need to start preparing for the journey tomorrow.”

“I will go with you.” It’s the obvious choice. Lan Wangji won’t find new clues to the mystery of Jin Guangyao by staying in place, and without Wei Ying, Yiling-Wei holds little attraction.

Wei Ying blinks at him. He frowns.

“You’re still healing. Wen Qing can still help you.”

No. No matter how true the statement, he will not be left behind now.

“The talismans are yours,” Lan Wangji says. He keeps his voice firm. “Meditation can be done anywhere. And one of the ghouls died to the northeast. In Yingchuan.”  He’s not sure what he’ll do if Wei Ying refuses him. Set out on his own perhaps. Follow, at whatever distance he can force himself to maintain. 

Wei Ying hums softly. 

“You’re certain you want to?” he asks. 

Lan Wangji nods. He has no doubts about where he wants to be. The moment stretches, breathless.

Wei Ying grins. “One path with two goals?” He leans one elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand. Damp dark hair spills gently over his shoulder. “Lan Zhan,” he says, lingering a little on the name, “you know I could never refuse a plan like that.”

Tension unknots in Lan Wangji’s chest, and he finishes the tea feeling lighter than he has since he first woke up in this body, tired and hurting and unexpectedly alive. 

“Good,” he says, staring back at Wei Ying even as his mind takes flight toward futures still dim as mountains in mist. “I look forward to it.”

(On to part 10)

[fantasyoverreality98]

Fight the Darkness

Masterlist

Pairing: Gaius x MC

Author’s Note: Yes, I have written another fanfic about Gaius x MC. I can actually see potential for this one to have more than one part though so maybe I’ll write a continuation in the future, we’ll have to see. There is some sexually suggestive content in this one so just keep that in mind when reading. Anyway, I think I should take a break from obsessively writing fanfic and do something else for a bit. As always, sorry for any potential grammatical or spelling mistakes.

Word Count: 3,333

---------------

Gaius Augustine was a murderer. He was her murderer. And she had never wanted anyone more in her life.

“Amy, where did you go? Call us back, please. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She ignored the message from Adrian, deleting it immediately after listening.

The town was small, the chances of him being here were extremely slim, and yet she just knew. Somewhere, probably in some desolate manor, the object of her obsession was lingering.

She felt him more than heard him. Smirking, Amy continued to walk down the empty path, into the trees. The sword on her back served as a comfort. No matter what strange creatures may lurk inside the forest, she could fight them off. Years of training had prepared her for whatever might come.

A branch snapped off to her right, and Amy whirled around, drawing her weapon. She laughed to herself when a rabbit ran out from the shadows. Momentarily relieved, her guard dropped.

That was when he decided to strike.

“Took you long enough.” She spoke with a breathy voice, staring up at the hooded figure. “I was beginning to think I might have to resort to more extreme measures to draw you out.”

“How did you find me?” Gaius kept her wrists pinned against the tree beside her head, his face inches from hers. The hood kept most of his features shrouded in shadows, but he looked just as he had twenty-five years earlier.

Amy leaned into him, her chest brushing against his as she breathed heavily. “It’s a secret.”

He stared into her eyes a moment longer before letting go, taking a step back. “Do your friends know you’re here?”

She rolled her eyes, pushing off the tree. “No. I left without saying anything.”

Gaius looked as if he couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He pulled his hood back, looking exactly as he had a quarter of a century earlier. “What are you doing here?”

“Always with the questions.” Amy took a step toward him, trying not to grin when she saw that he looked flustered. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here for you.”

“Amy—”

She held up a hand, and he stopped speaking. “Why is it that I haven’t heard from you at all since you left? You’re a hard man to find, Gaius Augustine.”

He studied her with interest, desire shining in his eyes. So, she wasn’t the only one who had never forgotten those moments on the boat. “I didn’t want to be found. I’ve been moving around over the decades.”

“Well, I found you. It took me a while, but I did it. Good luck getting rid of me now.” She broke out in a grin, and, to her surprise, he laughed.

“Now, why would I want to be rid of you?” Gaius looked as though he was about to reach out for her, but he hesitated, letting his arms drop back to his sides. “We should get out of here. Something evil lurks in these woods.”

Amy couldn’t resist answering, trying her best to maintain a serious expression. “Is that something evil you?”

Gaius scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I am the least of your worries.”

The temptation to continue teasing him was overpowering. After twenty-five years, she felt an uncontrollable urge to torment him with her bad jokes. “Tell that to the mortal Amy that you ran through with Jax’s sword.”

It took a minute for him to answer. “Do you plan to spend all night reminding me of all my evil deeds?”

“Maybe not all night. I did come here for another reason.”

With a long sigh, he turned away and started to walk back toward the town. They’d been walking for a few minutes before he finally spoke again. “How is it that you have managed to stay just as insufferable as you were twenty-five years ago?”

Amy shrugged, her face starting to hurt from smiling so much. Teasing him was just too much fun. Sure, she could tease all of her friends back home, but the sort of ammunition she had for Gaius beat any joking insults she could ever throw at them. The amount of murder jokes she could make was insane.

God was she ever fucked up.

“So, how’s your redemption been going?” Amy wanted to fill in the silence, the idea of them walking without saying a word too serious. She genuinely wanted to know what he’d been up to.

Gaius stared at the road ahead, frowning as he considered the question. “I guess you can say I’ve done a few more good deeds. I’ve been trying my best.”

They ended up walking to an abandoned house on the edge of the town. It wasn’t a manor, but it was close enough. Amy bit her lip to hold back a laugh. The man sure did like to live up to the dramatic.

“Nice place you’ve got here.” She bit her lip harder when he glared at her.

“Are you coming, or are you going to stand out here making horrible jokes all night?” Gaius looked like he regretted bringing her back to his house. If it could even be considered a house. It was more like a ruin.

Amy followed him inside, taking in the decaying structure. Her nose wrinkled when she studied what looked like a petrified animal corpse. “This place is absolutely disgusting. Not exactly the romantic or sexy reunion I was hoping for.”

“We had sex in a tiny room on a boat. I have trouble believing you would be opposed to this place. Your standards don’t seem very high.”

“Hey!”

Gaius didn’t look at her, but she could see him fighting back a smile. He started to chew on his bottom lip, turning his face away from her. She watched him attempt to clean, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fine, I guess I deserved that.” Amy sat down in a chair. It immediately broke under her weight. Scowling, she struggled to her feet, brushing the dust off her clothes. “Did you really have to pick the setting of The Haunting of Hill House for your temporary home?”

He still didn’t look at her. “Is that a film? None of your references make sense to me.”

“Forget it.” The problem with hanging around a three-thousand-year-old vampire was that they never understood pop culture references. For the first time since finding Gaius, Amy missed Lily.

Lily. Her best friend who was probably going insane trying to find her. They had barely spent any time apart since defeating Rheya. Amy would have to send a postcard one day, just to let everyone know she was okay.

The silence inside the house made the situation more awkward. Both of them knew, though neither of them had said it, that Amy had come here because she wanted Gaius. And not in a friend kind of way.

“So, do anything badass lately?” Amy couldn’t get any lamer if she tried.

Gaius stared blankly at her. He blinked, looking like he just might answer, before he shook his head and went back to ‘cleaning.’

Wind howled outside. A storm was on its way. The sky had been full of dark clouds when they were walking back to the house, the air chillier than it had been when she’d first arrived right after sunset. It was probably past midnight now.

“Why are you really here?” Gaius finally stopped pretending to clean and looked up at her, throwing a broken chair leg over his shoulder. Something else fell from the projectile, the sound of shattering glass filling the room. “You can make all the murder and sex jokes you want, but I think we both know that you came here for a reason.”

Amy crossed her arms over her chest, pacing the length of the room as she searched for an answer. It had been stupid to think he wouldn’t question her. No normal person traveled around the world searching for someone they should do their best to stay far away from. Just because she decided to give him a second chance didn’t mean that the two of them would remain close.

Rain started to fall on the house, the cracks in the roof allowing water to drip down onto them. Amy ignored the ice-cold raindrops that fell on her, sliding down her spine. “You know why I searched for you.” The vagueness of her answer would no doubt irritate him.

“That does not answer my question, Amy.”

The storm outside seemed to slow for a moment. Her eyes flickered over to Gaius, who was standing near a crumbling fireplace. Finally, when she figured she could only put off answering for so long, she turned to face him. “Because I have feelings for you. What else do you want me to say? And don’t lecture me again on how it’s wrong because I know. I know.”

Gaius didn’t answer her. He stayed beside the fireplace, watching her without a word. Amy wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved that he didn’t react to her outburst, or if she should worry that it meant he didn’t feel the same way. The worry slowly turned in annoyance, then anger.

“Can you just say something!” Her voice boomed, the sound startling both of them. Swearing under her breath, Amy closed her eyes, digging the heels of her palms into them, trying to block out the sensation of darkness that had started to sweep over her.

Hands grabbed her wrists, gently pulling her hands away from her face. She waited until the feeling had passed before opening her eyes to look at Gaius. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. The last time she had seen him look so terrified was when she’d broken Rheya’s control over him.

“I thought Rheya’s powers were gone,” said Gaius, looking as though he feared she might snap again. “Didn’t they disappear in the opera house?”

Amy was breathing heavily, trying to shove the darkness back down. “That’s what I thought too. But then one day, about a year later, I got so angry that—” She shook her head, trembling at the memory. If Adrian hadn’t been there to talk to her, she had no idea what might’ve happened.

Whatever darkness that had possessed her inside the opera house when she drained Rheya’s powers hadn’t disappeared forever. For a short time, she had believed it, thought that life would return to a relatively normal state, but it seemed outside forces had other plans. The temptation, the possibility that she might be able to bring Jax back still haunted her. It followed her everywhere she went, a voice that was not her own whispering deep inside that she could do it. All she had to do was embrace the darkness.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I get it.” Gaius was standing so close to her that his breath hit her face. He inhaled sharply, staring at her lips.

Desperate to both forget about what had just happened and satisfy the reason she had come here, she tilted her head back to brush her lips across his. He let go of her hands, pulling her closer. She sighed when he put his thumb under her chin and tilted her head further back, kissing her harder.

Thunder boomed somewhere in a distant field, the force of the sound shaking the walls of the decrepit house. The rain found its way inside, soaking their clothes. Lightning flashed outside, so bright that it flared behind Amy’s closed eyelids. Every touch felt more intense than it ever had before.

“Is there a bed in this place?” she mumbled, holding back a laugh when she felt Gaius frown against her lips. “Just curious.”

He shook his head, pulling her with him to the battered couch a few feet away. “Those beds have several inches of dust on them. And other unappealing things.”

“Couch it is, then.” Amy laughed when Gaius pulled away to look at her, running his fingers along her face. “Don’t look so surprised. You were the one who said I have low standards.”

Before he could retort, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back to her. He fumbled with her jacket, moving without complaint when she shifted to be on top. Amy’s chest heaved as she slipped the jacket off, pausing for a moment before she pulled her shirt over her head immediately after.

Gaius started to breathe heavier, his eyes drawn to the place where he had stabbed her so many years ago. The scar had mostly healed, but the skin was slightly discolored. It had always struck her as odd that a scar remained, but she guessed it was because the wound was from before she’d been Turned.

“You’re looking a little overdressed.” Her voice was lower than usual. It had been so long since she’d been with anyone. Years, she was sure.

Gaius smirked, letting her undress him as he lay beneath her. She ran her hands down his stomach once she’d got him out of his clothes, digging her fingers into his skin as she ground herself against him. He moaned, sitting up to kiss her.

The rain continued to beat against the house, the only sound in the room besides their heavy breathing and the occasional quiet moan. Amy pulled away long enough to slip her underwear off, her heart pounding harder than before when she straddled Gaius’ lap again.

They moved at a slow pace, his hands running up her back to unclasp her bra. She threw it on the floor, trying her best not to think about how filthy it was. The couch itself wasn’t any better. But she didn’t care.

“Amy—” Gaius spoke her name with a sigh, brushing his lips across her chest as she moved above him. He swore under his breath when she picked up her pace, his nails digging into her skin as he gripped her hips and helped her to move faster.

One of his hands made its way between her legs, and she bit her lip as she felt herself getting closer to finishing. His name slipped past her lips as a whisper, her forehead resting against his as her breathing grew ragged.

Amy took a trembling breath, moaning quietly, and stopped rocking her hips against him, the two of them sitting in silence once they’d finished. The pitter-patter of rain filled the house, the storm finally coming to an end.

“This was one of the reasons why I came here,” Amy said, a breathy laugh escaping her when Gaius rolled his eyes. He sat up and pulled her off of him, running his hands through his hair.

“You make it hard for me to focus.” He turned to look at her, not looking like he was too concerned about focusing. “Do you plan to stay long?”

She rested her head on his shoulder, grabbing his hand and lacing her fingers through his. “Who said I planned on leaving at all? You’re the reason I left New York.”

Gaius sighed, staring at the shattered window across the room. “The others will come looking for you. I doubt they would appreciate knowing I’m the reason you ran away.”

“Who says I care what the others think?” She stood from the couch and slowly got dressed, feeling him watch her the entire time. “They won’t ever understand the way I feel about you. I gave up thinking they would get it a long time ago. I wasn’t happy there. I belong here. With you.”

He stood and got dressed, turning to face her, the tension that was between them when she first arrived now gone. “I will never understand how you can even stand to look at me after everything I’ve done.”

“The conversation we had on that boat changed my perspective. I like the real you a whole lot better than the person you were under Rheya’s control.” She reached out to run her fingers across his face, and he leaned into her hand. “Plus, the whole having sex with you right after that kind of helped you win me over.”

Gaius laughed, his teeth gleaming in the dark room. “You are irresistible.”

Amy grabbed his shirt and tugged him closer. “I thought I was insufferable.”

“One can be both irresistible and insufferable.” He cut off her response with his lips, dragging her back to the couch. A puff of dust shot out from the cushions when they dropped down, and Amy coughed, making a mental note to find them a more suitable place to stay the next night.

Eventually, the rain stopped, the world outside growing quiet. Amy struggled to keep her eyes open, wanting to enjoy every second she could with Gaius after twenty-five years apart.

“How are you feeling now?” His question startled her. She had thought he might have fallen asleep.

With a shrug, she continued to trace random shapes on his chest. “Okay. The darkness went away, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

Gaius shifted, and she lifted her head to look him in the eyes. “Does that happen often?”

“What? The whole earth trembling, voice booming thing?” She could see that he didn’t appreciate her attempt at making another joke. Amy sighed, rolling onto her stomach to look at him properly. “No. It only happens when I can’t control my emotions. The last time it happened, I was thinking about Jax again.” A figure jumping in front of her to prevent Rheya from turning her Feral flashed in her mind and she closed her eyes, trying to rein in the pain.

“Do you—” Gaius gulped, the fear in his tone not going unnoticed. “Do you think you could ever get as bad as you did in the opera house again?”

Amy didn’t have an answer to that question. The thought of ever returning to that state of mind terrified her. In that moment, she had felt truly unstoppable. A lust for power had overwhelmed her. If that ever happened again, she wasn’t so sure she would be able to resist it a second time around.

For over two decades, the thought of what if had haunted her. Almost as much as she missed Gaius, she missed the feeling of invincibility that Rheya’s power had given her. To bring Jax back, to help her friends in whatever way she could…power like that was irreplaceable. It was tempting beyond belief.

“How long are we staying here?” Amy forced a smile, a hint of hunger starting to creep in. She couldn’t be completely certain if it had anything to do with thinking about her hidden powers.

Gaius watched her, curiosity shining in his eyes. “I move every few weeks. I planned to leave in a few days.”

“Great,” she answered, putting her head back on his chest, shutting her eyes before the conversation about Rheya’s power could continue.

Twenty-five years ago, Amy had absorbed the power of the First Vampire. For a fleeting moment, she had felt the fate of the world placed in her hands. Then, mere minutes later, she had made the decision to choose love. The love of her friends had overpowered the hunger for power. And she had been content. Most of the past twenty-five years had passed without incident.

But Amy could feel a darkness gathering deep inside of her. It came in flashes, brief moments where she lost control and her voice shook walls. The endless possibility still flowed through her veins. One day, she feared it might burst. Darkness could only be contained for so long before it enveloped everything in its path.

Ignoring the claws that seemed to dig themselves further into her heart, Amy closed her eyes, reminding herself that she was with Gaius now. The years of pain were over. She would overcome this thirst for power in no time. It was nothing. She would be fine.

Just fine.