#but the reality will be that he looks upon the bull from a distance

[skitskatdacat63]

His bullfighting days aren't over quite yet.

+

[giggly-squiggily]

This isn't a request for a tickle fic so I hope you are okay with writing it! I just wanted to request a fic were Leo and Yuno had revealed the fact that they are in a relationship so Yuno takes Leo to hage so he can meet everyone!

Ahh, my weakness! *vibrates at an inhuman speed* I'm so normal about them I swear! aerajrjheakjreaj No but really- this is a delight of a prompt and I'm beyond happy to make it for you, anon! I hope you like it!

CW: Mild angst, mentions of homophobia VERY LIGHT SPOILER WARNING: Black Clover Eps. 71-72 (It's incredibly vague- there's no real details but I'm gonna put it out there just in case)

Cloud 9 (Taglist peeps):

@duckymcdoorknob

“Come to Hage with me!”

When Yuno first offered the suggestion to Leopold, he was excited. It’d been some time since he’d seen his family, and the idea of sharing a part of himself with Leopold felt right.

Then excitement turned to unyielding anxiety in a matter of hours as he realized he had no idea HOW he was going to do that.

The planning wasn’t the difficult part- both Captains Fuegoleon and William were fine with it, and they even managed to rope Captain Yami into letting Asta and Noelle tag along. Letters were sent, and the responses have been nothing but positive from Sister Lily and Father Orsi . The actual trip was set.

It was the whole- you know- coming out thing. All this time later, and he still hadn’t told them. Yuno felt his stomach twist into a thousand knots as he watched Hage’s green hills get closer in the distance, willing himself not to shake.

“You’re gonna love it there! Our siblings are a riot, but they’ll get used to you pretty fast.” Asta was filling the mildly tense air with chatter, giving Leopold and Noelle the details about their family. A few times the redhead would look his way, smiling brightly at him. That helped- somewhat.

“You okay?” Leopold floated over on his broom, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear him. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

“Motion sickness?” Yuno offered, wincing when his voice shook..

“You’re nervous huh?” He smiled, bumping him gently. “I’m a bit too. Do you…do you think they’ll like me?”

“You’re like a second Asta. They’ll adore you.” Yuno grinned, earning a laugh and a light shove from Leopold. “Really- I do think they’ll like you. Both of you.” He nodded back to where Asta and Noelle were, their voices acting as background noise.

“Thanks.” Leopold leaned over, giving him a quick peck before returning to the original pair, Asta’s “WHERE HERE!” snapping him back to reality.

It’ll be fine. Yuno took a breath, forcing a smile. Everything is going to be fine.

He hoped.

~~~

“YUNO! ASTA!” Recca all but squealed upon seeing the three brooms above. “Everyone- Asta and Yuno are back!”

Within seconds of touching the ground, they were swarmed. Squeals of glee rang out from Arlu and Holo as they bull-tackled Asta, clinging to his legs and jumping up with grabby hands. Recca practically squeezed the life out of Yuno, her frizzy red hair almost to his chin- when did she get so tall? Sister Lily came out soon after, tears in her eyes as she hugged both of them just as tight. By the door, Father Orsi laughed, patting Nash on the head as they waited their turn to get their hugs.

It was a mess of limbs and hugs and kisses and ear shattering screams of glee from the youngest kids.. Yuno took it all in, nostalgia and warmth mixing in his chest as he reunited with his family. God, he missed them all so much.

“Welcome home, boys.” Orsi smiled when he managed to get in, hugging them both before patting their heads. “Though I should call you two men- after everything you’ve been through. Still; no matter how old you two get, you’ll always be the squishy cheeked babies I remember when you first arrived.”

“Father Orsi, come on! I’m so much bigger now since being a baby!” Asta huffed, unable to stay annoyed. Yuno laughed softly, willing his ears to stop burning. It didn’t help that Leopold was snickering in the background, clearly pleased.

“I suppose so- now, who are these fine people you two brought?” He asked, looking out towards Noelle and Leopold. Yuno’s stomach twisted once more, the anxiety he was just beginning to forget about piercing him like an arrow. Right- introductions. It was time.

“This is Noelle! Fellow Black Bull and royalty!” Asta cheerfully introduced Noelle, pulling her closer to the group. “She’s a really cool water mage! If you’re lucky- she might show you some tricks!”

“Dorksta- don’t go promoting me like I’m some sort of circus act!” Noelle fussed, cheeks red and mildly annoyed. From the group, some of the kids giggled. “Erm, it’s nice to meet you all.”

“Your girlfriend’s pretty, Dorksta!” Holo declared, making Noelle flush crimson with a squeak. Sister lily scowled him gently but Asta took it in stride, laughing with the rest of his siblings at the nickname. When the chatter died down, all eyes turned to Yuno and Leopold.

It’ll be fine.

“Leopold Vermillion! Nice to meet you all!” Leopold declared proudly, all smiles. The children were hooked almost immediately, eyes shining. “I’m Yuno’s-” He paused then, turning to the other. There was a question in his eyes. Is this okay?

Yuno felt his heart squeeze so hard it hurt. Leopold was giving him the chance to lie- to just say he was Yuno’s good friend. To work up the courage later and tell them another time. He was grateful for the redhead at that moment.

“He’s my boyfriend.” Yuno finished. Alas- as grateful as he was; he had to do it. Leopold had already agreed to keep it a secret in the past- he wasn’t gonna put him through all that again . “We’ve been dating for a while now.”

Faces morphed into surprise- Father Orsi’s brows shot up and Sister Lily blinked. Recca and Nash’s mouths formed into “o” shapes, while Arlu and Holo were too busy hovering around Noelle to notice. Even Asta looked surprised- and he knew already. Yuno waited, pleading with whomever was listening for- what- the ground to swallow him up? For lighting to strike him down? For Captain William to call and suddenly announce a task only Yuno could fill and save him from this awkward situation?

“Well, this was unexpected.” Father Orsi was the first to speak, his shock fading into  warmth as he came over, shaking Leopold’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Leopold.”

“I recognize the name- are you related to Mimosa Vermillion?” Sister Lily recovered just as fast, smiling brightly. “She’s a darling, that one.”

“Oh yeah- she’s mine and Noelle’s cousin.” Leopold fell into easy chatter with them, bright as the sun as they asked about his team and family. Recca wiggled past the adults to Yuno’s side, her hand finding his as she leaned into his arm.

“Is he good to you?” She asked. Yuno took a shaky breath before nodding.

“He’s very good. The best man I’ve ever met.” Recca’s hand squeezed his in return, her face softening to a happy grin.

“Okay. Then I like him.” She decided. Yuno felt his throat tighten some as he leaned over, kissing her brow.

Asta and Noelle were soon dragged into the chatter. Before long, everyone was comfortable around everyone.

All but Nash, who hovered just outside the group with a pinched expression.

~~~

“It was so HOT! And dangerous too- there were so many cliffs and rocks, and the ground was carved with lava!” Asta stood before the group, retelling his adventures to his siblings- complete with standing tall and raising his arms high to emphasize his point. “There were so many instances where I was sure I wasn’t gonna make it! One wrong move, and your future Wizard King would have been as cooked as a Hage Potato!”

“I’m surprised you didn’t. I bet Yuno didn’t have any problems in that heat- not with his wind magic.” Recca grinned at her brother, earning a small smile in return. “I bet you were cool as the snow climbing that volcano!”

“Oh no, I just got lucky.” Yuno shrugged.

“Don’t be so humble- he was amazing!” Leopold grinned, joining Asta in retelling their adventures of Mereoleona’s training camp. “He was all- ZOOM! And we were all: ‘Whaaaat’ and he was all- “I’m so cool, look at me.’”

“Yeah yeah! Definitely!” Asta agreed, earning a round of laughter from the kids. “Noelle looked cool too!”

“What? Oh- don’t just say those things, Dorksta!” She huffed, cheeks pink but clearly pleased. Arlu and Holo were  fast asleep against her lap, likely dreaming of the small water dragons Noelle created for their entertainment . Despite her earlier complaints about being an attraction, it didn’t take long at all for her to give in and play with them. Yuno felt a new appreciation for the water mage. “I guess you were kinda cool too…”

“Oh goodness- I can’t imagine going through that myself!” Sister Lily laughed around her tea mug, fanning away the imaginary heat. “You two have been getting so strong since you went to the capital.”

“That’s our boys!” Orsi agreed, raising a cup of what Yuno suspected wasn’t water. He didn’t mind though- it was nice sitting with everyone again. Though, there was still something wrong.

Throughout the day, Nash had been fairly quiet, not talking much at all during dinner or the time before. He’d always been a calmer soul, but Yuno couldn’t help but suspect he was angry. There was this clear tension radiating off of him that prickled at Yuno’s skin all throughout the day- especially tense during dinner when they were all sitting together.

Yuno tried to brush it off as discomfort of new people, but sitting here now- Nash nowhere in sight, his thoughts got the better of him.

Did Nash…not accept him?

Slipping away from the group, he went to find him, scared of what he’d find but determined to get to the bottom of it.

~~~

“Nash?” Yuno called out, finding his brother sitting on the back steps of the church. “There you are.”

“Oh, hey Yuno.” The younger boy looked back at him, his face and voice calm as ever. In his hands he was playing with a tree branch, picking at the bark and pulling at the leaves. “Got overwhelmed in there?”

“A bit. I actually came to find you.” Yuno began to walk over but stopped, suddenly unsure of himself. What if he sat down beside him and Nash walked away? Maybe he should…

“Why are you hovering? It’s not like we’re strangers.” Nash nodded at the spot beside him. Yuno flushed as he sat down, shamed. Why was this suddenly so difficult?

Silence hung between them, charged with something Yuno couldn’t quite put his finger on that did nothing to ease his nerves. He went to find words, but his throat felt tight, locking away his vocal cords. He needed to say it. “Nash…are you mad?”

Nash didn’t reply, though the slow pace he was working at with his stick sped up, growing slightly more aggressive. Ah, so he was.

“Are you mad…at me?” Yuno asked, feeling his heart sink when the picking grew. “Did I do something wrong?”

The stick shook. Nash’s calm expression grew pinched. “You didn’t tell us.”

There it was. Yuno bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t- don’t apologize.” Nash tossed the stick aside, turning so he could face Yuno properly. “I don’t want an apology. I just want to know why. You know us- we’re your family! That’s never gonna change, so why…why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Nash huffed, shoulders drooping. “Did you not…trust us?”

“What- no, not at all!” Yuno winched, hating how sad his brother sounded. “It’s not that at all. I just…” He was about to ramble when he stopped, taking a breath. This was Nash- clever, understanding Nash. He might as well be honest. “I was scared.”

“Of us?” Nash blinked, tilting his head.

“Of how you’d all react.” Yuno nodded, turning to look at his knees. “Back at the capital, there are some incredible people there. But there’s also a lot of cruel ones too. Leopold- he came out before me, and I still think about some of the awful things said about him. Some were said about me too- both behind my back and to my face. I try not to care about them- they already have problems with me being a commoner, but…”

“You were scared we’d react the same way.” Nash spoke softly, voice barely over a whisper. Yuno winced, nodding.

“I know now it was irrational,, but at the time- when I first started figuring myself out and being with Leopold; I was just so…terrified. I couldn’t bring myself to say it in a letter- I needed to know in person how you’d all react. I didn’t want to come home and be treated like a stranger. That…that would hurt.” Yuno felt his eyes sting, his throat closing with unshed tears. “I’m sorry. I wish I had the courage to say it sooner, but…I didn’t. I’m sorry I made you think you couldn’t be trusted, and I’m sorry-”

“Stop.” Nash scooted over, resting his head against Yuno’s shoulder. “You’re shaking.” He took his hand in his own, two small warm ones holding Yuno’s icy limb. “Just breathe, Yuno.”

Yuno willed himself to do so, taking slow deep breaths one after another as he forced himself to calm down. He hadn’t realized just how close to a panic attack he was getting. Nash’s voice guided him back to reality, his hands still squeezing Yuno’s as the older boy collected himself. “Sorry…”

“Didn’t I just say to stop that?” Nash gave him a look, eyes softening after a moment. Silence passed before he spoke again. “You don’t have to apologize- it doesn’t seem like an easy thing to talk about. If anything- I’m sorry for getting so mad about it. Even if it took awhile, I’m glad you were able to tell us now.”

Yuno didn’t trust his voice, opting to squeeze Nash’s shoulder. Nash took this as a sign to continue.

“You know- I don’t even think that part is what made me upset. I’m really happy you found that Leopold guy, and I’m happy you and Asta are living your lives. I guess it’s just…everytime you and Asta come home, so much has happened. One minute you’re heading out to the capital, the next, you’re these powerful Magic Knights with cool abilities and war stories. I feel like there’s just so much..missing between. Like those old books someone donated that had chapters missing.” Nash dropped some, shaking his head. “That was probably stupid to listen to, huh?”

“Not at all. I think I get it.” Yuno nodded, finding his voice as he turned towards the skyline. “I’m sorry about that. Things happen so fast there, and when I go to write, I never know what to say. That and I’d hate to give Sister Lily a heart attack with the gorey details.” That earned a small smile from Nash. Yuno felt his chest loosen. “I’ll try to be better about keeping you guys updated. And I’ll try to visit more often.”

“Promise?” Nash peeked up at him. Yuno raised his pinky. Without hesitation, Nash curled his own around it.

“Promise.” Yuno gave it a little shake, the same way they did when Nash was real young. Just like that, the knots in his stomach vanished. He could breathe again.

“Thanks Yuno. Though, can I ask you something?” Nash leaned in conspiratory-like, brows furrowing. “What made you fall for him? Don’t get me wrong- he seems great, but he’s like a second Asta- just so…loud.”

Yuno snorted, hand slapping over his mouth as he shook with mirth. Nash grinned, giggling alongside his brother.

“I suppose that’s a good place to start.” Yuno got out once he recovered. The rest of the night he shared the tale with Nash, the tale of how he and Leopold came to be.

~~~

“There you are. We really do have a fondness for fields, don’t we?” Leopold laughed as he flopped down beside Yuno, the stars bright above and the air chilled. Yuno was lying on his back, hands tucked behind his head as he reflected on the day’s events. Overall- it all went well.

“That’s true. We’ll have to change it up soon. How about a beach day next time?” Yuno suggested, grinning when Leopold made a face.

“No way- I’m still finding sand in inconvenient places.” Shaking his head, he flopped backwards and into Yuno’s chest, snuggling close. “Thanks for inviting me out. Your family’s great!”

“Told you they’d love you.” Yuno hugged him close, skittering his nails against his back. “I’m glad you came. They’re gonna be talking about you and Noelle for months.”

“Hehe, better send some presents then. Gotta keep my “cool older brother” rep with the kiddos.” Leopold closed his eyes, melting against his boyfriend’s hand. “Hey…this is kinda dumb but..thanks for introducing me as your boyfriend. I would have gone with the whole friend thing if you weren’t ready to tell them, but…It made me really happy.”

“It’s not dumb at all. And I appreciate you so much for that. Still…I wanted to tell them. Regardless of what happened, I wanted them to know you as my boyfriend. It was really scary, but I’m glad I did it. I feel so…relieved.” Yuno nodded,  satisfied with his choice of words as he played with Leopold’s braid. “Was it like that for you when you came out to your siblings?”

“Honestly? I can’t remember. When I came out, I was so scared of chickening out I busted into Fuegoleon’s office and shouted it at the top of my lungs. Sis must have heard me from down the hall cause she yelled back “Good for you!” and Fuegoleon wasn’t fazed in the slightest. I think they both already knew.” Leopold laughed at the memory, smiling to himself. “I’m so lucky to have the siblings I have. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

“Yeah…” Yuno hummed in agreement, letting that settle. It made him grateful for his siblings as well- and his comrades. How’d he get so lucky to find the people he met?

“So- it’s just the two of us now. Do you think anyone will be slipping out this evening?” Leopold asked, sitting up so they were eye to eye, a teasing grin on his lips. Yuno blinked before flushing some, feeling his eyes widen.

“Leo!”

“What? I’ve been good- I’ve held back all day from doing it.” He leaned in some, green eyes sparkling with warmth. “Now or never, right?”

Yuno rolled his eyes with a soft laugh, flicking his bangs away. “You’re a dork. Fine, come here.” 

Leopold wasted no time pressing his lips against Yuno’s, pushing him back into the grass.

It was all as Yuno hoped it would be and more. He was so glad he came home.

Thanks for reading!

[jazzy---j]

Daughter of Poseidon: The Lightning Thief

“even the gods have to bow to fate”

Chapter Summary: Cassie wakes up and her reality is altered by a horse, a drunkard, and a guy who seriously needs to learn that its rude to stare. Percys' there too.

Masterlist >>> Read on ao3 (5/23)

We Play Pinochle With A Horse

Pain. That’s all I felt as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

I must’ve woken up several times, but what I heard and saw made no sense, so I just passed out again.

What I do remember lying in a soft bed as I tried to open my eyes and everything ached.  When I finally managed to crack them open I gazed at the white linen ceiling of... what I want to say is a tent?

I groaned, as my head throbbed. I slowly turned my head to the right seeing a bed opposite mine, with my brother laid out upon it drooling in his sleep as usual. In any normal situation, I would have laughed and taken a picture to show his future girlfriend or something but, I was too confused and in pain to even come up with a half-decent thought.

A faint scraping sound could be heard from the other side of the room. I turned my head and craned my neck to see what the source was only to find a person.

My eyes swam and everything looked fuzzy but I could tell it was a boy about my age maybe older on a three-legged stool. His blonde hair was so long it covered much of his face as he looked down intently at something in his hands.

The scraping sound continued as I glanced down at the boy's hand to see him methodically sharpening a switchblade. The way he held it was as if he knew what he was doing.

As if that is the most normal thing in the world.

Let me give you a hint... it’s not.

I groaned again and his head snapped up. I was met with the warmest brown eyes I had ever seen. 

For a moment he just stared at me. His focus was so intense all I wanted to do was move out of his line of sight. I studied his face from the cut on his eyebrow to the patchy stubble on his jawline.

Despite how terrible I felt I knew he was the most handsome guy I’d ever seen.

And as his face broke out into a grin so mischievous I realized that he was also a lot of trouble.

“So, you’re not dead,” he said as he leaned back in the chair flipping the knife. 

I only blinked, too dazed to answer.

His dark eyes seemed to dance, ”s’okay I didn’t expect much of a conversation. Just wanted to see the kids who killed the Minotaur. Wondered if you were worth all the hype.”

He kicked his steel-toed boots on a nearby table, “Can’t say I’m impressed,” he chuckled.

Wow, this dude is a dick. 

My eyes started to droop, already tired of this irritating exchange.

The stranger cocked his head to the side, “maybe you’ll be more interesting when you're awake.” 

He hopped up and sauntered closer to me and put a finger over his lips in a silent shushing motion.

Didn’t this boy know it was rude to shush people? The feeling of annoyance grew as I drifted further into unconsciousness.

”Don’t tell anyone I was here,” he said as he winked at me and started walking away.

Darkness swallowed me.

When I finally came around for good, I was laying in the same cot as before. I turned my head again to where Percy should have been. 

He wasn’t there.

I started to panic. I had just been hunted by a giant bull-man and lost my mom all in one night. Let alone the fact that I don’t really know where I am.

I sat up, clutching my bandaged side, and looked around. I was in the same cabin as before with wooden pillars standing in between the worn, thick, off-white linens making up the walls. Rows of cots, like the one I was in, lined the sides of the tent. On shaky legs, I walked down the aisle between the cots to the door on the other side of the room.

I had to find Percy and figure out where the heck we were.

I stumbled onto the porch of the cabin and was met with the blinding sun. Once my eyes adjusted I saw a meadow with green hills in the distance with the breeze smelling faintly like strawberries.

There was nothing explicitly weird about my surroundings, except that they were way nicer than I was used to. To my right, Percy was sitting in a deck chair on the huge porch, with a blanket over his legs, and a pillow behind his neck. He was starting to open his eyes and look around. I let loose I a breathe I didn't know I was holding. Thank whoever is listening that he is okay.

On the table, next to his were two tall drinks. They looked like iced apple juice, with a green straw and a paper parasol stuck through a maraschino cherry.

Percy reached for one of the glasses and almost dropped it once he got his fingers around.

“Careful,” a familiar voice said

I whipped my head around to the left at the sound. Grover was leaning against the porch railing, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. Under one arm, he cradled a shoebox. He was wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops, and a bright orange T-shirt that said CAMP HALF-BLOOD.

Just plain old Grover. Not the goat boy.

“You two saved my life,” Grover said noticing my line of sight. “I... well, the least I could do... I went back to the hill. I thought you might want this.”

Reverently, he passed the shoebox into my hands.

I looked down at the box blankly, then back up at Grover. The look on his face wiped away all the relief from seeing Percy.

I opened the box and inside were two black-and-white bull’s horns, the bases jagged from being broken off, the tips splattered with dried blood.

Holy shit it was real. That night really happened. I was stunned.

I shoved the box in Percy's lap like it burned me. I didn't want to look at them, I didn't want to touch them. Those horns were just some cruel reminder that my mom was gone. 

Percy just stared at the horns silently.

“The Minotaur,” he finally said. “Um, Percy, it isn’t a good idea—”

“That’s what they call him in the Greek myths, isn’t it?” Percy demanded. “The Minotaur. Half man, half bull.” Grover shifted uncomfortably. “You’ve been out for two days. How much do you remember?”

“My mom. Is she really...”

Grover looked down.

Tears welled in my eyes as I stared across the meadow. There were groves of trees, a winding stream, acres of strawberries spread out under the blue sky. The valley was surrounded by rolling hills, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, was the one with the huge pine tree on top. Even that looked beautiful in the sunlight.

Our mother was gone. The whole world should be black and cold. Nothing should look beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” Grover sniffled. “I’m a failure. I’m—I’m the worst satyr in the world.”

He moaned, stomping his foot so hard the shoe came off. Percy and I watched the Converse hi-top come off the roll on the floor and The inside was filled with Styrofoam, except for a hoof-shaped hole.

“Oh, Styx!” he mumbled. Thunder rolled across the clear sky.

As he struggled to get his hoof back in the fake foot, I tried really hard not to laugh through my tears and look like a complete psycho. Because this was so ridiculously cool, terrifying, and heartbreaking all at the same time. Just an emotional overload and I did not know how to handle any of it.

Grover was a satyr.

I was ready to put my life on the fact that if you shaved his curly brown hair, you'd find tiny horns on his head. It was almost too much.

Not only that but, Percy and I were alone. We were orphans. We would have to live with...Smelly Gabe?

Hell no. No way.

That would never happen. I would live on the streets with Percy first. We'd take care of each other and join a street gang or something. We'd do something. 

Grover was still sniffling. The poor kid—poor goat, satyr, whatever— looked as if he expected to be hit. Percy said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect you.”

“Did our mother ask you to protect us?” I asked 

“No. But that’s my job. I’m a keeper. At least...I was.”

“But why...” Percy tried, fatigue lacing every word.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Grover said. “Here.” Grover helped Percy hold the glass and put the straw to his lips.

I rolled my eyes at their bromance and grabbed the second drink on the table.

Once I moved it to my lips I recoiled at the taste, because it looked like apple juice and I was expecting apple juice. It wasn’t that at all.

Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My grief didn’t go away, but I felt as if my mom had just brushed her hand against my cheek, given me a cookie the way she used to when I was small, and told me everything was going to be okay. Before I knew it, I’d drained the glass. I looked to see Percy had done the same.

“Was it good?” Grover asked. I nodded. “What did it taste like?” He sounded so wistful.

“Sorry,” Percy said. “I should’ve let you taste.” Grover’s eyes got wide. “No! That’s not what I meant. I just...wondered.”

“Chocolate-chip cookies,” Percy said. “My mom’s. Homemade.” He sighed. “And how do guys you feel?” “Like I could throw Nancy Bobofit a hundred yards," I said perhaps too enthusiastically. Percy looked at me proudly and we fist-bumped. 

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s good. I don’t think you could risk drinking any more of that stuff.” “What do you mean?" Percy puzzled. He took the empty glass from Percy gingerly, as if it were dynamite. Based on his reaction I set mine down quickly.

“Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting."

"Wait... Chiron? As in Chiron from the myths?" I asked. 

"Yes Cassie, that Chiron," Grover answered.

"But-,"

"Come on Cassie, they'll explain everything." And with that Grover started walking away. 

I glanced at Percy uncertainly.

He sighed, standing up with a box of horns clutched to his chest, "Let go get some answers, Cassie."

We both followed Grover along the porch wrapped as we walked all the way around the farmhouse. Grover offered to carry the Minotaur horn, but Percy held on to it.

I felt a pained pang in my chest. I didn't want to touch the box. It was just a reminder of what we lost.

I hate reminders.

Percy must have sensed my train of thought and he mutely wrapped his free arm around my shoulder. It was times like these that I really felt like a little sister.

As we came around the opposite end of the house, my breath caught in my throat.

We must’ve been on the north shore of Long Island because, on this side of the house, the valley marched all the way up to the water, which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn’t process everything I was seeing. The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture—an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena—except that they all looked brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school–age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover’s were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shot targets at an archery range. Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I was hallucinating, some of their horses had wings.

Down at the end of the porch, two men sat across from each other at a card table. A brown-skinned girl and the brown-eyed boy who rudely visited me were leaning on the porch rail next to them. Now that I was conscious I could see the boy more clearly. His hair wasn't as long as I had originally thought it was just long enough to curl around the nape of his neck and hang in front of his eyes framing his face. He was wearing black tactical pants with steel-toed combat boots. This contrasted with the bright orange t-shirt that the girl also wore.

In his black finger-less gloved hands, he was sharpening a different blade from the last time I saw him. Who the hell is giving this kid multiple knives? Just another question to add to my growing list.

The sitting man to my left was small, but porky. He had a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so black it was almost purple. He looked like those paintings of baby angels—what do you call them, hubbubs? No, cherubs. That’s it. He looked like a cherub who’d turned middle-aged in a trailer park. He wore a tiger-pattern Hawaiian shirt, and he would’ve fit right in at one of Gabe’s poker parties, except I got the feeling this guy could’ve out-gambled even my stepfather.

“That’s Mr. D,” Grover murmured to Percy and I. “He’s the camp director. Be polite. The girl, that’s Annabeth Chase. She’s just a camper, but she’s been here longer than just about anybody. That guy over there is Markus Kazakov, also a camper. And you already know Chiron....”

He pointed at the guy whose back was to me.

First, I realized he was sitting in a wheelchair. Then I recognized the tweed jacket, the thinning brown hair, the scraggly beard.

“Mr. Brunner!” Percy cried.

The Latin teacher turned and smiled at us. His eyes had that mischievous glint they sometimes got in class when he pulled a pop quiz and made all the multiple-choice answers B.

So chaotic.

“Ah, good, Percy, Cassie,” he said. “Now we have four for pinochle.” He offered Percy and me a chair on either side of Mr. D, who looked at me with bloodshot eyes and heaved a great sigh. “Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don’t expect me to be glad to see you.”

Who pissed in that guy's cornflakes? 

“Uh, thank you?" I said as I quickly took the set next to Percy instead of the morose drunk adult man. 

“Annabeth?” Mr. Brunner called to the blond girl.

She came forward and Mr. Brunner introduced us. “This young lady nursed you two back to health. Annabeth, my dear, why don’t you go check on Percy’s and Cassie's bunk? We’ll be putting them in cabin eleven for now.”

Annabeth said, “Sure, Chiron.”

She was probably my brother's age, maybe a couple of inches taller, and a whole lot more athletic-looking. With her deep brown skin and her blonde hair, she was almost exactly what I thought a stereotypical California girl would look like, except for her eyes. They were startling gray, like storm clouds; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if she were analyzing the best way to take me down in a fight.

She glanced at the minotaur horn in Percy's hands, then back at him. I had no idea what she was gonna say but I didn't expect her to tell my brother, “You drool when you sleep.” Then she sprinted off down the lawn, her blond braids flying behind her.

I snickered as Percy frowned in my direction, "I like her," I told him.

He just rolled his eyes. 

I shifted my eyes back to the boy, Markus, and was startled to find that he was no longer looking at his knife but right at me. Thick blonde hair hung in from of his warm brown eyes. He wore no real expression on his face just a blank slate. None of that earlier arrogance, interest, or swagger remained in his body language. He just continued to stare at me.

He was freaking me out.

"Don't you have a weapon shed to clean, boy?" Mr. D said with a raised eyebrow.

That seemed to snap him out of his stupor as he straightened and slid the now-honed to a point, dagger, into an empty slot on the knife-lined bandolier hanging across his chest. He nodded to Mr. Brunner, who responded with a smile and walked off the porch into the distance without a word.

Once he was gone I let go of a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Percy turned to me with a confused look on his face.

I shrugged in response. I had no explanation for that. And you know what? I don't even want to know what that was about. It's too much too fast. First things first, find out what the hell is going on and where we were.

“So,” I said, anxious to change the subject. “You, uh, work here, Mr. Brunner?” “Not Mr. Brunner,” the ex–Mr. Brunner said. “I’m afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron.” “Okay…” I responded, not fully getting it.

So wait... he was THE Chiron? 

“And Mr. D...does that stand for something?” Percy asked. Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards. He looked at Percy like he'd just belched loudly. “Young man, names are powerful things. You don’t just go around using them for no reason.” “Oh. Right. Sorry," Percy mumbled confusedly.

I was silent. Still, trying to figure out how Mr. Brunner was Chiron? I mean he wouldn’t even still be alive.

“I must say, Percy,” Chiron-Brunner broke in, “I’m glad to see you and your sister alive. It’s been a long time since I’ve made a house call to a potential camper. Let alone two. I’d hate to think I’ve wasted my time.”

“House call?” Percy mimicked.

“My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a lookout. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met you two. He sensed you were something special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to...ah, take a leave of absence.”

I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher during my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation, he had disappeared and Mr. Brunner had taken the class.

“So you murdered the old Latin teacher and came to Yancy just to teach us?” I asked.

That sounded a little intense just to teach a couple of mentally challenged kids.

Chiron chuckled "No, Cassie I did not murder anyone. As for coming to Yancy, honestly, I wasn’t sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that’s always the first test.”

“Grover,” Mr. D said impatiently, “are you playing or not?” “Yes, sir!” Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn’t know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy drunk man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

“You do know how to play pinochle?” Mr. D eyed Percy suspiciously. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’m afraid not, sir,” Mr. D said. “Sir,” Percy repeated a little annoyance slipping into his voice. Mr. D either didn't hear it or didn't seem to care.

"What about you girl?" Mr. D said looking in my direction. I shrugged and said, "I've played." “Well at least one of you isn't a lost cause,” he told me, “it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men and women to know the rules.” “I’m sure the boy can learn,” Chiron said.

Percy finally cracked “Please,” he said, “what is this place? What are we doing here? Mr. Brun—Chiron—why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach us?”

Mr. D snorted. “I asked the same question.”

The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile.  I quickly grabbed my pile and looked through it. 

Hmmm, not a bad hand.

Chiron smiled at us sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was,  Percy and I were his star students. Like he expected me to have the right answer and believed I did, deep down.

I didn't, obviously. But it was still nice to be believed in.

“Percy,” he said. “Did your mother tell you nothing?”

“She said..." he started, brows furrowed, trying to remember, ”she told me she was afraid to send us here, even though my father had wanted her to. She said that once we were here, we probably couldn’t leave. She wanted to keep us close to her.”

“Typical,” Mr. D said. “And for her to have two of you, that’s how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?”

“What?” Percy asked. He explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, and so Percy did.

“I’m afraid there’s too much to tell,” Chiron said. “I’m afraid our usual orientation film won’t be sufficient.”

“Orientation film?” I asked looking over my cards.  “No,” Chiron decided. “Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know”—he pointed to the horn in the shoebox—“that you and your sister have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods—the forces you call the Greek gods—are very much alive.”

Percy stared just stared at Chiron.

Hold up!

I waited for somebody to yell, "Haha you idiot you actually believed that! Of course, there is a real explanation". But as I started to really think about what happened last night, and really what had been happening my entire life it was starting to make sense. It was the only thing making sense about this whole situation.

But all I got was Mr. D yelling, “Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!” He cackled to me as he tallied up his points.

“Mr. D,” Grover asked timidly, “if you’re not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?” “Eh? Oh, all right.” Grover bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.

I just stared at him. I swear I felt my brain melt a little bit out of my ears.

Grover chewing the can was another thing I wanted to ask about. But, I shook myself mentally. One thing at a time Cassie.

“Wait,” I told Chiron. “You’re telling me there’s such a thing as God.”

“Well, now,” Chiron said. “God—capital G, God. That’s a different matter altogether. We shan’t deal with the metaphysical.”

“Metaphysical? But you were just talking about—”

“Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That’s a smaller matter.” “Smaller?” “Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class.” “Zeus,” Percy said. “Hera. Apollo. You mean them.” And there it was again—distant thunder on a cloudless day.

I looked at the sky and raised my hand in a placating way as if to say, "Sorry, and please excuse my brother."

“Young man,” said Mr. D, “I would really be less casual about throwing those names around if I were you.”

“But they’re stories,” Percy said. “They’re—myths, to explain lightning and the seasons and stuff. They’re what people believed before there was science.”

“Science!” Mr. D scoffed. “And tell me, Perseus Jackson”—I flinched when he said Percy's real name, which he had not told anybody— “what will people think of your ‘science’ two thousand years from now?” Mr. D continued.

“Hmm? They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. That’s what. Oh, I love mortals—they have absolutely no sense of perspective. They think they’ve come so-o-o far. And have they, Chiron? Look at this boy and tell me.”

I wasn’t liking Mr. D that much, but there was something about the way he called Percy mortal, as if...he wasn’t. It was enough to put a lump in my throat, to suggest why Grover was dutifully minding his cards, chewing his soda can, and keeping his mouth shut.

“Percy,” Chiron said, “you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that immortal means immortal. Can you imagine that for a moment, never dying? Never fading? Existing, just as you are, for all time?”

“You mean, whether people believed in you or not,” Percy said hesitantly.

“Exactly,” Chiron agreed. “If you were a god, how would you like being called a myth, an old story to explain lightning? What if I told you, Perseus Jackson, that someday people would call you a myth, just created to explain how little boys can get over losing their mothers?”

Whoa, ok that was uncalled for.

My heart pounded. He was trying to make us upset for some reason, but I wasn’t going to let him. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose.

Percy said, “I wouldn’t like it. But I don’t believe in gods.”

“Oh, you’d better,” Mr. D murmured. “Before one of them incinerates you.” Grover said, “P-please, sir. He’s just lost his mother. He’s in shock.”

“A lucky thing, too,” Mr. D grumbled, playing a card. “Bad enough I’m confined to this miserable job, working with a boy who doesn’t even believe!”

He waved his hand and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red wine.

Percy’s jaw dropped, but Chiron hardly looked up.

Huh, so that explains the morose drunkenness. 

“Mr. D,” Chiron warned, “your restrictions.” Mr. D looked at the wine and feigned surprise. “Dear me.” He looked at the sky and yelled, “Old habits! Sorry!” 

More thunder.

Mr. D waved his hand again, and the wineglass changed into a fresh can of Diet Coke. He sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his card game.

Chiron winked at me. “Mr. D offended his father a while back, took a fancy to a wood nymph who had been declared off-limits.”

“A wood nymph,” I repeated, still staring at the Diet Coke trying not to gag.

Why would you willingly drink Diet Coke?

“Yes,” Mr. D confessed. “Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly! Absolutely horrid ten years! The second time—well, she really was pretty, and I couldn’t stay away—the second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer camp for brats like you. ‘Be a better influence,’ he told me. ‘Work with youths rather than tearing them down.’ Ha! Absolutely unfair.”

Mr. D sounded about six years old, like a pouting little kid. “And...” Percy stammered, “Your father is...” “Di immortales, Chiron,” Mr. D said. “I thought you taught this boy the basics. My father is Zeus, of course.”

I ran through D names from Greek mythology. Wine. The skin of a tiger. The satyrs that all seemed to work here. The way Grover cringed as if Mr. D were his master.

“You’re Dionysus,” Percy said. 

“The god of wine,” I added. Proud of myself that I remembered.

Mr. D rolled his eyes. “What do they say, these days, Grover? Do the kids say, ‘Well, duh!’?”

“Y-yes, Mr. D.”

“Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?”

“You’re a god.” 

“Yes, child.” 

“A god. You.”

I flinched.

My brother is trying to get himself killed. Don’t anger the drunk god! Obviously!

He turned to look at Percy straight on, and I saw a kind of purplish fire in his eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man was only showing the tiniest bit of his true nature. 

“Would you like to test me, child?” he said quietly.

 I kicked Percy under the table for being an idiot.

“No. No, sir,” Percy replied shakily.

The fire died a little in Mr. D’s eyes. He turned back to his card game. “I believe I win.”

“Not quite, Mr. D,” Chiron said nodding to me. I set down a straight and tallied the points, as Chiron continued, “The game goes to Cassie.”

I thought Mr. D was going to vaporize me right out of my chair, but he just sighed through his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by 11-year-old children. He got up, and Grover rose, too.

“I’m tired,” Mr. D said. “I believe I’ll take a nap before the sing-along tonight. But first, Grover, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on this assignment.”

I frowned, confused. Grover’s face beaded with sweat. “Y-yes, sir.”

Mr. D turned to us. “Cabin eleven, Percy and Cassie Jackson. And mind your manners.”

He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably. “Will Grover be okay?” Percy asked Chiron.

Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit troubled. “Old Dionysus isn’t really mad. He just hates his job. He’s been...ah, grounded, I guess you would say, and he can’t stand waiting another century before he’s allowed to go back to Olympus.”

“Mount Olympus,” I said. “You’re telling me there really is a palace there?”

Even though I was starting to understand it was still hard to wrap my head around the idea completely.

“Well now, there’s Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there’s the home of the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on Mount Olympus. It’s still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, Cassie, just as the gods do.”

“You mean the Greek gods are here? Like...in America?” Percy asked perplexed.

“Well, certainly. The gods move with the heart of the West.” 

“The what?”

“Come now, Percy. What you call ‘Western civilization.’ Do you think it’s just an abstract concept? No, it’s a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it. You might even say they are the source of it, or at least, they are tied so tightly to it that they couldn’t possibly fade, not unless all of the Western civilization was obliterated. The fire started in Greece. Then, as you well know—or as I hope you know since you passed my course—the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different names, perhaps— Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, and so on—but the same forces, the same gods.”

“And then they died.”

“Died? No. Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain, for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods. Every place they’ve ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the most important buildings. And yes, Percy, of course, they are now in your United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not—and believe me, plenty of people weren’t very fond of Rome, either —America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here.”

It was so freaking crazy that it made sense. This is not logical at all but nothing about my life has ever made sense so at this point, why fight it when the truth has been made so clear?

“Who are you, Chiron? Who...who am I?” Percy shakily asked. 

I looked at him nervously. I could tell by the tone of his voice that this was all probably too much for him at once. I grabbed Percy’s hand.

Chiron smiled. He shifted his weight as if he were going to get up out of his wheelchair, but I knew that was impossible. He was paralyzed from the waist down.

“Who are you? Who is Cassie?” he mused. “Well, that’s the question we all want answered, isn’t it? But for now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet. And plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be s’mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate.”

I perked up at the idea of food but, I quickly reverted back to the feeling of confusion.

Chiron began to actually rise from his wheelchair. But there was something odd about the way he did it. His blanket fell away from his legs, but the legs didn’t move. His waist kept getting longer, rising above his belt. At first, I thought he was wearing very long, white velvet underwear, which like first ew. Where were his pants?

But as he kept rising out of the chair, taller than any man, I realized that the velvet underwear wasn’t underwear; it was the front of an animal, muscle, and sinew under coarse white fur. And the wheelchair wasn’t a chair. It was some kind of container, an enormous box on wheels, and it must’ve been magic because there’s no way it could’ve held all of him. A leg came out, long and knobby-kneed, with a huge polished hoof. Then another front leg, then hindquarters, and then the box was empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached.

I stared at the horse who had just sprung from the wheelchair: a huge white stallion. But where its neck should be was the upper body of my Latin teacher, smoothly grafted to the horse’s trunk.

“Holy Mother of god!” I exclaimed.

Percy just stared mouth agape in shock.

“What a relief,” the centaur said. “I’d been cooped up in there so long, my fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come along you two. Let’s meet the other campers.

chapter 6 >>>

[lunar-wandering]

so. its the end of the week. we have not gotten a new trailer or a poster or screenshot.

so, as promised,

angst fic time.

-

He knows something's wrong as soon as he lands, and triumph fills her face instead of fear.

The Lady Bone Demon laughs, and dread fills Wukong's chest with a heavy, sinking feeling.

His connection to his successor, to MK, growing fainter, till it's nothing but a strained thread. He rushes to help, worry filling his every vein with adrenaline, feeling the connection grow weaker, weaker.

He shouldn't have left MK alone.

He keeps an eye on the thread as it twists and pulls.

"Oh, don't you already know? Surely you of all people could sense it."

It snaps.

"You're too late, Sun Wukong."

Wukong doesn't want to look behind him and accept reality. But he knows he has to.

Against his wishes, and his instinct's desire to keep the Lady, the real threat, within his vision, he looks over his shoulder.

It's like being crushed by a mountain all over again.

Some part of him had already knew. Had known the moment he'd felt the connection start to wither, that he was far, far too late.

But the rest of him is entirely unprepared to see the silent, terrified, stone face of his successor.

"Why, don't you look horrified." The Lady Bone Demon's voice hisses in his ear, almost as though she's right over his shoulder, but when he turns back, she's still the same distance away as before. "Fear, I must admit, is a nice expression on you."

Wukong doesn't have the time to grieve, to process the remnant statue of MK that looms directly behind him.

Still though, maybe, maybe if he runs now, he can find MK's friends, and if they don't kick him out immediately for being the failure he has proven himself to be, then maybe together they can find a way to fix-

"You should be made aware, I suppose, that your pitiful successor is not the only one you've failed."

Wukong doesn't even have the chance to ask her what she means before they're standing in front of him, blue, see through-

All the people he knew, entirely unresponsive.

Pigsy, Tang, Sandy. Hunstman, Goliath, Syntax, and a concerningly disheveled Spider Queen.

Princess Iron Fan and Demon Bull King. (He'd warned them, warned them, to get out of town, before he'd left. Hadn't given much reason as to why, only told them that things would be dangerous.

Maybe he should've told them entirely about the danger. Demon Bull King and Princess Iron Fan were stubborn after all, they wouldn't evacuate if not given a good reason.

He should've told them.)

He forces himself to look away, to not stare into their unseeing eyes-

And finds himself looking at the statue MK again.

There's a crack running down the center of MK's chest now.

Upon seeing it- something in Wukong cracks as well.

Eyes glowing red, ignoring how his body protests the movement, he snarls, leaping over the stolen souls, not even bothering with quips or snark as he focuses in on the Lady Bone Demon.

She maintains her cold smile, and simply moves out of the way.

He twists mid air, intending on summoning his cloud-

His cloud doesn't appear.

For a moment, shock makes it's way through the anger.

And then he plummets, and hits the sand below.

He coughs, pulling himself up, cringing at the way the pain of his injuries fluxes.

His eyes burn, and Wukong hisses, resisting the urge to rub them, knowing that it would only make it worse.

Stupid fucking sand.

Fighting through the pain, he forces his eyes open.

Just in time to blearily see the magic circle activate around him.

Gravity increases itself, pressing down on his back, nearly shoving him back down into the sand. He bites his lip, hard, his fangs drawing blood, to keep himself from screaming.

His vision is still blurry, but he can still see the blue as the Lady Bone Demon stands on the edge of the circle in front of him.

"How pathetic." She whispers, but it resonates as though it's been yelled. "Truly I expected you to put up more of a fight. Oh well...I suppose this works out for the better."

Wukong tries to stand up, fighting against the increasing pressure- only for the pain in his leg to flare, forcing him back down onto one knee.

"Hm... there are some hindrances that still remain though.... yes, perhaps this would be the best option." Her voice echoed in his head, ringing like bells. "It certainly would be more fun after all...."

Wukong shuddered as he felt cold chains loop around his wrists and legs. Through his blurry vision, he couldn't actually see them, but he knew. He knew they were there.

"Here is the deal, Sun Wukong." The Lady Bone Demon stepped into the circle, walking to loom in front of him. She held out her hand as though she was going to hold the side of his face, but didn't initiate contact, simply letting the coldness of her presence sink into his skin, frigidly threatening. Despite having fought enemies larger than himself multiple times before- this was the smallest Wukong had ever felt. "You will work for me. You will do my bidding. You shall never attempt to betray me, and in the end, you shall die by my hand. In return....your precious successor will not be reduced to crumbling ashes."

Distantly, Wukong could hear the sound of stone beginning to crack apart. His eyes burned too much for his golden vision to be of any use, but he could sense it. He could sense MK begin to crack and crumble.

There would be no way to fix him if that happened.

And Wukong knew full well, that handing himself over to the Lady Bone Demon willingly would mean horrible things for multiple people. He knew that holding one life over the many was a bad decision to make.

But at this point in his life- his old friends either long gone or already within the Lady Bone Demon's hands...

Well, his successor, who he'd honestly started to view as his son, MK was practically his only thing left to lose.

And he couldn't afford to lose it.

His voice refused to work, not even able to create a whisper. So instead, he lowered his head.

He didn't need to be able to see the Lady Bone Demon's face to know that it held wicked glee.

"Excellent." She hissed, and Wukong felt the invisible chains grow tighter, practically searing themselves to him. A cold wash of power ran through him, pushing the remnants of his own golden glow down, burying it under a freezing ocean.

It hurt. But if it meant there could still be some chance of somebody bringing MK back....

Then it didn't really matter what happened to him.

[inb4belphienaps]

warnings: demon hunter au, monsterification (?), blood, gore, fighting (physical), death word count: 2028

Through the sounds of one man’s grunting and the clash of metal meeting hardened flesh, the ground of the forest shakes. Whatever birds had remained in the wake of the battlefield signal to one another (warning not just their own, but also the other inhabitants) that the current fight taking place could have devastating repercussions. More devastating than the smell of iron continuing to linger in the area.

As the earth shifts, flashes of bright light mingle with green smoke, creating a pool of fog that, were it privy to the eyes of outsiders, would hint at sorcery being afoot.

Magic holds its weight here in these lands. Depending on where your loyalties lie, you are either the hunter or the hunted. The former is normally trained in combat and taught to wield their powers as well as their swords. The latter, on the other hand, is feared, for the reasons that they are hunted are rooted deep in their very nature.

They go by many names – creatures of the dark, harbingers of evil, infernal bearers of sin. The list continues. And the stories grow. Generation after generation, children are taught to fear them. They are…demons. Children too in fact, of the King of Hell.

A royalty shrouded in mystery. The legend says that those who look upon his face never again see the light of day. And, since, no one has been able to confirm nor deny the numerous depictions of him, littering the books of those whose teeth chatter at the very mention of his title and covering the walls of the temples erected in honor of those who fight against him, he is better thought of as the very embodiment of your worst fears.

The soldiers are easier to motivate that way, more willing to be shaped into obedience. Whether that is seen as the mangled bodies of their loved ones or heard as the cries of the innocent, they are to never show mercy to the beings that do his bidding.

However, there are those who (baring the markings of a heretic), believe that these monsters were once human. That they sold their souls and gave into the darkness. That they were swayed by sweet words of promises unkept and in the end only saw suffering.

There are also those who, in the same manner, believe that these monsters take on the forms of humans. Either the humans they’ve converted or humans that they are to ravage, soon-to-be victims of a plague that cannot be cured or forgotten.

Dangerous thoughts like these are what make the difference between a good soldier and an immovable hunter. If there is doubt or a shadow of sympathy when facing these beasts, you may very well find your head removed from your body, and then, shortly after, consumed in its entirety.

(Yes...they feed on humans.)

Blood mars the surrounding trees and smothers the leaves, painting them an ugly copper. Where the dirt turns black, Simeon knows a struggle took place. How valiantly his brothers and sisters must have fought, he thinks. And how unsavory a death they must have met.

With this in mind, he steels his resolve and focuses all his energy into the magic materializing in his hands, imbuing it into his sword. He’d perfected his techniques. Trained until they’d become an extension of him and his will.

“Why”, the creature says, “they didn’t tell me they were saving the best ‘til last.”

Simeon neither flinches at nor acknowledges its voice. A voice that would otherwise send humans fleeing, pushes him to carry on, to increase his speed and thrust forwards with accuracy.

“But I suppose I should’ve known. The ones before you were far too weak to stand against me.”

He lunges, twisting half-way when he’s met with a swipe of a giant arm and a lash of a bright-green tail. Green. The color of evil. Green. The color of sin.

“They never had a chance.”

“Quit your blithering, monster. I have no intentions of hearing you speak.”

The creature smiles. Though its features are ghastly and covered with remains, Simeon can make out the ends of its mouth and how they curl upwards.

“You’ll have to cut out my tongue then, hunter.”

With each instance that their magics meet, the world around them becomes all the more obsolete. The serene landscape is instead transformed into an arena, of which only the strongest contender will leave from unscathed.

Simeon has hunted many of these puppets in his time. Cutting their strings and burning their shells, he’d gotten used to the smell of them. Except their appearance is another matter entirely. This creature that stands before him is a testament to that.

Its scales shine in the sunlight, like jewels beneath clear waters. Its limbs are strong and impressive. Its horns, like the antlers of a magnificent stag, demand his attention. Disregarding the loathing he feels; the creature is almost beautiful.

Almost.

He creates some distance between them, reconfiguring his stance and propelling himself off the scarped face of a mound of rocks piled atop one another just so.

The creature is quick to respond and close in on him, running on all fours at him head-first, like a raging bull. Its strides are far and wide, causing Simeon to abandon future attempts at discouraging close combat.

There is a menacing, contained kind of anger that permeates from the creature. He senses it every time its magic brushes against him be it the patches of exposed skin or his armor.  There’s a heat to it too. A hot measure of lethality that reminds him to be careful.

Demons are after all, tricky beings with a history of dabbling in the dark arts (necromancy was nothing to them). These are experienced fighters, unhinged and free to do as they please without their need for self-preservation or the need to maintain their dignity getting in the way.

The sheer force of their clash resounds, akin to a clap of thunder and the sparks that fly as its talons scrape against Simeon’s metal gives ode to the lightning that would normally accompany it.

When they part, following a further exchange of blows, Simeon is panting, and the creature seems excited by the notion.

“You are a creature of the dark. You take solace in the shadows, so you may attempt to flee from your sins but make no mistake, beast”, he hisses, jutting his chin out defiantly with a type of pride that the creature knew all too well, “I will have your head.”

The creature laughs and bares its fangs. Only…the hunter in front of him pictures how they’d glint on his neck, to serve both as a reminder and as a medal for his efforts.

Taking this monster down and fashioning his remains into something wearable? It was the least he could do for his companions who had sacrificed themselves and died fighting. Hell itself would have to freeze over before he’d admit defeat in any sense of the word so that their deaths would not have been in vain.

Suddenly, something splits in the air, the fractures dissipating in a myriad of pieces that could pass for shattered glass and Simeon is temporarily rendered immobile. His eyes widen, and he feels the creature within him. It was invading his mind.

Sentiments of nights spent practicing on his own and memories of harsh winters spent in front of crackling fires cause his shoulders to shake. There, amidst the confusion and horror, his friend’s cheerful visage startles him back into reality.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”, the creature chides. “It’s dangerous to go looking for the dead.”

So, the creature knew his intentions. To find his friend and give him a proper burial. His friend, who was probably now disfigured beyond recognition, was waiting for Simeon to find him. He could feel it. His friend, the one who had been there to see him through the hardest times of his life, was calling to him.

“Silence”, Simeon spits, venom coating his demand as he hurtles daggers and magic alike at the looming silhouette shrouded in mist. Each one ricochets off of its hide, and he clenches his jaw. He wasn’t focusing hard enough.

“I’ll give you two seconds to prepare yourself”, it says.

The creature then comes to a standstill and Simeon feels the first inklings of dread. A sentence like that meant that he was either going to be met with a resistance he had no hopes of fathoming or it had a trump card up its sleeve – another nasty trick it could use to its advantage.

“One.”

Wind rustles the foliage above and carries his scent towards it. He tightens his grip on his trusty weapon and tilts his head to the side to crack his neck.

“Two.”

With inhuman speed, it leaps, first into the thickets, disappearing from view, then to his side, grabbing him by the scruff as he’s rendered helpless.

Simeon squirms, his sword doing little to better the situation, and he kicks at the creature’s torso. The dull sounds of his foot colliding with its build send a rush of panic through him. And then-

And then he is falling. And the creature is smiling, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he looks down at the devastation tainting his features. The creature stands at the edge of the cliff, watching him descend into the abyss.

“What a shame”, it says. “You put up such a good fight, little hunter.”

As the creature turns his back, its ears twitch and it swivels around in disbelief. Was there a humming noise? A buzzing? A ringing in its ears?

It doesn’t have the chance to come to a conclusion. Simeon surges upwards from within the depths, colliding with its giant frame, and crushes it to the ground, with the same foot he’d used to kick it just moments before firmly planted on its chest.

“You…you have wings”, the creature whispers.

Simeon resists the urge to shiver. He hadn’t known he’d had them. He hadn’t known he was even capable of conjuring such things.

In its moment of weakness, he plunges his sword into its chest, watching the expression in its eyes change from bewilderment to indifference. Perhaps this was its way of dealing with death. Upon realizing that it too, like him, is capable of it, perhaps it resigned itself to its inevitable fate.

“What is your name, hunter?”, the creature rasps.

He hesitates. It is said that once a demon utters your name, you are forever cursed. And yet, with the outcome of the battle decided, he’s willing to take his chances.

“My name is Simeon.”

The creature nods once and sighs, as if vaguely fatigued.

“And what do they call you? Do your kind even have names?”

It snickers, and Simeon removes his sword, the severe movement causing it to stiffen and clutch at the fresh wound, talons covered in its own sanguineous substance. He feels no remorse or contrition at the pitiful sight, and he digs his sword in once more, eliciting a grunt. The creature assesses his hands – vigorous and seemly, and baring a ring too.

“Satan. That is my name.”

.

.

.

As the sun sets on the horizon and bathes the scenery in twilight, a shadow emerges from the edge of the forest close to the border. His clothes are ripped, and his blonde hair is covered in mud.

He stands, taking a deep breath in, and closes his eyes. When next he opens them, they glow a vibrant chartreuse – its yellow and green hues mixing together to create an uncanny image. The dust has settled and so has the blood running through his veins.

A body lies beneath his feet. Its uniform indicates that the man was once a solider. And as he turns him over, a familiar-looking ring falls out of the soldier’s pocket. He stoops down to pick it up and admires it in the low light.

Yes, those seemly hands and those crystalline irises that’d shown unwavering tenacity.

He will return. If only to cradle that hunter’s pretty little head in his hands.

[god-fucking-dammit-mizutani]

it must be exhausting running all these circles around your mind

Word count: ~7500 | Rating: G | Chapter: 1/2 (part 3 of the overall series) Tags: Miraculous Ladybug AU, Superheroes AU, vague references to violence and trauma Summary: Taichi struggles with the right thing to do. Ladybug fights an akuma who has the upper hand. Or, well, eight of them.

Read on Ao3 or Below

Taichi wonders if his mother had ever gotten sick of reminding him all the time when he was younger, "If you've done something wrong, you need to apologize."

Back in elementary school, Taichi spent most of his afternoons with Sora, following her home directly after soccer let out. She had been napping on the couch one of those early evenings, exhausted from their last practice match, and Taichi could only be entertained by glue and construction paper for so long.

Her bangs had been overgrown back then. He had remembered her brushing them out of the way during practice, clipping them to the side to keep from bothering her when she'd lean over worksheets in class. Taichi didn't know she'd been working on growing them out. Honestly, he didn't even know what that meant.

He was pretty sure he was natural with the safety scissors Sora's mother had left him with. The jagged lines, he had concluded, were an artistic choice. Really, he didn't think he'd done too shabby of a job. Not at the time.

Sora hadn't appreciated his thoughtfulness, nor his artistry, and so Taichi had apologized. Several times and over days. Sora had been resolute in giving him the cold shoulder, but the reality of his grievance hadn't really set in until their next practice, when she wouldn't even so much as kick him the ball even if he was the only person open.

Sora had never missed kicking to him before.

"I know," his mother had cooed, kneeling on the linoleum floor in front of him where she had found Taichi in the team's locker room, nearly inconsolable. "I know you mean it," she had said, pulling a crumpled tissue from somewhere inside her purse and wiping the tears right off his face. It had been in vain as more swiftly took their place. "It's okay, Taichi," she had told him softly until he had finally settled long enough to look his mother in the eyes. For the first time she had taught him, "But just because you mean it a whole, whole lot, that doesn't always mean you'll be forgiven."

Across from him, under the shade of the tall oak tree, Sora pushes her bangs out from in front of her eyes, tucking them just behind the shell of her left ear. She had seen it in her heart to forgive him, eventually, when she no longer had to wear hats to hide his magnum opus. Taichi taps his notebook with the capped end of his pen, feeling the well of guilt pooling in his chest again. He wonders if she still thinks of it, if she regrets ever letting him back into her life.

Sora peers up from where she's been highlighting notes. Her eyes hesitate where the tempo of his tapping has become its own drum set before looking him fully in the eyes. Her smile looks sincere when she graces him with it and Taichi thinks, maybe, she doesn't.

A part of him is too afraid to ask.

"Bored?" She asks him, capping the highlighter in her hand and dropping it in the open space between them. It rolls down the table, the only indication of the slight incline the bench had been situated upon, and stops against his notebook. There's a rainbow of them gathering all over the table and Sora plucks another color from the pouch beside her— lime green this time—before returning to her work.

"No," Taichi says. "Just thinking."

A breeze passes by overhead, warm and comfortable, shifting the leaves until they chatter with the promise of spring. The sun feels nice where it leans against his right side.

An absolutely lovely day.

He should be enjoying it, in the company of one of his closest friends. Sora hums as another breeze passes by them, sounding content. It had been her idea to stow away for their shared free period at the end of the day, to get their homework done outside where the sun was inviting. "It'll make the work feel more pleasant," she had reasoned. Maybe it should, but when Taichi breathes in he wishes all that would greet him is the smell of fresh cut grass, the feeling of new life and rebirth and everything he associates with spring and soccer. But all he finds is what feels like a stone, lodged in the pit of his stomach and unmoving.

The bell chimes to mark the end of classes. Taichi can hear it just barely where they're sitting right outside the school building.

A flood of students runs down the main staircase. He's got a great vantage of it just over Sora's head. Several loiter under the roof, taking up residence on the benches as they wait for their rides. A few cross the road to catch the city bus, hesitating to wait for the students as they cross by in front of it. Others start heading in the opposite direction from him and Sora, towards the school fields.

"We should probably start heading to our clubs," Sora suggests, but she makes no immediate move to pack her things, still invested in highlighting her notes. She reaches for a bright pink marker next and Taichi collects the lime green one, tilting his notebook vaguely to catch it before it can roll past him.

"Did you hear about the other day?" Someone asks on their way past their bench. "We got ourselves a local superhero."

"You mean that insect man?"

"Ladybug," someone else corrects them. Taichi whips his head in the direction of the conversation. He watches the small group of students, intent, but their conversation is swallowed by the distance as they continue on their way into town.

Sora's pink highlighter thumps heavily against the bench seat beside him before plopping onto the grass. Taichi stares at it where it lays still.

"He's the buzz of the town," he hears Sora saying.

"Yeah, Hikari's a fan." Taichi leans down and grabs for the marker, dropping it on the table between them with his growing collection.

She's got a blue one now, tapping it against her cheek pensively. "I'm surprised the media hasn't been swarming this place since that attack last week."

"There wasn't anything to report since all the damage got cleared away," Taichi mentions.

"It did seem," Sora pauses, pressing her lips together. "Far-fetched to someone who wasn't there. I saw the first explosion knock out half the roof from the tennis court and it still feels hard to believe."

"I rode a magic bull," Taichi says with a long grin. "And I still find it hard to believe."

Sora doesn't seem to find the reminder to be as entertaining as he does and so Taichi let's his grin drop.

He turns back around for a moment, but the group he had been eavesdropping on has since vanished from earshot.

"There's been two more attacks since then. That's three in seven days, isn't it?" When he turns back, Sora's eyes are on her notebooks again, but she doesn't seem as invested in their contents. "How long do you think this is going to keep up for?"

He isn't sure if she wants an answer. Taichi knows he doesn't really have one that she'll want to hear. Instead he offers, "We just have to believe in Ladybug."

Maybe it's the right thing to say after all. Sora's smile returns in full bloom, relief spreading through her bright brown eyes. "He does seem to have it handled," she agrees.

Taichi smiles back, but his answer doesn't sit quite as comfortably with him. He's caught Ladybug's last two skirmishes on the news, watching with bated breath every time the situation turned sour just before the hero found a way to change the tides. Ladybug has gotten better, more practiced. At least from the outside, at the distance between the reporter and the screen and Taichi's couch. But he remembers what Ladybug had looked like up close, the set of his jaw contradicted by the shake in his hands, the fear in his eyes when he wasn't trying to pretend to be in control of their situation. Taichi’s chest feels heavy at the memories.

They're not friends. Taichi doesn't even know if they count as acquaintances, but every time he sees the superhero on his screen, he can't help but wonder, who will be there to save him ?

Only someone with a certain gift, Taichi remembers. His teeth clench at the thought. He'd done well enough without one, hadn't he? Maybe he could—

He meets Sora's gaze. This time concern creases her brow, worry evident in her eyes. He hopes it's not becoming a permanent fixture now. "Taichi?"

"Sorry," he answers sheepishly. "Just had... things on my mind."

"What things?" She asks gently, but there's a pressure to her voice that Taichi finds familiar.

He's not sure she wants to hear it, though. Guilt tugs at the back of his mind because he had, not that long ago, promised he wouldn't do anything stupid. It isn't fair that he should be here with her now, practically wishing for it.

But like a miracle of its own, another source of his anxieties comes careening down the staircase behind Sora's back, almost nothing more than a blur of red. "Koushirou."

"Koushirou?" Sora repeats, sitting up straighter in her shock. "I thought you two made up?"

"So did I," Taichi mutters. His eyes follow the path of the other boy as he crosses the campus. He hadn't really suspected Koushirou as someone who could hold a run quite that long, but Sora had implied he was once on the soccer team. Even if it was just mostly as a bench warmer. He disappears down the farther street. Taichi frowns. He wonders where Koushirou is heading. It's not the way he had seen him going home last week. He's pretty sure his home is on the other side of the city, just behind where he and Sora are sitting. Which reminds him, "Remember I asked you about the bakery?"

"Uh-huh," she hums. "The one Koushirou's family runs."

Taichi narrows his eyes, leaning forward across the table with his elbow. "A detail you forgot to mention."

"A detail I didn't think was important to mention," she corrects him.

"Yeah, well," he grumbles, "I went there on Saturday." Sora's eyes stay trained on him. "He barely said anything to me, then just ran off."

"Ran off?"

"And he's barely talked to me the whole week. We actually got assigned partners on a project and he emailed me to say he'd just do it on his own."

Sora's eyebrows shoot up.

"Here," he says, pulling his phone out of the side pouch of his backpack. He thumbs through several windows before pulling up the email in question and handing his cell phone over to her awaiting hands.

There's a short while of silence as Sora reads over it's contents, her eyes scanning back and forth and mouth forming some of the words unconsciously. Taichi waits, oddly nervous. Laughter cuts through the crisp air somewhere from the other end of the campus. Sora gives the phone a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes as she hands it back to Taichi. "It's written very politely."

"Yeah," Taichi says. He looks back over the message again with fresh eyes, hoping it will change his opinion. All the words read the same to him and he drops his phone into the abyss of his backpack. "It's the nicest get lost I've ever gotten."

Sora says nothing. Taichi stares at the latest ruined page in his notebook. There's nothing of substance there. Just doodles of lines converging along the margins, hapless patterns that seem to go nowhere. There's something like the sun at the top of the page, opposite a giant tear where he’d attempted to erase some lines. Taichi bites his lip at the image. He'd forgotten about it this last week, but the little box has been sitting in his backpack, waiting for the chance to be reunited with its owner.

Ladybug.

Taichi groans, thumping his head against his notebook. His thoughts keep leading back there no matter how much he tries to chase them away, to those dark eyes, to that stubborn determination and—

"Is it really bothering you?" Sora asks tentatively. He can feel her fingers gently tap over his fist on the table. When he looks up she's sending him her most sympathetic smile. "I can try talking to him like I promised?" She offers.

Right. The Koushirou Problem Redux.

He almost says yes again, wants to just let Sora work the magic that comes to her so easily and patch the whole thing up but, "Nah." She sends him an imploring look, one that asks if he's sure and Taichi tells her, "I should do it myself."

This time when Sora smiles, her lips turn up to the left in the way they often do, tinged now with a hint of pride and Taichi feels his heart swell to know he's the source of it.

Somewhere nearby the first notes to a shrill melody filters in, oddly muffled.

"Shoot," he says, jumping to his feet. Sora pulls back immediately, her eyes widened with concern once more. Taichi gathers everything he's certain is his own from off the bench and haphazardly drops them back into his bag, textbooks and looseleaf paper sticking up at different heights. "I have to pick up Hikari," he explains.

Taichi decides there's little risk of getting caught in a downpour on his way home without a cloud in the sky and doesn't bother struggling with the zipper after it only pulls up part of the way.

"Again?" Sora asks, her eyes following him as he squeezes out from under the table. She's capping her newest highlighter. "What about soccer?"

"I'll talk to you later," he says quickly, pulling his bag over one shoulder. Taichi makes sure it isn't the exposed side, not wanting to lose anything on his way. He gives Sora a hearty wave before jogging off in the direction of the local elementary school.

"That wasn't an answer!" She calls back to him.

Taichi sends her another wave over his shoulder without turning back. The notes of his alarm are singing again and he darts past the two sections of the pick up driveway without barely sparring a glance one way or the other as he crosses over to the main road towards the city.

Taichi feels out of breath by the time the first tower of the elementary school comes into view over the shop buildings. Running isn't normally an issue for him, but after a week of easing up on his usual conditioning, well, it’s to be expected.

He recognizes the teacher on duty today, sitting on the stone wall bordering the school, closest to his side of the street. She looks up from her lap full of papers, dark red ink visibly scattered throughout each page. Taichi assumes she must be taking advantage of her stolen time by grading test papers or homework.

He gives her a winded, "Sorry," but doesn't quite know why. She nods him in the right direction towards his sister before burying herself back into work.

Hikari is easy to find, being one of the last kids still lingering outside of the school. Only earlier this week she used to wait for him somewhere by the teacher, staring at the brick walkway as if it were the most interesting piece of architecture in the whole city.

Today, however, is different.

She's sitting on the wall adjacent, just on the other side of where it opens up to the main entrance. Taichi hears her talking long before he actually sees her, hair and legs bobbing in and out of view behind the large pillar she's tucked behind. He stops for a minute, flabbergasted as her laughter breaks over the sound of the other children in the park nearby, whose guardians had long come by to pick them up.

"They've been talking about Ladybug all day," the teacher tells him, with an amused smile.

Taichi looks back at her, offering a short, nervous laugh. "Talk of the town, huh?" A short hum is the only sign she even heard him. So much for small talk.

"Taichi?" His sister's soft voice calls for him. It's the only warning he gets before a heavy force knocks the wind right out of him. He pats a hand instinctively atop the head of the person hugging him and is bewildered when he spots Hikari still standing over by the wall several feet away, head tilted in a silent question.

He stares down into a pair of bright blue eyes. "Takeru?"

At the sound of his name, Takeru beams. His chin pokes into Taichi's stomach uncomfortably. "Boy am I glad to see you're all right!"

"Uh," Taichi starts. Distantly he thinks that should be his line. He had been looking down at Takeru the last time he had seen him, too. Back then he had looked scared, eyes wet with ready to shed tears. A reasonable response given that an entire building had just collapsed over them. Taichi swallows. Phantom debris fills up his lungs, a great pressure settling over his back, choking—

"How do you know my brother?"

Takeru pulls away. "I was just telling you about the guy who helped Ladybug!" He presents Taichi to his own sister with a sweep of his hand and a smile that could rival the warmest sun. The difference between then and now is startling to Taichi. "This is him! Taichi!"

Hikari stares up at him with her bright brown eyes, suddenly transfixed. It's as if she's looking at a completely new person and not the brother who's been late picking her up for the last week.

Taichi feels the weight settle heavier over his shoulders. "I wouldn't really say I helped—" he tries. Laughter bubbles up from his chest. It's anything but humorous. "It was more like —"

"A hindrance?" Someone suggests. Even though spring has already begun to settle, Taichi feels a sudden nip in the air. He catches Hikari's worried eyes.

"Yamato," Takeru says. In contrast he sounds so bright, leaning around the bend of Taichi's waist to greet the person behind them. Taichi follows his lead, turning on his heels to meet the new stranger.

Yamato looks to be Taichi's age, and even with the space between them he estimates they're probably about the same height, as well. His eyes are about as bright as Takeru's, but not nearly as warm. In fact as he looks between them, Taichi can't help but think the resemblance is striking. Given the circumstances, he probably isn't off in assuming they're related.

"You're late," Takeru chirps.

"Sorry." Yamato offers the younger boy a strained smile. "Go get your bag and wait for me."

"Okay!" Takeru dashes off back behind him, calling out to Hikari.

Without any warning, Yamato swiftly closes the distance, back straight and eyes narrowed directly onto Taichi. Instinctively, he takes a step back, his bag almost slipping all the way down his shoulder.

"You!" Yamato addresses him accusingly, jutting his pointer finger right into Taichi’s chest, voice dangerously low. His eyes remind Taichi of ice, finely pointed at him like daggers. He can hear Takeru and Hikari talking animatedly not too far behind them. "My brother could have died because you wanted to play superhero."

"I—" Taichi can't seem to get his volume down as low as Yamato's, but the timbre of his voice is almost as heated. "I wasn't—"

But it's not meant to be a conversation. Yamato doesn't wait for him to finish, mouth pulled back in a thinly veiled sneer. His finger digs in deeper, but it's not nearly as intrusive as his words. "You can't just be careless with other people's lives!"

Silence.

Several reactions vy for Taichi's attention at once: hurt, anger, defensiveness, guilt. He meets the teacher's imploring gaze over Yamato's shoulder where she's still stationed further down the wall and holds up his hand to tell her it's alright. She doesn't push the subject, returning to her work without a second glance. Taichi looks back to the other boy.

Yamato has since averted his own gaze, fists balled at either of his sides. Taichi drops his own gaze to the concrete, frustrated.

"Yamato!" Takeru calls out tentatively. "Are we going?"

"Just a minute, Takeru!" He raises his voice to call out to him. To Taichi he murmurs a quick, "Stay away from my brother," as he pushes past him. The satchel bag at his side thumps into Taichi's hip, but he somehow manages to swallow an affronted hey .

Taichi turns again, planting his feet heavy on the asphalt. His mouth opens, but Taichi doesn't really know what to say. It just simmers in the back of his throat, burning. Yamato never even looks back. Taichi can practically still feel the anger radiating off of him, shoulders taut and head resolutely high. Takeru tilts his head back to meet Taichi's stare, his bright blue eyes apologetic. He sends a short wave before picking up his pace to keep up with Yamato’s longer strides.

Hikari tugs on his shirt, startling Taichi back to attention.

"Who was that guy?" He asks, shaking his head.

He doesn't really expect an answer, but Hikari offers him one anyway. "I think it's his brother."

It wasn't exactly what he'd been asking.

"So I gathered."

First Koushirou, now this Yamato guy. Taichi seems to be building a rather terrible rapport. He flinches, wondering if Ladybug would count himself amongst them and they'll all start a club with matching jackets.

"We should go home,” Hikari suggests.

On the further wall the teacher is already packing her papers away in a hurry, relieved now of her extracurricular obligations.

Taichi lets out a long winded breath. "You're right."

"Already making friends, huh?" Taichi prompts his sister as they turn onto the main road. It's more crowded here. He holds out his hand and squeezes when Hikari takes hold of it easily.

She keeps her eyes glued to the pavement, her face pensive when Taichi peers down at her. "Maybe," she decides, carefully stepping over the next crack in the concrete. "He kept telling everyone about how he already met Ladybug, but there's nothing like it on the news. Everyone thinks he's making it up for attention."

"I see." Even kids have it rough. "And you believe him?"

Hikari shrugs her shoulders with great exaggeration. She hops over the next line and lands in the center of where the concrete has fractured into the shape of a small triangle, balancing herself on one foot, then hopping over it with the other like a personal game of hopscotch. Taichi's mezmorized.

"He didn't seem like he was lying." She stops for a moment, her large eyes staring up at him. "Was he?"

Taichi feels his cheeks heat in shame, breaking eye contact to watch where they're still walking. Narrowly, he misses trampling a dandelion that's made it's home between two slabs of concrete in the middle of the sidewalk. "Depends on what he said."

"So you really did meet ladybug?" Her voice is filled with awe, her hand squeezing his more tightly.

"Yeah," Taichi admits. "I met Ladybug."

Hikari looks away then herself, eyes focused ahead of them. She's no longer playing her little leaping game, but Taichi catches a glimpse of a long smile curling up her lips. He can't help but feel his own following.

"Hey, uhm, maybe don't tell dad," he thinks to ask her after they’ve walked several more blocks in silence. "About the whole, you know . Actually," he thinks better on it, "don't even mention it around mom, either."

"Okay," Hikari sings, swinging Taichi's arm with the force of her own. "It'll be our secret, then."

"Yeah. Our secret."

When he turns to smile down at her his eyes catch the storefront just over Hikari’s head. Plastered on the window in large, vinyl letters is the name Bakeology , almost perfectly transposed except for the crooked tilt of the ‘e’. Taichi doesn't notice he's stopped walking until Hikari tugs on his arm, having gone forward several paces without him.

"What's wrong?"

Taichi frowns. Baked goods sit visibly on little racks in the front displays, the easiest thing to see without pressing his forehead to the glass. Taichi isn't hungry for once, but he considers going inside anyway with the excuse of buying Hikari an after school snack. Just to test the waters. See if Koushirou's mom throws him out on sight or if she'll be as warm as she was the last time. And then, maybe, Taichi can rustle up the courage to ask her as casually as possible, "Has your son mentioned that he still hates me?"

Instead he says, "Nothing."

Several beeps set off in their general vicinity. Beside him Hikari reaches into her pocket and pulls out her own cell phone.

"It's an emergency," she relays, looking up at him with her honey-bright eyes. "There's another akuma attack."

Around them other people have already started scurrying about, ducking into stores, sprinting on their way to—Taichi assumes—their homes.

"Stay away from the harbor," Hikari reads further.

Taichi swallows. His backpack feels heavier, a reminder of the trinket still sitting inside. He has little doubt Ladybug will be there. It would be the best opportunity to meet him again. Taichi wonders if Ladybug would even recognize him, or if his face would blend in among the thousand others living in the city, just a blurry memory of the guy who almost got them all killed.

"Taichi?" Hikari asks, her hand tugging gently on his own.

He looks down at her, eyes large and worried. Taichi swallows again.

Yamato's voice comes back to him, the anger now sounding scared, shaky. "You can't just be careless with other people's lives!"

Hikari still watches him, and in the back of his mind he can see Takeru's bright eyes, dewey with tears, darkened with fear.

"Let's go home, Hikari," he tells her. The noise of the city seems to filter back in, a hum of panic still running through the streets. It startles Taichi's heart, but he does all he can to keep the fear out of his voice, the shake out of his hands as he squeezes hers tightly. "We'll be safe together, okay?"

She nods, looking as if she actually believes him.

Taichi keeps his eyes forward on his every step, letting new laid memories lead him on the route back home. He can feel his pulse quickening, a smarting of frustrated tears building behind his eyes, but he keeps them back, presses his lips together and just thinks about getting his sister home.

Hikari wastes little time shucking her shoes off in the foyer when they make it back inside. Taichi toes them towards the shoe rack at the door before stepping out of his own.

"I'm home, mom," she calls out. Taichi strains his ears to listen, but the only sound that greets him back is the creaking of a door and Hikari adding a quick, "I'm going to do my homework!"

She spares a quick glance back down the hallway at Taichi, smiling lightly. Hikari doesn't bother shutting the door as she heads into the living room with her backpack still over her shoulders.

"I'm home," Taichi says as he passes the bedroom door. He stands there for a moment, his hand hesitating over the knob, waiting.

"Can I put on the news?" He hears Hikari calling back from around the corner. Taichi feels his heart rabbit for a moment, wondering if someone else will answer.

No one else does.

Taichi closes the door gently as he joins his little sister in the living room, draping himself over the back of the couch. He tosses his backpack onto one of the empty cushions, just missing their cat, Miko, curled up by the arm. Hikari looks back at him inquisitively where she's set herself up on the floor in front of the coffee table, school worksheets neatly stacked on the table beside her. In front of her is a small notebook opened to a clean page.

"If you can still get your work done."

In answer she reaches for the remote. Taichi can see the barely contained excitement in her movements as the television clicks on. It's still set to the local news station where their dad had left it on last night before he'd fallen asleep in the reclining chair.

"—has been fighting off an akuma—"

Hikari grabs out a pencil case from her backpack and chooses one without ever taking her eyes off the screen. He doesn't think it's school work when she starts filling up some of the lines in her notebook, exchanging her time between it and the screen. Taichi opens his mouth to say something when the anchorwoman on the live feed lets out a sharp yell.

"We're alright!" The anchorwoman assures them. Takaishi Natsuko flashes in the lower corner of the feed as she offers up a long smile to the camera. "As you can see, Ladybug has pushed the akuma further into the harbor behind me here."

Taichi releases a long breath. The camera isn't close enough to see anything too well, but he can make out eight, long, spindly tentacles reaching out from beneath the waves. It must be some sort of sea creature—like a squid. He's not sure what the criteria is. Koushirou would probably know. But whatever it is looks huge. Comparatively, Ladybug looks like nothing more than a dot. Taichi squints. He might not actually be looking at Ladybug at all. It could be lint glued to the screen by static.

"What was it like?" Hikari wonders. Her voice is hushed, likely to keep it between the two of them. “Fighting with Ladybug, I mean.”

Exhilarating , comes to mind first and Taichi swallows it down. Unbelievable follows. He can still hear the crackling of lightning from The Minotaurus' horns, her yowls as Taichi held onto her nosering for dear life. "Terrifying," is too far down on the list to be comfortable.

On the screen the little dot, which is decidedly not lint, falls back. Natsuko reports, "He's still had no luck breaking through the akuma's defences."

Taichi has to hand it to her. He'd probably have gone stock still at this point, but if she's feeling any sort of fear, it doesn't come through.

"Unfair. It's like eight against one," Hikari comments as if she were talking about a schoolyard fight and not the forces of good versus... well, whatever they are. She scribbles something into her notebook.

"Someone should tell the monster to play nice," Taichi jokes. No one laughs. Taichi stares back at the scene, his heart pounding in his ears. He worries this time might be it. This time, maybe, Ladybug has met his match. Like, the worst sort of match. His hands feel clammy where Taichi balls them into fists, frustrated and helpless. He wishes —

"It would be nice if he didn't have to always be alone," Hikari says. She turns to look back up at him. As the afternoon sun dims outside, the light from the television looks brighter where it reflects in her eyes. "I'm sure even superheroes need support. That's why they're usually in teams, right?"

Taichi leans back until he's standing again, never breaking eye contact. It feels almost like, for a moment, she'd read his mind. "I guess," he manages to say.

Hikari hums, satisfied with his answer. Somewhere in his bag Taichi hears his phone chime again. He'll get it out, eventually.

The akuma on screen smashes through a row of boats lined up along a stretch of docks, sending splinters of wood and brightly colored flags rushing through the air on nothing but inertia from the one swing. Taichi swallows thickly as both Natsuko and the camera person shout once more.

"Takeru said Ladybug put everything back the way it was after he defeated the akuma." She adds, "Like magic."

"Just like magic," he agrees. Hikari writes that down, too.

Sensing she won't get much work done with him around, Taichi excuses himself to his room, swinging his backpack over the couch again to take with him. Miko makes a soft sound of startlement, blinking up at him before settling back into her ten hour nap. Lucky, Taichi thinks.

"Would you do it again?" Hikari asks him, her stare heavy on the back of his head.

Taichi hesitates near the door of his room. When he says, "No," he wishes he wasn't lying. "Finish your homework."

"I will!"

Taichi hangs his bag on the back of his chair, unzipping it in full this time to pull some of his notes and planner and textbooks out. He hopes they're the right ones. He finds his cellphone lodged in the center of one of his notebooks, dog earring the still clean pages in half. When he clicks it on there's about a half a dozen texts from Sora and a single one from his dad asking if they made it home safe. Taichi answers that one first before thumbing through all of Sora's.

Did you make it home? Is Hikari with you?

It's dangerous out there. I just want to know you made it somewhere safe.

Taichi please let me know you made it home alright.

I still haven't heard anything back.

You didn't go to the harbor did you? Taichi please tell me you didn't go.

Should I come over?

He sends her a quick, We just got home. Stay safe, Sora.

Instantly a little relieved smiley face answers him. Taichi smiles down at it. At least someone in town probably won't be investing in a club jacket any time soon.

He docks his phone on the charger stand at the back of his desk. It blinks onto the image of his now clear lockscreen and Taichi stares at it for as long as the image stays. His old soccer team grins at him, standing in two imperfect lines with their arms thrown over each other's backs in camaraderie. It's blurry, off-center, and clipping some of his former teammates half out of the photo. Hikari had taken it, shortly after a stint in the hospital, declaring she wanted to be a photographer that winter. Everyone had made sure to come out for the impromptu team photoshoot.

Taichi buries his face in his crossed arms. His family had moved away not too long after that, leaving his teammates behind.

After a moment Taichi sits himself back up, gently smacking both of his cheeks. "Moping is best paired with chores," his mother always said before handing him off something like a load of laundry or some latex gloves. Really, she had just wanted some help around the house, but it did usually take his mind off whatever was bothering him, so Taichi grabs for his school planner and gets to work on the first subject for tomorrow.

He's bored of it halfway through.

Bored, maybe, isn't the right word. Taichi taps his pen on the page of his notebook, then against his desk, his bare foot thumping along to the beat. It almost matches the tempo of his heart right now.

Just outside his room the muffled news report is streaming in, but he has no idea what's being said. A part of him thinks about holding his ear up to the door, or pulling up his own stream to watch on his phone. Indecision weighs him to the spot. Listening won't help him get any work done. Not listening also isn't helping any. For all he knows the akuma could have been neutralized by now, but he'll only be more restless if he finds out Ladybug is still in trouble.

Restless. That's it. Taichi is feeling restless. It's odd to consider that not too far from here a monster is ripping up part of their home, harming people. And here Taichi is, doing his homework like it's any other school night.

But what else can he do?

Believe in Ladybug , Taichi reminds himself. He taps the pen harder, frowning. He does believe in Ladybug. Really, he does. It's just—

He remembers what Ladybug looked like that first time; terror barely concealed on his face, his voice trembling around the edges. Mere stubbornness had probably been all that was keeping him together. Taichi's sure that's at least true of himself.

Taichi groans in the back of his throat, frustrated. He leans back in his chair, resting his knees up on the desk until the front legs tilt off the floor, letting it rock ever so slightly.

If he really wanted to help, Taichi needed one of those doo-hickeys . What had the old man called them? A—

His chair suddenly loses out to gravity, and Taichi tumbles down with it, heels over head.

"Ow," he complains to no one, rubbing at the sore spot on the back of his head. He's absolutely determined to give himself a lasting concussion, Taichi thinks grimly.

Half the contents of his backpack have slipped out across his already cluttered floor. Taichi swears, pushing breakfast bars and folders with all their unfiled papers back inside. He frowns at his soccer Jersey crumpled up on the floor where it, too, has tumbled out. Taichi debates whether or not he should shove it back in with everything else or toss it in the garbage.

Hamper , he decides, is the middle ground. Taichi grabs it as he stands up and is surprised to hear another thunk as something heavier rolls out from the bundle of fabric.

A small, cherry-wood box.

Oh. Taichi reaches for it. His fingers run through the intricate grooves, tracing over the abstract sun pattern he had noticed when he first found the box in the grass beside him, right after Ladybug had departed. He remembers the last time he had seen the other boy's eyes, dark and on the verge of tears. For him . The memory makes his heart simultaneously swell and ache.

In his hands, the wood feels warm suddenly, electric— awake— and it burns—

"Gah!"

Taichi drops it to the floor again. It clatters and tumbles along the hardwood, falling several steps away. When it settles, Taichi notices the sliding lid is now askew, a dark colored band leaning over the exposed lip.

He kneels down to inspect the contents closely, carefully. A voice in the back of his head tells him to leave it, maybe grab a fire extinguisher in case it starts to burn a hole in his floor, which he knows his dad will hate because they won't get the security deposit back again. But even knowing it might be dangerous, Taichi finds himself reaching out to touch it. Under the pads of his fingertips the wood feels cool again. He slides the lid the rest of the way down revealing a set of, "Goggles?"

Taichi used to own a pair a couple of years back, but he'd passed it down to a fellow teammate. These look more expensive, the strap a fine, navy blue and as his fingers pass over the glass eyewear they leave no smudges. The connecting end of each strap bears the same sun-like pattern engraved on the box. Taichi runs his fingers over this as well, feeling the small grooves so finely cut into the metal. Sun from outside bounces off the bright surface and for a moment Taichi is certain the little sun pattern is actually—

His eyes widen. It is glowing.

Like a fireball the light bursts out from the goggles and rockets across the room. He shields his face for a moment, ready to see his curtains go up in flames and have to evacuate the whole apartment, with an akuma attack in progress no less. But what he finds is much, much worse.

Taichi screams.

A small, orange creature stands atop his math textbook. "Taichi!" It greets him in a deep, scratchy voice with a long, sharp-toothed smile.

Great, Taichi thinks. It knows his name. It—

"Taichi?" A softer voice calls his attention to the door, complimented by a light thrumming that can barely be called knocking against the wood. "Is everything okay?"

Hikari . Taichi slowly turns his gaze back to the creature on his desk. It's bright, curious green eyes have also latched onto the door, head tilted to listen. Fear grips his heart like ice. The creature knows about Hikari now.

Taichi fumbles blindly for something around him to use as a weapon, but all that meets his grip are dirty socks and the goggles he's still got tightly clutched in his other hand. Nothing. Absolutely nothing useful. Taichi swallows. If he survives this, he's investing in a baseball bat. Or twelve, just to have on hand.

Taichi looks around the room, eyes darting from one more useless thing to the next until— aha !

Taichi slides himself along the floor, a little closer to the creature, leaning his way over to grab for the little box the goggles had been in. Those bright green eyes are back on him. Taichi refuses to break eye contact.

"She shouldn't know I'm here," the creature tells him. Taichi stares, bewildered. "No one can know I'm here."

"Taichi?" Hikari calls again, her voice soaked in concern.

Something makes him call back, "I'm fine!"

Hikari doesn't sound convinced. Taichi can't blame her. He doesn't sound convincing. "Why did you scream?"

"Just—" he notices the still fallen over chair and says, "fell off my chair!"

"Again?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine. Go back to the living room, okay?"

"Oh," she says back, still unsure. "Okay."

He listens for her footsteps creaking along the floorboards. Once he's satisfied she's far enough away he addresses the little creature, gripping the box tighter in his hand where he's hidden it behind his back. "Are you an, uhm," the word escapes him briefly. The creature still watches him indulgently as Taichi moves as slowly as he can forward. To him, they look just like a miniscule dinosaur. He'd heard once that they can't see someone if they're not moving, but Taichi doesn't remember from where. He knows even less if it's true. "An, uh..."

Lightening crackles in the back of his mind, dark red eyes staring down at him filled with rage and, maybe, the smallest glimpses of anguish.

"Akuma," he finishes. He rises to his knees not too far from the desk. Taichi hesitates, waiting for the perfect time to strike, like calculating when and where to kick the ball to get past the opposing team’s goalie in soccer.

The creature seems undeterred by his proximity, completely unaware of Taichi's intentions. He holds a long, clawed finger up to, what Taichi suspects is, his chin. "I'm Agumon. I'm a kwami."

Taichi stares. His grip almost loosens before he tightens it once more. He's so close now— "And that's different?"

"That's right!" The self-proclaimed kwami nods his head, sharp teeth poking out again from beneath his grin. Taichi jeers back as the same clawed finger points down at him this time, bracing for an attack that never comes. "A kwami gives the power to fight akumas to whoever holds a miraculous."

"Miraculous," Taichi parrots. The box clatters to the ground behind him as the familiar word eases something inside him. He follows the line of Agumon's finger down to his other hand where the goggles lay loosely in his grasp, against his thigh. "This is that thing? A miraculous gift?"

Agumon nods again. "You were chosen."

"Chosen." Taichi stares at the innocuous item in his hand. Sunlight glints off the glassware. A miraculous . His whole body shudders. With fear, relief, awe, gratefulness. But—

Maybe it wasn't really meant for him. He hadn't really done anything to deserve it.

" Don't ever do that again ," runs through his head. Taichi knows that he shouldn't. Last time he had tried to help he’d been much more of a, well, " A hindrance ."

Perhaps Ladybug had simply misplaced it.

"Can," Taichi stares at the goggles, his fingers slowly loosening from around it. "Can you give it to someone else?"

Agumon makes a short, deep noise above him while shaking his head. Even for such a small creature, the shadow he leaves towers over Taichi as he taps along the edge of his desk. "You were the one who was chosen. It has to be you."

“Oh…” Taichi looks back down at the miraculous. It feels like, no matter what action he takes, he's going to let someone down.

Muffled through the door, Taichi hears another shriek followed by Hikari's own stuttering gasp of, "Ladybug!"

No. No, no, no.

"Even superheroes need support."

Taichi looks back to the little kwami. Those bright green eyes are trained on him still, head tilted to the side imploringly. Taichi’s resolve thickens.

"What do I have to do?"

[talesfromtinytonka]

Prompt 4 - Baleful - A Prince’s Palace

(Author’s Note: A Realm Reborn and Palace of the Dead Spoilers. Contains some descriptions of death and decay some may find uncomfortable).

Drip. Drip. A steady droplet of unclean water fell upon him from the damp stone of the ceiling hanging high overhead. He had felt its obnoxious presence disturbing his sleep for some time, he thought, but it was only now that his body wished to awaken and move in agreement. The lalafell groaned a raspy, annoyed sound as his sleepy mind became reacquainted with the movement of his limbs in an attempt to get up. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache as he pushed upwards from the cold stone floor with his hands, his eyes looking down into the hazy darkness of the room in confusion. “Where am I?” the man thought, trying to recall the events of the night before. “Was it…a party?...Yes, I remember now…I must have drank too much.” The monetarist let out a curse as he struggled to get back up and find his composure once more. He knew himself to be quite bad at holding a drink, especially when attending celebrations. Though his mind was shrouded in aching fog, he was certain that the night before had given cause to much celebration.

It took considerable effort for him to finally stand, his joints creaking as pain shot up his body like a fire. The lalafell yelled out in frustration at his own soreness, calling out for a guard to fetch a chirurgeon. His refined voice fell on no ears, however, as it bounced upon the walls of the strange room he found himself in. “Curse those worthless Brass Blades…where in the hells am I?!” The lalafell looked around the dark room he was in. In all his years serving on the syndicate, Teledji Adeledji had never seen a room like this in the royal palace. The walls were dark and fairly damp; a strange, ethereal glow emanating from their cracks to produce just enough light to make out the dimensions of the room. Teledji took a step forward, nearly falling over once again as his feet seemed to delay their response to his command. Cursing once more, the lalafell managed to stumble up against a wall, his hand wiping the sweat off his face as he focused again on the events that had come to pass the night before. “The party!” Teledji recalled. “I must have celebrated the ‘unfortunate’ passing of the Sultana by the Scions hands a little too much…I’ll make my way back out to the court proper and call for assistance.” Teledji brushed his hands upon the matted hair of his goatee, shuddering at the sensation of filthiness upon him. Someone would pay for the state of this place as soon as he was back in clean clothes, he thought.

Teledji walked along the side of the room, letting the wall keep his shoulder steady as he used his hand to guide him through the darkness. The room had hallways, it seemed, which led only to more rooms of similar darkness and texture. He contemplated the purpose of these rooms: were they for storage? Perhaps an abandoned corridor from the damage of the calamity? Teledji grinned as he thought about the treasures and secrets that might lay hidden in the palace that would one day be his, lost to the passage of time. The thought of riches and power called out to him like no other mistress, all soon to be his with the success of his careful scheming the night before. Lord Lolorito and the other monetarists would have no choice but to kneel before him and the power of his Omega device, and no Scion would be left to challenge his excavation of the Cartenau Flats. Not even Raubahn, the blind bull of Ala Mhigo, would stand in his way. His thoughts lingered on the name coldly as he continued to guide his way back to civilization.

It was in the discovery of his third identical room that Teledji seemed to hear the grinding of something out in the darkness. The sound made the lalafell curious, and so he stepped in further to investigate. The noise had become quite loud to him before his eyes could make its source out in the darkness of the room. Before him stood a flowing, dark specter, its dark-as-night cloak flickering with an otherworldly glow of ominous magic. Teledji jumped in place, letting out a muffled eep as he backed away slowly. The grinding noise, as Teledji had learned, seemed to come from the unmistakably sharp and long claws beneath the creatures robed sleeves, scraping and clicking amongst each other in menacing anticipation. As the creature began to turn Teledji stumbled against the wall, throwing any chance of silence to the wind as he attempted to run away screaming. “Somebody!! Anybody! HELP!” Teledji screamed, calling out the names of any guard or Crystal Brave he could recall. “A voidsent!? In the palace!?” He thought, doing whatever he could to make distance between himself and the creature.

Teledji ran through room after room, no longer aware of where he had been or not been before finally tripping and falling to the floor. He laid on the floor, his body shuddering as he took a deep breath and listened in for the sounds of the creature. The moments seemed to pass like hours as he waited for any sign of his impending doom, a sign that never arrived to his surprise and great relief. The specter, it had seemed, had lost track of him. Teledji sighed in immense relief and began to sit back upright, but not before noticing a curious sight: His robes, tattered and dirty as they had become from this place, were soaked in blood down the entire front. As the lalafell went to touch the dried blood, his memory seemed to come back to him. “R-Raubahn! That’s right! Raubahn tried to attack me! I must have followed the blades down here to apprehend him as he tried to escape…why on earth would they have left me down here!?” Teledji grew angry as he stood back up, regaining his balance against the wall. No royalty should ever be made to deal with this, he thought. Teledji took a deep breath and tried to recompose himself for what he knew to be required ahead: There would be no empire if he did not escape this place, and clearly the idiotic guardsmen of Ul’dah could not be relied upon in this case.

Knowing now that the path before him was dangerous, the monetarist made his movements far more careful as he sought to follow the walls in the opposite direction this time. The darkness down here was certain to obscure his movements from other creatures, he thought, and it was highly unlikely he would have been willing to venture too far down into these catacombs in the prior night’s hunt for Raubahn. Some time passed as Teledji wandered the labyrinthine halls and rooms around him, completely lost to any sense of direction. As Teledji continued to explore, he eventually found a room unlike the others he had seen before, adorned in a blue light with soft glow. As he made his way into this room, he was surprised to see that he was not alone; the glow seemed to emanate from a torch-like fixture in the corner of the room, and beneath that fixture sat a man with his back turned to the lalafell. The man wore the telltale clothes of a poor man of Ul’dah; his Highlander complexion provoking a smile of relief upon Teledji’s face. “You there! Refugee! Help me to safety and I will pay you your weight and more in gold!” The man failed to respond, mumbling under his breath repeatedly. Undeterred, Teledji sought to provoke him further. “Up with you! Are you lot from Ala Mhigo all this lazy?! Fine! A palace for you and yours, just get me out of here!” Teledji grew angry at the man’s lack of response and stumbled forward to grab the man by the shoulder. Finally, the man turned, revealing a throat slit and caked with the blood blackened and crusted over by time. Teledji let out a shriek and backed up as the man looked into his eyes, the top corner of his face simply gone from his hairline to his empty eye socket. “Executed….I….I can’t….I w-was…” The man looked to Teledji, his one remaining eye pleading in horror as an effluvial scent of rot escaped his open mouth.

Teledji took off, unable to bear the sight of the man any longer as he ran down the halls and rooms screaming. “T-this place has gone mad! SOMEONE! ANYONE! PLEASE HELP!” The reality of the danger he was in had finally set in his mind, the endless passageways of this place seeming to close in on him like a prison. Teledji would bound his way through a room only to find other creatures as foul in appearance as the ones he had seen, all seeming to pay him little mind as he continued to scream for help. As he rounded a corner into a one-way room, he tripped, flying up into the air and falling upon the uneven stone floor with a sickening rip behind him. He struggled to stand, rolling over on his back as he tried to get up. Looking down, Teledji let out a fresh scream of fear: his lower half had begun to come undone, his waist connected to his torso by only a few sinewy threads of muscle and a cracked spine, the blood and flesh exposed by the separation dark and flyblown with larvae squirming in and out. Teledji thrashed his upper body in instinctual fear, smashing himself against the floor in any desperate attempt possible to free himself from the disgusting rot that had seemed to so suddenly grip his lower half. There was no relief in his mind as he finally freed himself from it, dragging himself with his hands out of the room as he tried in futility to find his escape from this nightmare. “This isn’t possible…I should be dead….I should be dead!” Teledji closed his eyes and begged for himself to awake in his bed, his hands pulling and dragging him out of determination to leave.

As Teledji dragged himself towards the sounds of fighting that now echoed the halls of this place, his mind gained clarity through the madness of his current predicament.

“I….I a-am dead.”

The lalafell remembered all too clearly now the events of the party, how Raubahn had treated the news of his beloved Sultana’s death. The last moments that he could remember were the burning of steel; the sensation of the numbness of his lower body as his back hit the ground, or so he thought. Teledji knew now that the truth was far more sinister than that. That night had not been last night by any stretch of imagination, and though he had no count or idea of how long it had been, he remembered now what was to come. As Teledji looked down the hallway to the shimmering of armor against the glow of the darkened rooms, his eyes lit up with knowing fear over glimmering hope. The Warrior of Light he had condemned to regicide was coming, as he had come so many times before, and there was nothing he could do to stop him. As the man dashed down the hallway towards Teledji and brandished his axe high in the air behind him, intent on repeating the cycle once anew, Teledji could only let out but a few cowering words. “N-No…S-Stay back! Not Again!”

[lighthouseborna]

        Alright I never know how to open these kinds of posts so let’s just start with a fact, shall we: Henry Turner grew up with a shadow cast upon his childhood. 

        Call it what you want, that curse that was not quite a curse, that painful space that was not quite a void but not at all the solid thing it should have been. An inherited trauma. An exaggerated hurt. No harm, precisely speaking, that was ever inflicted directly upon him –the people who loved him loved him well, and saw him happily brought up– but still something, by whatever terms you chose, severed. Set aside. This, as you may know, created a young man obsessed with repairing not only his own life but the lives of the people around him. He set his sights on this shadow as a thing to be restored. It stood as his primary motivation for the better part of his early life. The ultimate truth of this shadow, however, is that even as Henry’s greatest loss, it has spoken more to distance than true departure.

      And I do not think the reality of that truth is ever as important as it is when Jack is threatened and Henry is forced to confront it.

        And I do not think it’s ever as powerfully impressed upon Henry what that difference means as it is in this precise moment:

        But we’ll get there in minute. First, listen.

        Up to the confrontation on the ocean floor, the goal has been forward. Find everything about the trident. Find the trident. Use the trident. There’s been steps to get there and setbacks from, and and and, but the way has always been ahead. Henry has made up his mind and nothing —not the law, not he physical space, not the chance that it is myth, not the fact no one else has done it, not his own safety, not that the binding was made by a goddess, not Jack’s advice, not William’s dissuasion, not even his mother and so the answer must be nothing— has stopped this boy. And it is not for honor - he made no promise. It is not for vengeance - that fight has already been fought, and won. This is for love, pure and plain. For the mule-headedness of something believed in.

        And for the love of god(s) he comes so close to it. So close. Unbearably so. If not for Salazar and his grudge-driven agenda, it stands to reason that Henry (yes with help, I’m not ignoring that it’s just not my point right now) would have succeeded. And honestly would have succeeded with relative ease, all things considered. But that is not how these things go, is it? No, of course not.

        And that brings us, with some skipping over things I could absolutely rant (more) about but will not for the sake of this post not being a hundred miles long, here:

        And that, dear reader, brings us here.

        Faced with the immediate choice, save Jack or use the trident, Henry picks ‘save Jack.’  

        This choice, though he won’t have the time to sit with it for awhile, speaks to the truth that he knows: however painful, however faulty, the ‘curse’ of attachment to the Dutchman has kept William Turner alive and well. So, painful as it is —painful as it is— Henry chooses to let go of the one (1) thing that has been forward. Because, certainly, with things as they are, Will is removed, missing out, and the distance hurts. But the fact remains that it is just distance. The fact remains that Henry is promised his father, promised that the man exists and that there is love there.

        So. England’s God. Greek Gods. Ghosts, too. Damn them all. This is for love; he picks Jack. 

        And that’s important! but there’s no time to rest on it no time to digest this choice he’s made - he knows he made it, he doesn’t make random choices. [Impulsivity, one might care to point out, is sometimes (not always, but sometimes) a close cousin of pragmaticism. What comes first typically comes to mind first as it’s the clearest way to see something done... but I’m digressing. No time!] Henry made his choice for the sake of love but It’s never that easy; now they’ve got to get out. Exit, pursued by an ever-vengeful bull. Under threat by an ever-vengeful bull. 

        And this is where things he could never have accounted for fall together. Where Barbossa catches Carina and Jack watches with heavy eyes. Where some understanding passes between Jack and Barbosaa. 

        Years Henry has not seen. Conversation he was never privy to.

        And a cutlass.

        And, that’s right, we’re here again

        and it has never been as powerfully impressed upon Henry what the difference between distance and departure is until this moment. Because there is, you see, a very real difference between distance and departure. 

        The loss here is not his, no, but it is perhaps the first time that what his loss would have been has brushed by his shoulder with as much weight behind it. Reckless, optimistic defender that he is, there is nothing he can do but watch everything Carina has spent her life searching for drop into the cold, crushing waves. She didn’t choose to let it go, she can only watch as it falls from her grasp. That is where the truth is found. It is a hard lesson, press upon him as an unwilling bystander, but there is loss and there is Loss. Something missed out on and something taken forever. He will never again mistake one for the other.

        And when, as ever, his choices are rewarded, as his gift horse walks up that hill, even he, blasphemer, will not look this blessing in the mouth.

        And when Will asks “How did you do it,” he answers let me tell you.

        Let me tell you says Henry, thinking specifically about the way he watched a man —a man he witnessed as a ruthless, opulent captain and knew tale of as a scoundrel and heard confessions of blackheartedness from— throw himself into the open maw of the ocean to sure obliteration. Thinking specifically of the way Barbossa looked only at Carina as he fell. Thinking specifically of the way that what passed along with that blade on that day was understanding and familiar ground. 

        Let me tell you.

        That this is always worth it. This is the choice. This is what I’m fighting for.

        Of the greatest treasure known to man.

        This is for love.

[dirthavarens]

lmao found this in my drafts about mirani and you know what? yeah can someone get my girl a fuckin juice box? 

I realized a LOT about Trespasser Era Mirani. This woman is a mess. The Inquisition took everything from her. 

She started out as a Dalish Elven researcher. That’s how she presented herself before the Conclave. She was a researcher first, mage second. The fact that she even was a mage was just purely happenstance. It assisted in her journeys into the Fade, in her research and understanding of the ancient elves and even early Tevinter. She dedicated blood, sweat, and tears into discovery. 

And then the Conclave happened and her whole world flipped. She saw it as a way to put distance between the Clan and herself as they never really got on well. She was never First and she was never going to be First. Her clan tolerated her abilities because of what another said. Her vallaslin was given to her more as a reminder of where she was ranked, not how she dictated her life. She was already an outcast, but she had family and friends among them. She loved her Clan even if they hated her. Everything she did, everything she found, she just wanted to show and teach.

Then she became the Herald of Andraste and that left such a disgustingly bitter taste in her mouth. She was not Andrastian, had no desire for the connection to be made. Over and over and over she was talked over and disregarded as who she wanted to be. Solas helped. He would speak to her late into the night at Haven and in the Hinterlands. He filled her head with all of the stories she wished she could see. For the first time she let her heart open willingly. Despite feeling for others and as others, her empathetic heart gave little time for her to know her own true feelings. 

Solas helped. Cole helped. Dorian helped. Even Cassandra helped. 

She became Inquisitor because there was no one else who would rise to the task. Mirani did what was necessary, always what was necessary. In it, she lost her identity. Bull helped with drinks, Sera with shenanigans, Varric with exaggerated tales. Yet, she always found herself in the rotunda, humming sweetly with a book in her hands as Solas would paint. 

And then Clan Lavellan fell. Because of her. Because of her decisions. Because of what she did. There would be no life for her to return to after the Inquisition.

Her faith, which had already been shaky, had been torn from her as well. With every bit of discovery, she began to hold animosity towards those she once saw as the most powerful mages to ever roam Thedas. 

Then came the Temple of Mythal. Clan dead, faith ruined, and then ancient Elvhenan stood before her. They looked upon her as though she was nothing and she had never felt smaller. Or at least she thought she couldn’t feel smaller. She learned that wasn’t the case as she was left alone bare-faced in a wyvern den. Crestwood was always cold at night, but she didn’t know how cold it could truly be. 

And then he left entirely. She had Cole, Dorian, Cassandra, but none could keep her mind occupied the way he could. Leliana had asked if resources should be allocated to finding him. She said no. 

She was surrounded by friends and colleagues, but she was entirely alone. The only home she had was Skyhold. Its stone walls became her armor, its libraries and studies became her mind. 

Two years of politics, two years of cleaning up the mess left behind. She did all she could. Served endlessly, ran herself ragged, lost herself to “Inquisitor Lavellan.” 

Mirani Lavellan died at the Conclave. She died again in the Arbor Wilds. And once more at the summoning of the Exalted Council. 

Inquisitor, Inquisitor. Herald, Herald. Inquisitor. My lady. Of course, your grace. 

The titles haunted her, echoing in her sleep, eating at her until she couldn’t stand to look at her barefaced reflection in the mirror. The magic at her hand felt like a curse. Every single goddamn thing felt like a curse. 

Maybe Athara had been right. Maybe the Dread Wolf did catch her scent. Maybe he had wrapped his jaws around her neck and clamped down. After all, if Mythal was real...

She brought this misfortune on herself, she had to have. 

And then Fen’Harel became a reality. Cole, who was once so reluctant to speak of Solas, allowed his name to flow freely from his lips. Ever present, ever pushing...the hot breath of the Dread Wolf clouded her thoughts until clarity rang. 

The paintings. The first seemed impossible. The second coincidental. The third...she knew. She filed all of the pieces together and in that moment she knew what and who. Mirani just wanted to know why.

Then the pain from the mark was unbearable. She couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t plan. She wanted it to stop. She wanted everything to stop, to find a moment where she could simply be Mirani Lavellan again. And it was then that she made her decision. 

She would stop the Qunari and she would destroy both herself and the mark in the process. 

Like, can someone get my poor girl a fucking juicebox? 

[sentofight]

Light on her feet, this one was, and he found himself quite impressed that she rebounded so quickly and set upon him once again once her initial attack had missed. Rather different from fighting her father, all things considered, given that the man was a unassuming powerhouse of a swordfighter. He readied his guard once again until–

   –A feint?

   So that was her game. Trick him out with her mobility. As she started to rebound onto the backfoot, his first assumption was such that she intended to slingshot herself back towards him after throwing him off. She really wanted to turn this into a deadly dance, didn’t she? He’d gladly take that challenge, given that he was no slouch on his own two feet as well. See how she liked her own tactics being used against her.

   The tips of his feet sent him bounding forward towards her even as she bounced backwards, with the swordsman being fully intent on interrupting her charge midway through as he kept his sword guard raised, ready not only to deflect her incoming blow midway but to bull straight through her – at best, smashing her off guard and forcing her to break away once more and, at worst, practically trampling her down in the middle of her leap. Downward, was it?

   He hoped, for her sake, she was made of sterner stuff, because he neglected to check his own strength during his forward rush. It was all on Lucina to avoid his barreling charge or to summon the fortitude she needed to withstand it.

@wayward-sword​

Not everything you calculate will work in real life and that what happened to Lucina. She thought she could catch Zech off guard with her dash at him, but it seems he had anticipated, or due to his experience, his body reacted faster than she hoped he will. In her mind, she could somehow shake off his defense enough for her to land a good blow on him, perhaps win this fight. However, Zech had other plans.

As she rushed towards him, she saw--or had a glimpse of his figure bolting towards her as well. In her fast motion, it was hard for her to stop and change plans. Lucina had either jump to the side to avoid him, or meet him on this deadly rush, and she chose to remain steadfast to her original idea and fight him head on. She had fought her father and they came to a similar outcome like this, in a couple of these times. She did not know much Chrom’s strength is at first but after training with him, she knew it is not something she can stop head on alone. The thing she hate that she cannot just rely on her strength to challenge strong opponents--Male strong opponents. In terms of psychical power, a male opponent will have the advantage against her, but that never stopped her from challenging her limits and growing stronger, and smarter.

Let’s say her pride did not allow her to shrink from that confrontation. There might be another way to go about this but Lucina wanted to test her strength, her pure strength against Zech’s. Though her reality came crumbling when she couldn’t even stop him for two seconds and found herself not just pushed, but flown off her feet, landing on the ground. A pained cry was heard before she dropped on the ground. To whoever watching from distance, would assume the worst. It was not looking good for Zech if someone walked on them, seeing Lucina like that.

“Gaah!--unn...Ughh...!!” Naga’s--! It...hurt! He’s pure strength perhaps like or even more stronger than her father’s! If she had not raised her left arm to cover up her chest area, she might have a broken rib or two. Actually, she might have a broken rib, who knows. But it was not enough to get her to back down. She took a sharp breath in, trying to regain control of her body before she rolled to the side and tried to get up using her Falchion, which she did not even drop after falling down.

“--*cough*...D-don’t look at me like I’m done for... I...*cough* had worse.” He promised to not go easy on her, and she is grateful for that. Few people who dares to actually spar with her on similar grounds. Lucina took her stance again, eyes closed for a second to calm herself down and get her bearings. “Come on! What are you waiting for? I’m not done yet! Second round, Zech!” a beaming smile cross her features. Oh she is living right now!

[zuholymama]

Kim Youngbin | The Escort

Chapter 3. / Safe 

Warnings: Violence

Word count: 4623

Pairing: Youngbin x OC (female)

Featuring: -

chapter 1 / chapter 2

===============================

Youngbin feels like his heart is going to jump out from his mouth. It’s beating so fast, he’s worried and anxious. The lift that’s taking him to the 20th floor feels like it’s going up forever. His finger keeps tapping on the pipe by the wall in trying to distract himself.

“Why the fuck does she have to live this high, god dammit!”

His other hand is still keeping his phone close and connected with Jun, making sure he knows what’s happening until he gets there to save her. Youngbin curses himself for being careless. He never thought it was going to be this complicated, he never thought--

Suddenly a loud gunshot followed with Junko’s scream stops his train of regrets and snaps him back to reality.

“JUNKO!?”

It took her a while to respond but then Youngbin hears a door roughly shuts close with a lock. He thinks she must be inside her bedroom or toilet. This isn’t good. The situation is dire and he needs to get there as soon as possible. His eyes dart back into the floor level’s screen, he just past the 17th floor.

“Y-Y-Youngbin, what the hell is happening…!?” She asks desperately. Youngbin feels his heart is wracked with guilt when he hears her crying. She must be scared shitless and he hates how that reminds him of his failure. “He’s inside--he’s inside the living room! He was shooting at the door!! Is he trying to kill me!?”

“Shit. Don’t come out there no matter what!” Youngbin warns, not like he doesn’t know Junko would do the opposite but he really can’t think of anything else to comfort her right now, “I’m in the lift! Hold on!!” He adds quickly, hoping she will believe that she’s going to be safe.

Youngbin’s eyes never leave the lift’s screen. He needs to hear the bell rings. Then God seems to hear his prayer. He’s immediately on high alert, readily standing close to the gate. As soon as the lift’s door opened halfway, Youngbin slips through and run as fast as he can to room number 204. He sees some residents are coming out from their rooms to see what’s going on. Must because they heard the gunshot. Paying them no mind, his feet keep on sprinting forward. He needs to be as fast as possible before the police come in.

Finally stopping at Junko’s front door, he sees the door handle is completely busted from the gunshot. It’s barbaric he thinks. Youngbin never thought that goddamn hitman would be this brave in a public residency. Pushing the heavy door with his body, Youngbin runs inside to the living room and immediately spots the way towards Junko’s bedroom for that criminal is standing right in the middle of the door frame. He needs a weapon because his gun was taken by Suho. His eyes dart to the kitchen that is located in the same area. Without much more thinking, Youngbin runs to the aisle and grabs a knife in the rack. Turning back and then going sharp to his right, Youngbin sprints towards the hitman and then jump to stab his knife into the hitman’s shoulder blade.

“ARGH!”

Pulling out the knife again, Youngbin jumps back to keep a safe distance. He sees Junko behind the big man, her watery eyes are looking at him in shock and disbelieve. That’s the moment where Youngbin regrettably knows everything isn’t normal anymore. She’s seen everything.

“You…” The assassin’s gruff voice seethes through his clenched teeth, “the escort.” He grins, knowing all this time his suspicion is right.

“Stay the fuck away from her.” Youngbin warns. His voice is uncharacteristically cold, unlike what he’s been using towards Junko. He has nothing to hide anymore now that she’s finally exposed to the danger and the secret he’s been keeping.

His enemy merely chuckles. The pain of his stab wound seems to be nonexistent for him.

“Kim Youngbin, The Iron Fist, Ruska Roma’s brat.”

“Good, you know who you’re messing with,” Youngbin scoffs, “I know your face. You’re Darian. I’ve seen you in the ring.”

“It’s a pleasure to make it in your memory, oh champion.” He sneers. “It’s such a shame that we have to meet outside the ring… in this situation.”

“Yeah. Too bad I haven’t had the chance to fuck you up.” Youngbin lowers his stature, the kitchen knife he was holding is thrown away to the bedroom’s opened toilet. For a moment that confuses Jun. She doesn’t understand why in the world would Youngbin throw away his only weapon. Then as if telling her not to worry anymore, his hands reach the inside of his jacket’s pockets, bringing out a set of white bandages.

“Ooh...” Darian shakes his head. “As expected of what a wrestling champion would do, I guess.”

The said champion pays him no mind as he quickly ties the rough bandages around his knuckles, covering his whole palms and then tying the knot on his wrists.

“Let’s make this quick.”

As much as she is terrified, she is also in awe with the sight. Youngbin seems to look… really strong. Those pair of dirty bandages seem to be just right around his hands, it feels natural. And the fact that she’s going to witness a fistfight makes her feel even nervous. Her spot isn’t exactly safe either. She doesn’t know what to do but standing still.

“Didn’t you see the door?” The guy grins and then waving off his little toy, “What makes you think that you’re going to be quicker than-“

Without warning, Youngbin grabs a glass vase on his right and then throws it towards Darian’s direction. Caught off guard, Darian uses his arms to shield himself from the impact. The vase shatters into pieces, the water and flowers falling unceremoniously towards the floor.

“Fuck!!” The big man hisses, definitely not liking the surprise. He’s giving a window for Youngbin to attack before he regains his standing. In one breath, Youngbin takes a quick step and sends a hard jab towards Darian’s defenseless stomach. A painful scream comes out from his lungs. He feels his stomach is on fire and his innards are all scrambled. The impact is enough to weaken his grip on his gun as Youngbin sees it falls down from his grasp. Taking his chance, Youngbin catches the gun and then throws it to Junko who is in front of him.

“Jun, catch!!”

“E-eh!?”

Not given the chance to complain, Junko catches the gun that her guide throws at her with her both hands. It feels heavy on her hands, her eyes are a bit entranced. She doesn’t know whether it is because of her first time holding a gun or it’s the weight of the danger of the thing. She’s so afraid that she will accidentally pull the trigger.

“Go up to the bed and run back into the living room, put the gun inside your bag! Now!!” Youngbin orders, waking her up from her daze. Her mouth feels like it’s dried up. Not being able to answer anything, Junko only frantically nods and does what he said. She jumps on to her bed, runs towards the edge, jumps back down and then runs past behind Youngbin’s back towards her living room. With a shaky hand, Jun puts the gun she’s holding to the inside of her sling bag. She feels like a criminal. She just put that guy’s weapon inside her bag. It’s not hers yet it still feels so illegal.

Youngbin’s attention hasn’t left his target. His mind is racing. He needs to knock him down just enough to give them the time to run away. Killing him here in Jun’s apartment won’t be a wise choice. They’ll get too much attention and it will be hard for Jun later on. That one punch to his stomach is not enough, Youngbin knows that. That is why he’s preparing for a retaliation.

“You son of a bitch…” Darian growls whilst grabbing on his scorching stomach, “They ain’t joking, naming you the Iron Fist.” He grins amusingly.

As much as he finds that grin annoying, Youngbin doesn’t want to waste any more time. He goes in for another attack, this time he’s aiming towards his jaw. Not only wanting to make his enemy loses his balance, but the brunette also wants to make sure he can’t smile anymore. Darian dodges it just by a hairline. His knuckle barely grazes his cheek. The force is so strong that he could hear the sound of Youngbin’s fist ringing through his ear. No more playing games.

Darian runs in like a bull. He pushes Youngbin’s shoulders onto the mattress, pinning his neck down with his superior weight and then punches his face. The hit is on point, but it is not enough to bring him down. Clenching his teeth to suck the pain, Youngbin pulls Darian’s collar and then hit his face with his other hand. He can hear the sound of bone cracking upon impact. Thick blood is spouting from the man’s mouth, some falling onto the Iron Fist’s shirt. His choke gets weaker on Youngbin’s neck, giving him a chance to break free. He then pushes Darian away from him, giving space to stand back up from the bed. A bit dizzy from lacking air before but he doesn’t pay any mind to it. Youngbin grabs Darian’s skull and then pushes him onto the wall. The force he’s using is strong enough to knock Darian out cold without killing him. His body slowly slides down to the floor with a thud, giving Youngbin the confirmation he needs.

Youngbin doesn’t realize he’s spent a lot of energy until he heavily pants. Darian is big and too tall, around 190cm. It takes more toll on him than his other opponents.

However, he wins. For now.

The brunette huffs and then relaxes his fists. He then crouches down looking at the unconscious body and begins searching for Darian’s phone. Soon he finds it easily from inside of his jeans.

“Alright.” Youngbin sighs and keeps the stolen phone inside his jacket. Now’s the time to run.

With hasty steps, Youngbin goes into the living room, finding Junko hiding behind the sofa. She looks just like a kitten in fear, confused and scared. He believes that the girl isn’t just scared of the situation but probably at him as well.

“Junko, let’s go.”

“Wh-where are we going?”

“Somewhere safer than here. We don’t have much time. Come with me.”

“Sh-shouldn’t we wait for the police…?”

“Do you want to get into more trouble than we already have?”

“No—but—”

“Jun, please.”

Youngbin’s eyes speak for themselves. He’s begging her to trust him. They don’t have much time and Jun’s doubt is the last thing he needs to deal with right now.

Jun can see that. The last message from her mother 30 minutes ago rings back. If anything happens, call Youngbin. That message may or may not be meant for this situation, but looking at the fight before her eyes, she can conclude Youngbin… isn’t just an ordinary escort. However, she is still in shock. There’s blood in her bedroom, even her kitchen knife was used to stab someone. Isn’t waiting for the authorities a wise move?

“What if the police chase us!? We can just tell them that it was self-defense, right?”

“Jun, this is something more than what the police can handle. Please, trust me.”

Junko bites her lip in frustration. She doesn’t understand what he meant by that. Is she involved in something deeper? Is Youngbin as dangerous as the man he beat up? It’s impossible to know the answers by herself. Knowing how blind she is with the situation, Jun finally gives up. She has decided.

“…I will trust you,” She pauses, her dark brown eyes bore into Youngbin’s, “…but only if you promise you will explain everything to me.”

“I promise,” Youngbin replies with no hesitation. He has nothing to lose anymore. “Now let’s go, we have to hurry. Get your bag.”

□□□

Jun is tired. Very tired. It’s almost midnight and her late-night has been too wild for her comfort. The third day in New York and someone legit came to kill her. And now, sitting in the front with her escort driving to somewhere safe. She can’t imagine what’s safer than staying in the police’s custody. Gun is free to have in the states and that reality just hit her an hour ago. She’s seen that lots of times in the movies and by reading the news but Jun never expected to actually witness someone carrying it, let alone using it to get into her apartment!

As much as she wants to ask everything, Jun just want to stay silent until they arrive. She’s too stressed to process everything. Or maybe she just doesn’t have the strength to speak first.

She may not notice, but she has a pair of worried eyes looking at her sideways, wishing they weren’t so careless to let her experience this.

“You’re not gonna ask me anything?” A warm voice breaks the silence.

“…Where are we going?”

“The Continental.”

“What?” Jun raises an eyebrow.

“The Continental is a hotel that caters hospitality needs for… criminals.” Youngbin hesitantly finishes, expecting Junko to not take it very well.

“Criminals? Did I hear you right? Then why are we going there!? Isn’t that unsafe!?”

“No, it’s the exact opposite.” Youngbin gives an assuring smile, hoping the gesture won’t offend his client, “The Continental is a neutral place in the crime underworld. The one rule that we must obey there is to not conduct any crime activities.”

It takes a while for Jun to respond. ‘Crime underworld’? ‘Neutral place’? What is it all about the crime? Is Youngbin a part of this underworld thing? She’s too confused and can’t conclude anything other than… absurd.

“I… I’m sorry but that sounds… very ridiculous…”

“Once we get there you’ll understand. I’ll explain more after we arrive.” He then pauses to look at Jun, his eyes burning into hers and they seem to be brilliant under the street lights. “I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

For a moment there Junko feels strangely touched. His promise feels so genuine and at the same time, apologetic. She doesn’t understand why that is. It feels like everything has been planned the moment she set her feet on New York. She has so many more questions within her bustling mind, but for now, she wants to see the place where he says to be safe. And she prays he’s right.

Then, the rain pours down.

□□□

Slowing down in front of the designated location, they have arrived in front of a unique building. It’s located in the middle of a crossroad. It’s tall but also shaped like a triangle if you look from up high. A single front door is the only way in which is kind of weird for Jun to see. Usually a hotel doesn’t look like this? But there is a bellboy standing by with an umbrella coming to open her door.

“O-oh, thank you.” Says Jun as she steps outside to walk through the rain under the bellboy’s care.

Youngbin takes off his seatbelt before he also steps out of the car. There’s no umbrella on him but he doesn’t really care. A little soak won’t hurt, it’s just water anyway. Passing the bellboy, he gives him his car key for valet. Upon entering The Continental, he’s greeted with cold air and warm lights from the chandelier. Despite of the late hour, the hall is still lively with people dressed in black. It feels so surreal. The gothic-themed interior and the people make everything seems unreal. Jun wonders if everyone here is criminals just like what Youngbin said. She finds that hard to believe at first, but now that she’s here she can see how possible that is. Just now Jun could swear she saw one with a bloodied face just walked past her—and limping?

“Oh my God, Youngbin is he okay—"

“He will be.” Youngbin puts his hand behind her back as a protective gesture, “Let’s worry about ourselves first. Come here.” He says, urging her to walk with him and to quit drawing attention.

As they’re walking towards the receptionist, Jun can’t help but to look around. As an unfamiliar face, moreover an Asian, she’s unknowingly drawing attention from these shady people. Her heart beats faster than usual. She’s too nervous. She feels like she doesn’t belong and rather than visiting, it feels like she’s intruding.

“Youngbin,” Jun whispers as low as she can, “Are they all… criminals?”

Youngbin nods, “…Assassins. Yes. But not all of them.”

“Still criminals then!?” Junko deadpans within her mind, “…Do they know you?”

“Some of them I do recognize. But we’re not here to greet them.”

“R—right…”

Upon standing by the receptionist, they’re welcomed by a tall black man in glasses. His navy suits hug his body perfectly, looking dapper and expensive. He looks at his new guests with a warm welcoming smile.

“Welcome back, Iron Fist. It has been a while.” His low baritone voice surprises Jun. She didn’t expect him to sound like typical butlers in the movies but he did sound like that. “Also, good evening to you miss.”

Youngbin smiles back politely, “It has been a while, Charon.”

“How may I help you, sir?”

Pulling his hand away from Jun’s back, Youngbin opens his brown bag to find something. Junko is curiously watching him, wondering what is he trying to find. Is it his wallet? For a second there Jun is worried if he doesn’t have the money to pay so she’s already prepared to help him out in that problem. She takes a glance towards Charon to see what he’s up to, but the gentleman patiently waits with a professional smile. He realizes the girl is looking at him but to spare her embarrassment he decided not to look back.

Then, what comes out from that brown bag baffles Junko to no end.

A gold coin with an intricate design sculpted on the face.

“…Wait, what is that?” Junko can’t help but ask.

Charon raises an eyebrow at the girl before he takes the coin, “Oh? It seems like you’re bringing a clueless doe with you, Mr. Kim.” His eyes glinted in amusement.

“Yeah… It’s an emergency. She got caught up in the situation.”

“Happens all the time, sir. I am sorry to hear that.” The gentleman nods in understanding, “How many days will you be staying?”

“3 days, please.”

“Understood.” Charon takes the gold coin and then proceeds to register the room number. It doesn’t take long before he gives them a black card for the room key. It looks elegant with golden insignia adorning the design. “Here is your key, sir. Your room number is 412 in the 4th floor. Don’t hesitate to call our room service anytime you need.”

“Thanks, Charon.” Says Youngbin as he takes the key card. His hand goes to Jun’s little back again, urging her to follow him. Before she left, the girl didn’t forget to bow her head to show her gratitude. When she catches Charon grinning amusingly she couldn’t help but to feel dumb inside. She’s convinced that man was feeling sorry for her.

“Ah, Mr. Kim!”

Youngbin turns his head around to see what’s with the sudden call.

“I almost forgot to remind you. We do provide free laundry service. Just in case you want dry and clean garments by tomorrow morning.”

Hearing that makes Youngbin feel self-conscious as he takes a look at his own body. Charon’s right. He is soaked and he just realized there are some blood blotches on his collar. Definitely not going to look fine in public.

Youngbin only gives him a tight smile and nod, “Right. I’ll call you later, Charon.”

□□□

Stepping inside their room, Jun can smell a refreshing scent welcoming her gently. The smell surprisingly reminds her of the airplane interiors she took to come here. Airplane’s scent is actually one of her favorite smells. It makes the whole space feels clean and proper to her, just like this room. The whole interior looks lavish. They’re all designed in royal vintage concept, making the room looks like a prince’s bedroom. She wonders if all of the rooms in this hotel look like this or is the coin from before worth this much?

That reminds her, another question.

“Jun.”

Her escort calls her before she can do it first, “Yes, Young—”

The moment she turns around, Youngbin is already standing close to her. His knitted eyebrows are showing concern. His lips are formed in a thin line, keeping words that are to be or not to be told. He’s making her feel self-conscious and nervous. She just realized that they’re alone, in a hotel room. Her eyes linger to the bed on her left.

It’s a single king-sized bed.

Her mind is buzzing with thoughts she shouldn’t have. Her chest beats too fast in response that she’s sure her heart will jump out of her mouth. But then from her peripheral vision, Jun sees a hand is trying to reach out to her face. The girl flinches before that bloodied hand touches her, making the man stops in midway. Looking at his widened eyes, Jun suddenly feels guilty. He just protected her an hour ago, promised her that he would keep her safe. Yet her body seems to be still staying on alert. Jun hates how she can’t trust him completely now.

“Wh-what is it…?” Jun hesitantly asks.

Youngbin stays silent for a while. His hand that’s still hovering near her skin reluctantly goes back to his side. He doesn’t want to scare her more than he already did.

“Are you hurt anywhere? Any scratches?”

“…No, I’m not hurt. It’s you who we should worry about. You’re the one who fought to death back there.”

“Fought to death?” Youngbin chuckles, “That was nothing, Junko. I’m okay.”

“Look at your hands! They don’t look fine to me!”

“They’re alright.” Youngbin smiles, “It’s not my blood.”

Not his blood. That sentence makes her feel uneasy. It reminds her again of the fact that Youngbin is not someone she expected. The guy is way, way, more than he looks like. Outside of that kind and warm exterior, Youngbin is secretly someone who those people call the Iron Fist. What’s the deal with that nickname anyway?

“There are spare pajamas in the wardrobe. Go ahead if you want to change.” Youngbin offers as he points at the wardrobe near the bathroom. “I’ll take a quick shower while you do.”

“…Okay.”

The man leaves her to tend to her own business as he walks inside the bathroom. After he closes the door, Junko lets out a bottled up sigh. She’s dead tired and she just wants a good sleep. She’s contemplating whether she should start talking to him tonight. Poor girl can’t even get her eyes wholly opened up. She’s very sure the moment her head falls onto the pillow, she would fall asleep like a log.

Her clothing feels heavy and uncomfortable on her body. Thankfully the hotel gives a pajama for their guests. Junko wonders if that’s because they have seen a lot of cases like Youngbin who checks in with their clothing soaked in sweats and blood. She praises the service they’re giving to these… assassins, as what Youngbin called them. With heavy steps, Junko walks towards the wardrobe to get her pajama. She takes it out along with the hanger and then she puts it on the bed. She begins to strip away her clothing, leaving nothing but her undergarments. She wonders if she should take off her bra as well because that’s what she usually does before she sleeps. But since she’s not alone tonight, she decides it’s better to keep it on.

The black pajama feels very comfortable on her skin. The texture of the cotton doesn’t feel itchy and rough. It feels like one of her own. She hopes she will get a good sleep tonight. Sitting on the bedside, Junko charges up her phone. She wonders if the accident from before shows up on the news, so she starts typing the name of her apartment on Google.

“…Nothing. Huh, that’s weird?”

There is literally no news regarding of what happened an hour ago. People should’ve seen that, yet it didn’t get viral.

Suddenly the bathroom’s door opens without warning, making Junko once again flinches from the sound. She hates how easily she gets surprised by everything.

What she sees next renders her speechless.

It’s Youngbin, half-naked and wet from head to toe. A pair of jeans is the only saving grace for her sanity. The first thing she notices is how toned his body is and how it’s adorned with many tattoos. A big one on the side of his body, a small text on his chest, and…

“...Your back…” The girl unknowingly mutters out loud.

Youngbin, taking a new shirt from the wardrobe frowns before he quickly wears the garment to hide his marks. He heard that soft whisper and he’s scared to see her face would be full of grimace.

“I’m sorry. I forgot to bring the new shirt with me. Didn’t mean to let you see that.” Youngbin smiles awkwardly as he turns around to see Jun. Surprisingly, he doesn’t find that grimace he expected. “…Junko?”

“O-oh. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m just… surprised to see you have so many tattoos. You’ve never really shown them…”

“Oh, you’re right. I don’t have any on my arms and legs. Mostly just on my torso so yeah…”

“Did it hurt?”

“Huh?”

“Getting those tattoos,” Junko points her finger at Youngbin, “Did it hurt?”

A bit befuddled by the seemingly innocent question, Youngbin blinks several times before he eventually lets out a burst of roaring laughter.

“Wh-what!?” The girl’s flustered with embarrassment. She thinks she said something weird. Yet that burst of laughter doesn’t fail to make her feel funny in her tummy.

“Nothing, I’m sorry—pfft!” Youngbin tries to hold it in but fails to do so. Takes him just a moment to calm down, a smile is etched beautifully on his glowing face that’s still fresh from his shower. Walking slowly towards the edge of the bed near Junko, he sits down near her thighs, giving her a look that’s too kind for Junko to understand. She’s too entranced by his face that she doesn’t mind when his hand reaches for her head, giving her a warm pat, just like he did in the lobby today.

“It did hurt.” Youngbin finally answers, “But I had no choice.”

Confused by his statement, Junko wonders what’s making him giving her a sad look. She doesn’t get him at all. His behavior feels too random for Junko, yet she can feel his sincerity. The man may be hiding so many things from her, but he never pretends to be kind to her. As much as the rough hand that lingers on her face comforts her, the words that he uttered scares her almost the same. She’s afraid that she’s trespassing his territory, but unfortunately, her curiosity wins over her.

“What do you mean you ‘had no choice’?”

His lips form a thin line. The things he’s going to tell her are going to be relatable to what’s trying to kill her. He needs to make sure that Jun is ready to know.

“Are you ready to hear the truth, then?”

With a determined look, the light-haired girl nods. “…Yes.”

To be continued

[goatkingwc]

CONSUMED THE FIRE - Episode 001 of GKWC

GOAT KING WRITERS CLUB, The loosest storytelling Podcast in all the land, were we don’t let Grammar get in the way of a good yarn.

CONSUMED by Nathan Hull

I had been typing frantically for hours, maybe even days. The never ending task of reporting the news consumed me.

Word after word, it was nothing but a blur of letters on the screen. I don't think i glanced away for a second. I was deep into my work, hands trembling from near exhaustion. The second bottle of house brand scotch two thirds empty, seven packs of cigarettes down. Light trickled in through the slit in my curtains signaling the start of another day. It didn't matter to me time had lost all meaning.

I sent the article through to my editer and demanded another job, ignoring his pleas  for me to slow down "Just send through the fucking assignment" I yelled down the phone, knocking the bottle of scotch from my desk. The frustration almost over flowing into frenzy I stormed out of my small home office into the filthy kitchen adjacent.

Upon entering a pain I'd never felt before shot through me, i ignored it and swung the fridge door open, grasping at the six pack of beer sitting alone on the shelf. I stumbled back dizzy before falling into oblivion. It felt like the floor had disappeared I heard the bottles smash but felt nothing at all, just a calming warm sensation pulling me gently into slumber, a peaceful darkness replaced the manic flashing of ideas that had been fueling me for far to long.

 I awoke to silence and the bright florence lights of a hospital ward beaming obnoxiously into my eyes. I had snapped, trying to finish a never ending task is a sure fire short cut to madness and apparently I had reached that level. The Dr explained that I had collapsed due to sever exhaustion and that a dangerously large mixture of alcohol and prescription grade amphetamines had been reported in my system. He gave me a stern lecture and ordered I rest up for some time to come.

I begrudgingly took his advice and relaxed with the days News Paper skipping through the first few pages like a book I had read many times before. At page eleven however I stopped a small laugh burst through my lips, there it was the most ironic thing I had ever seen. A small article titled "Local journalists dangerous decent into chaos" a two hundred word piece about yours truly.i smiled, how beautiful it was, i had been so consumed by the news that eventually, i had become the news.

THE FIRE by Sean Conway

The fire is burning through the bush quicker than I was expecting, the heat is not the most fearful part but the thunderous noise of the wood burning, sounds like a thousand cat of nine tails cracking all around us.

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT, WHY DID YOU ASH ON THE GROUND” Devon, the lippy British back packer bellowed “it’s just a little bit of fire mate, relax” I replied reassuring him through my tears unconvincingly. “WE’RE GOING TO DIE, WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE” Devon kept screaming in an urgent cry. Jesus Christ this back packer has not stopped complaining since I met him at the hostel, I wanted to tell him to fuck off but I had more important things to worry about, like getting out of this mess and suing the tobacco companies and the government’s cigarette pack warnings for not once making me aware of the potential for bush fires by their product. They literally have warnings for everything else except the one thing that can kill you immediately.

Ah man when I sue these political fat cats I’m totally going to buy a sweet double storey house with my winnings, I imagine suing for Bush fire warnings would be a landmark legal case, I’d probably make the front page of the Newspaper. I might even have enough money left over to buy a chrome Lamborghini, fuck yeah that would be sweet!

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO? HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET OUT OF HERE?” cried out Devon waking me from my daydream and bringing me back to this deadly reality.

This whole waiting around to die must be playing with my head because I have never thought this before and it seems weird thinking this now, but fire is hot, like ridiculously hot. I looked over to Devon as he continued frantically searching for a way out of the path of the fire “Hey Devon, how hots this fire ah” I said as it fell on Devon’s deaf ears, he blatantly ignored my observation. Sure these are dyer times but that doesn’t mean you have to be rude.

I guess Devon is done searching for a way out because he is collapsed into a ball on the ground “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die OH MY GOD I DON’T WANT TO DIE” Devon screamed over dramatically to the skies like a soap opera star, fuck his voice is annoying.

The situation is becoming increasingly stressful and the anxiety is starting to get to me, I really need a cigarette but knowing Devon he’s probably going to have a bitch and moan about it, but fuck him I paid $50 for these Winnie Reds and I’ve only smoked one. I am not going to die letting a perfectly good packet of cigarettes go to waste.

Reaching into my pocket trying to retrieve my lighter without Devon noticing, Jesus where the fuck is it? Are you serious? in all the commotion I must have lost it. It’s moments like this that make me appreciate how crazy and random the world is sometimes, we’re literally surrounded by fire and if we weren’t on the verge of being burnt alive in this hell hole I would consider myself lucky.

The first breath of that sweet sweet Winnie red is always my favourite, it’s almost magical how that first intoxicating breath can make even the most terrifying situation bearable “ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS CUNT? YOU’RE SMOKING! YOU’RE SMOKING!” Devon screamed as he rose from the ground with murderous rage “Do you Poms do anything other than fucking complain” I belched back through a cloud of Winnie Red Smoke. I’m really sick of his whinging, I would have given him a piece of my mind but I was too busy trying to do the maths in my head on how long it would take for me to smoke all these cigarettes before the fire consumed us, but before I could figure out the answer Devon’s hands stained from fake tan are wrapped around my throat. “What are you doing?” I gargled, the heat of the fire made his hands super sweaty, It feels like an eel and smells like coco butter, two things I despise especially when they are crushing my wind pipe. “Get off me Devon, your hands are sweaty and gross” I said chokingly and wishing I said something tougher “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU” Devon spat in a salvia filled scream. Man I wished I had said something cool like that rather than your hands are sweaty and gross. I should really fight back but what’s the point, this will probably be a better way to go out, better than cooking alive in the middle of nowhere. I also think I should punch Devon in his Geordie Shore face because in these stressful times he has been a bit of a cunt, that’s how a hero would go out.

I mustered my remaining strength and clenched my fist as hard as I could and wham right in his kisser, to my surprise this worked because Devon jumped off me screaming in pain, he sounds like a dying lama “Ahahalaladahdahdal”. I must of really brought the pain for him to make such a cowardly cry.

The noise Devon is making sounds more and more pathetic, being the asshole that he is I thought he’d be use to people punching him in the head “YOU BURNT MY FACE YOU CUNT” his venomous mouth spit. I must have punched him with my cigarette still lit in my hand. Looking at the ground and seeing the remains of my crumbled cigarette infuriated me, it didn’t matter that I still have a full pack in my pocket, Fuck Devon! If I can’t beat him physically then I will have to beat him mentally, by saying the most badass line imaginable before we both disintegrate to dust “GET USED TO IT ASSHOLE! BECAUSE IN ABOUT 2 MINUTES YOU’RE GOING TO BE NOTHING BUT FUCKING ASH” I screamed aggressively but chuffed with myself for thinking of such a badass line so quickly “so will you, you fucking twat” Devon responded throwing me off my guard with his even quicker rebuttal “Yeah well, fuck you” I responded immediately knowing I had ruined the badass line prior and losing this battle of mental warfare.

Devon is celebrating his verbal stoush win by charging at me like an angry Bull in Pamplona. The thought of having Devon’s gross manky swamp hands wrapped around my throat again was what was helping me fight him off, but it was too late his uncooked sausage paws latched onto me sending shivers down my spine. The only thing going through my mind is how disgusting his sloppy hands are as I slowly fade in and out of consciousness.

The fire must be really close now because I can feel beads of sweat pour off his head from the heat, I felt Devon release his hands from my throat, I’m not sure if I’m dead but I’ll pretend I am so Devon doesn’t put his icky squid fingers around my throat to finish the job.

Playing possum was working until I was awaken by a liquid spraying on my face “AH WHAT THE FUCK DEVON ARE YOU PISSING ON ME?” how much more disgusting can this cunt get? “I’m not pissing on you look” Devon said pointing to the Heaven’s as the water started flowing down our faces like a baptism from God. “What’s happening?” I mumbled, this must be the DMT releasing into our brains because we’re dying, I listen to a lot of Joe Rogan so I’m familiar with this situation, “I don’t know I don’t know” Devon responded in his cunty British accent. The fire around us was being extinguished as the water continued raining down on us, I quickly got my Winnie reds and put them in the front of my pants so they wouldn’t get ruined by the water.

Out in the distance, through the Smokey haze I can see the flashing of blue and red lights, that could only be from fire trucks. “WE’RE SAVED, WE’RE FUCKING SAVED” Devon shouted with tears of joy and excitement. I was less excited because staring at the flashing lights of the fire trucks I came to the sudden realisation I probably didn’t have a case against the tobacco companies and the government fat cats and I was probably facing a lengthy jail sentence for negligence for starting a bush fire.

“OVER HERE OVER HERE” Devon began screaming to the fire fighters “over here over here” I screamed with a lot less enthusiasm. I’m not sure if it was the fire or the choking or the overwhelming confusion of being saved and facing a long prison sentence but something is making me woozy, like that fine line of feeling drunkenly happy to spewy drunk.

Waking up in an ambulance is not a new experience for me, but being surrounded by fire fighters and ambos looking at me like a freak show attraction is definitely an odd feeling. “So what happened, you guys have no idea how lucky you are to be alive” the Fire Department Chief said to us in a stern but congratulative voice. Lucky wouldn’t be the word I would use to describe the situation, I’m facing serious jail time, I haven’t been to prison before and wasn’t looking forward to finding out if all those prison rape stories are true. The idea of it made me more and more anxious.The only thing I could think to do was reach into the front of my undies and pull out my full pack Winnie Reds cigarettes, must look like a creep to the fire fighters and Ambos, but I’m too anxious to care “Do you have a light?” I said to the group surrounding me. The spark that was lit in front of my face didn’t do much for my anxiety but I thought it was fitting that what was potentially my last cigarette as a free man is being lit by The Fire Department Chief.

Breathing in that sweet sweet Winnie Red takes the sting out of any uncomfortable situation “So what happened out there?” The Fire Department Chief said with a controlled curiosity. I was sensing their excitement so I took a long deep breath of that Winnie Red for dramatic effect, blowing out the smoke I could feel I was giving off a real James Dean or John Wayne kind of vibe.

“Well fella’s, here’s the story”

The End

To be apart of the Writers Rebellion, make sure to Like, Follow and Share on 

INSTAGRAM/TWITTER: @goatkingwc FACEBOOK: /goatkingwc

Plus Tag us in any of your own short stories. We will be launching our Patreon in the coming weeks, so stay tuned for some exclusive content, plus head over to Instagram and vote for your favourite 99 Word Challenge Story.

[katlyn1948]

“The Archer” from “Lover”

So I finished it...took me like three weeks, but I had a severe case of writer’s block so...

A lot of the time it was just me staring at the computer screen thinking of what the hell to write, but I figured the shit out! 

I would like to warn you that I have ONE line of dialogue in the story. Literally just one. It is filling with a lot of emotions and angst, so you have been warned! 

Anyway, hope you enjoy! 

Be my wife. Be the Lady of Storm’s End

The words echoed through Arya’s head as she mindlessly wandered through the desolate castle. The rest of her family al with whoever lived through the battle, were all gathered in the great hall feasting to the victory.

Although she knew the immediate threat was nothing more than a pile of ice, the threat hundreds of miles away was still at large. She needed to focus on the task at hand and not the “what ifs” she left in the storeroom.

Arya expected Gendry to find her after the battle. She had left so abruptly; before the horns were even called and before he had a chance to awaken from his slumber. The actions of their coupling were ones she would never forget, yet she knew that it could create a lot of unanswered questions, especially if they survived the battle.

She had not expected to live; none of them did, yet here they were celebrating; trying to forget that there was still another battle to be fought and won.

She was ready for combat yet seeing the look of joy and happiness in Gendry’s eyes made her question whether she truly was ready.

As she wondered through the hallways, her mind kept drawing up hundreds of speeches she could have-should have said to him, but they all remained unspoken. It was not like her to have those thoughts swirl around her head. She was the kind of person to stick to her wits and to never let anyone change her mind otherwise. Unless, of course, it was her family.

Was he her family?

No, because if he were, then he would have left with her all those years ago.

She finally reached her destination, quickly latching the lock of the door behind her as she entered her bedroom.

She needed seclusion; time to herself, to think about what had transpired between she and Gendry.

If Arya were to go back to the feast, her sister would take one look at her face ahs realize something was amiss. Normally, she was good at keeping her expressions and feelings at bay, but the realization that Gendry lover her more than a friend (and she most certainly felt the same way) shocked her to her core. So much so, that it made her body flush with heat.

Her rooms were considered the coldest in the castle, and although it has never bothered her before, she needed the cool stone to quench her heated body. She stripped quickly, perhaps faster than her night with Gendry, discarding her breeches and jerkin. She nearly threw her shift off, but quickly came to her senses and realized she would need some layer of protection between the cold air and her nearly naked form.

The fires had nearly died down and the tub filled with hot water was beginning to cool. She gathered her small frame on a chair perched by the fireplace and watched as the last embers slowly extinguished.

The only light left was provided by two flickered candle sticks, one on the nightstand by her feather bed and the other on a table in the corner of her room.

Darkness never scared Arya. There had been many a night through her life where there was nothing but darkness surrounding her. Her mind had plunged into a layer of darkness so profound that she was sure there was no way of finding a guiding light. Yet, as her time here with her family and the realization that she was no longer alone seeped into the crevasses of her darken mind, she could finally see the small flickering candle in the distance, and that’s what scared her the most.

The pieces of Arya Stark that she had buried so long ago where now crashing through with such a force, that she was sure that she would break. Raw emotion had taken over and Arya had now lost control.

It was terrifying for her to think that she no longer could control the one thing she had control of for so long: her life. She had a plan and although there were some alternate paths that she had taken to complete that plan, she had never expected love to take over.

How could anyone love me?

The question was simple, yet empowering.

Arya was sure she was surrounded by people who loved her, she just could not understand why. With everything that she had done to get her life where it was at that very moment would be shunned by many of the Gods. Even Sansa was mortified by her bag of faces not so long ago.

Yet, even her hard exterior, nor her skillful abilities deterred Gendry’s feelings.

If he was mortified of who she had become, then he would not have sought her out during the feast. He would have not professed his love to her; bearing his heart and soul for her to see. She did not hide who she was with him, not while on those grain sacks. Not while his fingers glided over her scars, gently rubbing them as if to make them disappear. Not while his lips had captured her as she slowly glided down the base of his cock.

He could have asked her a thousand questions, she knew this, but instead he let her take the reigns and enjoy what very well could have been their last night alive.

Gendry had proved to Arya that, despite her past, he was willing to love her and cherish until his dying breath.

He was the only one who could see right through her façade, gazing upon the most intimate parts of her soul, that it nearly shook her to her core.

It was a surprise to see that someone still cared about the girl she used to be and not the girl she had to become.

But she couldn’t let the prospect of a “what if” get in her way of finishing her list.

She would ride off to King’s Landing and she would kill Cersei, even if it meant her demise.

Shaking the creeping thought from her mind, she lifted from the chair and blew out the last remaining light in her chambers. She buried herself under the furs and prayed to the Gods that sleep would take her from this day.

Her body was still weak from the battle; her muscles screaming as she stretched them thin.

Although the furs were plenty, Arya could still feel the slight chill in the air as she drifted to darkness. It reminded her of the nights she had to spend under the stars or in the rain; never fully being able to get warm.

Once dipped into deep sleep, she found that her mind ran wild with dreams and thoughts that she tried to keep at bay when awake. Her conscious was thrust into a world of wonder and fantasies that she had no time for. But just as soon as those dreams went, the nightmares came.

The bright happiness that had taken over her mind were quickly diminished by the cold grasp of icy fingers squeezing the life out her. She had grabbed her dagger, yet it was no where to be found. The grip around her neck began to tighten and she was sure that her life was now slipping, but she saw something from the corner of her eye. A figure that looked all to familiar.

He had his dragon glass Warhammer at the ready, charging to the monster ahead of him.

The actions were so quick, that Arya barely had any time to react.

The grip on her neck loosened and the monster turned, plunging his icy sword into the raging bull.  

Arya tried to scream, tried to crawl to where his now limp body lay. She could see the blood pooling on the white snow, staining it crimson. His eyes were beginning to glass and Arya tried to reach for him, tried to hold onto his hand one last time, but the point was moot. The monster had returned his attention back to her, his sword at the ready. She knew her life would be ending, and although she had never been afraid of death, she did not want to see if happen.

She closed her eyes and took one last breath before meeting her demise.

She woke with a gasp, clutching her chest as she sat up from her bed.

Her furs were soaked with sweat and the weight of them on her small body was suffocating.

Arya stumbled out of her bed and began to pace the room, trying to bring the air back to her lungs. It was like the room around her was on fire, invisible smoke suffocating her even further.

She knew what this was, and she had to calm her beating heart before the panic became worse.

Although the events that had played out in her nightmare were nothing but that, she couldn’t help but feel the heaving reality of it all.

Breathing slowly, she tried to ease her nerves and bring herself back to the room she was standing in, not the snow-covered ground with seeping crimson blood. Arya shook the imaging from her head, bringing herself down from the panic.

She sat herself on her bed once more, trying to regain her composure.

At that moment, in her dark cold room, she wanted him. She wanted his strong arms to hold on to her and tell her that everything would be alright. She needed the false hopes and affirmations of peace. She needed to be told that her whole family would not meet their demise in the war to come.

She needed to be put back to together.

But why fill herself with these falsities if she knew exactly what they were?

She could not be put back together, no matter how hard he tried.

So, steading herself once more, she slipped under her furs and stared at the stone ceiling.

“I’m ready for combat.” And waited for day to come.

[minnochu]

Bullseye

oKAY BUT I SUDDENLY THOUGHT ABOUT JIMIN TEACHING READER HOW TO HOLD AND SHOOT A GUN AFTER WRITING THAT SCENE IN INTERFERENCE OOP-.

SO HAVE THIS !!!

Also sorry for my unoriginal title LOL

(A/N): Fair warning, I’ve never shot a gun before, I would like to... so forgive me for any technical mistakes, I was trying to gather as much info to get the gist of it just to write a cheesy scene lol. Also sorry for any spelling and grammar mistakes oop.

**A drabble for my series Interference. 

.

It was one of those days where you were sat bored in the precinct, spinning aimlessly round and round in a spare chair near Jimin’s desk. There was no venturing out to look for fragments of possible memories. There was no lounging around at home. It was one of the days Jimin and his uptight little cute ass decided work needed to be done at the office. You thought long and hard about it when you were out on patrol the day before. The rather aggressive tip snatcher from before making you think about the endless what-ifs. 

“Penny for your thoughts, pervert?” Jimin asked, his eyes still trained on his computer screen, fingers typing away on the keyboard. 

Your feet fall flat on the floor to stop the chair from spinning. Making a noise of acknowledgement, you shrug despite him not seeing it. 

“You should teach me how to use a gun,” you state meekly, already suspecting the glare of disapproval that he sends your way. “You know if something bad were to happen to me.”

You weren’t wrong, he supposed. Having witnessed a murder and nearly killed, someone was bound to finish you off if they knew you had survived. 

Unexpectedly, he relented and took you to the gun range within the precinct. Taehyung and Hoseok make googly eyes at him, to which he barks at them to stay behind in the office if they were gonna act like dumbasses. He leads you to the last station away from other officers practicing in the range.

“Put this on,” He grumbled as he handed you earmuffs and slipped his own over his ears to grab you some protective glasses. “It’ll help with the loudness of the gun, but you should still be able to hear me.”

“First off, get into a stable stance, stand at least shoulder width apart and lean forward just slightly or else the recoil’s gonna knock you off balance for a first-timer.”

His voice was slightly muffled with the pressure of the earmuffs, but you nodded as your feet shifted into position. Your knees slightly bend forward as he slips the pistol into your hands. He hesitates before pressing lightly on your shoulder to lean forward. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed deftly and retracted his hand. Outside of the bedroom, or well... living room, this is the closest he’s been since you both were handcuffed to one another. He’s not as disgusted or shaky as he would’ve been, but he’s still anxious being this close to you. 

Besides that. He was not going to make this into some cheesy romance scene where the main male takes this chance to press himself against the backside of the female. 

You on the other hand try to force down the fear of holding a weapon in your very hands. This weapon was also the one that had almost taken your life. That fact scares you. You grip it with anxiety seizing you by the throat, mind conjuring up every single detail that it could remember of that night when you were shot. 

“(Y/n),” Jimin says when he notices you quivering, dragging you from your thoughts and bringing you back to reality where it is safe with him. 

You gulp and glance up at him meekly, breathing through your nose and out through your mouth in attempt to sway your nerves. He almost forgets what he’s about to say when the muffled crack of a gun four stations down wakes him up again.

“Next,” he blurts out awkwardly, clearing his throat with a cough, “Press the web between your thumb and index finger against the highest point underneath the slide…”

He finds himself trailing off as you fumble awkwardly with the pistol, staring blankly at your hands and the gun itself. The oncoming groan was too hard to contain as he visibly slumped and decided to just fuck it. 

“Stop, jeez…” He exhaled, stepping closer but keeping enough distance so your bodies wouldn’t touch. You flinched as his breath comes bearing down on the shell of your ear and neck, his arms circling around you but trying so hard to keep from making contact. You can only wish for him to touch you. The warmth of his breath will have to suffice as you watch his hands take hold of your own to press your hand into the arch underneath the slide.

 “Hold tighter,” he whispered as he straightened out your wrist, “It’ll help absorb the recoil, so keep the slide and your arm in line as well.”

The touch of his hands are warm on your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he takes your nondominant hand and presses your hand to cup underneath and over your other hand’s fingers. His thumb presses slightly on your thumb to position it against the piece underneath the slide.

“Whatever feels better, you can keep your thumb up or forward,” he says as he taps on the thumb of your dominant hand.

Removing his hands, you feel almost disappointed at the absence of his hands, but they reappear to tap you on the cheek.

“Look through the focus now, try to keep both eyes open.”

You squint, moving your hands and tilting your head to find just the right sight of the silhouette target.

“Cock the gun and just breathe.”

Releasing your nondominant hand, you pulled the slide back until it couldn’t go any more, letting go and moving to reposition your hand back where Jimin had placed it. You attempted to calm yourself, feeling both excited and scared to shoot an actual gun.

“Aim for the center,” Jimin said as he stepped back, “In any other situation, if your attacker is coming at you, shoot him in the pelvis; but for you… try to shoot in the middle of the chest or wherever a large body part is exposed, it’s the easiest to target.”

He watched as you placed your index finger over the trigger.“Press down slowly, the slower you pull, the better.”

“Fire when you’re ready,” He steps further away this time.

When you do so, you can’t help but hold your breath in. Slowly, you pull on the trigger just as he instructs to. You flinch as soon as the gun explodes, the bullet leaving the barrel and lodging itself through the target. Your hand moves slightly upward with the gun upon the recoil and you blink in amazement and surprise at the force of it.

The bullet wasn’t dead center, but the rush of shooting a gun was thrilling and filled you with a certain adrenaline that pumped your blood wildly.

Jimin is at your side immediately, taking your hands in his and pushing them down and towards the target gently. 

“Good job,” He said loud enough for you to hear, pressing his hands more firmly over yours when he feels them shaking still, “Not a bulls-eye but you hit the target.” 

“Did you want to shoot some more?” He asks, not expecting you to turn and look at him with wide eyes that scream yes. It’s unexpectedly adorable and he can’t help his face growing warmer. Looking down, he stumbles over his words and tries to find sounds that sound at least coherent, “Um… I’ll just go and grab you some more rounds and teach you how to eject and fill up the magazine…”

As he walks away with his hand cupped over his mouth, cheeks burning, you can’t help but smile idiotically at how cute he was himself. 

She’ll be the death of me, he thinks to himself with a grimace.

He’ll be the death of me, you think in comparison, glancing down at the pistol and smiling.

[metatiki]

Chapters: 8/8 Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford Summary:

Angsty Cullrian story about what happens if everything goes wrong after it’s fixed?

Note: This work is experimental storytelling for me. I initially wrote if for the Cullrian Discord I participate in (The Herald’s Rest, check it out!) but decided to go ahead and publish it. Expect to see a new chapter every few days.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Phase 8: Wisdom

The Inquisitor's words struck Cullen hard, and for a moment or two he fought for breath as the world darkened around him. A wave of despair rolled over him as a whole host of seemingly innocuous details suddenly coalesced into a whole: the Inquisitor's disinterest in him as a person and a father, her consistent rejection of his attempts to make a family, and the assassination contract to kill him before she returned from the Conclave were all parts of a whole. She had never intended to make a family with him, only to use him and then discard him.

He wracked his mind, trying to think of any time the Inquisitor and Solas had spent alone together, and came up with precious little. Oh, certainly he'd accompanied her on the field, but so had Dorian and Bull both. Surely they would have noticed something.

Unless, a little voice whispered within, Bull and Dorian were distracted with each other.

He shook his head violently, rejecting not the notion of Bull and Dorian sharing a tent, but the idea that Solas felt something like that for the Inquisitor. The man's expression as he looked at the Inquisitor held little of affection, and Solas certainly didn't seem likely to rush forward and sweep the Inquisitor into his arms.

Yet, in the end, those thoughts proved fleeting. Cullen's eyes focused on his daughter dangling limply in her mother's arms, and the world seemed to contract around him. He felt hands catch and hold him, only then realizing that Dorian had prevented a complete collapse. Forcing himself to rally, Cullen struggled to his feet and took a step forward, hands clenched into fists, as he said in a strangled voice, "She is my daughter."

The Inquisitor ignored him, her attention focused exclusively on Solas. "Think of it, Solas. You and I, Fen'harel and the Inquisitor. We would be unstoppable. We could change the face of Thedas!"

"Fen'Harel?" Dorian asked, obviously startled. "The Dalish god of all those wolf statues in Mythal's Temple?"

"Yeah, and the guy who's been funneling all sorts of new agents into the Inquisition, too," Bull said.

That shook Cullen out of his reverie. "Is that why there's been so many elves joining the Inquisition?"

Bull gave a low, dark chuckle. "Done in one, boss." Before Cullen could think about what Bull meant by calling him boss, the Qunari added, "Not that hard to infiltrate an organization when you're welcomed with open arms by the leader, though, is it?"

"Shut up!" the Inquisitor hissed, her first acknowledgment of them since she'd entered, then stepped towards Solas. "Please, Solas," she said in a wheedling tone. "Take your daughter. We're family now."

The word lashed at Cullen, reminding him of what he had once hoped to have with her even if there had been poison at the heart of it. That thought did give him pause, however, to wonder what she had offered Solas--and what, if anything, Solas had accepted.

Solas himself gave no implication of what he was feeling, though Cullen hoped that the lack of emotion meant an eventual rejection of the Inquisitor. "And if I acquiesce, we would return to Skyhold together?"

"Yes," the Inqusitor purred, in a tone Cullen recognized as her version of seduction. "The Exalted Council is a dog with no teeth, and the Qunari have failed in their attempts to weaken me. Even their own traitor didn't come running at their beck."

"You tell yourself that, bas," Bull muttered under his breath, then stepped forward. "Hey. Fade Walker. Tamassran takes Pawn."

A suggestion of surprise crossed Solas' face as his gaze shot to Bull for a split second. Then the surprise was gone, his expression falling back to neutral as he returned his scrutiny to the Inquisitor once more. Finally Solas stepped forward and took the child from her grasp, his touch gentle as he re-arranged the limp body in his arms. Cullen felt something tighten and die inside as he saw the way his daughter didn't respond, when normally she was so very inquisitive about meeting new people.

And, for the first time in years, he felt a prayer pass his lips. "Please," he whispered. "Not her. Anything but that." He felt Dorian's hand slip into his and gave the man a grateful look as he squeezed it like a lifeline.

After that, all he could do was stand and wait, feeling utterly helpless while his daughter's life lay, literally, in the hands of another.

A long, silent moment passed as Solas finished securing the child in his grasp. Then the elf raised his gaze to settle upon Bull, expression unreadable. "An odd time to resume our match, Qunari."

"How else will we know who wins and who loses?" Bull said with a grin.

The Inquisitor made a disgusted noise as her face screwed into a disdainful expression. "Just ignore them. We don't need--Ahh!" Her cry of pain accompanied a flare of bright green in her arm, and she collapsed to the ground in a fetal position as she curled around the sputtering glow.

Solas looked down at her, and his eyes flashed pale white for an instant. The glow in her arm died with barely a flicker, and Cullen heard Dorian gasp, "How--"

"I am the Dread Wolf," Solas told Dorian, then looked down at the little girl in his arms as the Inquisitor, still panting from the pain, slowly pushed herself to her knees. "And these two are among those I expected to meet."

Cullen's heart constricted in his chest as he watched Solas' hand press against his daughter's forehead. When even that failed to spark movement in her, a wave of fear momentarily overwhelmed him. Surely even the Inquisitor wouldn't--

"You know I'm right," the Inquisitor said between grated teeth. "Together we could conquer the world."

"That is not what I seek," Solas said, and this time Cullen was certain he caught an edge of irritation in the elf's voice. "I have made my goals quite clear."

The Inquisitor scoffed. "Change the world, conquer the world, restore the world, what is the difference? The world will still be ours. That is what is important. We would control it all. Just come with me and we can make our reality supreme." Suddenly her voice softened as she crooned, "Is she not beautiful?"

Expression softening, Solas nodded. "The child is beautiful."

"And real," the Inquisitor insisted, pushing herself to her feet. "Right?"

Cullen looked to Dorian, and found in his expression a confusion equal to his own. Unsure of what to do, and cautious of taking any action which might result in further harm to his daughter, Cullen simply clung tight to Dorian's hand and prayed. Hopefully someone would heed him.

Perhaps even the Dread Wolf himself.

"Yes. She is real." The words were spoken softly as Solas continued to stare at the child in his arms. Finally he hovered his hand over the girl's face, and his eyes flashed white once more. "And strong."

Cullen's heart leapt when the small body suddenly jerked and a small gasp echoed in the glade. Taking an involuntary step forward, he reached towards his daughter. "Is she--"

"Stay back," the Inquisitor hissed. "She doesn't need you anymore. She has a real father now."

"She is my daughter," Cullen grated, tightening his hands into fists.

"As if you could ever be a father to my child," the Inquisitor scoffed. "You were a convenience. Nothing more." She turned back to Solas, a triumphant smile on her lips. "Let us leave them. I'm sure we have much to do."

Though Solas did spare her a glance, most of his attention remained on the child in his arms. When tiny fingers reached out to explore the fur of the mantle around Solas' shoulders, a faint smile touched his lips. "I would imagine a fur mantle to be a familiar sight for you, da'len," he murmured. When the girl giggled in response, something shifted in Solas' demeanor, and he looked up at Cullen with an intensity in his eyes which belied the gentleness in the exchange with the child.

Cullen's mouth went dry as Solas crossed the space between them. When the Inquisitor protested, Solas' eyes flashed once more, and the Inquisitor froze in place, leaving Solas unmolested as he came to stand in front of Cullen.

"You have my daughter," Cullen said in a cracked voice before Solas could say anything.

"And if she is my issue?" Solas asked, though his tone and inflection gave Cullen no clue as to whether or not Solas believed that to be true.

"That changes nothing. She is my daughter," Cullen repeated stubbornly, holding out his arms in silent pleading. "From her first breath, I have devoted my life to her, and I will not let even a god take that from me."

Solas tilted his head as he studied Cullen's expression, and his pale smile returned. "I believe you, my friend," he said softly, then glanced at Bull. "Knight takes Pawn," he announced, even as he settled the girl into Cullen's waiting embrace.

For a moment, as Cullen hugged his daughter tightly enough to make her babble in good-natured complaint, the world was right again. He was vaguely aware of Solas moving to stand next to the Inquisitor, but Cullen opted to walk a short distance away for a private moment with his little girl. The words exchanged between the Inqusitor and Solas went unheeded, a faint buzzing noise in the near distance as Cullen reassured himself that his daughter was safe and whole. When her eyelids started to droop, his panic rose before an adorable yawn revealed that she was simply tired. With a smile, he let her rest her head on his shoulder, and in only a few breaths she fell asleep.

A strangled scream proved to be the trigger necessary to divert Cullen's attention once more, and his head whipped around to see Dorian and Bull standing in wary readiness, their eyes locked on the tableau before them. The scream hadn't come from them, however. Instead, he saw that the Inquisitor had fallen to her knees in front of Solas, who had a cold expression on his face as he jerked her left arm into a straight position.

"And now I will take this from you, Inquisitor," Solas told her. "Only I could have controlled it fully, but it is obvious that you can no longer be trusted with its power." As Cullen watched with wide eyes, Solas bent over the Inquisitor as he wove the fingers of one hand in a complicated yet decidedly curt gesture. A flash of light appeared in his palm, then sank out of sight, whereas the Inquisitor... Cullen's eyes widened as her entire forearm flashed with a bright green light which gradually faded, leaving behind nothing--not even bone--as the glow dissipated.

As Solas turned away from the Inquisitor, she moaned and reached out to him with her remaining hand. "No... Solas, please. It can't end like this," she begged, an edge of desperation in her voice.

Solas paused, then half-turned and looked at Bull. "Your move, Hissrad. Will you choose what happens, or let it play out on the board in front of you, guided by the hand of another? Are you ready?"

Bull took a deep breath and pressed his lips together, and it seemed as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders in the moment before he emptied his lungs with one explosive breath. "Benn-Hassrath takes Arishok."

As Cullen puzzled over the exchange, his weary mind trying to recall which Qunari pieces matched the ones with which he was more familiar, Solas lifted his chin as if in challenge. "You are certain?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I mean, everyone has to start somewhere, right?" And with that, Bull's gaze dropped to where the still dazed Inquisitor lay on the ground.

Acting on instinct, Cullen made sure his daughter was still asleep and could not possibly see her mother's brief struggle as Bull's hands closed around the Inquisitor and hauled her up against his broad body. His hand desperately covered tiny, innocent ears so that she would not hear what followed: not the muffled screams, and especially not the sharp crack which heralded the end of the Inquisitor's life.

For a long moment, silence fell, occasionally interrupted by the rustling of leaves in nearby trees. Then Bull sighed gustily and opened his arms wide.

Cullen stared as the Inquisitor's body slid from Bull's grasp and sprawled lifelessly on the ground. Even as his hand rubbed soothingly on his slumbering daughter's back, he tried to summon up a shred of regret or sadness that the mother of his child was gone, and found nothing.

Nothing except a great sense of relief that the nightmare was finally over.

Solas broke the silence first. "It was the right decision, Tal-Vashoth. Never doubt that. I do not relish her death, but her ambition would have ended with the world in more chaos than even her death will cause."

"Doesn't make it easy," Bull muttered, seemingly unable to take his eye off the dead-weight at his feet.

Dorian moved to Bull and slowly pulled him away from the body, his voice gentle as he murmured, "It was the right decision, Bull."

Bull shuddered, but nodded. "Eventually I'll believe it. Just... give me a moment, all right?"

As Bull walked away, Cullen moved to Dorian's side. "Give him time," Cullen murmured. "There's a big difference between killing because you're told to, and killing because you choose to."

"I know," Dorian said softly, his face so grim that Cullen wondered when, exactly, Dorian had learned that particular lesson. Before he could think to ask, however, Dorian had already turned to face Solas once more. "And what now? We simply let you walk away, knowing what you intend to do?"

Solas clasped his hands behind his back, a touch of sorrow coming to his face. "Here and now, we are not enemies. Here and now, we worked together towards a common goal. Here and now, I would prefer to part as friends and former comrades, to ponder..." His voice trailed off as his gaze turned to Cullen, or perhaps to the child still asleep upon his shoulder. "To ponder what I have learned this day. I hope that you will do the same."

The words hung between them for a long moment as Dorian, fingers playing with the flickering amulet around his neck, stared at Solas. Finally he drew himself to his full height and stepped forward with hand extended. "Then here and now, let us part as friends."

Solas hesitated for a moment, then slowly reached out and shook Dorian's hand. "Until next we meet, Dorian."

Dorian smiled, though the expression held the same poignant sadness evident on Solas' face. "Until next we meet, Solas."

Their hands fell away from each other, and Solas turned his gaze once more to Cullen and his daughter. With a grave nod, Solas said, "Take care of her, my friend."

"With my life," Cullen swore. "Never doubt that."

"I will not." Solas turned to Bull. "You play an excellent game, Tal-Vashoth. Was this the outcome you sought when first you intercepted and modified the messages between the Inquisitor and myself?"

Bull chuckled as he crossed his arms again. "Nah. I was just being a good little Hissrad at first. Trying to sow dissent between enemy ranks. But then you caught on. I suppose I should have anticipated that."

A faint smile came to Solas' lips, though it disappeared just as quickly as it had arisen. "Indeed. I am glad my trust in you was not misplaced, as it was with the Inquisitor. Perhaps we will have a re-match sometime in the future."

Bull's smile faded. "I'll be waiting, Fade Bringer."

Without another word, Solas resumed his journey to the mirror. Whether his gaze dropped to consider the still body of the Inquisitor as he passed it, none of them saw, but his steps never faltered.

Once he had passed through the mirror, Cullen closed his eyes and let loose a pent up breath, then gently kissed his daughter on the head. "We should leave."

"Indeed." Dorian moved to Cullen's side and took his hand. "I suddenly have a fierce urge to cuddle my son."

Cullen smiled as he lifted Dorian's hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. "Perhaps he could meet his new sister?" Cullen suggested, heart pounding as he awaited Dorian's reply to his unusual proposition.

The corners of Dorian's eyes crinkled as he tilted his head and smiled, the happiness clear on his face as he murmured, "I think that a most delightful idea."

And so, hand in hand, they left the strange place behind the mirrors, after which Bull led them to where Varric awaited their return. Without hesitation, Varric invited all of them to join him in Kirkwall for as long as they wished, which they accepted--and they were not the only Inquisition refugee hidden away in Kirkwall's caravan that day.

A harrowed Josephine and subdued Leliana joined them, sneaking in with a wary air that spoke volumes about their state. Bull's grim pronouncement that the Inquisitor would not return was met with an equanimity which did little to conceal their relief. Their apologies to Cullen and Dorian were heartfelt, and Cullen felt a lingering sadness ease as he realized that not only was he free, but so too were his friends.

As their carriage creaked along the road to the port where Viscount Varric's ship awaited them, Dorian and Cullen held hands and watched with a smile as Cullen's daughter played with Bull's horns and Dorian's son charmed Josephine and Leliana with his smiles and giggles. If not for the shadow in Dorian's eyes, Cullen would have called the moment perfect. Even with that shadow, it was more than enough simply to be with him, especially after years of deprivation.

In the castle in Kirkwall, the Viscount and their friends witnessed Cullen and Dorian's vows of love to each other, and they all settled into a life of blissful domesticity. Their children thrived in their peculiar family of loving parents, two adoring aunts, and two sarcastic uncles (though one had only one eye). Sometimes they would wreak a little too much havoc in the Castle, and would accept a little bit of lecture, but those times were few and far between.

And, if a particularly horny man joined Dorian and Cullen in their bed on occasion, that was no one's business but their own.

Yet rumors from beyond eventually penetrated the high walls of Kirkwall, as rumors do, and all too soon the shadow in Dorian's eyes returned. He started sequestering himself in his laboratory, first for hours, then for days on end. His fingers seemed to always linger on the glowing white amulet around his neck, and grey touched his hair a bit more quickly than Cullen had expected.

As the rumors drew closer and closer, of rebellion and chaos led by a man who claimed to be a god, Dorian withdrew more and more, until finally Cullen found a note on the bed telling him not to worry, that Dorian would restore everything to rights once more. He would return soon, and everything would be better.

Wouldn't it?

[gldnsctn]

The Circular Ruins :: Jorge Luis Borges

No one saw him disembark in the unanimous night, no one saw the bamboo canoe sink into the sacred mud, but in a few days there was no one who did not know that the taciturn man came from the South and that his home had been one of those numberless villages upstream in the deeply cleft side of the mountain, where the Zend language has not been contaminated by Greek and where leprosy is infrequent. What is certain is that the grey man kissed the mud, climbed up the bank with pushing aside (probably, without feeling) the blades which were lacerating his flesh, and crawled, nauseated and bloodstained, up to the circular enclosure crowned with a stone tiger or horse, which sometimes was the color of flame and now was that of ashes. This circle was a temple which had been devoured by ancient fires, profaned by the miasmal jungle, and whose god no longer received the homage of men. The stranger stretched himself out beneath the pedestal. He was awakened by the sun high overhead. He was not astonished to find that his wounds had healed; he closed his pallid eyes and slept, not through weakness of flesh but through determination of will. He knew that this temple was the place required for his invincible intent; he knew that the incessant trees had not succeeded in strangling the ruins of another propitious temple downstream which had once belonged to gods now burned and dead; he knew that his immediate obligation was to dream. Toward midnight he was awakened by the inconsolable shriek of a bird. Tracks of bare feet, some figs and a jug warned him that the men of the region had been spying respectfully on his sleep, soliciting his protection or afraid of his magic. He felt a chill of fear, and sought out a sepulchral niche in the dilapidated wall where he concealed himself among unfamiliar leaves.

The purpose which guided him was not impossible, though supernatural. He wanted to dream a man; he wanted to dream him in minute entirety and impose him on reality. This magic project had exhausted the entire expanse of his mind; if someone had asked him his name or to relate some event of his former life, he would not have been able to give an answer. This uninhabited, ruined temple suited him, for it is contained a minimum of visible world; the proximity of the workmen also suited him, for they took it upon themselves to provide for his frugal needs. The rice and fruit they brought him were nourishment enough for his body, which was consecrated to the sole task of sleeping and dreaming.

At first, his dreams were chaotic; then in a short while they became dialectic in nature. The stranger dreamed that he was in the center of a circular amphitheater which was more or less the burnt temple; clouds of taciturn students filled the tiers of seats; the faces of the farthest ones hung at a distance of many centuries and as high as the stars, but their features were completely precise. The man lectured his pupils on anatomy, cosmography, and magic: the faces listened anxiously and tried to answer understandingly, as if they guessed the importance of that examination which would redeem one of them from his condition of empty illusion and interpolate him into the real world. Asleep or awake, the man thought over the answers of his phantoms, did not allow himself to be deceived by imposters, and in certain perplexities he sensed a growing intelligence. He was seeking a soul worthy of participating in the universe.

After nine or ten nights he understood with a certain bitterness that he could expect nothing from those pupils who accepted his doctrine passively, but that he could expect something from those who occasionally dared to oppose him. The former group, although worthy of love and affection, could not ascend to the level of individuals; the latter pre-existed to a slightly greater degree. One afternoon (now afternoons were also given over to sleep, now he was only awake for a couple hours at daybreak) he dismissed the vast illusory student body for good and kept only one pupil. He was a taciturn, sallow boy, at times intractable, and whose sharp features resembled of those of his dreamer. The brusque elimination of his fellow students did not disconcert him for long; after a few private lessons, his progress was enough to astound the teacher. Nevertheless, a catastrophe took place. One day, the man emerged from his sleep as if from a viscous desert, looked at the useless afternoon light which he immediately confused with the dawn, and understood that he had not dreamed. All that night and all day long, the intolerable lucidity of insomnia fell upon him. He tried exploring the forest, to lose his strength; among the hemlock he barely succeeded in experiencing several short snatchs of sleep, veined with fleeting, rudimentary visions that were useless. He tried to assemble the student body but scarcely had he articulated a few brief words of exhortation when it became deformed and was then erased. In his almost perpetual vigil, tears of anger burned his old eyes.

He understood that modeling the incoherent and vertiginous matter of which dreams are composed was the most difficult task that a man could undertake, even though he should penetrate all the enigmas of a superior and inferior order; much more difficult than weaving a rope out of sand or coining the faceless wind. He swore he would forget the enormous hallucination which had thrown him off at first, and he sought another method of work. Before putting it into execution, he spent a month recovering his strength, which had been squandered by his delirium. He abandoned all premeditation of dreaming and almost immediately succeeded in sleeping a reasonable part of each day. The few times that he had dreams during this period, he paid no attention to them. Before resuming his task, he waited until the moon's disk was perfect. Then, in the afternoon, he purified himself in the waters of the river, worshiped the planetary gods, pronounced the prescribed syllables of a mighty name, and went to sleep. He dreamed almost immediately, with his heart throbbing.

He dreamed that it was warm, secret, about the size of a clenched fist, and of a garnet color within the penumbra of a human body as yet without face or sex; during fourteen lucid nights he dreampt of it with meticulous love. Every night he perceived it more clearly. He did not touch it; he only permitted himself to witness it, to observe it, and occasionally to rectify it with a glance. He perceived it and lived it from all angles and distances. On the fourteenth night he lightly touched the pulmonary artery with his index finger, then the whole heart, outside and inside. He was satisfied with the examination. He deliberately did not dream for a night; he took up the heart again, invoked the name of a planet, and undertook the vision of another of the principle organs. Within a year he had come to the skeleton and the eyelids. The innumerable hair was perhaps the most difficult task. He dreamed an entire man--a young man, but who did not sit up or talk, who was unable to open his eyes. Night after night, the man dreamt him asleep.

In the Gnostic cosmosgonies, demiurges fashion a red Adam who cannot stand; as a clumsy, crude and elemental as this Adam of dust was the Adam of dreams forged by the wizard's nights. One afternoon, the man almost destroyed his entire work, but then changed his mind. (It would have been better had he destroyed it.) When he had exhausted all supplications to the deities of earth, he threw himself at the feet of the effigy which was perhaps a tiger or perhaps a colt and implored its unknown help. That evening, at twilight, he dreamt of the statue. He dreamt it was alive, tremulous: it was not an atrocious bastard of a tiger and a colt, but at the same time these two firey creatures and also a bull, a rose, and a storm. This multiple god revealed to him that his earthly name was Fire, and that in this circular temple (and in others like it) people had once made sacrifices to him and worshiped him, and that he would magically animate the dreamed phantom, in such a way that all creatures, except Fire itself and the dreamer, would believe to be a man of flesh and blood. He commanded that once this man had been instructed in all the rites, he should be sent to the other ruined temple whose pyramids were still standing downstream, so that some voice would glorify him in that deserted ediface. In the dream of the man that dreamed, the dreamed one awoke.

The wizard carried out the orders he had been given. He devoted a certain length of time (which finally proved to be two years) to instructing him in the mysteries of the universe and the cult of fire. Secretly, he was pained at the idea of being seperated from him. On the pretext of pedagogical necessity, each day he increased the number of hours dedicated to dreaming. He also remade the right shoulder, which was somewhat defective. At times, he was disturbed by the impression that all this had already happened . . . In general, his days were happy; when he closed his eyes, he thought: Now I will be with my son. Or, more rarely: The son I have engendered is waiting for me and will not exist if I do not go to him.

Gradually, he began accustoming him to reality. Once he ordered him to place a flag on a faraway peak. The next day the flag was fluttering on the peak. He tried other analogous experiments, each time more audacious. With a certain bitterness, he understood that his son was ready to be born--and perhaps impatient. That night he kissed him for the first time and sent him off to the other temple whose remains were turning white downstream, across many miles of inextricable jungle and marshes. Before doing this (and so that his son should never know that he was a phantom, so that he should think himself a man like any other) he destroyed in him all memory of his years of apprenticeship.

His victory and peace became blurred with boredom. In the twilight times of dusk and dawn, he would prostrate himself before the stone figure, perhaps imagining his unreal son carrying out identical rites in other circular ruins downstream; at night he no longer dreamed, or dreamed as any man does. His perceptions of the sounds and forms of the universe became somewhat pallid: his absent son was being nourished by these diminution of his soul. The purpose of his life had been fulfilled; the man remained in a kind of ecstasy. After a certain time, which some chronicles prefer to compute in years and others in decades, two oarsmen awoke him at midnight; he could not see their faces, but they spoke to him of a charmed man in a temple of the North, capable of walking on fire without burning himself. The wizard suddenly remembered the words of the god. He remembered that of all the creatures that people the earth, Fire was the only one who knew his son to be a phantom. This memory, which at first calmed him, ended by tormenting him. He feared lest his son should meditate on this abnormal privilege and by some means find out he was a mere simulacrum. Not to be a man, to be a projection of another man's dreams--what an incomparable humiliation, what madness! Any father is interested in the sons he has procreated (or permitted) out of the mere confusion of happiness; it was natural that the wizard should fear for the future of that son whom he had thought out entrail by entrail, feature by feature, in a thousand and one secret nights.

His misgivings ended abruptly, but not without certain forewarnings. First (after a long drought) a remote cloud, as light as a bird, appeared on a hill; then, toward the South, the sky took on the rose color of leopard's gums; then came clouds of smoke which rusted the metal of the nights; afterwards came the panic-stricken flight of wild animals. For what had happened many centuries before was repeating itself. The ruins of the sanctuary of the god of Fire was destroyed by fire. In a dawn without birds, the wizard saw the concentric fire licking the walls. For a moment, he thought of taking refuge in the water, but then he understood that death was coming to crown his old age and absolve him from his labors. He walked toward the sheets of flame. They did not bite his flesh, they caressed him and flooded him without heat or combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he also was an illusion, that someone else was dreaming him.