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exquisitley-obsessed · 3 years

Text

Cardinal Catastrophe

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: Elain reaches out to Azriel after that dreaded Solstice night and they once again meet under the moonlight in the River House - but everything is different now (post ACOSF, Azriel’s the focalizer)

Pairings: Azriel x Elain, Elriel

Word Count: 13,300+

Warnings: This does get a bit smutty and then there’s some violence towards the end.

A/N: This is like super long. It basically has everything it’s fluff, smut and angst so yeah, something for everyone. This is probably the longest oneshot I’ve ever written, I don’t know where this has come from but it’s taken me way longer to write than any of my other stuff. There’s a lot of catharsis in this and reflection on how I think both Azriel and Elain think of the situation. You’ll also get a bit of Rhys’ pov towards the ned ;)

Preview: With Elain’s eyes closed he allowed himself to greedily devour the sight of her. Just her face alone captured his attention entirely. With his eyes he memorised the curve of her cheekbones, the specific angle of her brows, even the exact chocolatey shade of her lashes. He went over it again, and again, and again, like a worshipper devouring the holy text. Azriel needed the perfection of Elain committed to memory, because he was sure that one day his luck would run out entirely. That soon he would not be permitted to even these meetings in the dead of night, with only a thousand stars as witness to their mutilated fate.

“Elain...” He tried again; his voice softer than he had ever heard it before. The person he became around Elain was foreign to himself. He had never been someone privileged enough to both love and be loved, not like this. Now that he had tasted such passions, he found he could not always recognise himself. Because he was Azriel, and he was cursed and damned, destined to be alone, to be unloved, mutilated both in mind and morality. He could not love; he shouldn’t be able to love - and yet.

MASTERLIST

It was no exaggeration to say that Azriel’s work was of a most gruesome nature. His daily routine involved cutting into people, making them sing to his shadows, working them like a carcass in a machine until they’d spilt their guts to him before painting the walls with those same organs. As the Night Court’s spymaster, Azriel knew things that would bring kings to their knees, secrets that were interwoven into the foundations of courts, hidden information that would dissolve alliances in seconds; and yet, here he was, pacing the room like a schoolboy as he tried to swallow the fluttery ‘butterfly-like’ feeling twisting his gut.

He’d noticed the note the minute he’d entered the room. A tiny slip of paper that glowed in the moonlight from where it was perched on his work desk, a stark contrast to Azriel’s messy, tea-stained paperwork. Azriel had smelt her on it before he read it, in fact, the second he opened the door to his River House bedroom he was surrounded by her faded aroma. She must’ve breezed in and out, not wanting to overstep her bounds as she left him a note no one else was to read. Knowing her, she was probably currently riddled with guilt for entering his private space, even though, quite frankly, Azriel wouldn’t mind her invading on every aspect of his life, personal or not. Not wanting to face what her scent in his room did to him, he’d crossed the room in three strides and devoured the note in seconds; the words still rang in his head.

I need to see you.

Everything had been fine. Ever since Rhysand’s outrageous demand of Azriel several months prior, Azriel had fallen into a routine, stricter than the last, for ignoring Elain Archeron. He was working more than he ever had before, not just in quantity but in quality. Unnecessarily detailed reports were showing up on the High Lord’s desk of situations that were entirely irrelevant to the current political climate and yet, Azriel thought it was only fair Rhysand suffered somewhat from this situation too.

I’m sorry for everything.

While he was anywhere but Velaris, Elain was never anywhere else, specifically in the River House, a place he had thus far avoided with painful success. Until his High Lady had demanded he come to dinner to celebrate Nesta’s birthday, Nesta who was happier than he had ever seen her before, practically glowing with the dreaded mating bond. It still baffled him how much prevalence mating bonds had played in his life the past few years after 500 years of silence, strings of fate which seemed to only bring about the greatest happiness or the wickedest pain.

I just want to make things right.

They were so happy, all of them. Rhysand with Feyre and Nyx, Nesta and Cassian - and though he just wanted to be glad for his family, the miasma of their bliss was suffocating. Because Azriel had never felt more alone, had never been so buried in his work, so achingly tired from the unnecessary flights and dreary missions, and his harmful behaviour was turning his body into something foreign. Azriel never used to have the constant tautness across his shoulders, nor the constant black shadows under his eyes from the sleepless nights, or the aching muscles that never seemed to heal. But it was necessary – if he wanted to obey Rhysand’s order, if he wanted to maintain civility between courts, and for a plethora of other supposed noble reasons – it was necessary.

I miss you.

He just wanted her. Not in any possessive way, he just wanted to be around her. He’d come to find a specific kind of peace in her company, something about that soothed his worries and aches. So, he missed their walks in the gardens, their shared book recommendations, their inside jokes, their unspoken understanding, their healing. And above all he missed her: her smile, her laughter, the shade of her flushed cheeks, her kindness, her silence.

Azriel hadn’t realised what had been happening to him as they had gotten closer, hadn’t realised how far he’d fallen till Rhysand had pulled him out of the air. Now all that was there, was a lacking. He was busier than ever, but all around him hung the privation of her.

Meet me in the foyer when the sun sets.

So he couldn’t be around his family, couldn’t face their overwhelming joy when he was so, so alone. Maybe it would’ve been better if he had never met Elain, or at least if he hadn’t allowed himself to fall for her. But in those soft moments he shared with her, the brushes of fingertips to the sun-kissed smiles, he’d been forced to face just how alone he was, how alone he had always been. Through Elain, Azriel had had a taste of honest, unwavering love - and yet he was expected to turn his back on such a discovery, by his own family no less.

Please.

He would meet her in the foyer when the sun set. He would follow her to the ends of the Earth if she asked him to, because maybe he was just so masochistic that he didn’t mind meeting Elain only to be reminded of everything he couldn’t have. Reading the note Azriel couldn’t help but think bitterly of how the flower-grower was far more courageous than he. That she was reaching out to him after he had rejected her so brutally. Azriel jolted, flaring his wings slightly to stop the train of thought. That pained, confused look in Elain’s eye when he had said that word, haunted him. Mistake. He’d called it a mistake. Azriel raked his hands down his face and sighed.

He wished he were strong enough to either commit or drop it entirely. He wished he had it in him to do something. Azriel should’ve bitten back at Rhysand all those months ago, should’ve just dealt with this catastrophe back then rather than let it fester and rot under the proverbial carpet.

As time passed in Azriel’s knotted thoughts, the sun plummeted towards the horizon. It was a perfect summers evening, and Azriel stilled at the window to watch as the sun melted the sky into shades of pink and purple. He saw it and thought of the colour of her dress tonight, or even that dress she had worn when she’d made traditional Illyrian biscuits and demanded he tried one. He’d taken it in his pocket and only took a bite when he was alone in the shadows of a different court, and he had savoured every bite, quietly smothering his growing adoration as he did so.

Elain, Elain, Elain. His shadows whispered to him, as though they knew they would soon be in her presence. No one had ever had such an effect on his shadows, and around her he was more aware of them being a separate entity to himself. Though they were bound, around Elain they seemed to grow more confident, they acted of their own accord and would often disappear in her presence, as though his shadows knew he wished to be entirely alone with her.

Foyer...Elain...flower-grower...beautiful. Azriel was inclined to agree. And before Azriel could lose himself to shyness, the sun finally dipped behind the curve of the land, allowing a thousand glimmering stars to prickle through the endless black sky.

She would already be waiting for him, and though Azriel was nervous, he had to restrain some part of himself that longed to throw open the door and jump down the stairs two at a time. Instead, he used the shadows, stepping through them to the base of the large foyer staircase. It would be more silent this way. He wouldn’t make the same mistake of not listening to the corridors as they spoke. For Elain’s sake, he would demand the utmost privacy, even from his High Lord and Lady.

He could see her before she saw him. She was leaning of the Foyer’s centre table, fiddling with the bouquet of flowers in a glass vase - of course she was. All he could see of her was the lower half of her pale gown and her dark golden hair, cascading down her back like a waterfall. The moonlight streaming in through the large French windows gave her an angelic glow, whereas the more sensuous light of the flickering candles painted shadows across her thinly veiled curves. Both warm and cold light coming together to worship the woman who seemed to him as light herself. At the sight of her, Azriel involuntarily sucked in a breath and felt her scent hit the back of his throat, his entire body seemed to sing from her aroma alone, as though it were his own personal drug. Dangerous, this was dangerous, to be with her and to be so alone. He didn’t care.

“Elain,” she didn’t start as he spoke into the thick silence. If she had the confidence to call him here tonight, then he must source some of his own. He at least owed her that. Delicately, Elain turned and looked over her shoulder, her beautiful brown eyes finding his and melting the whole world away.

“You came,” She breathed, her shoulders sagging slightly out of relief. She turned to him properly then, and Azriel flickered his eyes over her so quickly she might’ve mistaken it for a mere blink. But he saw her, saw what she was wearing, and some core part of his soul longed to weep at the sight of her beauty.

Elain was in a nightgown, off-white cotton and silk, with cream and dusty pink lace. Pale ribbons pulled the nightdress around her breasts and down to her naval, dipping in a slight ‘v’ before the skirts flowed around her natural curves and then dropped to the floor. The neckline was agonisingly flattering, though Azriel was sure he wouldn’t look twice at the nightdress on anyone else. Her creamy skin seemed browner in the warm candlelight of the house, and as the shadows flickered, he was aware of how her collarbones stretched out to the curve of her shoulders, how she didn’t have freckles on her chest and arms but rather a specific constellation of moles, even how her hair was impossibly thick and, if memory served him well, soft too. Upper sections were pulled away from her face in an intricate pattern of braids and ties, and yet lock after lock of pale brown hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, framing her angelic face. Oh, that face. Poets and painters alike would weep at the sight of that face. The small, angled eyebrows that somehow made her doe eyes bigger, the freckles across her cheeks and nose, her plush lips-

“I know that you’re avoiding me,” she began, crashing Azriel back into reality. He shifted slightly, ruffling his wings as though to wake himself up. Her voice wasn’t accusing, but calm and quiet, “I know there’s a reason why you’re never around. For a while I thought you were just cooped up at the House of Wind but Nesta says that she never sees you...no one ever sees you anymore.” Azriel stayed quiet, just holding her gaze. He never needed to speak around Elain, she had quickly understood that when he had something to say, he would say it, but till then, he was comforted by the silence. And so she continued, more nervous now.

“I don’t want to be...narcissistic...but it seems to me that you’ve been distancing yourself with everyone after what happened on Solstice and...” She shifted uncomfortably, her confidence running out as she looked down at the floor and wrung her hands. “I can’t take it. I can’t take being the person whose pushed you away and I...I think we need to talk about it - or not talk about it - I’m not sure. I just, I don’t want you to avoid me anymore, even if that means we pretend that it never happened, that’s fine. I just...”

He could tell her right now the exact reason why he couldn’t be around her. Elain, he would say, I would do anything to be around you. I would kill a thousand men just to have the privilege of your company. But I can’t, Elain. Because when I’m around you, everything turns inside out, I forget everything I’m supposed to be afraid of. I become this person around you Elain, I become someone who I’ve always wanted to be, and I don’t know how to be him, if I even can. I’m not used to this, to wanting something so viscerally it feels as though I might fall apart every day I don’t see you. Elain, I don’t know how to choose happiness, I don’t know how to be selfish in that way, and above all...I don’t know how to fix this.

“I don’t care if you don’t want me like that, not if it comes at the price of your friendship. I still...need you in my life, Az,” Elain was whispering now, her large eyes slightly glassy in the candlelight.

Azriel couldn’t help but think that Elain was evidentially stronger than him, that she could still want to be around him even if he supposedly didn’t want her. If the roles were reversed, if it had been Elain who had pushed him away, he was pretty certain he would’ve manipulated his work to make him leave the Night Court for at least several years. Of course, she was stronger than him, he was beginning to think she was stronger than them all, because of this exact trait of hers - forgiveness.

“Please...say something,” Elain’s broken voice rose through the silence. She looked at him again, tears threatening to spill. Her looking at him in such a way made something deep in his chest twist, and twist and keep on twisting.

He didn’t know what to do, so he took a step forward, and another and another, until he was a foot’s distance away from her. The whole time her eyes never left his, her hands still twisting together at the front of her beautiful, beautiful dress. He opened his mouth to speak but once again Elain had rendered him speechless. Where could he begin, how could he begin - how could he fix this?

“Elain...” was all he managed in the end, but that seemed to be enough to soothe her as her eyes fluttered shut and she breathed deeply at the sound of her name mingled with his breath.

With Elain’s eyes closed he allowed himself to greedily devour the sight of her. Just her face alone captured his attention entirely. With his eyes he memorised the curve of her cheekbones, the specific angle of her brows, even the exact chocolatey shade of her lashes. He went over it again, and again, and again, like a worshipper devouring the holy text. Azriel needed the perfection of Elain committed to memory, because he was sure that one day his luck would run out entirely. That soon he would not be permitted to even these meetings in the dead of night, with only a thousand stars as witness to their mutilated fate.

“I’m sorry,” He began, his voice barely audible. And by the way Elain’s brows furrowed slightly and her mouth tightened, he knew that she knew he was talking about the last time they’d been here, in this foyer. “I wish things were different,” He whispered, now trying to memorise the exact constellations of her freckles.

“Me too,” She breathed, her eyes still closed. “I wish I was different,” She surprised him by whispering.

“Don’t...” He murmured, silently stunned, “You...you don’t know how you...” But he had to stop himself mid-sentence, had to bite his tongue between his teeth hard enough to draw blood. Because if he started to talk, he wouldn’t stop. He would tell her everything, and he wasn’t quite ready to be so vulnerable, not when he didn’t know how to be vulnerable at all.

“I...” She opened her eyes and seemed to look at him as though for the first time. After a long pause she spoke again, “I wish I had courage.”

“Courage?” Elain paused and shifted slightly from foot to foot, as though she were debating what she would say next.

“I want to be strong, like my sisters...I want to etch out my own path rather than fumble in the dark.” Azriel thought for a moment.

“You are strong, whether you perceive yourself to be or not.” He wanted nothing more than to reach up and stroke his hand along her smooth cheek, instead he dug his nails into his already marred palm and focused on the pain’s bite.

“I will never be a general,” Elain whispered, her eyes still damp, “I will never be a High Lady or a leader, I don’t care for any of that...I wish I did. You can’t imagine how badly I wish I...” Her words ran out and her eyes became slightly glossed over and detached. Again, he felt the urge to touch her, to ground her back in reality, but he just dug his nails in deeper. “I don’t belong on battlefields, though I’d always fight when the world needed me but...I’m not a warrior; and that petrifies me.”

Again, Azriel paused, taking time to absorb every word Elain offered to him under the moonlight. Azriel adored Elain, he could’ve stood there for an hour and listed everything about her that had brought him hope. How her outlook on life had been so foreign to him, so unrealistic when he first met her, that it was extraordinary now just how jealous he was of her ability to look at the morbidity of the world, and still seek out the good.

“In a world of endless bloodshed and bitterness, do not be ashamed of not wanting to be a warrior,” Azriel whispered.

“But I’m useless,” Elain quickly interjected, “I have all this power, I feel it stirring in me and there is no part of me that wishes to manipulate it or-or exploit it.” Elain’s hands came up and danced in the air as she spoke, another quirk of hers he’d both memorised and adored. Azriel thought again, long and hard, before he spoke.

“I’ve been around a lot longer than you, and from what I’ve learnt of people is...that they’re horrible,” Azriel watched as Elain’s eyes widened and drank in his words and something twisted in his chest. People didn’t look at him like that when he talked. His brothers would wink and laugh with him, his enemies cowered and flinched, those whom he bedded would smile slyly or watch his mouth as he murmured dirty things in the dead of night. But no one looked at him like that, as though he were reciting poetry, as though he were beautiful enough to say something worthy of those big eyes and parted lips.

“You wouldn’t believe the horrors I’ve seen, or the court secrets I’ve uncovered. The way people, particular those in positions of power, treat each other, treat those around them and those below them - it’s tragic. It’s merciless and cruel.” Elain was still drinking him in, still hanging onto his every word.

“I think over the centuries, I myself became desensitised to the horrors of power and politics. Especially given my start in life. When you were human I understood your naivety, your belief in the good of the world, especially after your riches had returned and your life was content.

“But what I didn’t understand was how you continued to believe good after everything you went through. After facing the most brutal torture from the Cauldron itself...you still chose to believe in the wonderful and I-I didn’t understand that. Because I couldn’t do that. Because I’d never believed in the good of people the way you do...I had never even believed in the good of myself.

“Please don’t think that kindness is something small, or something that can be overlooked. Because when the world is little more than ruin and rubble, kindness is all we have left. We’ve just been alive so long that we forget about it, us Fae, we’ve spent so much of our lives at war that it’s easy to forget why we’d even engage in such bloodshed. It wasn’t till I met you that I was reminded that such things as tenderness and humanity even existed outside my family, and once the wars were about defending those virtues rather than snuffing them out…I just, I can’t help but think that if there were more people like you in the world, maybe Prythian wouldn’t succumb to carnage every few decades, just so that the heartless noblemen of this land can feel something.”

Azriel hadn’t meant to speak for so long, in fact, he didn’t quite understand where the words had even come from. They were true, of course. He did whole-heartedly believe everything he had just said, he just hadn’t realised how much he’d ached to say it aloud. Elain was still staring at him wide-eyed, and then there was the worst thing of all, a single tear spilling over her damp eyes and trickling down her cheek.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Elain whispered, suddenly reaching out and sliding her palm into his from where it was hanging limp at his side. Electricity shot through his arm, and he forced himself to look at her in the eye as he tensed his legs so that they didn’t crumple underneath him. “No, it’s good I’m, I’m glad you said it I...”

But again, words seemed to evade Elain as she looked up at him. Azriel was now hyperaware of her how close she was, of her smooth palm that fit so nicely in his own. His body often reacted on its own accord around Elain, and he had spent months leashing his desires into chains, beasts that could only come out in the dead of night. But since that dreaded Solstice night last winter, everything had changed.

Life these past few months had consisted of the battle between two extremes. Either he was drowning in the way his body seemed to ache and beg for her, his mind obsessing over their stuttering relationship as though it were a philosophical debate. Especially since he now knew that some part of her wanted him and had wanted to kiss him even with her mate sleeping upstairs. The fact that he now knew what her scent tasted like, how her voice sounded when it was breathy and desperate - it all fuelled the fantasies that haunted him the moment he made it back to his room. He could be on the other side of Prythian and somehow the presence of Elain Archeron would find a way to him.

The other extreme was complete and total deprivation. The reality that he hadn’t seen her for months, that she would soon exist more in memory than experience. Even though his fantasies of her were so visceral, so tangible, the reality that she was not in the room with him always came crashing down by the time his head had cleared - and then he’d feel more alone than ever before.

But when he was here, with her, the argument ceased. The torture and the pain, the writhing mind and aching debates, it all fell into beautiful silence. And so, looking at her now, he was unable to help himself. And without thought, he reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear as he murmured under his breath, no more than a whisper, “Elain Archeron...saviour of the cursed and damned...”

As Azriel’s fingers grazed Elain’s cheek, a horribly confused and upset look twisted her face. She seemed to freeze at the contact and Azriel halted at her discomfort, internally berated himself for pushing her too far, for being so arrogant in thinking he could touch her in such a way.

“I...Azriel...I don’t understand,” Elain’s breathless voice seemed to caress him, and once more he found himself tensing his legs so that they wouldn’t give out under him. “You don’t want me...you said it was a mistake...” Azriel stilled, and he caught her eye in a moment of alarmed sobriety.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He couldn’t stop the words before they spilled from his lips. It didn’t matter how soft, how quiet, his voice was, the words were innately harsh and something deep against his spine lurched at the thought of her hurting her - of hurting her again.

But Elain didn’t flinch. Her eyes, instead of widening in shock, stayed stoically still and calm. And then Azriel watched as those honeyed eyes he loved so much lapsed darker and darker, the floral musk of her arousal drifting to him like a moth to a flame, the same scent he’d been dreaming of for months, the memory of it alone making his body achingly hard and taut, as though his own skin existed only to respond to the call of hers.

The scent surrounded him, sending blood to his cock which was now throbbing viscerally against the seams of his leathers. His arousal had never felt so tight before, so extreme and sudden. He felt it, heavy in his lower abdomen, twisting and knotting his guts in both pain and pleasure. That was familiar, that he’d felt a hundred times before, but for Elain Acheron his whole body seemed to sing. His blood burned under his skin as it pounded through his body, whilst his heart was light and fluttery in his chest, as though it might edge up his throat and fall from his lips. His eyes felt heavy lidded as though he were drunk, and even though he were standing stoically still, even though he hadn’t done anything yet, he found himself short of breath.

He had never wanted something more - never. Not Mor. Not a job. Not a secret, not information. Not salvation, not mercy. God, it seemed as though in this instant, Elain had invented want for him.

He would beg for her. Right now, in the foyer where he’d first tasted this personal drug. Had Elain not been holding him up by her eyes and a single palm he would already be on his knees. He moved to fall down before her, like a worshipper at a temple, when movement at her mouth caught his eye. Azriel watched as her delicate, pink tongue slowly dragged along her lower lip to wet it as she blinked innocently at him. Azriel’s resolve was gone in a puff of smoke.

Fuck Rhysand. Fuck Lucien. Fuck the Mother, the Cauldron, the world. Fuck anyone who stood between him and Elain who he knew, he knew, wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Because of course she did. Because whatever this was, whatever was happening between them, was otherworldly and impossible to ignore.

And good luck to them, was the last though Azriel had before he leaned in. Good luck to anyone who ever dare stand between him and her, because he’d kill them - he’d fucking kill them.

Despite his body beating like a drum for Elain’s melody, he did not kiss her right away. Once he’d accepted that he would kiss her, once he’d come to that inevitable conclusion it felt like a thousand doors of golden light opened before his eyes, and it took everything he had to not sob with joy.

All those fantasies he had revelled in for the past year that had been shrouded in a miasma of fantasy and shame, rolled through his mind clear as day. He could kiss her lips. Those soft pads of blushing rose that he had already committed to memory. Or he could trace down and press his lips to the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder, a crook of intimacy that he’d already figured out from watching her protect it with her hands when someone stood behind her. He could kiss her temples, her cheeks, her throat - every fucking inch of her.

Now that his resolve had snapped like an elastic band stretched too far, he found that he was finally free. Looking at her he hadn’t realised how long he had taken, how slowly he was leaning in until Elain’s fingers suddenly gripped the leathers across his chest and her brows furrowed as she pulled closer to him, her eyes dark and desperate, her mouth wet and parted as she half-gasped, half-whispered, “Please....Azriel...”

He did moan then. A low, throaty sound that escaped him at the sound of his name intertwined with her breathy gasps. He snapped.

He had intended to savour every second of kissing her, but the moment his lips touched hers, he felt fire. Elain’s hands ran up his chest before intertwining themselves in his hair as she pulled herself against him and he moaned again, the second time in a minute, into her mouth. Because he could feel her, all of her, pressed against his hot throbbing body. The soft pressure of her breasts, the bones of her hips, even one of her legs had tucked between his own, the sides of their knees brushing together. She was going to kill him. She was going to fucking kill him.

And then there was her mouth. Softer than petals, and so obviously hers in taste and touch. Every time their lips brushed, every time he felt her perfect breath mingling with his own, shivers erupted across his body. Unable to stop himself he brushed back her hair before firmly grasping the side of her neck, his hand was so large against her velvet skin that he knew he could probably hold her entire throat in one hand. He put it there as an ode to the last time he’d been here. He’d put it there as a fuck you to fate.

His other hand curled around her waist and pressed against her back where - and he moaned again - Elain’s exposed skin greeted him.

He wanted to take her right her. Wanted to lie her down on the carpet and bury his head between her thighs as he had done so many times before in his fantasies. How he ached to taste her, all of her, to pin her writhing thighs back with one hand and wrists with the other. He wanted to look at her perfect angelic face as he made her sing sinful sounds for him. Wanted to make her toes curl and back arch as she came on his tongue. Again, and again, and again.

Elain tugged slightly on Azriel’s hair and he was thrust back into his body, back into the present, and he had to stifle another moan because those thousands of fantasies had nothing, nothing, on this.

In response to Elain’s needy tug, Azriel bent slightly and curled a hand around the back of each of her thighs and hoisted her up against his chest. Elain, much to his delight, snapped her legs around him as he lifted her against his chest, their lips still ferociously dancing. He only had to walk a few paces to set her against the edge of the lobby table, but that particular move was one that had been haunting him more recently of late.

He went to pull away after she was set down on the wooden tabletop. He wanted to see her, with her hair ruffled and her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen and her chest heaving. He wanted to commit that image to memory because there was still some part of him that could not believe this was real.

But as he moved to step back, Elain caught him off guard as her legs tightened from where they were wrapped around his hips, something of a growl arising from the back of her throat as she fisted his leathers and pulled him against her. Azriel obeyed her, like a puppy on a leash, leaning his hands against the table, either side of her hips, in order to stay standing.

She was flushed against him once more. Her breasts pushed against his chest which felt suffocated by the Illyrian leathers, he ached to have her skin brushing against his own, but all in good time. He slipped his tongue into her mouth then and revelled in the juxtaposing thrill and relaxation of exploring her in this way. But there was still an inch of space between their hips. He didn’t know why he left it there, even when Elain dragged him against her, perhaps it was because he knew the minute they were aligned in cardinal perfection, there would be no turning back. He would be hers and vice versa, and she would be his muse and his priority, and he would put her before everything - even his High Lord.

To steady himself, Azriel made the mistake of taking his hand and bracing himself on Elain’s thigh. What he was not expecting was for his palm to find the soft, exposed flesh of her leg from where her dress must’ve mischievously ridden upwards when he had lifted her.

Purely on instinct, Azriel moaned and drove his hips forward into her core, earning a breathy sigh from them both as they finally found an inch of friction in their writhing. There was only fabric now. Measly layers of fabric that came between them.

“Fuck...” Elain gasped into his mouth and some outrageously animalistic part of him growled in satisfaction at having pulled a sinful swear from her angelic mouth. Azriel kept one hand against the wood near her hips to stay steady, to stop himself from grounding his hips into her like an uncontrollable beast, the other stayed on the warm, smooth flesh of her exposed thigh.

Slowly, he began to trace rough circles with his thumb on her inner thigh earning a flutter of breathy sighs to dance from her lips which pleased his soul to no avail. Azriel parted from her lips and began to pepper kisses along her jawline as he torturously inched his thumb up, inch by inch with each circle. When Azriel began to kiss and suck on the spot just below her ear he allowed himself to peek at her as he worked.

Her head was tilted back slightly, her throat bobbing as high hums fluttered from her. If he could paint he would paint the perfect blush of her swollen lips. If he were a poet he would turn her breathy moans into the sweetest of sonnets. And then she tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth as a soft moan escaped her and he had to look away, if only to stop himself from reaching down and fisting himself at the sight of it.

With his head turned Azriel hissed out of surprise as his thumb rubbed against a sticky sweetness coating her inner thigh. God she was wet. And as he rubbed further, coating his thumb in her essence, he had to bite his cheek as to not come in his pants like a schoolboy. Azriel stopped rubbing circles in favour for taking his first finger and tracing back and forth over the highest point of her thigh, slow and torturous as he familiarised himself with the feel of her. His heart threatening to beat out of his chest when his fingers brushed against a lacy frill at the apex of her thigh. Tilting his head Azriel was able to husk into her ear.

“What do you want Elain?” His voice was low and breathy before he caught her lobe between his teeth. Another shuddering gasp floated from her lips.

“I want you to touch me...and I don’t want you stop,” the sound of her voice so mingled with pleasure and need was almost enough to undo him. “Ever,” She went on, “Not until I don’t know my own name.”

She was going to kill him. Growling in satisfaction he rewarded her answer with one quick brush over her lace underthing's, the touch was like electricity for them both. Elain physically tremored as Azriel finally brushed where she needed him most, and Azriel shuddered at the contact with the girl of his dreams.

“Please, Azriel,” Azriel stilled for a moment, wondering how she would react to his instinctual next move. His particular flavour of making love.

“Say that again,” He said slowly, his voice barely more than a brutal, low husk. As he spoke Azriel allowed some of his power to ebb into the words, the siphons a top his hands guttering as they came to life. It felt slightly wrong to use such a voice on her, the one he so often used with enemies, but Azriel watched as Elain’s lips parted, her pupils expanding as her breath grew heavy in response to his dominant voice. Oh, Azriel couldn’t help but think in agonising awe. Maybe his deep assumptions, the ones that only haunted him in that void he entered before he fell asleep, were true. That Elain, the purest of sisters, was also the filthiest.

“Please, Az,” Her voice was breathy and pleading, but there was something alight in her eyes as she begged him.

“Good girl,” Azriel couldn’t stop himself from husking as he peeled back the top of the lace. They both stared unwaveringly into each other’s eyes as Azriel dipped his hands along her, not touching just hovering. He held his hand there, an inch away from where she needed him most, waiting until she almost whimpered before he slid a single finger slowly through her folds.

Her reaction was blissful to see. The way she bit her lip, her back arched, and her eyes fluttered shut. Azriel moved with her, his own mouth parted, and brows furrowed as he stroked her again.

“Don’t close your eyes,” He murmured in his voice of steel, “Look at me.” Elain’s eyes snapped open, and it was his turn to be caught off guard. Gone was the hazelnut colour, even the sensuous black he had somehow lulled them into, what met him was the colour of bright honey and her eyes, they were glowing. They stood out like gemstones being pierced by golden light. It was then that Azriel began to take note of their surroundings and realise that the thrumming was not just happening inside him but all around him. Ripple after ripple of raw, ancient power was bleeding from Elain, fizzing into the air and turning the entire foyer into something alive and electric. A shiver ran along Azriel’s entire body as his own powers itched to sing in harmony with hers; cobalt energy rising to meet her golden light.

Her folds were dripping, and he was having an internal debate on whether or not to rip off her underwear. On one hand he would have better access, he would be able to pleasure her better, and he could even push her back against the table and lower his head and taste her. On the other, he couldn’t stand being disconnected from her for a second.

Whilst he debated, he slowly raked his finger up her again before finding that small bundle of nerves. When he caught it with his fingertip and began to drag slow, luxurious circles over it, a throaty, guttural moan escaped her lips. He bit his cheek again. He wondered if anyone had fucked her like this and again, that pride bloomed when he realised that he might be the first. Not her first, but the first person to show her the true ecstasy of pleasure.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Elain gasped as her head fell forward on his shoulder. Azriel allowed the eye contact to break, too absorbed by the feeling of having Elain writhing under his fingers to care.

He’d always thought that he could die a happy man if ever he was blessed enough to experience such a joy as Elain Archeron, but now he realised what a stupid notion that was. Because Elain wasn’t cause for death but cause for life. He’d live for Elain, Azriel realised. Elain who was writhing and mewling into his shoulder as he slowly brought her to the ecstasy she deserved. She was close and following this he would winnow them away to either his unused apartment in central Velaris, or deep in the gardens on this summer night, where they would be entirely alone, and everything would be perfect. And once they’d had their fill on the pure bliss of one another they could talk about everything, and they’d find a solution and they’d work it out, and everything would be okay - and then Rhysand walked in, and everything came crashing down.

Some part of Azriel’s hazy mind had been aware of the movement deep in the house but it had been so, so inconsequential compared to what was in front of him. And his shadows, well his shadows were nowhere to be seen, not with golden light quite literally thrumming from Elain. There had been no warning, and as Rhys met Azriel’s eye when he still had his fingers flush against Elain some primal part of Azriel reared its head.

In an instant Azriel’s siphons were spluttering to life as power surged through Azriel, his wings instinctively flaring as wide as they would stretch, so that the cresting talon of each wing scraped into the polished walls. Rhys, who was standing at the edge of the foyer, an unrecognisable expression scorched into his face, was a threat at that moment, and the whole world seemed to still as Azriel slowly came down from the high of his arousal.

Slowly, Azriel removed his hand from Elain’s underwear and smoothed down her skirts to cover her legs, all the while never moving his eyes from Rhys. He didn’t care if he was in for the doghouse, didn’t give a shit about what consequences his happiness had just induced - Elain came first.

And right now, even though it was a ludicrous thought, Azriel was preparing himself to protect Elain from Rhysand. Elain’s whose nightgown had slipped down her shoulder, whose eyes were wide as she glanced over her shoulder at her brother-in-law, exposed and vulnerable just as she’d been on the worst night of her life.

“Azriel,” Rhysand finally spoke and Azriel shifted slightly to pull Elain closer to his chest. “My office...now.” It seemed as though all sense of formality had dropped as Rhysand’s High Lord voice billowed into the room. Azriel didn’t speak, didn’t move either, just shifted his eyes to Elain whose face was blanch and confused.

“Can’t this wait?” Azriel asked, his voice low and full of strength. Instantly he realised that he should’ve worded his question better. He didn’t want time in order to finish off what he and Elain had begun, but rather to give Elain a moment to breathe, for her to fix her dress and smooth her hair, for her to do whatever she needed to do before she was forced to face her family. Rhysand’s eyes darkened, and he entered the room in a low stride, both hands digging deep into his pockets. Azriel moved instantly, stepping around Elain to put himself in front of her as Rhysand approached.

Without a word Rhysand came closer and closer, and Azriel continued to stretch his wings to cover Elain from whatever vitriol was about to be thrown his way. But Rhysand didn’t say anything, he didn’t even move suddenly, just reached out a single hand until it was barely touching Azriel’s arm as darkness surrounded them both.

Before Azriel even had a chance to realise that Rhysand was winnowing them away – away from Elain – they were standing in his office, and Azriel couldn’t help but shake his head at the slight Deja-vu of the whole situation. Except this time, he wouldn’t be bounding himself in shackles, he’d be setting himself free, whether Rhys wanted him to or not.

Azriel was standing in front of the large mahogany desk of Rhysand’s office whilst it’s owner moved behind it, one hand still in his pocket. Already the air in the room was taut with energy, as though the very air were cowering in the face of the upcoming argument. And still Azriel’s mind was still thinking of the girl in the foyer, her name like a mantra beating through his body,

“Put your cock away Azriel,” Rhys immediately spat in response to the ripples of cobalt energy rippling from Azriel’s form. Azriel didn’t deem the childish comment with a retort, though his arousal was already gone, and quickly replaced by the tautness of anger and frustration. His shadows had returned to him now that he was away from Elain, and they were writhing uncontrollably around his legs and back.

Azriel stayed standing, folding his arms over his chest just for something to do. It was then that Rhys sighed heavily, leaning against his desk and hanging his head. He wasn’t as tired nor as desperate as when they’d last spoken like this - of this. No, now Rhys had everything. Everything he had ever, and could ever want, and now his fight lay in protecting the paradise he had found in Feyre and Nyx. Whilst Azriel was still in the dark, still alone, still secretly in agony - they were not the same.

“I gave you the simplest of orders,” Rhys sighed like a disappointed father and something brutally aggressive awoke in Azriel. How dare he, how dare Rhys speak to him like that?

“I know,” Azriel said, his voice indiscernible and calm. Rhys swung his head up to glare at Azriel, something emotional lingering in his violet eyes.

“You know? Then, Azriel, why did you take it upon yourself to disobey me?” Azriel’s grip on his biceps tightened.

“Elain is...” Azriel began before he had to lower his eyes. What was Elain? How could he explain to Rhys the inexplicable way he felt about the angelic gardener? The effect she had on him, it was both irrational and yet made perfect sense. And right now, he could barely focus with knowing that somewhere in this house she was looking around confused, wondering what the hell had just happened. “She’s important to me. More than you realise.”

“She has a mate.”

“That is irrelevant-”

“Irrelevant?” Rhysand looked as though he might laugh and Azriel once more gripped his arms tight enough to bruise. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to you Azriel that the bond between Elain and Lucien-” Azriel growled at his name, Rhys ignored him, “-is paramount to the civility between us and not just the Autumn Court, not just the Spring Court or the Day Court, but also the Band of Exiles and the Human realms.”

“And have you ever wondered if maybe Elain deserves better?”

“Better than Lucien-” Rhys practically squawked.

“No,” Azriel growled, allowing his anger to show, “Better than us. Better than a family who reduce her to little more than a political pawn-”

“She is my sister,” Rhysand spat, standing up straight with a newfound intensity. “Don’t you dare question my treatment of her, don’t you dare suggest I don’t care for her.”

“Are you truly so out of touch that you do not see the shackles you’ve tied around her wrists?” Azriel uncurled his arms, “You’ve stripped her of any choice-”

“This is not about choice!”

“This has everything to do with choice!”

“Elain is a valued member of my family but also of my court. As her High Lord, I have made a difficult decision but one that will undoubtedly strengthen this us in the now impending war. It was a tough decision and if you want me to be the bad guy, fine, I’ll be the bad guy, but you will obey my orders as this is the best choice for Elain.”

“Then why don’t you ask her,” Azriel growled, grappling with the internal leash on his powers, “Why don’t you actually include her in the decisions you’ve made about her life.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” Rhys flicked invisible lint from his suit, “But Elain is a valued member of these discussions.”

“Then why isn’t she here?” Azriel husked quietly, full of venom. Rhysand apparently didn’t have anything to say to that, so Azriel went on. “You claim to value choice Rhysand, and yet you’ve stripped Elain of not just her own volition, but the simple knowledge of the choices made about her life.”

There was something bitter clanging through Azriel as he spat the words, he knew what it was, it was a word - hypocrite. Because whilst Azriel was fighting for Elain, really he should be allowing for Elain to fight for herself. He should’ve left the office the minute Rhysand winnowed them and searched for Elain. He should’ve told her, all those months ago, about why he could no longer be around her. And that’s why Elain deserved better, better than Rhys and better than him, because even now they talked of her rather than with her.

“You are to stay away from her,” Rhysand said at last, glaring out the study’s window almost as though he was ignoring Azriel.

“I can’t do that. Not anymore,” Azriel husked, and Rhys paused, catching Azriel’s eye before he hastily looked to the side and raked a hand through his hair.

“I told you, Azriel. I told you to stay away from Ly-” Both Azriel and Rhys’ eyes widened at the name that nearly fell from Rhysand’s lips. A revelation occurring to them both as the name Rhys’ long deceased sister was brought into the room. “Elain,” Rhys corrected himself, acting unbothered by his slip. “I told you stay away.”

Azriel didn’t know how to respond. He’d spend hours in training rings, on long haul flights or espionage ventures thinking of this specific argument. The way he’d tell Rhys all the things he should’ve said on that Solstice night, about the disservice they were both doing to Elain, about how it was outrageous of Rhys to demand Azriel put politics before his happiness after, well, everything.

After Azriel had spent 500 years alone with only a doomed infatuation with a woman who would never love him back. After Azriel had always favoured to be alone, to suffer in silence, to take the blame, and now he finally had an out. After Azriel had to put up with both his brothers finding their perfect happiness, Rhys himself almost starting a war by perusing and protecting Feyre.

Why was it so different for him? Why was it the moment Azriel had happiness within an arm’s reach there were a thousand excuses for him not to have it? What was so poisonous about his desires? About him?

“She’s not Lydia,” Azriel said at last. It was a low blow. Especially since Rhys had so clearly tried to cover up his slip a moment ago. “For one, you would never treat Lydia with such little respect. Elain is her own person and I’m not going to fight with you, or Lucien, or anyone for that matter like she’s some kind of prize.”

This argument was too real. Of course, they’d had arguments before, all three of them had. Azriel could remember a particularly nasty one between Cassian and Rhys where they hadn’t spoken for a year, Azriel bouncing between them like an owl. But this wasn’t a brotherly squabble, not when the stakes were so high.

Rhys sighed, still not meeting Azriel’s eye as a muscle in his jaw ticked. It seemed as though the High Lord also understood the irregularity of the dispute, or maybe he was just furious at facing his own errors, at his spymaster criticising him on failing someone so important on a matter which Rhysand prided himself on - the volition of the women in his life. After what happened with his mother and his sister, to find out he was now failing his new family must be driving him mad.

“You just can’t keep it in your pants can you Azriel?”

It may have been less shocking if Rhys had just leaned over and stabbed Azriel in the gut. His words clanged into the air with a sour metallic taste, and for a moment Azriel lost his breath, his jaw slackening as his shock registered before he could swiftly cover the expression with the mask of steel he’d perfected. The silence following the comment was perhaps worse than the blow itself. Now it was Azriel who couldn’t stand looking at his brother. He didn’t care if Rhys looked apologetic, didn’t care for him at all.

“Do you really think so low of me?” Azriel’s voice was deathly quiet, before he finally shifted his eyes up to see the raw regret plastered on his brothers face.

“No, I-” A vicious knock came at the door then, interrupting whatever apology Rhys was going to throw his way.

“Open the door,” Came Elain’s voice, more brutal than he’d ever heard it before. Something electric shot through Azriel at the sound of it, of her. If anything, her voice was a reminder that this was real, that his hair was tousled, and lips swollen because of Elain-fucking-Archeron.

Rhys didn’t move for the door, so Azriel did. Turning around, he walked the length of Rhys’ office to the large double oak doors and pulled one back without hesitation. He knew she deserved to be here, that she should’ve been here from the start.

Azriel was so set on opening the door for the sake of justice and fairness that he momentarily forget that it was Elain on the other side, and the sight of her made his breath stop in his throat. Her hair was still ruffled from where he had raked his hands through it, and her lips still blushed from where he had tugged on them with his teeth. There was also a faint flush of her cheeks, either from their previous activities or from running through the River House searching for him and his brother.

Something electric and charged ran the entire length of his body at the sight of her - not arousal, something deeper. And by the way her glowing eyes drank him in, he knew she felt it too. Azriel stepped aside and let her pass into the office and walk up to Rhysand’s desk. As he followed her, something bitter twisted in his gut - whatever was blooming between himself and the gardener was a thing to celebrate. Such love, light and warmth in his life which had thus far consisted of cold loneliness was a joyous and wonderful thing. And yet he was made to feel ashamed of his happiness, by his brother. His own damn brother.

“What’s going on?” Elain spoke in her traditionally soft voice, but even Rhys must’ve picked up and the unwavering steel that seeped from her tone, so similar to Nesta’s pitch.

“Nothing, Elain. Just a dispute between myself and Azriel. It’s nothing you need concern yourself with,” Rhysand’s easy smile warmed through his cheeks and Azriel was sure he was going to punch him before the night was out.

“Don’t lie to me Rhysand, it’s not a good look for a High Lord,” Elain spoke smoothly, folding her arms over her chest as Azriel had done moments ago. Rhys’ expression only flickered in response. “Now, what’s going on?” Elain asked again.

“Well,” Rhysand began, “Me and Azriel have been discussing you actually, you see, your bond with Lucien is unfortunately paramount to a lot of peace and unity between our court and others.” Rhysand looked blankly at Evie as he spoke, completely dethatched from the emotional anger he’d unleashed on Azriel moments ago.

“Is this about me breaking the bond?” Elain said, her voice smooth like honey, healing the sparking energy in the room as Azriel and Rhysand had geared up for a fight. Something about the question twisted Azriel’s guts. It was her terminology; it was all wrong. There was no such thing as breaking a bond, one could reject it and render the attachment limp and lifeless, but breaking a bond was only achieved in death, and even then some believe the bond to continue in the next life. It was just a reminder that Elain knew nothing about this world, Lucien had placed the acceptance or rejection of the bond in her hands, but she did not even know what either option would truly entail. Her education, it was another thing they’d all failed her on.

“If you wish to reject your bond with Lucien I, nor anyone in this court, will prevent you from doing so,” Rhysand said smoothly, “However, given the current political climate, I must say it would be best to leave this till after the war.” Elain did not look away as she thought.

“I don’t want the bond,”

“That’s perfectly okay-”

“No,” Elain interrupted, “I don’t want the bond at all. I don’t want to have to accept or reject anything - I just don’t want it...you....you don’t know what it’s like, to be pulled apart limb by limb, and be remade against your will, to find yourself destroyed and then re-crafted by something as unapologetic as the Cauldron itself. I was violated to the most extravagant degree and when I finally came around, when I finally managed to find something recognisable in myself, months after that night, I came around to find that I had been reduced to some ancient claim a stranger possessed over me. You are all kind, and you all mean well, but I know you all see myself as his.

“It was on the worst night of my life, the night when I had been pulled apart till I was only vessels and blood, he called me his. He is not a bad person I can see that,” her voice wobbled slightly then, “He is kind and witty, he’s working harder than any of you for the forgiveness of my sister. He doesn’t deserve…” She choked up slightly, but cleared her throat to cover it up, “He’s not bad…but this bond is terrible, it’s worst then terrible, it’s suffocating. And when I think of that bond, tied around my ribs like some kind of violating shackle, I just think of how it felt to suffocate on black water...that’s what this bond means to me, it’s a violation on top of a violation. So, to hear that to you, this bond gives you a political advantage, that you get a gain out of it and that you wish me to continue living in torment I...

“I wish I could be sorry about feeling this way, but I don’t. I have stayed quiet, and I have played the role you needed me to play. I keep out of your way; I busy myself with the gardens and dinner and I do everything I can to not bare my teeth every time he visits. But I...” Her wide, damp eyes turned to look at Azriel, “I have found something living in the never ending grave of my life. After I found myself again, all those months after the Cauldron, it felt as though it was only then I emerged from the black water. After I found...” She trailed off, stilling holding Azriel’s eye, “...I was not just out the black water, but back on the ground.”

A small silence settled over the room as Azriel and Elain found themselves quickly lost in one another again, Rhys was merely glancing between the two, his mind whirring as he tried to click together the puzzle in front of him.

“I tried Rhys…I really did,” Azriel finally whispered into the heavy silence, still not looking away from his beloved. “I’ve done everything short of chaining myself in the dungeons to stay away, but I can’t.” It wasn’t until the words had left Azriel’s mouth that he realised his error. And it wasn’t until Elain’s brows furrowed and her eyes moved to Rhysand, that he felt his heart drop.

“What?” Elain whispered. One of the thousand questions she no doubt harvested. Azriel couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t meet his brothers eye. He had this awful feeling now twisting his guts, the feeling that everything was about to come crashing down.

“I ordered Azriel to stay away from you,” Rhys said evenly. Always the honest man.

“I...what?” Elain spluttered softly, her eyes narrowing on Rhysand. “What?”

“He called me away on solstice night when I was about to kiss you, that’s why I stopped.” That’s why I called it a mistake. Elain’s eyes burned even brighter and Azriel wondered if he should’ve held his tongue. If he should’ve just waited to have this conversation tomorrow where whatever ancient power that was stirring in Elain had calmed down. Now Elain’s glowing eyes seemed to fill the room with golden light, even the black night shrouding Rhysand’s figure ebbed back and inch.

“What?” Elain’s voice rung out, the magic in the room quickly turning volatile.

“I am sorry Elain; I didn’t mean to meddle with your private affairs, but with Lucien under the same roof it would’ve been too risky for those in the house. He could’ve invoked something called a ‘blood duel’.” Of course, Elain didn’t know that, of course none of her friends or family had taken the time to explain that to her.

“You…you sanctimonious dick,” Elain spat. Had it been any other day, Azriel would’ve had to fight an astonished grin at hearing the words on her lips, but not tonight, not when everything was turning so morbid in front of his eyes.

“I’m sorry Elain, I truly am. But I’m not just your brother-in-law but your High Lord and I cannot risk my entire court for the mild infatuation of a-”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” The words were writhing in venom as Azriel spat them out. He would go down with her.

“No, Azriel, you don’t speak to me like that,” And with that Rhys’ last straw was gone. In an instant his power was billowing into the room in clouds of black smoke. Rhys acting in such a way in front of Elain, who was already vulnerable, her dress already ruffled and her eyes wide in alarm, made Azriel furious.

“I am your high lord, Azriel, and I gave you a direct command and you have disobeyed me-” Without thinking Azriel’s own icy power rose to the surface, his siphons lighting on fire at the surge. If Elain was frightened by their display of bottomless power she did not show it, perhaps as her own fire was still burning vividly behind her eyes, perhaps since she knew she had more power than them both.

“Have you ever thought perhaps you stepped out of line by asking such a thing of me?” Azriel had never heard his voice so loud and angry before. He didn’t do this. His arguments were stoic and brutal, but mostly silent. He never fought politics - he carved into people who were in chains, and when there was an argument he stayed in the shadows and listened.

“You are my spymaster-”

“I am your brother!” Azriel’s choked sob echoed into the room. “Do I not deserve to be happy?” Rhysand at least had the decency to flinch, to reel back and allow his jaw to slacken in shock.

“Of course, you deserve to be happy brother,” Rhysand’s voice was low and strangled, “But this isn’t just romance – it’s never just romance – this will be a battle-”

“And I’m willing to fight!” Azriel roared, his hands slamming into Rhysand’s desk, his power causing the entire house to shudder, right down to the foundations.

“Azriel,” Rhys’ voice was deathly quiet, “I need you to calm down.” For a moment Azriel didn’t understand, his mind was so focused on Elain, on his own shuddering heart and writhing powers that he simply could not comprehend the words that came out his brothers mouth. Finally, the message registered in his mind and he became aware of his shadows, flourishing and filling the entire room, crawling over the windows and blocking out all the light. The only way he was seeing Rhysand was via the golden glow that came from Elain’s eyes. Disgust racked through his body at the sight of the manifestation of his swirling pain, but before he could do anything, the leash on his powers snapped.

“Azriel-” The next series of events was a blur. Power billowed into the room in a quick explosion, God knows whose it was. Perhaps it was initially Azriel who had finally lost control on that leash on his Illyrian gifts, perhaps Rhysand moved to repress Azriel’s powers with his own, premature or not. Maybe the quiet Elain had had enough of the noise. In an instant, a cocktail of three brands of magic billowed towards each other before exploding outwards, sending a wave of pure, unhinged chaos through the room, the house, and the whole of Velaris.

They all were thrown back from each other, Rhys flying up and landing on his feet, bracing himself against the ornamental globe as his wings appeared and flared. But even he, the most powerful High Lord in history had his knees bent and his arms raised as he braced himself against the fizzling aftershock of the ancient power that tore through the air. Azriel’s centuries of training kicked in as he was catapulted the length of the room, his own wings flared to slow his flight before he caught himself on the doorframe, the weighty wooden doors having flung open, it took an immense amount of physical upper body strength to keep himself upright as the wave of power subsided, his teeth grinding together as his muscles screamed.

But he wasn’t aware of the pain of his screaming muscles, wasn’t thinking about how his wings were in danger of being shredded by the power that ripped through the room. There was only one person, that his entire being seemed to lurch for as his mind screamed her name over and over. Elain.

Elain.

He had seen as her pale form was flung away from him towards the cabinets, had heard the shattering of glass over the howling in his ears. Of course, he and Rhysand were okay, they had centuries of power and training under their belts but Elain…Elain didn’t have training, and she had flown through the air the fastest, taking the brunt of the powers rebound, her small form crashing into the case of Rhysand’s prized artefacts.

The minute Azriel had control of his own body and wasn’t being thrust back into the hallway, he winnowed to her, stepped into the shadows with a haste and urgency he’d never felt before. Wrong. He’d felt this fear before, he recognised it’s taste from the poisonous memories of that night Elain had been ripped away from them, leaving behind nothing but a vacant cot and warm sheets. Memories of that night often haunted his dreams; how ridiculously lucky they had gotten that they had reached Elain minutes before the King of Hybern got his hands on her. In his dreams he was too late. In his nightmares he fails her, and by the time he and Feyre find the tent she’s already gone. Sometimes there’s a body, and sometimes his unconscious mind is kind enough to just leave behind her lingering scent. That night he learned what it was like to truly fear, to have the blood leave your body, to feel the world still.

And that’s what the world did as he stepped onto the other side of the shadows. Elain was crumpled on the floor underneath the large bay windows, moonlight streaming into the mutilated room and illuminating her still form. It was as though the starlight was searching for her, reaching out to her with hands made of silver shadows.

Glass crunched under Azriel’s boots as he took a step forward, and another, and another. Because he could scent it before he saw it – the blood. The sour metallic taste that clogged up the air, interwoven with her own delicate scent. Wrong, it was so wrong, to have Elain’s scent fused with that of blood. She was facing away from him, crumpled on her side in a foetal position, and he could see her arms, her beautiful nimble arms so like the legs of a doe, limp on the floor and marred with what seemed to be a thousand cuts.

Her blood was black in the moonlight, and was colouring her beautiful, beautiful night dress. The roaring in Azriel’s ears was nothing short of explosive. And before him he saw a black wave, taller than the Ramiel, heading straight for him. One that was made of self-loathing, anger, frustration and agony, and as he dropped to his knees in front of Elain he felt it wash over him, burying him deeper in himself than he’d ever been before, and he knew he would not resurface.

Slowly, as not to hurt her further, Azriel rolled Elain over onto her back and into his lap. With shaky fingers he pushed back her hair, just as he had done less than an hour earlier. Her eyes were shut again, but this time he didn’t look at her face for beauty, but for a sign of life.

“Elain…” He whispered; his voice was softer than petals. She did not stir.

“Elain…” He murmured again as he bowed his head and pressed it against her chest, sticky blood rubbing against his cheek as he did so. For a moment it was all silent, and Azriel felt the world drop away, felt himself falling through bottomless black water only to never resurface.

And then there it was. The familiar ‘thu-thump’ beating slow and steady in her chest, the sweetest melody Azriel had ever heard. But before he could revel in the relief of Elain being alive, movement at the side of his eye made him snap his head, turn up his top lip and let loose a nothing but feral growl. It was his brother, and a small wave of shame rolled through him at having behaved in such a way to someone whom he owed so much.

“Azriel…” Rhysand’s voice was soothing, calm, “She’s having a vision…look, Azriel look. She’s okay, she’s just having a vision.”

And so, he looked again and yes, she was having a vision. Behind her eyelids Azriel could see her pupils flurrying side to side as though she were engaged in some riveting dream.

She’s having a vision; she’s having a vision. His shadows chanted to him, running up his back and whispering in his ear. It didn’t soothe him, but rather caused the cloud of anger around him to disappear, so that he was numb again. Some movement deep in the house pulled at his attention, but it was like a ribbon trying to move an ocean, there was nothing for it to hold onto.

And soon both men were turning to the worst thing of all: Feyre and Nesta, standing at the doorway looking at their sister unresponsive in a pool of blood, both primed and ready to kill.

“Get away from her.” Nesta’s voice clanged through the room like steel as she strode forward, seeming to fill the broken room with her strength alone. As she moved she revealed a slightly dazed Cassian behind her, still dressed in his night clothes and yet armed to the teeth, clearly having been awoken in a haste. Rhys took a step back, there was too much power, too much energy, in the room already, provoking Nesta would surely lead them all to their sudden deaths.

Then there was Feyre, walking into the room behind her sister, quiet but observant, the perfect High Lady. She seemed to assess everything around her. The tautness of her husband’s stature, the silent flood of emotions that seemed to be rippling from her spymaster, Elain’s shallow breaths and bloodied night gown. After a moment of quiet assessment, she moved forth to the stoic and emotionless figure of her shadowsinger.

“Azriel,” Rhys recognised Feyre’s tone as she approached his brother, it was the tone she used with Nyx, motherly and soft. Azriel pulled his eyes from Elain to look at Feyre vacantly. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay…but I need you to let me take her.” Azriel’s mouth contorted in pain as he pulled Elain slighter closer to his chest.

“I know,” Feyre whispered, dropping to her knees next to him, not caring that her own silken nightgown was turning splotchy and red. “I know it’s hard but everything’s going to be okay. She’s my sister, and I as your High Lady will not let anything harm her.” There’s no need, Azriel thought bitterly as he looked down at Elain’s deathly pale skin, her abuser is here, right in front of you. The only harm you need protect her from, is me.

But he didn’t say any of that out loud, he wasn’t even sure his voice would work for him in that moment. Azriel didn’t quite hand Elain over to Feyre, rather he just let his arms go limp around her, and Feyre was able to scoop her sister out of his arms as though they were passing Nyx from one another. Every instinct Azriel had was screaming at him to take Elain back, to at least look at her unconscious form in Feyre’s arms as they moved away from him, but he kept his eyes on the floor, now kneeling to only the pools of Elain’s blood.

Voices began to erupt around him in hushes whispers, he could distantly hear Rhysand guiding his subjects through the plan, explaining to them what had happened whilst withholding the reason why. It was all numb to him as he continued to float under that black wave, sinking deeper and deeper, their voices were above the surface and so they just sounded warbled and strange.

But one movement did catch Azriel’s eye. It cut through the room’s silent chaos like a knife, a figure appearing at the ruined doorway that caught Azriel’s attention the same way an earthquake would. It was him.

Lucien.

“What happened?” Lucien growled out and something roared in Azriel. He knew that tone of voice, could smell the mate-tarnished anger that was rolling out of him. That animalistic claim on the woman Azriel had nearly lost himself in only moments ago. That’s why he was here, because he would’ve felt the energy down the bond, because even though he was at the other end of Prythian with his own family, he had that claim.

“She’s okay,” Feyre breathed softly as she lifted her sister up into her arms, “Her cuts are already healing, it looks worse than it is. She’s just had a vision so it might take a while for her to come around.” Feyre’s voice was so like her husband’s, even and balanced, reassuring everyone in the room that everything was okay, even if that were not necessarily true.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Azriel didn’t want to hate Lucien, even now he could see that the Autumn son was grappling with the bond that was no doubt screaming at him to rip his mate from Feyre’s arms and winnow them both to the other side of the continent. Azriel knew, because he felt it too. Like Elain he didn’t really hate Lucien, he hated the bond, hated what it told him about himself, clear as day, that he wasn’t worthy of Elain. And though some part of him already assumed just as much, no one was so self-deprecating to not at least hold of a sliver of hope in the face of such agony.

“She’s fine,” Nesta snarled at Lucien, one hand on Feyre’s shoulder, the other on Elain’s pale and bloodied forehead as she guided her sisters towards to mutilated door frame. They were right to take their sister away from the scene, God knew that no one there could help Elain now.

And so Elain disappeared around the corner, and Azriel slowly brought himself off the floor, trying to ignore the sight of his marred hands, covered in her blood.

What...even...Cassian’s voice swam into Rhys mind, dripping in confusion and concern. Did you and Az have a fight?

Rhys put off audibly groaning. Whenever he and Az fought it was normally not difficult to keep Cassian oblivious, he didn’t always pick up and stuff like that and sometimes it was just easier to deal with debates behind closed doors. Not to treat Cassian as his and Az’s overgrown child, it was just that Cassian was never meant to be a mediator.

It’s complicated, Rhys reported back keeping his voice level and calm - his High Lord voice.

I’ll let you off for tonight but, Rhys, you have to let me help you. Especially when it comes to Az. He was right of course, just like Azriel had been.

Deal, Rhys shot back, for tonight I need eyes on Az, I don’t care if he pushes you away I need someone with him at all times, at least until Elain comes around. We’ll re-group then. Cassian didn’t respond besides the smallest of nods. He stayed where he was, more awake now with his eyes trained on their other brother, and Rhys knew Cassian wouldn’t take his eyes off him for the foreseeable future.

Rhysand couldn’t help but sigh, it’s not as though Azriel or Lucien were aware of him to notice. This was a mess. Worse than a mess, it was a catastrophe. Everything Azriel had said was right but, he had broken his order, he had defied rank in a way he’d never done before and that squeezed something deep in Rhysand’s gut. Above all he needed to be able to trust his friends, so that when push came to shove he’d be able to make the tough decisions and his friends would let him go into the belly of the beast. But tonight, that had changed. Everything had changed.

And Elain, Elain who he had nearly called by his sisters name, she’d stood up for herself tonight. And then there was the situation of her powers, savage and rippling out of her like a beast. He had tasted those powers when they’d tore out of her, and they were ancient. The same power that was interwoven in the very fields of the earth, concentrated in the form of the sweetest girl of all. Rhys knew at least a thousand fae who would pay a hefty price to possess Elain, a hundred who might be willing to go to war - and then there were the Fae who would claw for her hand, the noblemen who would see her for her potential offspring. Rhysand physically shuddered as he sent his wings away.

Yes, tonight had been a catastrophe all right.

Rhysand looked away from Cassian’s half-hidden grimace and turned to the two males standing off, the blood of the woman they were unspokenly fighting over still pooling across the hardwood floors. Lucien glaring with restrained anger at Azriel, his masculine mating bond clogging up the air, whilst Azriel wore an impenetrable mask, hiding the bottomless torment and agony that was no doubt running rife in the shadowsinger, as he stared at the weeping puddle of Elain’s blood.

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writingsfromhome · 3 years

Text

Bad Timing II

A/N: I’m just about finished the whole series and I’m excited for you to read this! <3 Sorry for the late upload, I started a new semester and had zero time to write but I worked on this all weekend. I’m curious to know if your opinions on Harry change after this part, the next part’s going to be packed but this is an in-between. Thanks as always for reading <333

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

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I lay awake in bed, staring at the blank ceiling before my phone’s constant buzzing forces me up. A couple voicemails, and a single text from Harry: GM, call me if you need anything.

I stare at it longer than I should, the audacity to think we were fine enough to text me so casually. But there was some small solace in knowing he took the extra step to let me know. Ugh; my head injury was more serious than the medic diagnosed. I throw my phone on the bed and head downstairs where I’m surprised to see him gone. It was only 8am and I needed a coffee, otherwise I would not make it through the day. When I see the pot of coffee half full, I stop in my tracks. Harry made coffee before he left. I touch the pot and it’s still warm, he couldn’t have left that long ago.

I open the dishwasher that I’d loaded last night only to find it empty. I stand straight, hand on my hips--had he unloaded the dishes too? How did I not wake up to the noise? How did he even know where everything went?!

Maybe he wasn’t such a dense detective after all, the thought makes me smile. I look around the room and notice he’d tidied up from last night, and folded everything away on the couch he slept on. I take my coffee to the couch and without thinking, hug the pillow to my face and inhale. The strong scent of his aftershave sends a sharp and painful jolt to my memories. What the hell was I doing?

I drop the pillow and settle on my kitchen table, responding to some emails while I make a game plan for the day, shaking off the claustrophobic feeling I got thinking about going back to work. I finish the last of the coffee and start moving, shower, dress appropriately, pack my laptop...I just had to keep busy so I wouldn’t have time to think about it.

***

“We’re here for you, whatever you need,” the regional manager lets me know during the meeting. I’d learned post-trauma policies the bank had. I was sorry to know them, I really just wanted to put the whole thing behind me. I tell her that. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. We do require you to go to at least one counseling session, your employees have got to go to a group meet with a licensed therapist so you can all discuss this and get over the awful event.”

“I see,” I chew my lower lip. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about the way I jumped at every little thing and stared down each and every stranger on the tube on my way in today. I felt crazy. Maybe I did need a shrink. “I’ll include that in the memo I guess. Thanks again for all the support and the resources-”

“That’s my job, our job.” She motions to the man sitting beside her who hadn’t actually said much the whole time. We talk for a little while longer, and by the time they leave I’m exhausted. But I make the trek to the hospital to visit Cole like I told him I would.

***

The weekend flies by: I take the train to visit my dad up north and let him take care of me like I was a kid again. It was nice to unwind, I thought, I should visit my dad more often.

But come Monday, I’m back in my pantsuit ready to get on with my life. I try not to think about Thursday too hard but it’s difficult when first thing that morning, a therapist shows up for a group session. Most of my employees look anxious to be here, but I watch their shoulders relax as they discuss what happened. Watching everyone bond brings a lightness to the heaviness that sat in my chest: it was good.

“Ms. Y/L/N? When can we schedule a one-on-one?” The therapist stops me at the end of the session.

“I think this session helped a lot,” I put on a big smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

She smiles politely, as if she expected this, “It’s a requirement for back-to-work. I have time right now if you’d like, I’m not seeing another employee until lunch.”

“Um,” I look to where everyone mingles, comforting each other and breaking off into groups. If I had to talk about it in order to work, and work is the only thing to help me get my mind off of it...I guess I had no choice. “Let’s do it now.”

But an hour later and I’ve mostly just talked her ear off about Harry showing up, how awful my luck was that he would be the lead detective on the case, how much damage he’d done to me. How he appeared on one of the worst days of my life again.

“It’s almost a sign,” I ramble. “Like...what are the odds?!”

“Do you still have feelings for him?” She asks, looking like she knew the answer.

“No,” I scoff. “I hate him. He broke my trust!” And my heart.

“Those are feelings,” she says wisely.

“Well sure, yeah, I have negative feelings towards him. Why wouldn’t I?”

She pauses, a very pregnant pause. “It’s been almost 4 years right? Usually, those feelings start to...dissolve into a more neutral ground when you...receive closure. You take time to grieve, to sit in the wound in your heart, but then you pick yourself up and try to heal. It seems like you’ve just told yourself you were healed and got on.”

“I am healed,” I insist.

“Just like you started this sessions by letting me know you were over the trauma that happened to you a few days ago?” She asks. I avoid her gaze. “When I asked about Thursday, you said you were ‘over it’ and you just wanted to focus on work but you’re not giving yourself closure. Likewise, with Harry. You haven’t found closure even after all these years.”

I stare at her, she’d sliced right into a vulnerable part of me--I’d led her there, I realise. It was something I knew all along, I just didn’t want to point at it alone.

“You’re right...I feel like I never got closure.” I confess. “How? I just want to know h-how he could’ve left me for another woman after all those years together--as lovers and as friends? He was there when mum...he was there through hell. And then he put me through hell.”

“I’d like to believe Harry showing up on a...hellish day is a sign like you say. But maybe a sign you need closure. Talk to him, ask him what you need to know in order to close that chapter of your life.”

I exhale, the idea of it making me feel claustrophobic. She wanted me to open myself up to him again and invite him to hurt my feelings? I try to ask her more but she looks at her watch. We’d gone over.

I thank her and walk out with a weight on my back that feels bigger than the one I went in with. I thought therapy was supposed to make me feel lighter.

***

I’m hiding behind my desk as the footsteps get closer and closer to the door. I clutch the knife in my hand and-

“Y/N!”

I jump up out of sleep, and open my eyes to my office. I stare at the table in front of me where the papers I used as a pillow are rumpled.

“Y/N? You have a call on-”

“Adam,” I look at my assistant. He’d been really quiet today and I was worried about him but there was so much to catch up on I hadn’t had the chance to talk to him. “Sorry I...haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I’m sorry Y/N...the detective’s on the line he insisted he talk-”

I roll my eyes and answer the phone, motioning for Adam I’d be okay. He hesitates at the door before closing it tightly behind him.

“Y/N?” Harry’s breathless voice answers irritably on the other line.

“Harry? Why are you calling me at work?” I ask, still sleepy from the nap. Is this about the case?”

“No it’s about your things at the station, it was processed--we couldn’t find anything useful so we’re returning this batch. And I think some of it belongs to your staff? Did you want to pick it up or should I drop it off to yo-”

“I’ll pick it up,” I wanted to make it clear that Harry in my space wasn’t going to be a normal thing. “I’ll head out in a bit, can I just collect it at reception?”

“They’ll buzz you through to me, I’ve gotta go-”

“Just leave it with reception...” I say to dead air. He’d already hung up. Damn.

***

“I’m here for some things, it was taken for evidence?” I say to the woman at reception.

“You’ll have to be more specific love,” she raises an eyebrow. “A lot happens here.”

“The bank rob-”

“Ah, Harry’s case. I’ll buzz you through-”

“No I thought maybe I could collect it here uh-” I look for a nameplate. “Serena, listen, I’m in a rush so is there any way for you to get it-”

The phone ringing cuts me off. She holds up her finger and I stand tapping my foot. She rolls her eyes at whoever was on the other line, motions that they were chatty and points to the glass doors. I sigh, I guess I was seeing Harry. I think about my therapist and cringe, I couldn’t.

When I walk in, I scan the room for Harry but I don’t spot him anywhere. I walk awkwardly until someone asks if they could help but they point to his desk and tell me I could wait there.

“I’m actually here to pick up some evidence, couldn’t you just give it to me?”

“He’s the lead officer, he’s got to sign off--”

“Fine,” I hated the bloody bureaucracy around here. I go to where he points and sit in Harry’s chair, ignoring the looks from people around me. I toy with the pen and doodle on an empty paper. Y/N was here I write and smile, it was juvenile.

“Y/N! Sorry! Nobody told me you were here.” Harry shows up a few minutes later. He opens the bottom drawer and takes out a nondescript cardboard box. If I knew if was down there I would’ve left a long time ago. “Just need you to sign this.”

“Okay,” I sign where he points and reach for the box. “I’ll grab that, thank you.”

“Can I walk you out?” He fiddles with his phone.

“Will you take no for an answer?”

“Nope,” he’s all teeth when he smiles. I sigh and walk in front of him. It’s weirdly silent but I notice he was typing on his phone when I look over.

“Well...g’night then.” I say at the door but he pushes it open and walks out with me.

He finally puts his phone away and asks. “Are you alright? Have you gone back to work?”

“Yeah,” I chew at my bottom lip, nervous. “We’re really sticking together, trying to get through it.”

“That’s good. That’s how it should be.” He waits a beat. “We’ve been trying to catch the robbers, they hit up another bank so it’s hell inside. That’s why I was so busy.”

“Another?” My heart plummets, and my palms feel slick.

“Yeah but we’re working as fast as we can. So...uh, did you need anything from me before you go?”

“I...” I think about the therapist’s words and chew my lower lip. I try to work up the courage. Fuck it, I realise. I had nothing to lose. “I do...actually.”

“Oh,” he looks surprised. “Good, what’s that?”

“I want to talk, about us. I...I need like, closure Harry. I think I deserve an explanation about...” I trail off as I notice him staring at me blankly. “What?”

His blank expression settles into confusion. “What’s more to explain Y/N. I’ve told you everything, I-I dunno. I thought one day we could get together like old friends, but it’s obvious you’re still upset with everything and I don’t know what more I can say? I said everything in that letter but if-”

“The letter?” I ask sharply, cutting off his chatter.

“Yeah, the one I wrote you after we...after you moved out?” When I don’t react he continues: “I dropped it off at your sister’s the week after you cleaned out your things? You didn’t...read it?” He looks hurt, if that was possible all these years later.

“I...did. Obviously I just...had some questions.” My heart races; what letter? He wrote me a letter?

“So what do you want to ask?” He looks at me curiously, concern etched in his brows. “I would like to talk actually-”

“Now’s not a good time,” I cut him off again. I had to know about this letter first. I can’t believe I walked into this blind. “I’ve actually had a long day, this is--we can do this another time, okay? Thanks for...walking me out.”

***

The first thing I do when I get home is call my sister. I can sniff her guilt a whole country away.

“Y/N, you were heartbroken! Y-you didn’t need to have it broken all over again reading his stupid letter! I was looking out for you!”

“That wasn’t your call!” I raise my voice. “I’ve been...I haven’t had closure all this time! I thought he didn’t even care enough to try to explain it to me and you knew he sent a letter this whole time?”

“Well when he showed up to the flat I wasn’t about to-”

“When did he come to the flat?” I wanted to strangle my sisters and her protective instincts.

“After you moved your things out. He wanted to see you and I knew you were a mess, I told him you never wanted to speak to him. I was looking out for you babe I-I didn’t even realise I was keeping you from closure I just...I didn’t want you hurting. Don’t be mad.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, she was right. It was Harry who hurt me, and I shouldn’t take it out on her. “I know. I know. I’m sorry for yelling I just-I wish I could read that letter.”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffs. “I should’ve given it to you once you moved out...I still have it though. I think I tucked it into my old yearbook. D’you want me to...”

“Mail it? Yes, as soon as possible please. I need to know what he wrote.”

“What if you just get hurt all over again?” she asks.

“I’ve been hurting, I don’t think his outdated explanation will hurt any more. Just please mail it the first chance you get okay?”

I was so close to it, I think. I had to get that letter. I needed closure. I deserved it. And just knowing I could get it, it’s almost like I was waking up in a dark tunnel I hadn’t realised I was in this whole time. I knew where I was, and I could see light on the horizon.

H POV:

The last time I had a full night’s sleep was on Y/N’s couch, this case was a lot bigger than we thought. It wasn’t just a robbery at one branch, these same people have hit up two other places in the last few days and they were good. The worst part was they weren’t afraid to use a gun.

“Chief,” one of the constables comes up to my desk, where I’d been staring at footage for the last hour. “There’s been um, there’s a problem-”

“Spit it out,” I say, eyes still on the screen.

“The evidence you released on Monday...blokes down in evidence can’t find the SIM from the scene...we think they accidentally left it with that batch.”

I look up from my screen and I can practically see the sweat breaking out on his brow as I stare. If that was important evidence, we’d misplaced it at the height of an investigation. My arse would be on the line too--it was my name on the authorization letter.

“Don’t panic until we’re sure it’s not with the evidence we gave out,” I get up and put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m looking into it right now, don’t let anybody know it’s happened.”

I grab my jacket from my chair and root in the pocket for my phone but Y/N’s number goes to voicemail. I curse. I look at the time, it was 6 already. I had a feeling she might kill me but I would have to drive to her place, I hoped she didn’t leave the evidence at work...after all I did tell her to return it to her employees...I have the brief thought of asking her in the morning but I remember my arse on the line and walk quicker.

“Woah, someone’s in a hurry,” Detective Cole comments as I rush past her. “Not even a hello.”

“Sorry,” I flash her a smile. “Urgent!”

“Need any help?”

I pause long enough to turn around and answer. “Normally I would say yes but I’ve got to do this.”

“Don’t let me keep ya,” she smiles, I notice Serena eyeing the both of us suspiciously as she packs up for the day. She was always trying to convince me to ask her on a date, but I was done with dating coworkers after I made the mistake of marrying one and breaking up quickly thereafter in the past. I’d changed careers quickly after that.

Y/N’s POV:

“Oh my god,” I stop in the middle of my bedroom as my sister reveals her big news over Facetime, an ultrasound held up to the camera. “Oh my god!”

“I know!” She squeals.

“I-I-you’re pregnant!” I was shocked, I didn’t even know my sister was trying for a third kid. “You better give me a bloody niece this time!”

My sister laughs, one hand on her belly. I should’ve known, I realise, she’d been cryptic the last few times we talked, dropping clue, but I’d been so wrapped up in other things I didn’t pick up on them. “It wasn’t even planned but Y/N, it feels right. The boys are stoked--they want a sister too.”

“I am so happy for you and Stu,” I let out a whoop. “I wish I could hug you! I’m going to book some time next month and come see you--this is big! Did you tell dad?”

“Not yet, don’t say anything--oh,” a cry bursts out from somewhere on her end. She rolls her eyes and tells me she would call me back. But I get a text to say there was an accident with a toy truck and a jug of OJ, she would call me back later in the evening when everything was settled.

I throw my phone down on my bed and sit on the edge in my robe, I’d just come out of the shower to my sister’s call. I was over the moon for her, but it was times like these I felt like an awful person. Because as I think about her happy news, I put my hand to my own belly and imagine what it would’ve been like to be the one calling family with good news. The familiar ache in my chest comes back, once upon a time I did have good news for a short period of time.

It was a few months before Harry and I split, I’d skipped a period and went immediately to the pharmacy. I’d decided to wait for a week before I would tell Harry because he was stressed from work. He was always stressed at that job, but I wanted it to be perfect. I’d spent the whole week stopping by nursery stores, browsing baby books, even buying a few onesies and the cutest booties I couldn’t put down. I picture the baby--mine and Harry’s, wearing them.

But the day I’d planned to tell him, I’d woken up and knew instantly something was wrong. I never told him, I fought with him that day instead...I couldn’t even remember over what. I held the awful burden on my own, packed the future I couldn’t have into a little box and shoved it under the bed. A few months later, Harry and I were over. That future was as fragile as the paper-thin wings of a butterfly, one that would never take flight.

I do what I did on my darkest days, I root underneath my bed and pull out the box.

I still had it; it was morbid, holding on to a future that was deader than dead. But I hold it in my lap, and run my hands over each piece of clothing. I imagine just for a moment what I could have had, they would’ve been 3 and I would’ve been a mum. My chest tightens, and I squeeze the items closer.

H’s POV:

By the time I get to Y/N’s, I’d stress-sang so many 90s hits that most of my nervous energy had streamed out the car window. I gather myself, clear my hoarse throat, and knock; ready to be beheaded. When there’s no answer, my nerves return. I knock louder, and try to peer through the frosty window.

“Harry?” Y/N opens the door in a flourish, looking fresh from a shower. I try to block the visuals that spring to mind, my mind blanking as I try to remember what I had to say. “Hello? Harry? Why are you here?”

“Uhm,” I shake my head. “Urgent business--the evidence I gave you on Monday, please tell me you still have it?”

Her eyebrows furrow, “You’re knocking on my door at nearly 7 for evidence you returned to me?”

“It’s urgent,” I look around out of habit. “Y/N, we may have accidentally given you something with the evidence we were meant to keep--please I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. I’m not messing with you, this is my head on the chopping block--I need to know if you have it.”

“For fuck’s sake Harry,” she opens the door wider. “Just...come in.”

“You have it?” I step in eagerly and close the door behind me, basking in the warmth inside. It was a chilly spring evening.

“I haven’t touched it since I brought it home, I threw it somewhere in my room.”

“Didn’t it...have your employees’ personal items in it?” I ask cautiously.

“It’s not like they’re eager to have reminders of that day!” she snaps and I back down. She turns in a flourish of her robes and walks upstairs. She doesn’t say anything so I follow her up, drinking in every detail I can about her new life as we pass through.

She’s headed into her bedroom when her phone buzzes. I recognize her sister from the contact photo that takes up the screen. She glances at me, and back at the phone, making a decision.

“It’s beside the dresser, don’t make a sound or my sister will come here in record time to rip your head off.”

“I take it she doesn’t like me,” I try to joke.

“She’s not the only Y/L/N sister that doesn’t like you,” she puts a finger to her mouth and takes the call into the other room.

Maybe I should stop cracking jokes with Y/N, I think. It was clear she still hadn’t forgiven me. I was surprised she still held on as vehemently all these years later.

I head into her bedroom, a tidy and plain room. Compared to what I’d seen of her main floor, her bedroom looked like it belonged in a hotel. I spot the box almost immediately resting between a laundry hamper and her dresser. I pick it up but on the way back, the box on her bed catches my attention. The lid is half on, and I know I shouldn’t but something almost possesses my hand to nudge the lid aside. I stare and what’s inside the box sends me reeling; like I was seasick, but with both feet firmly on the ground. The feeling punches me directly into a past I’d abandoned. A future I abandoned too.

When Y/N finds me a few minutes later, I’m holding the shoes from the box in my hands. She stops beside me. I look to her and her face is frozen in fear, before it shuts down into anger--no, fury.

“What the fuck are you doing going through that?” she snatches the shoes out of my hand and picks the box up.

“Y/N,” I say gently. “What...what is all this?”

“Did you find your stupid box? Just--” her eyes search the room frantically and settles on the evidence box on the bed. She picks it up and shoves it into my chest. “Take it and go Harry, I don’t want t-to talk. To you. Please just--” her voice breaks.

“Okay I’ll go I just...” my heart feels heavier than lead and I want to say the perfect thing to her but nothing comes out. When she shoves me I scuttle out. I hear the sob that escapes her as soon as I exit into the hallway, I almost turn to go back in and offer comfort. But I couldn’t comfort her, not since the day I gave up on her. I walk to my car, not even relieved to have the evidence. I don’t know how long I sit in the car and think about the contents of that box: folded in neat piles were baby onesies, bibs, and a pair of tiny shoes. Remnants from a broken past, a broken promise.

I wasn’t an idiot, and I wasn’t heartless despite what Y/N thought. I know what my selfish actions did to her, I know how I’d fucked her up without meaning to. But it’s only now that the weight of it settles entirely on my shoulders. How many years has it been, and that small box of new onesies stayed under her bed. Her room might’ve looked sterile and fresh but its corners held heavier burdens than I thought were possible. A new feeling of shame blooms from within me, and it stays like a bad aftertaste.

***Y/N POV:

I was going to read that letter, find my closure, and burn everything from my past ceremonially in a bonfire, I think as I watch the trees in my backyard rustle with the morning wind. It had been a few days but I couldn’t even focus on him finding that box, the humiliation of watching him look up at me with confusion and pity...it was enough he’d broken my heart, but now he felt sorry for me too. I focus back on the greenery while my fingers toy with the letter that’d come in the mail, a few years late.

The envelope looked worse for wear but it was still as sealed as the day Harry had written it. I hesitate, trace my fingers over my name on the front. A memory comes rushing to me, Harry in my dorm writing silly things on my post-its and sticking it in places I wouldn’t find until he’d left. Like under my covers, or inside my closet door. They would be silly like

Y/N smells like farts

or cheesy like

have a terrific day

. I usually tossed them, other I’d tucked between classroom textbooks. I wonder what happened to them.

Finally, I work up the courage to slide my finger under the seal and break it open. Two pages fall out, his distinct writing halfway between cursive and chicken scratch covers both pages. I read:

Y/N

You’re probably wondering why you’re reading this--I don’t think I deserve your consideration for even a moment let alone for enough time it will take for you to read this. Yet I want so badly for you to read this, to just know I didn’t mean for this to happen to us. And I know you think I’m the one who did it to us, but I need to explain.

You always told me I was good with my words, that maybe I was an artist in another life--a poet you liked to say. But every time I try to find the right words to say to you, English may as well not be my first language. I should have tried harder, should have found the right words for months but I kept putting it off until it was too late.

You are and will always be my best friend first, Y/N, I know I’ve broken your trust but I care about you deeply. I just wasn’t happy. And that had to do with the road we were going down together, not you. I’m deeply sorry for the words I said that day, for how I’ve made you feel these last few months. I guess, ultimately, I was being selfish. And I don’t have an excuse for that. I fucked this up but I wasn’t happy and I was taking it out on you, and on us. I used the things we couldn’t have as an excuse, but I’m not happy where I am in my life. And that’s something I need to find; I need to figure out what I really want.

I can only hope we’ll circle back to each other one day, in the future, when we’re in better places. But I don’t think we were right like this, maybe it’s bad timing, or maybe there’s a blanket over us much too heavy for us to find comfort under. I’m sorry for leaving us like this and for breaking your trust but I need to do this.

Know you’re perfect as you are, right now, there’s absolutely nothing about you I would ever change. I, on the other hand, have a lot of changing to do.

I wish you nothing but the best, you deserve the whole bloody world Y/N, but I don’t think I can give that to you. I hope one day, you can find it in your heart to forgive me. For now, know I love you and I’m truly sorry.

Harry, xx

My finger brushes over the last line, I take myself back to the Y/N and Harry four years ago--and it’s not so hard to do. I lived there more often than I’d like to admit. But I picture us, I picture Harry sitting down to write this. How might I have taken this if I read it all those years ago? I picture myself dissolving into tears--maybe my sister was right in not showing me.

I also imagine I would have known why, and maybe I wouldn’t be where I was right now if I’d had that closure.

But even all these years later, the tears stream down my face as if it were just yesterday Harry handed the letter over to my protective sister. There was so much hurt and heaviness, looking at it from the perspective I had now...I see a glimmer of truth in Harry’s letter. We’d worked wonderfully as best friends, and our intimacy was comforting. But we were also two people being pulled in two directions while clinging onto what we thought would keep us happy. It didn’t mean I forgave him for what he did, how he did it. But I finally understood why.

All this time, I asked why--I wondered if there was something I could’ve done to have fixed it before he left. I see now, he’d wanted an out the whole time. Nothing would have fixed us except time apart. I still felt like shit, but this epiphany made me feel closer to the closure I needed. The light on the horizon grows a little brighter. We’d just had bad timing.

***

I feel bright and chipper Monday morning; a sunny morning and a weekend of closure could do that to a woman. I bring along with me a box of treats; it had been a week since the horrible robbery. We’d put some precautions in since, had the therapist stay a few more days, a few of the employees decided to transfer and as sad as I was to see them go I knew it was the right thing for them to do to feel better. As for myself, I forgot about it most of the time. But it would creep in every so often and freeze me up.

I spoke to the company’s therapist once more after Monday, she’d asked about Harry and I had told her about the letter. She was intrigued but quickly changed the topic to how I was feeling after the events of last Thursday.

“Y/N?” Adam walks into the staff room as I finish the note to accompany the treats. “What’s all this?”

“Treats to cheer everyone up! Not that sweet fried dough is going to erase everyone’s PTSD...” I try to make a joke but Adam’s face is tense like it’d been since that day. “Adam I’m teasing...have you um, have you talked to someone one-on-one?”

“Me? Why?” He jumps. “I’m fine, I’m alright it’s mostly out of my head anyway.”

“Hm,” I look him up and down. “I don’t believe you but I’ll let it drop...for now.”

He fidgets with his hands, “Anyway I came in here to let you know the detective on the case called first thing about returning some evidence-”

“I can’t pick that up.” I say finitely. “Do you have room today? Maybe take an extended lunch and pick that up?”

“From the station?” he stutters.

“Is that where he said it was?”

“Uh yeah, yes. He wanted you to pick it up.”

“Well DCI Styles won’t get what he wants for once, you’ll pick it up at lunch okay? Just keep me posted.”

I go back to my office with a coffee and get a crack on with my work. I check for any updates on the client from last Thursday but I continue to receive the automated email that their office was closed for the week. It was weird, but I just make a note to follow up later on.

After lunch, Adam appears shaken, with the evidence. I instruct him to leave it in the staff room and send out an email, making sure to remind them that they didn’t have to go through it if they didn’t want to. I would keep it there until it was cleared out, even if that took the month. I think about my scarf in there, the one used to tie my hands. I wanted to burn it, never see it again. I send Adam a quick email to remove it from the box and dispose of it.

H’s POV:

“This just doesn’t make any sense,” I comb my fingers through my hair, as if it might trick my brain into seeing the pattern here. “This same group’s hit four places total, and yet Y/N...the HSBC was the first. There’s got to be a connection there, it’s here but I just can’t see it.”

“Harry,” Detective Cole puts her hand on my shoulder briefly before moving it away. “Maybe you need a break, I don’t think I’ve seen you go home the last few days and your shirt’s a bit...ripe. Maybe take the rest of the day off?”

I sniff myself, she was right. She shrugs with a I had to say it look.

She was right too that I hadn’t gone home. I did almost nothing but focus on this case, not only because it was growing bigger by the day and I had pressure from upstairs. But it was a welcome distraction to the new guilt that seemed to jam every other area of my life.

It was almost like I was reliving a timeline, going back three or so years ago. It felt like Y/N and I were freshly broken up, and I was trying to pick myself back up from it. Except that’s not the way it went all those years ago--I’d moved on, quickly then. But now, time was catching up. Or maybe it was karma.

“Earth to Harry?” Cole waves her hand in front of my face. “You really should go home.”

“Yep,” I scratch my stubble. I should shave too. “I’ll just drop by evidence before I go.”

She looks like she was going to say something but she gets up from the chair beside my desk, and walks back to her own. I sigh, sifting through the files on my desk to take home with me. My notepad underneath shifts and I spot Y/N’s familiar writing: Y/N was here. I run my finger over it and smile, remembering how she had written that on the baseboard of every flat or dorm room we’d left. And just like that, the guilt and shame take the memory’s place. How the fuck was I supposed get past this and focus, I think.

I shove my files into a bag and head out. Evidence tells me there wasn’t a lot on the sim card but they were still trying. I ask for an email if anything comes to light, and go home where I fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.

i meant to take a short nap, but I wake at 4am and my mind’s buzzing with so many thoughts that I have nothing else to do but get up, eat a mashup of breakfast and last night’s dinner. With nothing more to do, and 6am creeping up, I decide to get in my car and drive while the roads were somewhat clear.

Driving helped me think sometimes, on my worst case after my promotion, I’d gotten on the road one night and driven all the way to Leicaster. After a night’s rest in a hotel and the drive back home, I’d cracked the case. But this time, with my thoughts racing, I end up driving to Y/N neighbourhood on autopilot. Maybe because she was on my mind, the guilt a constant companion since that day.

I park on the other side of her street, and watch her front door from the rearview. I don’t know why I was there, it felt ridiculous and creepy. Yet, I couldn’t leave. Maybe I could offer her a ride to work, I think. But I know she would decline because she didn’t even come in herself to collect her evidence. She’d sent her awkward assistant instead.

Her door suddenly opens, and a strange man walks out. She leans on the doorframe and laughs at something he says. He leaves a kiss on her cheek and walks away. She shouts something after him and he turns, saying something back that gets her laughing. My heart races, seeing her face in the distance wrinkle with laughter. I remember all the times I could get her to do that, effortlessly. The guilt returns tenfold.

He adjusts his coat, turning back around and she watches him fondly for a few seconds longer before closing her door. I’m suddenly irritated, immediately suspicious of this bloke. I watch, unblinking, until he turns the corner out of sight. Who was he? Her boyfriend?

I look at the time on the dashboard, 7:08am. I sit, indecisive for another half an hour. My thoughts churn: the robberies, the motives, Y/N, the worn out box with baby clothes, her male guest who’d spent the night, the look on her face when she’d woken up after her concussion and saw me: disbelief, anger, and sadness.

I get out of the stuffy car and walk across the street where I hesitate outside her door. I knew I was crossing a line, pushing a boundary she put up by not picking up the evidence herself. She’d made it clear what she wanted, but I never denied that I was a selfish bastard. I raise my hand, and knock.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles angst #detective!harry #dci!harry #harry styles imagine #harry styles series #writingsfromhome #fic #au #harry styles x reader #oop this took a while to get out #but i'm so excited for pt3 #:)

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samwisethewitch · 4 years

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Curses and Hexes

Cursing is one of the most ancient forms of magic — and one of the most controversial. Whereas most magic is constructive (used to manifest or attract things), cursing is destructive (used to cause misfortune or harm).

Technically speaking, curses and hexes are similar but different types of spells. A curse consists of written or spoken words, sometimes combined with gestures. A hex is a ritual involving material items. However, most modern witches use the terms interchangeably, as I do in this post.

The fastest way to start a debate in any witchy community is to bring up the topic of cursing. It seems like everyone has strong opinions on the subject, either for or against. For your practice, all that matters is what you believe.

So, When Is It Okay to Curse Someone?

This is a tricky question, and the answer depends on the witch.

There are some witches who believe that intentionally causing harm or misfortune to another person is always wrong, and will never cast curses for this reason. This is an entirely valid position! If you fall into this camp, know that you’re in good company.

Other witches believe that cursing is acceptable when it’s truly warranted by the situation, such as when your life or livelihood is in danger. Others believe that cursing is simply a means to an end, and can be done with good intention (cursing your friend’s unfaithful partner to get them to stop cheating, for example).

The one thing that most witches seem to agree on is that curses are serious stuff, and should not be taken lightly. Unlike other types of magic, curses are fueled by negative emotions like hate, anger, and heartbreak. This makes them very powerful, but also very draining for the witch casting them. Cursing someone means reliving any trauma you suffered at their hands in order to use those memories as fuel for the fire. Some people aren’t willing to put themselves through such an ordeal, which again, is entirely fair.

Because curses are fueled by such strong emotions, they’re powerful and volatile. They’re like the nitro fuel of witchcraft — if you don’t know what you’re doing and aren’t careful, someone could get seriously hurt. That someone could be you.

My personal view on cursing is essentially the same as my view on physical violence. It’s not the answer to all, or even most, problems, and it sometimes makes the situation worse instead of better. It should never be your first option, but it might very well be your last resort. If someone is holding you at gunpoint, you’re entitled to use violence to protect yourself. Likewise, if someone is putting you or a loved-one in life-threatening danger, you’re entitled to use whatever magical means necessary for protection.

Before You Curse

If you think there’s someone in your life who deserves to be cursed, go through the following criteria to decide if cursing is really the most appropriate action.

Sleep on it. When we’re in the heat of the moment, we sometimes say or do things we don’t mean. If you think you’re angry enough with someone to curse them, give it a couple of days before you reach for the vinegar and chili peppers. Give yourself time to cool off and clear your head. If, after a week, you still feel like a curse is warranted, move on to the next step.

Think about your own motives. Why do you want to curse this person? What did they do to make you angry enough that you’re willing to use magic to harm them in some way? If it’s a minor annoyance, like cutting you off in traffic, a curse probably isn’t appropriate. Likewise, if your motivations are petty or catty in nature — like cursing someone because they beat you out for a promotion — I highly encourage you to stop and do some self-reflection. For one thing, you may not be able to conjure enough genuine hatred and anger for an effective curse. For another, in these situations you may find it more helpful to do some work on yourself (working on anger issues, learning to gracefully accept failure, etc.) rather than lashing out at someone else.

Ask yourself if this situation matters in the long run. It may feel incredibly important now, but try to take a step back and look at the big picture. Will this person matter in a year? Five years? Ten? Are they important enough to warrant allowing yourself to channel enough negative energy for a curse? (If this person is putting your life, livelihood, or safety at risk, the answer to all of these questions is YES!)

Make sure your anger is directed at the right person. Who is really responsible for the pain you’re feeling? For example, if your significant other cheats on you, your first reaction may be to curse the person who “stole” them from you. But you aren’t really upset with this person — you’re hurt because your partner betrayed your trust. I’m not convinced that a cheating partner is a serious enough reason to cast a curse (again, will it really matter in ten years?) but if you decide to do so, at least make sure it’s directed at the person who is truly responsible for your pain.

Consider doing a banishing instead. In situations where a person is a danger to you or your loved ones, sometimes the best option is to give them a magical push out of your life. A banishing does what the name implies — it banishes a person or thing from your life. Unlike a curse, a banishing does not cause harm or misfortune to the person being targeted. It simply removes them from your life.

You can perform a simple yet effective banishing with a piece of paper, a pen, cayenne pepper, and dried lavender. Write the name of the person or thing you want to banish on the paper. Look down at the name and say, out loud, “[Name], you are no longer welcome in my life.” Sprinkle a bit of cayenne on the paper and instruct it to burn this person out of your life. Sprinkle a bit of lavender on the paper and instruct it to bring you peace and healing. Fold the paper up to create a little packet around the herbs, then take it outside and burn it to ash. (Be careful — cayenne smoke burns!) As the paper burns say, “I banish [name] from my life, never to return.” Scatter the leftover ashes on a busy road.

Consider doing a binding instead. Maybe you don’t necessarily need someone out of your life, but you do need to take away their power to cause harm. In this case, a binding is your best bet. A binding is a spell that “binds up” someone’s power, preventing them from taking certain actions. This can be useful for dealing with people who are toxic or abusive. Like a banishing, binding does not cause harm or misfortune to the target.

You can perform a simple binding charm with a photograph of your target, a pen, and red or black thread. Write your target’s full name (or as much of it as you know) across the bottom of the photo. Look down at the photo. Say, out loud, “[Name], I bind you. I bind up your power, so that you can no longer ______.” Fold the paper up as small as possible. Then, begin to wrap the thread around the folded paper. As you do, say, “[Name], I bind you.” Continue wrapping until the thread completely covers the paper — there should be no paper visible.

For whatever reason, some people seem to have a natural resistance to banishing and binding. You may find that your spell works for a while, but the person you tried to banish/bind eventually returns to their old ways. There’s some debate about why this happens — some say it’s because these people are narcissists or energy vampires, while others think it has something to do with their force of will. Personally, I think it’s because some people are so nasty and hateful that it takes nasty, hateful magic to get rid of them for good. If you find yourself dealing with one of these people, and your banishings and bindings aren’t sticking, you may want to move on to a full-fledged curse.

Creating an Effective Curse

Okay, you’ve done your self-reflection, you’ve considered or attempted a banishing and/or binding, and you still feel like cursing is your best/only option. In that case, here are some general guidelines for making sure that your curse is appropriate, effective, and ethical.

Be VERY specific. Don’t just lob a ball of negative energy at someone and expect it to do what you want. Be very, very clear about your intent for this curse. Use precise and specific language. Make it painfully obvious what you want to happen and how you want it to unfold.

For example, when writing a petition or incantation, don’t just say, “[Name] is cursed.” Instead use something like, “Should [Name] ever contact or harass me again, he/she/they is cursed. Let him/her/them feel what I have felt and suffer as I have suffered.” You could get even more specific and detailed if you wanted to, but the important thing is to establish some basic parameters for the powerful dark energy you’re unleashing.

Make sure the punishment fits the crime. A curse to cause sexual impotence probably isn’t appropriate for an abusive boss… unless that boss is sexually harassing their employees. In that case, sticking a few pins in a rotting cucumber may be just what the situation calls for. (Yes, that’s a real curse. Yes, the cucumber represents what you think it represents.)

Making sure the punishment fits the crime also means being honest about how serious of a curse is deserved. Do you really need to ruin this person’s life to get them out of your hair, or will a mild inconvenience do? As strange as the idea of a curse being fair sounds, avoiding overkill will not only maintain balance but will keep you from expending more energy than you have to.

Make sure your curse is only affecting your target and not anyone around them. When it comes to curses, family, friends, and coworkers can sometimes get caught in the crossfire. To avoid this, make sure your spell is targeted to a specific person by personalizing it as much as possible. Include photos of your target, their full legal name (or as much of their full name as you know), and a taglock if you can get it. You may even want to include a line in your petition or incantation specifying that this curse will only affect the desired target and not their friends and associates.

Set clear conditions/parameters. The most effective curses are situational. Think of it as laying an energetic trap in or around a certain situation — this is more efficient and uses up less of your energy than if you were to just cast a blanket curse that affects every area of the target’s life. Curse parameters take the form of, “If [name] does x, they will be met with y.”

Setting parameters also makes sure your curse is truly deserved. For example, maybe your friend has an abusive ex-spouse, and you want to use a curse to keep your friend safe. If the ex-spouse is already leaving your friend alone, there’s no reason for a curse. But if they aren’t leaving your friend alone, they deserve to be met with vicious, magical resistance. For this situation, you may want to use an incantation like, “Should [ex-spouse] ever approach or contact [your friend], they are cursed with discomfort, unrest, and legal trouble. Let them be hunted and put down like a rabid dog.” This ensures that if, at any point in the future, the ex-spouse starts harassing your friend again, the curse will immediately go into action.

Don’t attach yourself to the curse. Perhaps the most important part of cursing is making sure you keep the energy of the curse separate from your own energy. Revenge is a double-edged sword, so you need to take precautions to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.

Any time you cast a curse, you want to limit its connection to you as much as possible. Don’t include any of your own personal effects in the spell. You may also want to avoid using tools that hold a special place in your practice. For example, you may not want to use your altar as a place to craft curses. You may want to use materials that can be disposed of easily. Make sure to dispose of curse remains somewhere outside your home, such as at a busy road.

After casting a curse, it’s important to set aside some time for self-care. Start with a thorough cleansing. This can be as simple as taking a bath in salt water (or dumping a bucket of salt water over your head in the shower, if you don’t have a tub), but if you would rather do a full-fledged cleansing ritual, even better! It’s important to do something to remove any lingering negativity from your energy field, and to make sure the curse doesn’t attach to you in any way.

Cursing is intense, emotional, draining work. After casting a curse, take at least a few hours to rest and be kind to yourself. Eat your favorite foods. Take a nap. Read a book or watch a movie. Do whatever you need to do to make yourself feel good.

You may want to do some inner work after cursing to help process the intense emotions involved in this kind of magic. This can be journaling, meditation, energy work, or some other healing modality. If you’ve experienced serious trauma, you may want to consider speaking to a therapist or counselor in addition to doing work on your own.

Resources:

Utterly Wicked by Dorothy Morrison

Of Blood and Bones by Kate Freuler

New World Witchery podcast, “Episode 102 — Evil”

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elizabethemerald · 3 years

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Jim is Honest; Chap 8

Barbara was enjoying one of her rare days off, her feet up on the coffee table. After treating Jim’s injuries last night, she had written him a doctor’s note to excuse him from any physical activities. He still wanted to go to school, saying he didn’t want to miss any more rehearsals than necessary.

She had preemptively taken the day off from work in case his injuries were so severe he needed additional care. She was honestly surprised to see how well he was already healing. It seemed whatever magic was inherent in his amulet it did more than protect him from harm. Still she had the day off and was for once spending it trying to relax. She still had numerous concerns about her son and the war he had found himself embroiled in, but at least for the time there wasn’t anything specific she could do.

That was until she heard a knock at the door. It was a little surprising, she had very few friends, and even fewer who would invite themselves over without a word. She knew Jim and Toby were at school, and Nana was in the park playing chess with a few other retirees. She rose and cautiously approached the door.

“Ah, Dr. Lake. Its good to see you again. I was wondering if I could have a word?” The short, well dressed Asian woman at her door said, emerald eyes gleaming.

Ms. Nomura. Curator for the Arcadia Oaks museum. Secret changeling spy who had fought her son, just a few days ago. Barbara swallowed, forcing herself to maintain an outward appearance of calm.

Why was Ms. Nomura here? Had she come to kill her? Was she waiting to attack Jim? He would be home in less than an hour. But what if she wasn’t? Could this be her chance to offer her hand to someone on the opposite side of the war her son had found himself in? She forced a smile on her face.

“Ms. Nomura, correct? Please come in, you can call me Barbara if you like.”

She hesitated only a moment before ushering the other woman in. She noticed the rapid way Nomura swept her eyes around the room, taking in every detail. If she had been one of her patients at the clinic she would have sworn it was a sign of abuse. She wasn’t so sure now. She felt like she was a rabbit caught in the sight of a fox, though even this rabbit had teeth if need be.

“Thank you Barbara. You can call me Zelda, you’ve enjoyed the exhibits I’ve curated often enough. You’re practically a regular at the museum.”

Barbara guided Zelda to the table.

“Oh I didn’t know I had stood out in the crowd so much. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes please.” Zelda smiled while Barbara began preparing the tea. “I don’t know that you’ve stood out, so much as I’ve been keen to notice. You always wear such elegant attire when you visit my halls.”

Barbara couldn’t help but blush at the compliment. Though Zelda was laying the flattery on a little thick. She wondered if the changelings were all trained in honey traps, or if it were just the ones she interacted with. She had fallen for sweet words once. She had no intention of doing so again.

Zelda helped carry the two cups over the table once Barbara was finished making them. Barbara quickly ordered her thoughts. She needed to find out exactly why the changeling was here. She needed to find whether she was a threat to JIm’s life. If she was, then she would not be allowed to leave.

“Zelda I know you’re here because of Jim.”

Her words immediately set Zelda back on her back foot. Barbara watched as she tried to reorder her expression. So far all she had seen was surprise, no aggression, but she needed to dig deeper.

“I wanted to apologize on his behalf before he gets home.” Barbara said. “He acted in a foolish and impulsive manner. I’m sorry he startled you and put your life at risk.”

“Thank you Barbara.” Despite her words, Barbara could tell Zelda was shaken. What she was apologizing for was different then the official police report. “I just hoped he learned his lesson.”

“Oh he learned quite a bit from that night. Did you know he said he broke in because he was afraid for your life? You can’t fault Jim too much, he thought you were in danger.”

Nomura again startled, again quickly hid it. “That is very kind of him. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m sure you are.” Barbara smiled and put her hand on Zelda’s. Honeypots worked both ways. “You’re very strong. Do you have much experience with martial arts? I studied Krav Maga myself, I don’t want to be a push over you understand.”

“Yes I do. And yes I have.”

Time for vulnerability. Barbara had Zelda unsteadied in this conversation. She pulled down the neckline of her shirt, showing off a half moon scar on her shoulder. Their cups of tea sat abandoned on the table.

“My ex husband, James.” She said referring to the scar. “After he left us, I said I wouldn’t be a victim again. No matter how much he had wanted to treat me like his slave.”

Zelda’s eyes blazed with fury. And hidden behind that fury was a recognition. In herself Zelda saw a reflection of what Barbara had gone through. Her arm moved on its own accord to her opposite elbow. As if her arm had been broken before and still hurt her.

Barbara continued on before Zelda had a chance to say anything.

“I always tried to raise my son with those same ideals. Never to be a victim, but always to offer his hand to those who are hurting. Human or otherwise.”

She immediately regretted the last words. They were too obvious, playing her hand too quickly. Zelda stood, knocking her chair back as she rose to her feet, her eyes flicking side to side as she began drawing rapid fire connections.

“You- You know- You know about me-”

With the worst possible timing, the front door opened in that moment. Drawing both of their attentions to Jim stepping inside. All three froze. Jim’s face contorted with rage. Barbara knew how this must look to him. The woman he knew was a changeling standing over his mother, in his house.

“Jim, this is Ms. Nomura, from the museum. We were just talking.” Barbara said quickly, her voice higher than normal. “This might be a good time for you to apologize, and offer her your hand.”

He looked at her, consternation on his face, then stepped toward Zelda, his hand held awkwardly out in front of him. He was a smart boy, and he understood what she was saying. Barbara picked up her long cooled tea and took a hasty sip, trying to calm her nerves.

“Barbara no!” Zelda shouted, reaching out a hand to stop her, never mind the tea had already passed her lips.

Her vision immediately darkened as her head felt unbearably heavy. With a thump her head hit the table, the last thing she could see was a flash of blue light, followed by a flash of green.

#jim lake junior #Barbara Lake #zelda nomura #jim is honest #tales of arcadia #Trollhunters #writing emerald

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jessicajonesrp · 4 years

Text

He’s backkkk

It took some careful planning, but eventually, Rikarah had what she needed to be able to bring Kilgrave back to life.

She already had a safe and secure location where she would be uninterrupted during times of needed concentration- her open rented home, just outside of Manhattan. She had never bothered to inform Phillip that she had a rental house; it seemed a better bet to keep the information of her multiple living quarters, unused for most of the year, to herself, just in case. Phillip had been far from discreet, and there was a reason Rikarah had chosen a secondary lodging outside of the business of cities such as NYC, Hell’s Kitchen, Harlem, or Manhattan itself. She was a loner at heart, but her interest and her focus tended to be on others, and it was necessary to spend most of her time among them in order to know them and their lives. This distant secondary home was to be used only when necessary, to recharge, or for specific situations such as this.

It hadn’t been difficult to obtain a picture of Kilgrave. After the incident on the dock, he and Jessica and Patricia Walker had been all over the covers of newspapers everywhere, so it was a simple matter of a few clicks on a smart phone to find and save a picture of the man in question. It had taken more time to obtain something with Kilgrave’s DNA. Rikarah had attempted to trace the location of his body- somehow she suspected he had been neither traditionally buried nor cremated, and it was her guess that he was likely being used for scientific experimentation or study, legally or otherwise, within the government or whoever else had been the highest bidder of access.

With some creative thought, she had been able to trace back several of Kilgrave’s last known addresses, including the childhood home of Jessica Jones, which was unfortunately no longer standing after its bombing. Nevertheless, Rikarah had discovered that the “Kilgrave survivors” group Jessica had formed over a year ago, with the intention of drawing out Kilgrave and gaining information on him, was still active and meeting regularly.

It hadn’t been difficult to insinuate herself into the group for a few weeks as a new member, pretending to be one of the traumatized survivors of the incident of Kilgrave-directed violence on the dock the evening he himself had died. Rikarah had enough research information to be able to nod along and briefly and tearfully provide her own version of events. Meanwhile she took note of the people who had spent prolonged time with Kilgrave- being his driver for a week, forced to let him live in their home for longer, or forced to wait on him as a cook, bartender, or masseuse.

Those were the ones that may possess something that would carry Kilgrave’s DNA, even now. Those were the ones that she made the effort to befriend, to offer a shoulder and a listening ear. And a few episodes of feigned attraction and friendship had been enough for one clearly still traumatized older man to allow her into his home and his bed, and with minimal encouragement from Rikarah, to lead her in a tour of the house Kilgrave had made his lodging for a time- the house the man still lived in.

“It was terrible,” the man told her, actually tearful as he shook his head, eyes cloudy as though reliving what he spoke of. “I couldn’t leave the house, I couldn’t speak or even move without him giving me the okay to. He used my house as though it were his, and then one day he just left and didn’t come back. I was terrified that he might return, any moment, and I couldn’t predict when or do anything to stop him. He didn’t even take all of his things with him, and I was afraid to do anything to get rid of them, or even move them, in case it made him angry if he did come back. I know he’s dead now, but even now I’m afraid to touch his things. That’s pathetic, I know, but it’s the truth.”

It was pathetic, in Rikarah’s view, but it was also fortunate for her. Because among Kilgrave’s “left behind things” were a comb, toothbrush, and some clothing including socks and underwear. All certain to contain Kilgrave’s DNA.

She had charmed the man with sympathetic words and touches, assuring him of his bravery, lying without a flicker of remorse about her own supposed fear. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes for him to be convinced that he was now strong and brave enough to let some of those items go, “just a few to start with, the ones most associated with him personally”- and that she, Rikarah, in spite of her own fear, cared enough about his healing to be the one to take them away to make sure they were disposed of.

She still couldn’t believe the man was gullible enough to fall for such nonsense. But he had actually leaked tears and hugged her, thanking her for her empathy and giving him the chance to start a new life.

Ironic, and amusing, really, that in all actuality, she was bringing back what he feared the very most, all in the name of helping him put it behind him.

So armed in her remote rented home with the personal objects of Kilgrave’s and a clear picture of his face, Rikarah sat cross legged on her bed and emptied her mind of all thoughts but those of her intention. She stared at Kilgrave’s picture, her hands stroking over each object containing his DNA, and pictured him awake, alive, and whole before her. She imagined the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, every synapse and nerve once more sharp with activity and use. She envisioned the blood running through his veins, and as her own small body grew taut and gave off fevered heat with the effort of her actions, she reached out for the knife beside her knee. Grasping it in her left hand, she slashed a shallow x over each of her palms, and then at the surface of each of her feet. Hands shaking slightly, she smeared the blood over the comb, the toothbrush, and the clothing, combining their DNA.

With a final shudder of effortful focus, Rikarah spoke aloud Kilgrave’s name. She could feel the air grow thick and strained, as though holding something moving and living and shifting in shape, and she slumped back, exhausted, against the bed, watching with satisfaction as a human form began to slowly knit itself into view in front of her.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The revived bodies started first with skeletons, then filled up with internal organs and muscles and sinew, before finally being knit over with skin and hair and the other details normally seen on the outside. It was no different with Kilgrave, and eventually, there he stood, naked, panting, and wide-eyed at her bedside.

Rikarah smiled, more in self-satisfaction at the accomplished task than at the sight of the man’s naked body. She didn’t consider him overly impressive in his physique, but he would do. It was the man and his mind, not his body, that mattered. She more than anyone knew it was a mistake to overlook people for their physicality.

“Where the bloody hell am I?” Kilgrave sputtered, disoriented, seeming to struggle to draw in breaths. His lungs, being new again, were likely still adjusting to breathing. “What’s the matter with me? And who the fuck are you?”

When Rikarah didn’t immediately answer, too tired to bother, Kilgrave straightened, pointing a finger at her, and took a menacing step forward, raising his voice. “I asked you a question, are you deaf? Answer me!”

“I’m sorry, Kevin, but I don’t take orders from anyone if it doesn’t suit me, and certainly not from you,” Rikarah said coolly, lifting an eyebrow from her supine position on the bed. “As you quite literally owe your life to me, I would expect a little more respect and gratitude, but I’m a patient woman. I’ll assume you’re rather in shock at the moment, given you’ve just gone from bones and brain mush to a living body again, and let the rudeness slide.”

Kilgrave’s eyes bulged, and he recoiled, alarmed as much by the nonchalant response he had just received as the strange situation he had found himself in. To speak an order and have it not obeyed immediately was beyond his comprehension.

“But I told you to do it!” he almost whined, staring down at the small and clearly unintimidated woman resting on her side in the bed. “I told you to, and you just- the only person who could ignore me was Jessica, and-“

He stiffened, his face paling, as he pointed an accusing finger at Rikarah again.

“Jessica did this, Jessica used that sedative thing on me, didn’t she?! You’re with her, you’re one of her people!”

“Certainly not,” Rikarah corrected him, exhaling with a weary and somewhat impatient sigh. “Jessica knows nothing of this- yet. As far as she believes, you are long dead, and she is glad of it. After all, she was the cause.”

She sat up, watching wryly as the realization and the memory of his own last few moments of life, just before Jessica snapped his neck, came back into the forefront of his thoughts. Rikarah gave him a few more moments to process this against the obvious reality of his current status of being alive before addressing him again.

“Yes, Kevin, you were dead, and for over a year now, too. You would have stayed that way, if not for myself and my own unique abilities. Some gratitude and a certain level of loyalty is not unwarranted.”

“I was dead,” Kilgrave repeated, the words stunned, almost disbelieving. “And you’re saying- what, that you resurrected me? You?” He snorted, looking Rikarah up and down dismissively. “No offense, love, but you hardly look the type to have that sort of power.”

“And Jessica does?” Rikarah countered. “I’ll grant you that she has the advantage in height, but she’s of a smaller frame even than myself, and what she may have over me in physical strength, I can outdo in the sheer enormity of my ability. She may be able to kill someone with a punch, but I’m the one who can bring them back from the dead. If you ask me, I have the greater power, and therefore, the greater true strength.”

Kilgrave looked her over again, more carefully this time, assessing rather than dismissing her. He took a step closer, still seeming not to care for his nakedness as he narrowed his eyes at Rikarah, anger losing out to eagerness in his eyes.

“You know Jessica,” he asserted. “Where is she?”

Rikarah wagged a finger at him playfully, a small smile curving her lips.

“Am I really so uninteresting, that I bring you out of death, and you would forgo all details to chase after another woman? Perhaps I was wrong in my interest in you. Perhaps someone else is more deserving, and you can simply go back to where you were before.”

“Wait, no, that isn’t it, love,” Kilgrave backpedaled, his smile at Rikarah forced at first as he raked a hand through his hair, then more genuine. “Of course I want to know how you managed this, and of course I’m glad for it. And I certainly want to know how it is you don’t listen to a thing I tell you to do,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rikarah, before addressing her again. “But if you know Jessica, then you must know something of our history, and why I would want to know where she is. She’s the one who killed me, you know. She’s the one-“

“That,” Rikarah interrupted, to Kilgrave’s barely contained outrage, “is in the past. The present is right here, with me, in this moment. Choose wisely, Kevin Kilgrave, and choose now, while you still have the choice before you. You can realize that I am no ordinary woman you’re dealing with here, that you owe me your life and your loyalty, and I owe you nothing and cannot be ordered into anything you may want from me. Believe me, I hold no liking for Jessica Jones, and as long as I am the woman who comes first and foremost in your world, I care little for how you choose to play with her. And I am certainly not opposed to letting you know every detail of what you have missed knowing of her life over the past year that you’ve been dust and bones.”

She paused, tilting her head, and gave him a moment to consider, before concluding, “Or you can choose to be foolish, ungrateful, and quite frankly, a bumbling, pathetic corpse, stumbling off on your own in a world that has moved on without you. You would have none of my help or my connections, none of my knowledge, and you would displease me greatly. When and if Jessica Jones kills you again- and she would, you know, if you just pop up on her in her new life without my assistance- then you can be certain I would not lift a finger to bring you back. So, then. What shall it be? I would think the decision obvious, but perhaps you’re not as intelligent as I believed.”

For a moment Kilgrave stood there, motionless, perhaps still in shock, or perhaps genuinely weighing out his obsession with Jessica and his desire for revenge against the logical reasoning of Rikarah’s words. But then he nodded slowly, reaching forward to take hold of Rikarah’s hand in his.

“Well, it would indeed be a fool’s errand to let a woman like you slip out of my grasp. Why don’t we start over with introductions, and perhaps something in the way of an explanation.”

And as Rikarah began to speak, giving Kilgrave some if not all of the answers he craved, she noticed his body relax further, his expression growing more and more fascinated as he came to understand more of the extent of her actions and her power. It wasn’t quite the way, she was sure, that he had looked at Jessica, but for now, it was enough.

It was enough, in fact, that after he had dressed in some of his old clothing and taken time to familiarize himself with Rikarah and her home, that Rikarah was willing to give him the phone number, if not the address, of Jessica’s new workplace, Heroes for Hire. And she sat back, interested and indulgent, as he placed a call, from a cheap prepaid phone she had bought in anticipation of his need for one.

It was Trish who answered, her voice bright and cheerful as the company’s head. “Heroes for Hire, we provide help, heroism, and honorable services for those in need in a time where true heroism is more needed than ever. How can we help you today?”

“Ah, Patsy,” Kilgrave purred, snickering to himself when he heard Trish suck in a sharp breath, immediately recognizing his British accent and self-satisfied tone. “So good to hear a familiar voice, but unfortunately, yours has never been the one I wanted to hear, and you prattle on enough as it is on that bloody talk show of yours. Give the phone to Jessica. Tell her she has a message from an old friend, would you?”

“This isn’t funny,” Trish said tightly, her voice controlled but barely keeping back anger. “Whoever you are, pretending to be that man is not a joke, it’s cruel, and-“

“Ah, but this is no joke, Patsy, can’t you recognize your own would be lover?” Kilgrave asked rhetorically. “Have you had so many men now you can’t remember the voice of all the ones whose throat you stuck your tongue inside of? Let me help you out, then. I’m the one who told you to put a bullet in your head. Fortunately enough for you, that doesn’t appear to have worked out, I never did find out why. Care to explain it to me, Patsy?”

He and Rikarah both heard Trish suck in her breath on the other side of the line. He doubted that this incident in the bunker was something anyone but she, Kilgrave, Simpson, and Jessica were aware of- and out of the four of them, both men were dead. Or supposed to be.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice softer than before. “What do you want?”

“Unfortunately, Patsy, for me to really make you do what I’d like to make you do, you’d have to be a good bit closer to me than a phone call, something about pheromones,” Kilgrave said casually. “But I do have other ways of making you do as I’d like you to. Put Jessica on the phone, or I will have six people show up at her doorstep and cut your name into their own foreheads. If she tries to stop them, they will cut her as well. Is that something you want to have on your conscience, Patsy? For a simple conversation?”

The line went silent for a few moments. When Jessica came onto the line, her voice was hard and cold as steel.

“Who the fuck are you, and just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, playing this kind of sick joke?”

“And hello to you too, Jessie,” Kilgrave exclaimed, putting an exaggerated bounce to his voice. “No joke, you never did have much of a sense of humor to waste any on. I won’t say it’s good to hear from you, since I had to get murdered, raised from the dead, and then still call your sister first and threaten her for you to speak to me, and I must say that hurts a man’s feelings.”

“You’re not him. You can’t be, you’re just some sick asshole who needs to fucking go put his dick in a-“

“Oh, Jessie, I can see your language is as filthy as ever, every bit as appalling as your fashion sense. Let’s cut off all the protests of my supposed death and just check your office email, shall we?”

Five minutes before the phone call, Rikarah had shot a quick video of him smiling and waving into the camera, with the date and time of the video clearly time stamped at its bottom. With a few clicks, he sent the video to the public Heroes for Hire email address, cutting off the call.

“But don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll hear from me again soon. If you miss me before we meet again, you have the video for comfort’s sake.”

As Kilgrave hung up, glowing with renewed feelings of power over the fear, rage, and helplessness he had stirred anew in the two women he had just spoken to, he sent a genuine smile in Rikarah’s direction, who returned it in kind.

“You know what, I like you, Rikarah Pallaton. I think we’ll get along just fine after all.”

#jessica jones roleplay #Jessica Jones #luke cage roleplay #Luke Cage #trish walker #trish walker roleplay #kilgrave #kilgrave roleplay

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lesbianlotties · 3 years

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would you have it any other way? | Andy x Quynh

The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020 | @theoldguardevents | Art created by @elenorasweet can be found here

Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Andy | Andromache the Scythian/Quynh | Noriko Words: 6773 Summary: If you put together the age of all the other immortals, it still wouldn't match the number of years that Andy and Quynh have loved each other. Their love, the oldest, the strongest, and the truest thing they both have ever known in their endless lives, might be about to go through the most challenging test yet. The entire team, the entire family, is going through one of its most difficult times so far, including the appearance of a new immortal. Meanwhile, Andy and Quynh have a secret within themselves that they also have to deal with, but, at least, they're happy to be dealing with all of it together, as they were always supposed to do.

aka basically just the exact same plot of the movie, but Quynh is there the entire time because canon is too cruel and i said no thank you

Golden light filled the streets of Morocco and two women walked there as confident as if they could command the very sunlight to their will.

Andy wore black from head to toe and nobody dared stare at her long enough to notice the details. The gun on the waist of her pants, the knife on the heel of her boots, the thin thread from which an ancient pendant hung from, the backpack filled with gifts for her family, and the dark dragon printed on her t-shirt. She looked ready to kill, but so heavily charged with emotional specifics that nothing she did could possibly be taken as meaningless. In conclusion, she looked like she had plenty of reasons, several people in fact, that she was more than ready to kill for. One of them, and pretty obviously judging by the way her otherwise stone-cold face lighted up with a smile every time their hands so much as brushed, was the woman right beside her.

The lightness of Quynh’s outfit, much more fashionable than Andy’s, didn’t exactly make her look any more approachable. She wore a fresh white shirt and stylish, cream-colored pants, but she knew how to hide a dagger in any kind of attire, and if her purse carried nothing but a gun, that was still a deliberate fashion choice. Both women wore dark sunglasses but, where Andy’s frown warned people she wouldn’t hesitate to begin or end any kind of trouble by whatever means necessary, Quynh’s little smile was more of a promise there would be trouble following her.

Still, when the annoying sounds of a bike got impossibly close and a man finally caught up with the women, stopping his bike right ahead of them, Andy and Quynh grinned with genuine affection.

“Booker,” they greeted him in unison.

“Ladies,” the frenchman playfully bowed his head, parked his bike, and then with easy familiarity wrapped his arms around both women, “You guys good? Did you travel?”

Andy fondly patted him in the back and when they all pulled back from the hug she answered, “We did. And I brought you something.”

While Booker admired his first edition copy of “A Hundred Years of Solitude,” Quynh chuckled and led them forward.

“Don’t be fooled, Sebastien, I got the gift for you, Andromache only carried it on her cute little bag,” Quynh looked back once, smirking at Andy, and reached out to brush her fingers to the other woman’s wrist, teasing.

When the doors of the hotel room opened, for an instant, time stopped. Time crashed, time got all tangled up on itself, turned over on its own head. Time was meaningless. Because, how many times had this exact scene played itself in the past thousand years? Andy embraced Nicky with all solemnity and all-encompassing care they felt for one another and the people around them. Quynh pretty much jumped into Joe’s arms, almost, but never completely, catching him off guard. He spun her around once and when he put her down she kissed his cheek with all the unmeasurable love that to this day still made him happily blush. The hugs continued, of course. Joe lifted Andy up in a bear hug that got a laugh from her unlike any other in the world. Then Quynh hugged Nicky, allowing herself a second of safety and warmth surrounded by his arms before playfully doing her best to lift him up. He laughed like only the people in that room had ever heard him.

Greetings, jokes, and gifts exchanged, Quynh let herself fall on one of the couches beside Andy. She had a feeling this moment of bliss wouldn’t last too long and that was the only reason she didn’t allow herself to truly get comfortable at least resting her legs on top of Andy’s. But, she was content for the time being, watching the love of her life get absolutely, almost inappropriately lost in a sweet piece of baklava.

It’s been centuries and this never gets old, Quynh thought, shaking her head fondly as she broke her own gifted baklava in imperfect halves. As always, she ate the smaller half. As always, she saved the rest of Andy.

All too soon the conversation shifted to the reason behind their reunion. It’s a job, we can do some good, this is what we do, we’re not helping, they said. Andy sighed and stood up, walked to the window, and addressed Quynh. “What do you think?” Andy asked her, even though she probably knew, even though it was always the same.

Quynh, who, at that point had twisted herself on the couch into a more comfortable, most probably improper position, thought about it for a second. All around her, her family had felt compelled at one point or another to aid humanity for all possible reasons. Duty, sheer goodness of the heart, guilt, nothing better to do. Personally, she was a restless person. She couldn’t stand being still in a place for long, let alone be useless for longer than to catch her breath and have some fun, her mind wouldn’t let her, her heart wouldn’t allow it. But she didn’t let the struggles of the world plague her every thought, not like Andy did.

“Let’s hear him out,” she said finally, unsurprisingly. If they had had to vote at the moment she wouldn’t have said yes. She would have agreed with Andy, it was too risky, and probably useless. But, every time, as soon as she heard the details of whatever horror humanity was currently inflicting on itself, she’d be the first one out of her seat, ready to right all the wrongs of the world.

Carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for thousands of years, Andy got used to the feeling. But that didn’t mean it ever stopped being so fucking heavy. It got heavier each passing day and, just lately, Quynh was finding it increasingly difficult to soothe that burden on her lover’s back, to get her to share a little of the strain. She could see, like she didn’t ever remember seeing, Andy truly struggling with the weight of it all or, more specifically, with the conviction it was any worth it to keep holding on. Handling her part of the weight, plus her determination to help the love of her life, it was its own kind of burden on Quynh’s shoulders, but she wasn’t focusing on her own pain, physical, psychological, or of any kind, she didn’t want to.

Almost without Andy noticing, Quynh walked up behind her. The shorter woman wrapped her arms around Andy and kissed her shoulder. They stared out the window for a moment longer before Quynh stated, “This one’s special,” she murmured, fearless as always to put into words what the other woman felt to her core, “I am going with you.”

Usually, Andy would meet with their contacts alone or with Booker, they made a good team. And it was always useful to have a plan B, to make it seem like they had a trick under their sleeves, like they were more in numbers than anyone would ever know, to hold back laughter when poor devils that thought they could play smart with them had to face a meeting with Quynh and Nicky. So, that day, Andy, Quynh, and Booker, met with James Copley.

They accepted the job.

Even if Andy didn’t secretly hold the belief that her own heart continued to beat after countless deaths partially out of sheer desire to beat along with Quynh’s heart. Even if she wasn’t forever, eternally in love with the other woman. Even still, Andy would have been thankful to have her on her team, to travel with her, to fight alongside Quynh.

Nobody would question Quynh’s professionalism. She hadn’t selfishly or accidentally endangered her team or their missions too many times more than any of the others had throughout the centuries. She just had the strange little talent of knowing exactly when and where and how much she could push the boundaries of their professionalism in order to make the most out of their time on Earth.

In helicopters, she playfully disregarded security measures. In deserts, she walked with a spring on her step. Wearing a picture-perfect ponytail, dark sunglasses, and all-black clothes that somehow she had forced to fit into a greater fashion sense than any mercenary had ever been known for, she did every little thing only she could get away with. Starting with genuinely trying to distract Nicky when he was about to shoot two guards at once, as she had dared him to do, but just because she trusted him, because she’d taught him that move herself. Then, being the only one quick enough to shoot just once before the five of them died on that kill floor. Lastly, winking at Andy as they came back to life, with holes on their clothes and wounds still healing and just seconds away from tearing down a small army of men.

Quynh was a synonym for life, Andy thought, she is life, I am alive because she is life, and I will live as long as she is with me. Quynh lived her endless life in bold, bright strokes of a brush. And things, the best and worst of them would have probably been so much easier, simpler, if Quynh had been just that, excitement, energy, a mischievous smile. But of course, she was so much more

Quynh was gentleness in places that knew only hostility. She was capable of conjuring patience and calm in the blink of an eye. She was endless conversations and fantastic stories. She carried little kids when they saved them, she found ways to make women feel safe and men believe in peace. She washed Andy’s hair with all the care in the world, and she made sure none of the boys had any blood left in their beards after a battle. She held Andy’s hands because she could tell Andy needed her, but she held so tightly because she needed Andy. At times she was quiet. She was thoughtful. With really big events she took her time to process them instead of any relatively usual impulsiveness. A trait of hers that pained Andy because she knew, the longer Quynh thought about something, the longer she was hurting.

Quynh believed in revenge. She always had. Her heart could fit millions of good, selfless, benevolent feelings, but she still believed in revenge. If the stars aligned for her, she’d kill James Copley herself. But it was never so easy, was it? They had made mistakes too, that day. Could she get revenge on herself? Self-recrimination was one excruciating characteristic she shared with the love of her life. There was no use in pondering about it, if it was a coincidence or if they had picked it up after the other one. At least, one thing more powerful than that was the fierceness with which they’d protect the ones they loved, resulting in them perfectly protecting each other, even from themselves.

They were on a train somewhere away from their latest mistake. Booker had started to snore and Joe and Nicky had been perfectly still in each other’s arms for a while now. Andy’s thoughts were too loud to let her sleep, and Quynh’s thoughts too dangerous to keep herself awake for them. She was laying down, with her head comfortably resting on Andy’s lap, even if the rest of her body was unusually uncomfortable in the rough surface where they lay.

“Sleep,” Andy would tell her every few minutes, mindlessly slipping into the old habit of a dead language that only they could remember.

“I can’t, not without you. Sleep with me, my heart. Sleep,” Quynh replied, again and again, the ancient words coming out almost easier than modern English ever did.

“Sleep,” Andy insisted, soothingly running her fingers through her lover’s hair, even after Quynh fell asleep, just until she slept too.

It didn’t last long though… there was Nile.

“She’s beautiful,” Quynh said, somewhat sadly, a minute later as they all discussed what they saw of the new immortal in their dreams, “and smarter and braver than she knows what to do with.”

She exchanged a look with Andy, silent understanding of what it all meant. It wasn’t the most convenient of moments, but it had never been convenient at all, right? Together they had welcomed four other immortals, and it never got easier. Not when Lykon died. Not when having to explain to Joe and Nicky why they’d never win the war one of them had started. Not when watching Booker lose himself when he lost his family. And it certainly wouldn’t be easy to explain to the new kid how an endless life would mean the ending of the life she already had.

But Nile Freeman was beautiful, smart, and brave. Quynh could tell. Just as she once said Lykon was a hero unlike anybody else, and Joe and Nicky were naturally kind, and Booker was, well, he had been mostly just tired. Her favorite judgment, however, remained that one of a day thousands of years ago when she woke up from a dream, firmly convinced that she had just dreamt of the love of her life.

“Good. You’re awake,” Quynh smiled down at Nile.

While Andy was driving the car, Quynh had insisted on sitting in the back to keep company to the new kid. Nevermind the young woman was unconscious after Quynh had allowed Andy to go pick her up by herself.

“Who- What’s going on?” Nile mumbled. Her head hurt and she could barely make sense of the scene around her beyond being in a strange vehicle with an unknown woman gently smiling at her.

“I know you probably have a lot of questions- Ugh, fuck!” Quynh’s explanation was cut short when Nile’s knife pierced through her chest.

An instant later, the young woman had kicked open the trunk of the car and fallen off it.

“What the fuck?! Quynh are you okay?” Andy slammed the brakes of the car and quickly got out. She had been trying to be nonchalant about this whole thing, but a line had been crossed. “Did you just stab my wife?!” she yelled at the retreating figure of Nile, and pulled out her gun.

“Andromache, don’t!” Quynh reached her just in time to make it so that Andy shot only at the ground near Nile. The surprise made her stumble and fall, but it could’ve been worse.

“She stabbed you!” Andy protested, frowning and the blood that was tragically staining Quynh’s otherwise perfectly white t-shirt.

“And we kidnapped her,” Quynh gave her wife a pointed look and with a hand on her arm prompted her to walk forward to properly introduce themselves to the newcomer.

“Who are you?” Nile asked when they were close enough to talk. She was still on the ground, breathing heavily and trying to think of a way to get out of this situation. In front of her were standing two women, one with short brown hair, a black tank top, and a look in her eyes incredibly threatening. Beside her was another woman of long black hair, wearing a now blood-stained white t-shirt with rolled sleeves and looking a little too put together for the desert they were in, she was smiling, but she somehow didn’t seem much more friendly than the other one.

Before replying, Andy shared a look with Quynh, as if finding all necessary answers there. “Don’t worry,” she said at last, “You’re safe, you’re not in any danger. We are… we are people like you. I know you just figured out you can’t die, we can’t either. I know it might not look like it at the moment, but we are saving you from much worse situations. We don’t have all the answers, kid. But you don’t have to figure it out alone, okay?” There was a pause then where Andy and Quynh exchanged another look. It might have been reassuring or encouraging, teasing, or amused. It could have been an entire silent conversation in the span of a second. But the point was that Andy looked at Nile once more and with more relaxed features added, “Now, could you please get back in the car?”

Andy offered Nile her hand, and helped the young woman stand back up. When Andy started walking away, Quynh turned to look at Nile. “Her name is Andromache, you should probably call her Andy. And my name’s Quynh,” She offered her hand to Nile, smiled when she heard her name, and then immediately tightened her hold until it almost hurt. “If you stab me again, you’re going to regret it,” she winked, and she was smiling, and Nile was fascinated by the perfect balance of menacing and welcoming in that gesture. “Welcome to the team!” Quynh added in a sing-song, turning around and following Andy back to the car.

Throughout history, Quynh had to sleep in the strangest of places. It was just a part of their lives, warriors couldn’t be picky about a place to rest their heads for a few hours. Besides, with one of Andy’s arms draped over her waist, Quynh felt safe enough to fall asleep even in the sketchy plane of an even sketchier… businessman, of sorts. However, her sleep was interrupted after a while when, in a matter of seconds, she made a move to turn around, found herself restrained, her struggle woke up Andy, they realized they had their wrists chained to the seats of the plane, and the new kid was pointing a gun at the pilot of the plane.

“Oh, this will be fun,” Quynh mumbled through a yawn, getting comfortable in her place.

She smiled when the pilot played dead as instructed by Andy. “Yeah, I do not recommend it,” she said when Nile swore she wouldn’t jump off a plane. “Not me?” she playfully pouted when Nile freed Any first. And she grinned expectantly as she watched the two other women engage in a fight that she knew was necessary and more meaningful than any outsider would have guessed. She teased Andy, cheered Nile on, and threw her head back laughing when the young woman got two hits at Andy’s face.

After the fight was over, Andy took the keys from Nile and got Quynh out of her restraints. The newest immortal was still standing, looking a little lost and teary-eyed in the middle of the plane, when Quynh stood up and faced her. “My turn?” she playfully asked, and felt her heart swell with affection at the sight of the confusion and hint of irritation in the young woman’s face. “I’m kidding,” Quynh said softly and smiled genuinely this time. Then she opened her arms, a silent offer that she wouldn’t push and wouldn’t be offended if rejected but-

Nile stepped forward and lightly wrapped her arms around Quynh’s shoulders, accepting the hug. It was strange, it was completely unfamiliar, but so much had happened in the past day or so. She had died, for fucks sake, she deserved a hug. “I’m sorry for stabbing you,” Nile grumbled.

In response, Quynh chuckled, “It probably won’t be the last time. And you can thank me for the clothes, Andromache alone would have kept you in your bloody uniform.”

“You two are the oldest,” Nile stared seriously at the two women at the other side of the table.

Andy and Quynh exchanged a look. “Andromache is a little bit older,” Quynh said with a smile.

“How old?” Nile asked.

“It’s not our first millennium I can tell you that,” Quynh took a sip of wine and leaned back on her chair.

“How old?” Nile insisted.

“Too old,” Andy said with finality.

The night wasn’t quiet, it never was in that place though. They were all accustomed to the sounds of the planes, and Nile had been exhausted enough to fall asleep despite the noise. Still, Quynh was so in tune with her lover’s mind, that she felt Andy’s thoughts to be even louder than the planes above their heads. When everyone else had gone to sleep, she had stayed in one of the armchairs, talking with Andy about everything, and nothing, and their upcoming mission. At least, they had been talking about that, until Andy’s worries got the best of her and she was rendered silent, staring at her own hand as if it was the first time she saw it.

From her place curled up in the other chair, Quynh stared at her. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had figured it out before Andy herself. She could say with certainty she knew Andy’s body better than she knew her own. Their way of living had made it so that at times they went years without facing an actual mirror. In all her years Quynh had stared at Andy way more than at herself. Had loved her intensely, tenderly, carefully, hurriedly, in every way they had possibly thought of. She had held her in her arms as she died and came back to life more times than she could count. There was no language, in all languages humanity had ever come up with, for Quynh describe the intimate connection she shared with Andy. It would have been a deadly offense to her for anyone to think that she hadn’t noticed a change, in Andy’s eyes, in her hands, in her skin, in the very way she was breathing.

Andy had been lost in her thoughts until she noticed Quynh perching herself on the arm of the chair she was in.

“I’m sorry, my love, what were you saying?” Andy looked up at her, just realizing she had stopped listening and talking a while ago.

Quynh sighed and met Andy’s eyes, kicking through any and all walls the other woman could attempt to put up to hide her real thoughts. Andy’s eyes widened a little when she realized Quynh was already caught up with her train of thought, but she didn’t have anything to say, not yet.

“I was saying…” Quynh started to say, picking up Andy’s hand to kiss her knuckles and then hold on tightly, “That you look beautiful tonight, my heart,” She felt a knot on her throat and it only worsened when Andy smiled at her. It was a unique smile, amused, genuine, she was thankful, she wasn’t afraid, but there was an apology in there somewhere. “As beautiful as the first day I saw you,” Quynh added with all the conviction she could muster without breaking down.

Both women were still silent, staring at their intertwined hands when Nile woke up from a nightmare, gasping for air.

“His name was Lykon,” Andy said, trying to explain to Nile why she’d just had a nightmare of a warrior dying from a wound on his stomach. “He was the third immortal. Only Quynh and I got to know him. He died before the rest of you were born, way before.”

“He was dying,” Nile whispered, “He was… he was bleeding so much, and there was no way to stop it. He was calm, he felt… ready but, it hurt. It hurt too much, and I don’t think he wanted to die.”

Andy didn’t need to turn around to know that, behind her, Quynh was standing by the dining table, holding to its edge until her knuckles were white, and her eyes were burning a hole on the ground. Lykon’s death would never stop hurting them, not really. He was Quynh’s best friend in a way that nobody could ever match again. He was far from the first soldier Andy lost, but definitely the one loss that hurt her the most. Plus, only with his death, and after thousands of years of life, the two women had to face the reality that they weren’t completely immortal, and losing each other would forever be a possibility.

“He was the best warrior, and man, I’ve ever met,” Andy stated, her voice steady, unwavering, honoring him, even thousands of years later, “He was all full of courage, light, skill and… smiles.” She made a quick pause, allowing herself to remember one of the most painful days of her entire existence on this Earth. “We were fighting a small battle, nothing we hadn’t done a hundred times before. Everything was going according to plan, seamlessly. We got hurt, we stood back up. Until… he didn’t. He got hurt, and his wounds didn’t heal. Just like that. His time had come. Nothing we can do about it.”

Nile closed her eyes for a second. She still had an arm holding on to her own abdomen. “Why am I dreaming of him?” she asked, opening her eyes to glare at Andy.

“The dreams stop when we meet. Then they restart, when one of us dies. Those dreams, memories of them, they aren’t constant, but they don’t stop,” Andy explained, taking a quick look at the rest of her team, the three men that had dreamed of Lykon their entire lives without ever meeting him. “They won’t always be of his death, I promise,” Andy tried to explain, but a second later Nile was standing up and hurrying out the door.

After another meaningful look to the other half of her family, Andy grabbed a gun out of habit, and followed the young woman outside.

“I’m going with you,” Quynh said, as Andy passed beside her, “I need some air.” And the group was split in half, for longer than any of them could have expected.

“Wait for my signal,” Andy said to Nile before turning around, accepting the sword Quynh was holding out for her. Then the two of them confidently moved toward the abandoned church, to wait for a group of soldiers that during their last seconds of life would deeply regret ever taking that job.

“I could have done this by myself, you know?” Andy smiled at Quynh from their hiding place among the shadows.

“You could, doesn’t mean you have to,” Quynh replied, making an effort to not even hint at the fact that for the first time ever Andy’s mortality wasn’t as certain as it had always been. Instead, Quynh put on the playful smile that she knew Andy needed to see in her. “My heart, it’s been an eternity already, please accept that for as long as I’m here, you’ll never have to do anything alone.”

Quynh kissed Andy’s cheek and a second later she urged her lover to get out and dive, almost literally, into the fight waiting for them. Quynh let her go first, Andy always went first, and usually, Quynh didn’t complain. She loved looking at her wife conquer a battle fearlessly, almost effortlessly, it was a sight worth all the treasures in the world. But then, of course, as soon as one of the men showed even the remote intention of pulling a knife from behind Andy, Quynh was already there, making sure he didn’t live enough to even picture Andy hurt because of him.

It went on and on, almost too easily. Andy and Quynh fighting side by side, picking up guns and swinging their swords and not letting their enemies even a chance to think about the goddesses of war that had stepped in their paths. It was over as quickly as it started. The whole place catching fire, Joe and Nicky already too far away, Nile and Booker in the backseat of the car.

Quynh had been there to guard Andy’s back, and keep her from any serious injury, and maybe she was the only one looking for confirmation of her greatest fears, but the fact remained that she could hardly tear her eyes away from Andy’s bruised knuckles holding the steering wheel. Insignificant little bruises, but they were there, not healing as they should.

Quynh had to take a step back when Nile explained to Andy why she couldn’t go along with them. That experience was hurting Quynh more than anyone realized. She felt physical pain in a way she couldn’t explain. She had accepted Nile as a member of their family, she already felt protective, and charmed by the young woman. It hurt to watch her go, it hurt to watch her pick a different side when they needed her.

Andy seemed to understand though, of course she did. Andy had been a leader for pretty much as long as she had been alive, which was… a lot. Andy could make sense of why everybody did what they did, in and out of battle it seemed, and she always explained it to Quynh in a way that was too forgiving of the others. It hurt Quynh to watch Andy understand what was the right thing to do, it hurt because there was no one and there would never be anyone like Andy. It hurt Quynh because she could never do what Andy does, be like Andy, and she didn’t ever want to take over that role, didn’t even want to picture it, and now she might have to.

So, it was only Andy, Quynh, and Booker stepping into Copley’s office. It felt wrong, Quynh couldn’t explain why but it did. What kind of man is so calm when three immortal warriors are pointing at him with guns?

Well, the explanation lies with the third immortal, Booker, who wasn’t aiming at Copley at all. He was shaking, making the most difficult decision of his life, even if it was just a small part of the worst decision that he had already taken a while ago. He was thinking about how long they take to heal. He was thinking about who would react the quickest, and who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him in the head for shooting her wife. So, he shot Quynh in the heart, killing her instantly, and buying himself enough time to shoot Andy near the stomach. Andy had enough time to shoot him in the leg, but her gun fell off her grip, and she fell to her knees.

By the time Quynh came back to her senses, there were tears streaming down Andy’s face, and there was a wound on her stomach that wouldn’t stop bleeding. Quynh gritted her teeth and accepted the pain, forced herself to accept Andy’s mortality, Booker’s betrayal, her own rage, and her even greater heartache. She wanted to reach out to Andy, she wanted to kill Booker a thousand times over this, she wanted to just lie there and hope for it all to be a nightmare. She didn’t have a chance to do any of that before she was restrained by a group of strange men taking her and her broken family away.

“Fuck! Let me go,” Quynh groaned as she was being securely tied down to one of the beds in Merrick’s lab. She was the only one fighting it. “Let me kill him just once and I’ll gladly settle down after. Fucking-”

Andy was staring at her while the doctor sedated Quynh for the third time already. If she had had the strength, maybe Andy would have smiled. It was the natural reaction, to smile when she watched Quynh fight, smile when Quynh was bold, when she was playful, when she loved Andy in every way possible, and beyond. It didn’t feel right then, to look at the love of her life and feel only the need to start crying. From her point of view, this was the end for Andy. The weight of the world had finally become too much for her to bear. The world had finally crumbled down around her, taking her family down with it, turning Booker against her, rendering Joe and Nicky helpless, and Quynh… Quynh would lose her any moment now. Was this where all their promises would break?

Their time in Merrick’s lab was anything but boring. Quynh had been angry enough, had been quick enough, to knock out one of the doctors and free one of her hands on one occasion. That was as far as she got. She was sedated two times more. Each time she woke up was more frightening for her than the last. Andy’s name was the first thing coming out of her lips, and the first thing she heard was her lover’s reassuring “I’m here. Still here, Quynh, still here.” But it could only be so reassuring when “here” was one of the worst places they had ever been.

Two memories had made its way to the forefront of Quynh’s mind. One, the first time Andy and her died after Lykon’s definitive death. She had never felt as scared as she was during the seconds it took Andy to come back, and she had never been as desperate to come back to life, back to Andy, as she did that time. The second memory, the witches’ trials, the iron coffin, the feeling of being trapped, entirely hopeless. Andy had escaped just in time to follow in a different ship, but she couldn’t stop them from throwing Quynh to the ocean. She jumped right after her, but it still took hours to free Quynh from her prison. Some nights she still had nightmares where they didn’t manage it at all. This couldn’t be it. Not again. Quynh knew she had to fight with everything she had but, what if it wasn’t enough?

Andy wasn’t putting up a fight. Her hopelessness pained Quynh more than she could put into words, but it also inspired her to fight harder, to get all of them out of there. But it was difficult. It couldn’t be impossible, but it was difficult. She couldn’t even hear herself think. There was Joe fighting Booker, and Quynh related to that anger, but she had new priorities. There was Nicky trying to calm Joe down, and Quynh understood his silent rage, but she didn’t have time to listen to all their words. Least of all, she couldn’t stand the noise of Booker trying to defend himself. Loudest of all, however, was Andy’s silence, and Quynh’s own heart, breaking in her chest.

Nile’s arrival had been the closest thing to a miracle the four immortals had seen in their long, long lives. Quynh grinned as soon as she saw her, because it wasn’t a miracle, it was the most, if not only reasonable thing she’d seen in days. She had known, maybe since the moment that Nile had stabbed her, that the young woman had the potential to be everything the world needed, and more. At least, at the moment, she was everything the group needed, and that much was clear. Nile was hope, and just the sight of her was enough to send the five warriors up to their feet and ready to fight.

Andy convinced Booker to stand up, and convinced Joe to postpone the arguing. However, nobody, except for Booker, flinched at all at the moment Quynh confidently and calmly walked up to him just to punch him in the face strong enough for him to require a few seconds to recover. It was enough, for the moment. They had bigger problems waiting for them on the other side of the doors.

The fight was equal parts exciting and terrifying. It wasn’t the most difficult thing they’d done, but it was the first time they did it while one of them was mortal. It wasn’t easy, trusting their backs to Booker during the fight, but it came naturally enough. It was their priority, but it was undeniably difficult, to think of protecting Andy. Andy, who always moved first, Andy who regularly died for them, Andy who barely adjusted her fighting to be a little more defensive than usual, but not enough. Quynh and Nile found a common ground there, fighting anything and everyone, including Andy herself, to make sure the newly-mortal woman remained safe enough. If Andy slipped away from them at one moment, well, that much was inevitable.

There was one moment, right before the worst of the fight.

“Are you going to let her do this?!” Nile asked Quynh, talking about Andy refusing to wear any protection and insisting on entering the fight first.

Quynh was resting her back against the wall, eyes closed and breathing heavily. She had never felt this exhausted for as long as she could remember. Her body was screaming, her mind was beyond overwhelmed, and her heart couldn’t exactly handle the emotional stakes of the situation. There would be pain in seeing Andy risk her life, the only life she had. There would be pain in seeing Andy be careful, in seeing the love of her life, who Quynh had associated with invincibility for all of her life, act anything but unbreakable. Quynh could ask, she could very seriously ask and she could probably get Andy to take a step back for once in her life.

“I can’t stop her,” Quynh replied finally. But not in the way Nile thought right then. She couldn’t stop her, because Quynh knew and understood her wife and so she knew that to ask this of Andy at that moment, it would be an offense she wouldn’t be able to take back. Andy needed this moment, even if it was the last one, especially if it was the last one. They would walk into this battle as they always had and if it was up to them, they would also walk away from it as they always had.

Finally, it was all over. The boys were chasing the elevator down to catch Merrick, Andy and Nile were standing by the window, talking. Quynh was just rounding a corner, walking toward them with a smile, when something hit her in the head hard enough to knock her down to the ground.

Quynh fought with everything she had to stay conscious. She opened her eyes, and Merrick was pointing his gun at Andy. She closed her eyes and heard gunshots. She opened her eyes, and only Andy was standing there, looking proud as ever.

“Is it over?” Quynh asked Andy with a smile while the taller woman offered her a hand to get her up to her feet.

“Which part?” Andy laughed.

They were both a little unsteady on their feet but, holding on to each other, they walked over to the elevator and started their descent. It was the first quiet moment they had to themselves in days. They could finally breathe, they could finally take a good look at each other and let the reality of their situation settle in around them.

“How do you feel?” Quynh asked.

“How do you feel?” Andy turned the question around on her. She smiled when she noticed the confusion on Quynh’s face. “You’re bleeding, my love,” she explained, her voice breaking just slightly. Andy moved a hand to Quynh’s face and one of her fingers just lightly grazed the small wound where Merrick had hit her with the handle of Andy’s labrys. Quynh hissed in pain. She had felt it for a short while already, and the confirmation wasn’t as startling as it should have been. She wasn’t healing either. “But you were out there, risking yourself for me,” it was just a statement on Andy’s part, not really a question, but not completely a reprimand either.

“Well, obviously,” Quynh replied, smiling as genuinely as ever, smiling in that particular way that Andy loved more than ever, brighter than any star, more meaningful than any combination of words could dream of being.

“We will figure this out together,” Andy said, taking Quynh’s bruised hand and interlocking their blood-stained fingers with all the tenderness they had accumulated through three thousand years of love for each other and the world around them. “Just you and me,” she promised.

Quynh looked at her, her best friend, the love of her life, the person she admired the most, the person she’d die a thousand times and come back for, her favorite endless source of happiness and passion, purpose and strength. They had first made this promise back when they didn’t know an “end” was even possible for them. This time would be the most difficult occasion when Quynh would have to say the words, but also the most important. “Until the end,” she swore, meaning the words more than ever before.

The doors of the elevator opened, and Andy and Quynh walked out, hand in hand, facing the beginning of their end bravely, happily, ready, as long as they were together.

#ToGMiniBang2020 #the old guard #andy x quynh #andromaquynh #immortal wives #andromache the scythian #quynh #tog #the old guard fanfiction #my fic #i said no to canon #here it is!!!

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neuxue · 4 years

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Hello hello. I just started watching The Untamed and found your blog and it's been a lot of fun because, somebody has already put my mental screaming into words so thank you for that! I'm kind of mentally stuck on the events of the Lotus Pavillion massacre tho and just had to get my thoughts out because I haven't seen this said anywhere yet? So,1- When JC and Sis are in mourning they leave everything so WWX. except he just got whipped and it would've taken him a month to heal. Soooo (1/2)

(2/2) yeah WWX in also in excruciating physical pain on top of emotional and mental and nobody notices or remembers that his back is shredded.

Oh man okay, so. On the one hand, you are not wrong. On the other hand...

I’ve said this before, but something I like about this show is the approach it takes to letting everything go to shit, in that it’s often not any specific person’s fault so much as it is a whole bunch of people’s virtues and flaws and insecurities and intentions good or ill all snagging against each other.

Because my own interpretive lens tends to be biased towards... looking from every character’s perspective and optimising for maximum pain to maximum number of characters (dark ethics, show me the forbidden utilitarianism) rather than assigning blame to any specific one.

So, with that lens in place, my take on this (and yours may be different!):

On no one noticing/remembering Wei Wuxian being in pain

I’m always here for the ‘how are you even standing’ trope and it may not be outright stated in the episode but Wei Wuxian has been whipped by magical lightning to the extent that it’s a believable claim to make that he won’t be able to walk for weeks. (Whether Yu Ziyuan exaggerates in an attempt to convince Wang Lingjiao to leave them alone is... a topic for another time, but either way it’s a pretty sure bet Wei Wuxian’s in agony).

Thing is (and this, too, is its own kind of devastating), Wei Wuxian is not unaccustomed to ignoring, downplaying, and enduring extreme pain. And he has effectively conditioned everyone around him to go along with it. Maybe they don’t always completely believe him, but he’s just so good at drawing everyone into his pretense with him that I don’t think they always see the degree to which he’s hurting (or at least they know it’s futile to push it).

I also think it’s not unlikely that he’s experienced this specific pain before (and, if so, likely has practice in pushing through this exact experience, so that his siblings won’t worry, won’t feel guilty, won’t have to choose between him and their mother. Which would only hurt them if they knew, and really any way you spin it that family is a mess on so many levels, ow).

Also, not insignificantly, adrenaline is one hell of a painkiller, while it lasts.

So he’s able to take pain that should have anyone else on their knees and just... put it aside, ignore it, push through it without a word.

Enough so that Jiang Yanli (who wasn’t there and therefore actually doesn’t know what has happened) doesn’t realise. Enough so that Jiang Cheng (who was there, but is, I think, practised at not seeing or not thinking about certain things--another topic for another time, but Jiang Cheng has been hurt and shaped by this family just as much as Wei Wuxian has, though in different ways) doesn’t question Wei Wuxian standing up with a makeshift oar to try to bring them all back to their family.

It’s as if we’re seeing the damage of all three of them, with respect to the particular dysfunction of their family, playing out here. Wei Wuxian masking pain in order to protect (prioritise) his siblings. Jiang Cheng seeing the image he is presented, rather than dealing with the truth he fears. Jiang Yanli being set aside, shielded (overlooked). This feels like a pattern that has played out before, all of them playing their roles. Which, you know, hurts.

On everything being ‘left’ to Wei Wuxian

On paper, that is pretty much what happens. But I tend to read this as... all three siblings’ established characterisation, their existing dynamic, and the ways in which different people respond to crisis, panic, and grief.

Firstly, this is what Wei Wuxian does. He sacrifices himself at every opportunity to protect those around him (especially but by no means exclusively his siblings).

That’s even more true now, with the last words of both his adoptive parents in his ears (‘protect them’), the reminder of what he has written into the very fabric of himself: that he owes them, that they are more important, that his only value is in his capability, and even that has value only when used to help others. That he is nothing and they are everything, and so the only acceptable option is to sacrifice himself in whatever way is necessary.

Which, you know, hurts. And we can put no small portion of the blame for that on his upbringing, and on the cultivation world as a whole for the way it regards reputation and bloodline and family and obligation and role.

But here’s the thing: there’s plenty of emotional damage to go around! Because Wei Wuxian does this, each time, unasked and unasking. He just... steps up quietly, ignores his own pain, and does what he feels is necessary--regardless of whether those he is doing this for would want that from him.

(I’m not going to argue the ethics of that one way or the other because that’s not really my point here; my point is more just that he makes that choice unilaterally, and it hurts for all of them. Wei Wuxian because he has so deeply internalised the thought that he has to do this, and his siblings because they probably don’t want to see him hurt).

Finally, there’s the whole issue of how people cope in a crisis. No one in this scene is operating at 100% rational capacity. They’re shocked and hurt and grieving and terrified, and that combination makes for a kind of... not always tunnel vision, exactly, but snap decisions and narrowed focus and a kind of brutal triage: if it’s not immediately relevant and vital, it doesn’t register. So, the ability to think about what you say before you let the words out, the ability to hold back the urge to cry or lash out, the ability to look past yourself and register the suppressed signs of pain in your sibling--all of these are pretty much offline for the time being.

For Jiang Cheng, that manifests first as a frantic need to get back to his family; that takes priority, consumes him, in this state of panic and fear and the world crumbling around him, over anything and everything else. Later, that turns to anger because again he’s just not in a headspace to be able to process it further than that, to hold any of that back.

For Jiang Yanli, it manifests as sadness, as grief, as reaching out to her brothers and trying to hold them close, but also as a fear of confrontation, of doing anything that could make this worse. Where Jiang Cheng’s desperation is get to my family, hers is keep my family together.

Meanwhile Wei Wuxian defaults to his base state of There Must Be A Way Self-Sacrifice Can Solve This Problem. It’s... a heartbreaking kind of altruism, but in its way just as irrational and panic-driven as his siblings’ responses. This is what he does, so he throws himself into it without considering any other option, because he’s not in a place where he can. His desperation is that ingrained protect my family above myself.

(Also, he’s very much a ‘throw yourself into the task at hand in order to keep the trauma at bay’ kind of person, so this is basically his coping mechanism, just as anger is Jiang Cheng’s).

tl;dr: somewhere in there I had a point, and I think it’s basically ‘everyone in this sequence is hurting so much, and they’re all so raw and exposed, and falling into these deeply engrained patterns that hurt all of them and help none of them and yet it’s all they can do, because this is what their world has made them’.

#i just! have a lot! of thoughts and feelings! about this sequence!#how these characters hurt themselves and even those around them #not out of malice or intent but because they're trying #to do what the world demands of them #and so are they to blame?#or is that world?#that demands so much of its children #and repays them in blood and nightmare #the untamed #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #jiang yanli #asks #anon

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alchemabotana · 3 years

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Shamanic Identity

Today I’m taking the time to write this post about something so personal and dear to my heart: Shamanic Identity.

You’ve probably seen it too: people with no right to the word Shaman using it liberally to describe the work they do. I’ve written several other posts about shamanism, its history, and my personal practice here on this blog, but that’s not exactly what I’m writing about today.

The word “appropriation” doesn’t begin to cover this topic, although it is a word that applies to the concepts I’m addressing. The concept of Shamanic Identity is actually not a complicated one at all: a Shaman is an intermediary between the Spirit World and the Physical World, between the multiverse and dimensional realities that are unseen and the seen world. These people do so by simply existing and taking up space. There are Shamanic Practices, Shamanic Techniques, Shamanic Ceremonies, and Shamanic Rituals, but that’s NOT Shamanic Identity. These things are simply words and labels we’ve developed as Shamans to describe categories of actions that we take in the world, not our Identity.

For example, if I stopped offering healings, making medicine pieces or altars, performing rituals or ceremonies... I would still be a Shaman, because that’s who I was born to be. I know Shamans who drive trucks for a living, are maids, trash collectors, incarcerated, or in a mental hospital: but they’re still Shamans. They don’t need to take a special class, tell you their genetic lineage, or practice a specific modality to be a Shaman.

So what has created the Shamanic Identity crisis that is so widespread in this current age? What it boils down to is The Cultural Iceburg.

The Cultural Iceburg is the concept that what we see when interacting with an individual is not all there is. When people think of Shamanism they associate it with our Customs, Language, and Music. But they mistakenly ignore Values, Priorities, Assumptions, Body Language, Stories, Manners, and Space/Time Concepts of our LIVED EXPERIENCE.

This is why it’s so easy for someone to put on the headdress, get a rattle or drum, and start claiming that they are a Shaman. Why do these people do this? Primarily to gain a position in some social group or setting they’d like to belong to (usually not the cultural group they are appropriating from, but others in their racial/social/socioeconomic/class structure). These individuals are also highly motivated by FINANCIAL GAIN.

I want to take some time to talk about financial gain and Shamanism. I’ll be frank, I don’t know any rich Shamans. I don’t know any Shamans who feel completely comfortable charging a fair price for their services, and I know a lot of Shamans who have gone hungry and homeless because they don’t feel right about charging money. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pay a Shaman the fair price for their work (services or goods). Just as you would pay someone a fair living wage for hours worked, you ought to pay a Shaman for their work. It’s that simple.

But there are many clear examples, unfortunately many of them in my hometown community, of people taking Shaman Schools or Shaman Certifications or Shaman Classes (usually online - not that there aren’t authentic shamanic online courses) in order to claim that they are a Shaman or to show “proof” that they are “qualified” to be a Shaman. I ran into this when a local hospital approached me about coming on board as a Shaman in their clergy. It became very obvious that their department had no real clue what a Shaman does, as they asked for proof of my schooling and accreditation as a Shaman. When I told them I wouldn’t provide those materials because it is not culturally appropriate, they asked me for the names and qualifications of my teachers. My teachers also did not have the qualifications they were looking for, and I REFUSE to play the “show me your identification card” game which is insulting to our elders.

Are you starting to get the picture?

Shamanism is a complex identity structure. It requires a person to have certain prerequisite gifts. That’s not something you can give a person or teach a person in a course or school. Some will argue that you can transfer gifts, but I will argue that you have to be a Shaman already to receive them. In my experience as a Shaman it has often been necessary to teach other Shamans how to manage their gifts so that they would not be overwhelmed by them. Shamans have to deal with a complex cultural stigma against their very identities: don’t talk to dead people, don’t listen to voices, don’t communicate with spirits, don’t you dare see one or you’ll be labeled insane. If you’re a Shaman of BIPOC origin, just go ahead and layer institutional racism on top of it, and you’re in for a flurry of misunderstanding and bigoted response to your very identity out there in the “real world.” Shamans have to learn to navigate incredible barriers to basic human rights when they take the steps to seek help for mental or physical health issues. Some of those issues have nothing to do with them, except that their care providers are too ignorant on complex cultural matters to be good advocates for their care. This is why the great majority of Shamans that I have taught, studied with, or been in the care of, have tragic stories of healthcare gone wrong & wrongful incarceration/mental institutionalism. I really don’t know a single Shaman who doesn’t struggle with a mental health diagnosis, complex PTSD, or Epigenetic Trauma.

For those of us born of family lineages, we have to navigate Epigenetic Trauma as well. We have to face a healthcare system that was built on experimentation on our ancestors, and overcome major trust issues to receive treatment for conditions that most average citizens of the US suffer from as well: anxiety, depression, PTSD, domestic violence, sexual violence, etc. Except, when a Shaman goes to receive help they have to explain why they see spirits and their whole cosmology before someone takes them seriously around conditions that have nothing to do with their Shamanic Identity. Sometimes Shamans feel they HAVE to be honest about their experiences with these providers, even if it hurts them. They have most likely been abused for their Shamanic Identity, and aren’t so much sharing their experiences to seek help for the woo-woo, but help navigating abuse.

But those without real Shamanic Identities just take off the label Shaman whenever it is convenient. They do not have to bear the burdens of Shamanic Identity, but receive the financial benefits of associating themselves with the term. These are the folks who come to me desperate to associate themselves with me as a student, so they can claim they have met the “requirements” to be a practicing Shaman for their business profile. It’s been incredibly hard for me to navigate this within myself and not respond immediately with rage. Instead, I try to educate people tactfully - some are more responsive than others. For example, I had a student once inquire about my Shamanic Mentorship - a mentorship program I offered pre-pandemic in which I explicitly stated the purpose was to receive mentorship from a Shaman. Nothing more. This particular individual had a yoga studio and wanted to “Add Shamanism” to what they offered. I tried to explain the impossibility of such a venture, especially with me as their token Shaman who would bestow this identity on them, so they could monetize my cultural and identity for their benefit. I never heard from the person again, although they do still own and operate a studio in my hometown, they have taken no actions to support our Shamanic work on any level. My hope is that they realized the futility and ignorance of their request, although I’m certain they had no intention of ever supporting us at all.

You’ve probably seen this kind of “shamanism” online on instagram posts, influencer pages, and people who are what I call “shamanic curious”. All these individuals have done nothing to truly commit to alleviating the pains and sufferings that they’re causing by appropriating someone’s actual identity. They feel like they have the best intentions: “Omg! No!! ONLY LOVE AND LIGHT SIS!” (eye roll). However, they tend to be completely ignorant to the damage and stress they cause to real Shamans through their selfish actions. “Being curious is ok right? I mean, I have the right to explore my identity through yours and see if it gets me friends, likes, follows, and MONEY, RIGHT?” No. Go home. Think about what you are doing when you try on someone’s identity and put yourself out there as the face of that identity. Would it behoove you to consider that Shamans themselves have had to strenuously defend their identities to others? Would it perhaps be a real act of love and light to give up your curiosities and turn over that experience to an actual Shaman? Have you considered that you cause real physical, spiritual, and mental harm to Shamans, and clients that you take on in your exploration of Shamanic traditions, rituals, and ceremonies?

If you don’t truly have a Shamanic Identity I encourage you to stop what you’ve been practicing right now, sit down, and ask for forgiveness from the Spirits, as well as living Shamans and their Ancestors. I would go to a real Shaman and pay them properly to remove the slew of crazy toxic attachments you’ve definitely been accumulating, and release you from the karmic debt you are certainly incurring. If you can get a job doing anything in the real world sector that doesn’t involve you crawling up into someone’s energy stream, I would suggest you take that job and step out of a sector you know nothing about. It’s amazing to me what people think they can make-up about themselves and others because deep down they also believe that Shamanism is made up. If it’s all made up, then you can do anything you want with no repercussions and still make money off someone else’s identity. And you still think you’re not harming anyone?

If you’re a Shaman you know that you can’t fake it til you make it. There’s no faking the Spirits, Guides, and Ancestors. There’s no faking a spiritual or psychic attack. There’s no faking the spirit’s communication to you, or their visible presence. And when you go out into the world, no matter what you do, people are going to find you for your Shamanic Identity.

For example, I once worked at a test grading facility one summer marking up EOG exams. While at this job at every break an elderly woman would come up to me and share her stories, always with the caveat “I don’t know why I’m telling you this but...” and then go into a story about how her deceased father was contacting her at her home. He would do so by knocking things off tables and moving things around. I asked her what he thought he was trying to tell her. She eventually concluded that he wanted her to move from her house, but she didn’t feel ready for that. I suggested that she tell him this next time he made his presence known. Next time we talked she shared that she had spoken with him and that the incidents then stopped. After that she didn’t come up to me to talk, and someone new started talking to me. My boss brought me photographs from her time in AZ as a young woman, depicting petroglyphs that matched my shamanic tattoos. She said “you know that means you’re a shaman right?” I laughed and nodded. At one point everyone in my grading group was feeling very ill, one of the proctor overlords had decided to crank up the AC and everyone was freezing cold. I brought everyone blankets and stones. One gentleman later asked me what the stone meant. I told him, “it’s a piece of quartz, it doesn’t have to mean anything, it can just be beautiful”. He said “No, I mean - they mean something. I know this sounds crazy, but some really bad stuff was going on with my family: financial and health problems. But when I brought that stone home, everything changed immediately. I need you to know that.” I acknowledge him and told him yes, this can happen - the stones heal who they want to, that’s just part of our understanding of them, but we don’t expect others to believe the same way. He said “I don’t need convincing, I experienced it myself”.

No one article can even begin to truly communicate the issues surrounding the theft, appropriation, and misrepresentation of Shamanism in our world, let alone the internet. I mean, the Q Anon guy called himself a Shaman too and the media just ate it up. Why? Because it is exotic and ignorance makes for good press, and good press makes for money.

And I don’t write this to depress or discourage anyone, especially others out there with a Shamanic Identity. Instead, I hope that this encourages you and helps you advocate for yourself in this crazy world. I hope you stand up for yourself to people trying to take advantage of you, especially people in the medical field. I don’t believe that our medical field is based on true healing practices, and I can’t really get into that rant here, but I also don’t believe our doctors mean to be “bad people” or wallow in ignorance: they’re just products of their own cultural issues as well!

However, if you’re a Shaman struggling to receive mental or physical healthcare because someone in your family or caregiver team is purposefully using your Shamanic Identity to paint you as crazy, please feel free to show them this article and demand that they use DSM-5 to evaluate you. You deserve nothing but the best treatment. You don’t need to feel ashamed for feelings of paranoia, terror, anxiety, depression, or PTSD. People who aren’t Shamans deal with it too, so don’t be afraid of those words. I don’t know many Shamans actually disturbed by their gifts. They aren’t actually suffering mentally from seeing or hearing spirits, but from the reactions of their family, friends, colleagues, and health professionals to their actual identities. These Shamans aren’t afraid of the Spirits or Ancestors, and have had to be put in the position where they rely on those spirits to provide the care and discernment of truth that should be provided by the health and wellness systems. It’s time for the gatekeepers of the medical industry to acknowledge their bias, their systemic failure of these individuals, and the exploitation of in-need Shamans. Once that has happened, real care can be provided for issues not caused by a Shamanic Identity inherently, but by external forces of society that come against a Shaman.

This article is dedicated to the sweet Shaman who visited my shop today with only $2 to exchange for altar work. She shared her story in great detail of how the medical industry was abusing her in the ways I’ve outlined before. She was discouraged by it, seeking information to provide to herself and her care team so that she could get real care. I was happy to provide her with the shamanic goods she needed and gift it to her as a birthday present. I tried my best to give her free resources to access for her healthcare and talking points to share with her medical team. Sister, this is what I promised you on my blog, and I hope you enjoy it. Also, I wish you the Safe Passage you’re so willing to offer others, as well as the brightness of your spirit back to you. I hope that things resolve quickly and you get the respect you deserve, because I honor your Shamanic Identity, and I appreciate you honoring mine.

#shaman #shamanism #mentalhealth #shamanicidentity #exploitation #culturalappropriation #appropriation #restorativejusticework #healthcarereform #mentalhealthawareness #bipoc #bipocvoices #indigenouspeople #idigenous #medicinewoman #spiritualhealing #shamanicjourney

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lunaschild2016 · 3 years

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Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Divergent - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Eric (Divergent)/Original Female Character(s), Four | Tobias Eaton/Tris Prior, Zeke Pedrad/Shauna, Marlene/Uriah Pedrad, Lynn (Divergent)/Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Female Character Characters: Eric (Divergent), Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Tris Prior, Four | Tobias Eaton, Zeke Pedrad, Shauna (Divergent), Lauren (Divergent), Max (Divergent), Jeanine Matthews, Peter Hayes (Divergent), Tori Wu, George Wu, Amar (Divergent), Harrison (Divergent), Johanna Reyes, Andrew Prior, Caleb Prior, Natalie Prior, Hana Pedrad Summary:

*Formerly Catching Silver

Sylvan 'Silver' Bryant has a Dauntless heart, an Erudite mind, Amity kindness, and an Abnegation's ability to be selfless even if she has to sacrifice something of herself. She always knew it was Dauntless where she belonged but living up to her family's legacy there was another matter. Will she be able to overcome a hidden past and step out of their shadows when she finally joins her four older brothers in the faction of the brave? Will her feelings for her brother's best friend, Eric, get in her way or will he help her to finally heal the scars of her past? Eric Coulter had no regrets about leaving Erudite and his so-called family behind him. With fierce determination, he achieved his goal of becoming a leader of the faction and started his own legacy with the Bryant brothers as his allies and friends. Will the bonds of brotherhood be broken when the secret of his feelings for their precious sister is revealed or will it give him the family he never dared hoped for?

Chapter 2

Eric

My footsteps echo loudly against the rough stone walls as I make my way deeper into the bowels of the Dauntless compound. The air is chilly enough that I'm glad I didn't bother removing my heavier winter jacket and gloves after my return from a meeting in Erudite. In the hotter months of the year, this same cold air is a relief whenever I have had to make my way down here, but it's winter right now and it just makes the cold seep right down to my bones.

I don't know how people stood this cold back when Dauntless was first founded and resided in most of these subterranean places and I'm thankful we don't have to anymore.

I've been in Dauntless for a little over a year now but I'm still now quite as used to the compound as I should be by now. Every time I have to return to Erudite for a meeting it always feels like the culture shock I got when I first stepped foot in my new faction.

Before coming here I never gave actually living here much thought. I didn't contemplate mundane things like if the buildings Dauntless occupy have heating for winter or air conditioning for summer. I just took for granted that they would because Erudite did. There are a million other little things just like that which make big differences in day-to-day life in this faction. So much so that I'm still discovering things I didn't know even now.

Not that it's a bad thing, mind you. I fucking love being in Dauntless despite the huge differences between my old faction and new. I would be hard-pressed to describe what's so great about it but I guess it boils down to the fact that it's real here. There's no need for the fake smiles and the overly polished appearances among the members of this faction. Generally what you see is what you get and we prefer it that way, something that would never happen in Erudite.

There it's always about plots within plots hid behind different veneers of polite smiles and silver tongues. The hours I have to spend there are torture but are necessary for now. I'm still having to play by their rules in order to get what we need for Dauntless.

Although I hope that after today I won't have to do that for much longer.

I walk down a final hallway and see the door to the room I'm headed in front of me. The location of this room isn't where one would expect it to be. It's not located in the same section of the compound that the administrative part of the faction operates out of. It's not even in the section of the compound that houses all of the tech Dauntless uses as their command central.

This office is located in the bowels of Dauntless in a section of the compound that is hardly traveled anymore. Not since the faction spread out and claimed more buildings in the sector we are located for things like housing and shops.

I stand rigidly in front of a door, hesitating for a few seconds before I square my jaw, raise my hand and deliver three rapid raps.

I've barely lowered my arm when the command to enter is barked out. I take a deep breath and open the door to one of the smaller conference rooms that the leaders of Dauntless use for matters that need more security. It might seem paranoid to have this but when it comes to averting potential government coups and the possibility of mass genocide during the said coup, every pre-caution can and will be taken in this faction.

I nod in greeting to those who are already present as I shut the door behind me. A wave of warmth washes over me, drawing out a sigh of pleasure as I move towards my seat and begin to divest rid myself of my gloves and jacket.

The five people already seated give me the time to get settled in my chair but Max speaks up as I start to pull things from my messenger bag.

"I take it you were able to get evidence regarding their plans?"

"I believe you should take a look at what I have and make the determination for yourselves," I reply with a grimace as I start handing stuff over for the five senior leaders present to look over.

Max, Harrison, Clarence, Victoria, and Nate each take a set of documents to go over, switching out as they finish them off. Their expressions darkening with each new thing that's revealed. I watch Nate intently, knowing how close to home a few of the things I've uncovered are. I can tell the second he gets to one specific bit because his head snaps up and his eyes bore into mine. My jaw is tight as I try to contain my own rage and I only give a short terse nod.

After several more minutes of tense quiet Max tosses the last paper down with a sigh. "I would say you got evidence of something just not what I was expecting. Before we even get into this new stuff, give us a status report on their progress so far in building their own army and if it can be traced back to any of the higher-ups in Erudite leadership."

The report starts out like all these official reports have so far with a recap of the events chronicling the escalation of events. I've gotten so used to doing this I don't have the nervous jitters I had at the start. Even during those first two unofficial meetings when I was still in initiation. I waited all of two weeks before I requested to talk to all the Bryant brothers about the stunt my parents pulled and what they suggested. Two days after that I had another unofficial meeting, this time with just Nate and Max.

That was about the time that Erudite put a motion forward during a meeting, requesting to have Dauntless provide three units to be transferred and stationed to their sector on a permanent basis. Meaning they would live and work there and be technically under Erudite command. That was shot down almost immediately for two reasons. The first reason was that we, Dauntless, honestly do not have the manpower to spare. We're already strained to our limits covering the areas we do as well as keeping guards on permanent stations along our cities borders. The second reason was that Marcus Eaton has a well-known dislike of Erudite and tends to try and get anything they request dismissed and in this case, it was easily voted down.

I knew my parents weren't happy I picked Dauntless and I probably made them look bad to their friends, so I thought this might be an attempt at getting me back there. It turned out I was mostly wrong. They knew the proposal had a larger possibility of being denied than it did being accepted, but on the off chance it wasn't, they would pull strings to make sure I was the one sent to Erudite.

Their real goal, however, was the counter-proposal of being allowed to create their own security with one or two Dauntless to help properly train the chosen Erudite. Their reasoning for this was the increased amount of thefts from their sector by factionless. Since they had sufficient evidence to prove the need for this and proposed a reasonable compromise to the initial request, it was approved.

Only the three of us knew that there was another reason for forming the group and Max granted my request to use my parent's connection to investigate our theories, which has been slow going.

After passing initiation and ranking second place I was offered one of the spots for the leadership track which has required training of it's own to be completed before anything else. I busted my ass and pulled double shifts to get done what I needed to get done in order for me to start working on earning a spot as a junior leader, and hopefully, that will lead to me getting a position as a senior leader when one becomes available.

My becoming a leader is a large part of what's been holding up my progress in taking Erudite down. I've had to gain trust and prove that I can be a worthwhile ally for them and my lack of a senior leader position has halted that somewhat until recently.

That brings me to now and my current report.

"I believe that I've made progress in gaining their trust after the most recent proposal was accepted by the council that can help further their plans in creating their 'security team'. I informed them of the requirements for me to gain a senior leadership position is to have one or several successful projects that help the faction in some fashion. I advised them I had an idea for one that would help me gain that position while also helping to achieve the primary Erudite goal." I state before I pass out the relevant documentation regarding this newest change in the city.

"They were running into issues being able to find enough suitable candidates for their security forces that are already members and were turning to those who are due to choose within the next year or so and not finding their options much better, at least not by Dauntless standards." "My suggestion was that we could go ahead and start training with the members who are suitable enough to meet our immediate needs then expand the search through all factions. I was able to give them a timeline and plan that will have to be taken in stages and with the first of those plans being easily put into action I was able to gain even more of their trust."

"So they truly believe that mandating physical education courses run by Dauntless will give them the candidates they want?" Harrison asks me, alternating between looking over the paper and at me.

"I've managed to convince them it will increase the physical suitability at the very least and there is data to support that theory. Erudite already hosts several clubs through the school that are sports-oriented but attendance is smaller than it could be and is mostly just the Erudite who know about it and are interested in those types of things. There have been the stray Dauntless and Candor who have been accepted but those are rare. It was easy for me to point out that the majority of dependents who take part in those types of activities generally have transferred to Dauntless when their time came, by offering them another option they could prevent that."

In this room, it didn't need to be said that none of us had any intention of ever letting that happen. It also didn't need to be said outside of this room that the only people we planned on benefiting in that respect was ourselves, Dauntless. Everything I stated is true. The people that take those kinds of opportunities usually end up coming here. By making physical education a mandate we just might increase the number of transfers even more. I just used that truth and allowed the group in Erudite to think my real motivation is to give them, and me by default, their army.

"I see that you've added our choices for instructors that we discussed prior to presenting this to them but I also see some other things added that weren't there before. What are these possible additions to the curriculum mentioned in their debriefing?"

"Actually, I believe I can answer that since I was the one that suggested Eric might want to include them. We all know that we are using this as a method to put a stop to Erudite's plans but there's no reason we can't use it to our advantage as well and get things put into place that will help us in the long run. Physical education being required is a great first step but that won't necessarily motivate kids to go Dauntless without further incentives. I thought back to how my parents kept six children motivated to keep in shape and compared that to things we already do here and came up with a few suggestions."

"Do you have a list of these?" Max asked with definite interest and an almost knowing look in his eyes.

"We wanted to go over them before I presented Erudite with them to throw their weight behind the curriculum proposal."

"Good idea," Clarence grunted then waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "One we can address later. For now, what progress have you made in finding out how high up the chain this thing goes."

"The highest I can get proof of links a brother-in-law for the Department of R&R being involved. None of the advisors closest to the leaders or the leaders themselves can be proven to be involved in this other than maybe having made a comment or another that might seem supportive. Despite that, I know that Jeanine Matthews is at least an instigator but proving that would be next to impossible."

I hear grunts of disgust and nod my head while Nate mutters darkly before sighing and shrugging. "As I said at the beginning of this, we shouldn't get our hopes up about tagging her. She's always in the middle of things but can never be pinned down with anything other than voicing her opinions, which isn't illegal. But that's how she gets things done, she'll drop a comment here or suggestion there and people fall over themselves to do whatever it takes to get in her good graces and make her happy."

I only nod in agreement, because this is exactly what's going on with my parents right now. They are doing everything they can to get into her inner circle. This brings me to the next bit of information I've been able to obtain.

"That's exactly what I need to report about next. During the last meeting with my parents, they made a few comments that concerned me about building data regarding the divergent threat. Apparently, Jeanine has been overheard voicing concern and not being able to make a case regarding that without something to present to the council to prove the theory correct. That's not the first time I've heard the complaint but I believed nothing would be done about it until after they had at least gotten a security team together but I was wrong."

I point to the other files I handed them earlier. "Those are the documents I was able to secure after accessing my parent's personal files. They are already running tests of Erudite subjects under different guises but they seem to be targeting the school-age children the most. Since it isn't unusual for kids to be given multiple tests each school year, replacing one of the existing ones with another one will most likely go unnoticed. They have a target list of those they are most interested in subjecting to these tests. In addition, I believe my parents are doing their own off the books tests and experiments. I didn't have the resources to crack the file, but I found one that I'm pretty sure would be the data from those."

"Alright," Max says after a pregnant pause while everyone digested this information. "We need to make some plans about how to handle this new development. We've been careful to in limiting knowledge of the operation inside and outside of the faction but this will require broadening it. We need to make sure to do this by the book and document everything as well as bringing in others we trust outside of the factions. Nate, can we count on Gideon and Selene to help on the front with Erudite?"

"Of course," He replies firmly.

"Clarence, what about Amity?"

"Johanna would be the best one to go to but it might require more to convince her to take a hard stance. If we could find out more regarding those experiments and what it involves...that might get her on board."

Max nodded gravely and looked over at Victoria next. "What about Candor?"

"Jack would be the best one to approach but he will also be the hardest to convince. He would say that an investigation of that magnitude and with the potential ramifications needs hard proof and not just circumstantial or hearsay. What we've already been able to gather so far will go a long way to getting him to at least hear us out fairly."

"Harrison?" Max calls the oldest member of the five leaders and doesn't even need to voice the question before the older man harumphs then sighs.

"Abnegation is going to be a nightmare to deal with, Max. Letting Marcus Eaton anywhere near this would be a monumental mistake and might just be the advent that brings on the civil unrest we are worried about. If he gets anywhere near this he will turn it into an all-out war against Erudite, one that we can't afford nor do we need. The problem is there is no way to do what will need to be done without bringing Abnegation into things and that will mean he will too."

His admission was something that's been on my mind and I had been kicking around an idea but I'm not sure how well it will go over with one of the people involved.

"Unless a way can be found to muzzle him before then." The words slip out before I really allow myself to think about them. All heads turn to me and Max looks at me quizzically then motions me to continue. "There was a certain rumor about Marcus Eaton that I know everyone here knows is actually true. If he could be convinced to come forward and substantiate those rumors it could work in our favor. We could just use that to make Marcus go along with things but I would suggest getting him removed from his position for abuse of power. There's no way he didn't use his position to hide his abuse of his son not to mention the questionable death of his wife. His removal might allow someone else a bit more reasonable to step in although I don't know who it would be."

"Andrew Prior," Nate responds while rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He's not exactly pleasant, has a real holier than thou thing going on but he also is very honest and intelligent. There have been things he's stepped forward to get passed through that Marcus was very vocally opposed to, like the care centers."

"I don't care for him myself either, but when it matters he usually can be counted on to stand up for what's right and better for the city instead of cowering to Marcus." Max agrees. "That being said I won't force the boy to bring charges against his father but I can agree that someone should address the issue with him. Maybe tell him how it will help not only Dauntless but the city as well."

I see a few of them glance at me as Nate smirks at me and I shake my head vehemently. "It would be a very bad idea for me to try and talk to him about this. Four and I have put our differences aside but there's still some bitterness from our initiation. The fact that I used his situation with his father against him in our fight will still be fresh in his mind. If anyone would be able to get through to him it would be Amar. That's who he really looks up to and is closest to here."

"Alright, I'll make a note to talk to Amar about that when I talk to him about heading up the group who are going to be teachers of the physical education department of the school. Nate and Eric, I want you to get with him as well to go over the curriculum we want to see introduced there. Clarence, we need to come up with something that can get Eric access to those files. That needs to be a priority in order for us to know what we're up against and to get the other factions on board."

"Copy," Nate confirms while I nod and Clarence grunts in agreement.

"I think about covers things for now unless anyone can think of anything else?" Max asks while looking around the table. Seeing no one has anything to add he dismisses the meeting.

Nate gets up and walks around to me and pauses long enough to quietly pass a final message. "Dinner in my apartment, I'll pass the word to the others."

"I'll be there," I assure him, knowing without having to ask what the subject will be at the dinner tonight. I knew how he would react when he saw the list of people that Erudite, specifically my parents, compiled of people they want to conduct tests and experiments on, especially the top two names on it. When I saw I had been hard-pressed not to give myself away.

My only consolation in restraining myself was the knowledge that I would make every last bastard pay for even thinking about laying a finger on either of the youngest Bryant children. Seeing those names...seeing her name...and imagining any harm being done did something to me. It wounded me deeply. It also drove away any of the small vestiges of feeling for the people who brought me into this world. As far as I am concerned Steven and Patricia Coulter are just two people who happen to have the same last name as I do.

That fact won't stop me from making sure they face justice for any crimes they commit...but if they harm Sylvan and Elijah...I'll make sure I'm the one delivering that justice to them personally.

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crowleyellestair · 4 years

Text

Honor- Jaskier

Check out my many Witcher fics

AN// Requests are open! Please send something to end my boredom

Summary: Feral bard shows himself once Y/n comes back from the city scathed and war worn

It was known that there was only one troublemaker of the group. While Y/n frequently pulled stunts and decided to tune Geralt out when he gave orders, she knew how to cover it up. Jaskier wasn’t one for picking his defiant moments well; often choosing to do so in the hands of thugs or in the belly of the beats lair. Geralt trusted the man more than he’d like to admit, but there are times when he felt the need to babysit. Somehow, the witcher had convinced him to help replenish potions with him instead of going with the woman into the city.

The trio had received a small lake house by their contract employer to use until the job was finished. Their lead had gone cold, until a new one emerged. Sadly, they’d need to wait till morning to pick up the new tracks left by the mark. Y/n had gone into town to do, whatever it was, and Geralt thought nothing of it. She stuck to the shadows per his request, and rarely stayed out for longer than an hour. She was also known to take long ways to make sure there were no tails, even if it wasn’t necessary.

Jaskier has been known to sing his current exploits loudly through the streets- despite the time.

Y/n had told the witcher once that she had found it endearing, and that anyone who hadn’t appreciated the serenade was mad. Geralt had argued that three in the morning was not the appropriate time for it, no matter the artist. There were a great many other things she had entrusted to her friend about their bard, and most had revolved around the unrequited love she felt for him. Again, the witcher had argued, but again, she tuned him out. And whenever he brought up his arguments from that night, she always said,

“Geralt, you know my memory is flexible.” Y/n would often laugh to punctuate the statement, but Geralt knew that it meant she happily changed the memory to fit her motive, not that she had forgotten what he had said. Which were recounts of everything Jaskier had said about her, but she would brush it off and point to whatever room the bard was occupying with at the moment.

So, when the two were sitting in the middle of the large, one room cottage, they were surprised when their companion burst through the door. Y/n was panting by the time she slammed the door closed and threw herself against it. Geralt perked up at the smell of blood and Jaskier at her split lip and red cheek. He took a couple of doubletakes, trying to focus on her, but not wanting to throw down the vial and upset Geralt. After a moment, he finally decided to simply shove it into the man’s hands and got up to inspect the woman. Wide eyes darted from blue to amber and her breath finally caught up with her.

“We’re going to have company.” Geralt’s features hardened and nodded while starting to prepare for battle. Jaskier’s hands flew from her shoulders to her face, tilting it to catch light on different angles. A hand then flew down to her hands where the skin of her knuckles is openly bleeding, and the skin of her palms were torn.

“I knew I should have gone with!” A brow flew upwards on her weathered forehead. Despite the situation, he could always pull her into a world away from theirs, where only the two of them existed.

“You’ve never come with. You’re not allowed.” He gave a stern look, but quickly lightened it before it fell back into worry.

“Yes, much to my dismay. And now, my dear, you’ve been hurt.” A small smile was brought to her before she grimaced at the sharp pain from the cut there. “How many are there?” The question had taken her off guard, along with his deep tone. She had only heard that tone twice before; once when he thought Geralt had passed and the other was after the mountains.

‘There could be three, there could be more. They seemed like the type to have friends.” Jaskier gave a curt nod before pushing away. He walked to his bag and grabbed the small dagger she had made for him. It was more for Geralt, to show Jaskier could have some protection while he was alone, and maybe let the bard travel with her whenever she wanted to go explore. “What are you doing?”

Jaskier straightened, pulling the blade from the sheath and looking between his two companions. The room was silent, and the two were staring back quizzically. He motioned to them as if it were obvious. He sighed, rolling his eyes.

“I’m going out there with Geralt.” The subject had given a snort, but Y/n’s face gave way to a soft smile.

“You’re against violence unless you can’t help it.” Jaskier stopped looking to shed his doublet and roll up his sleeves. His finger jutted out and pointed to the window. His tone was once again darker than usual, and the way his head tilted forward gave a cast over his eyes that could be called scary.

“They’ve hurt you. I might not use it, but a promise should be given.” Geralt threw a brow up.

“A promise?” He had heard and seen many creatures try to fend of assailants to protect what’s theirs, but he’s never heard someone make a promise.

“Well, yes. I would never threaten, as those are empty. I will promise them, despite them being single celled delinquents, that no one touches Y/n.” Just as his voice seemed to raise, the two saw the woman’s body practically bounce off of the door as two loud knocks came.

“Come on out dear, our conversation’s not yet done.” When none of the three answered, the voice called again. “We’ll give ya till the count of three. One!” The voice grew faint as it backed away from the door. The man on the other side never reached two as Geralt hurdled out of the door. “Ah, you went crawling to them. Predictable I say.”

Four men stood in the sand of the beach the cottage cozied up to. The leader was built, almost as large Geralt, but his blonde hair gave a hint to the wound on the back of his head. Another was scrawnier, but the witcher could see the madness in his gaze, seemingly unaffected by what had transpired earlier. The same seemed to be with the younger man next to him. But the fourth seemed to be facing at an angle away from the house. After a quick inspection, it was clear he couldn’t stop blinking and rubbing at his red eyes. After a moment, it seemed he picked out a small pebble and tossed it onto the ground. Geralt was utterly confused. While he knew who was involved, he couldn’t fully piece together what happened just by looking. Luckily, the leader stepped forward, giving the usual bandit monologue.

“Master mutant. It seems you’re traveling with quite the fighter. We wanted to have a little chat, but it seemed she’d rather fight than play.”

“You said that I was traveling with two flecks of shit, and you’d ‘teach me what it means to live the life of a real woman’.” Y/n’s voice rang from inside of the cabin. Jaskier had been sedated for a while, helping with grabbing medical supplies until she answered. He flew from the door to see who would have made a comment like that. He scoffed when he stood with Geralt.

“Look boys, the bard. We didn’t come to dirty our hands on said flecks of shit. That woman needs to pay a debt now. Look at Torbin’s eyes. My cut will heal, but we take specific payment.” Jaskier’s finger flew up once more, pointing at the man. His eyes were ablaze, as if a ship was burning in those oceans of blue. Geralt’s arm popped out, barely keeping the bard in his spot as he leaned towards the thug.

“You’ll never see that precious woman again, let alone receive ‘payment’. I’m letting you leave now, without harm and with the knowledge that if you ever touch her again, you will know what hell is.” The thug’s brows raised, and his jaw dropped. It quickly formed into a smile and a breathless laugh. That escalated into a fit, and his hands grasped his stomach.

“You hear that, boys? Like two peas in a pod. Well, lover boy, we always collect our debts. The cock’s come to roost, and you’re standing in our way.” The bard went to lunge at the man, but Geralt pushed him back, while tripping the man. Jaskier’s rear hit the sand while the witcher pirouetted. There were only a couple swings thrown by the witcher before the men were knocked cold onto the beach.

Time had passed. The guards were called, the sun was setting, and Y/n was finally getting her hands clean. Geralt had gone back to his task while Jaskier sat on the floor between her legs. His gaze was focused solely on tweezing out every rock, every speck of sand, stuck in her hand. Supplies were strewn out on the floor next to him, and Y/n couldn’t take her eyes off his form.

There was something between them that they both frequently teased. Flirts and giggles were had before, but something had shifted. Y/n was left feeling hot at the feral side of the bard, and Jaskier had realized just how far he would go for the woman in front of him.

Geralt apparently could also feel the tension in the room, so he spoke up.

“What happened?”

“Oh, I was walking, grabbing some things, and living life before two of them popped out of nowhere. I noticed them at the Kingfisher when we met our contact, and they must have followed me to the alley.” Jaskier’s clutch on her hand tightened, and her other hand, which had been tended to, rested on his tense shoulder. He looked up, before softening his demeanor, and tried to play it off with a smile. “They gave their motive, and I spit in the leader’s face. He threw me down, face first. That’s when ‘Terbin’ leaned down to prod. I grabbed a handful of dirt, and threw it at him. My leg was pulled by the leader, and my hands were dragged over the rocks. I knocked him down though. He hit his head, so when I got up to leave, I only had to throw a few punches at Terbin.” The witcher had got up to place a pot over the fire.

“This seems like a hassle for defending yourself.” Y/n looked away from both their prying eyes.

“Yes, well, they had also said some nasty things about you both as well.” Geralt had gone to protest- to inform her that she didn’t have to stick up for them, but the bard threw him a look. He brought the hand up, placing a soft kiss onto her fingertips.

“Then a thank you is in order.” Her eyes snapped back to meet his, a flush present as well.

“I brought them back here. I don’t think I’m the one who needs to be thanked-.” Jaskier brought a hand to cup her jaw, and his thumb prodded the skin just under her busted lip.

“They would have never come back here if you hadn’t stood up to them. That’s quite honorable. Such honors should be praised.” Y/n’s eyes bore only into his as they watched her lips.

“It seems you would have done the same. You were prepared enough to break a personal code of ‘no violence’ for me.” In that moment, his eyes flicked back up to meet hers.

“I would do anything for you, my dearest heart.” Y/n leaned forward, stopping just short of his lips. She grimaced before locking lips. A small smile placed itself on her, and Jaskier seemed to understand. He smiled, and tipped his head up slightly to align his nose with hers. He gently brushed it along hers, giving a soft eskimo kiss. “We can save that for when your lip is healed.”

“Promise?”

#jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #geralt #witcher imagine #dandelion x reader #dandelion imagine

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raineydaywrites · 3 years

Text

Nesting Chapter 14

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27904012/chapters/74325921

Captain Davenport had been committed to the interplanar expeditionary mission for decades now, and he was thrilled at how rapidly it was advancing now.

Even before he had been confirmed as the captain of the expedition, he had argued for the right of the captain to have the greatest say in who would be selected as crew.

Of course, for a project this significant, there were going to be a lot of voices in the mix, but the fact that the ship’s engine relied so much on bonds for power meant that the captain needed to be sure that they could form such bonds with their crew.

He had been grateful that the rest of the selection committee had agreed to that from the very beginning, and now that he was confirmed as the lead for the mission, he was even more grateful.

The first crew member he’d chosen to favor was easy. Dr. Bluejeans had been working on the bond engine project for decades, which was especially saying something for a human, with their significantly shorter lifespans than other species. It showed a dedication and commitment to the project that Davenport appreciated. Not only was he a brilliant scientist who had proved his ability to handle the work, he also enjoyed it.

It also helped that Davenport knew the man to be a well-mannered guy with a good personality- able to stand up for himself and others enough to not be considered completely dull or boring, but not the kind of person to go out of his way to cause problems either.

With the kinds of people who would be drawn to a mission like this- the adventurers, the explores, the ones with ambition- he would have his choice of troublemakers for this mission. He'd rather have at least a few people who were less likely to immediately jump into the fray just for the fun of it.

Selections for the chronicler were fairly simple too, in the end. At least, in comparison to selections for the rest of the crew. The chronicler needed to be able to keep good notes and write well, but there was less debate about what kinds of secondary skills would be needed in such an individual.

The selection board- mostly made up of scientists, arcanists and scientist-and-arcanist-adjacent administrators- had much stronger opinions on what scientific and magical skills could be useful on a mission like this than they did about the more clerical end of things.

In the end, choosing Lucretia McDonald was an easy choice- she was highly skilled in her field, especially for her age, well recommended, with a talent for note-taking that was rather astounding. She also seemed fairly easy to get along with, if a touch aloof. Still, another calm head would be a benefit on a mission like this. The only real concern was her youth and lack of experience, but truthfully, they didn't need the best chronicler possible, and Davenport personally thought that they should accept their luck in getting one this good instead of worrying that she could be better.

They still needed to make selections on security personnel, but they'd narrowed it down to a couple strong contenders. The other three spaces after that would be a bit more difficult to fill. They needed a healer of some sort, because they had no idea what they would run into out there, and being without the ability to heal themselves could easily be fatal. Personally, Davenport was angling for someone who had either faith or mental health expertise who might better be able to assist with any kind of existential concerns that they may run into. Going out past the planar system as they knew it was likely to be a lot on the crew's mental health, and a good cleric who could do more than just the traditional kinds of healing would be ideal.

The last two spots were for arcanists, or potentially an arcanist and another scientist, depending on the qualifications of the applicants. There weren't many people who had studied either the science or magic of bonds, and so they needed to be someone who was willing to learn on the job in order to assist Barry as needed.

There were two particular applicants that Davenport had taken special notice of for those roles. A pair of twins, graduating soon, top of their class, highly skilled and well recommended. Clearly, they had the skills and intelligence needed to fill the roles, and their relative youth made them more likely to be flexible enough to learn new skills.

Besides which, the fact that they were twins and had clearly spent a good portion of their lives together indicated that they probably had a very strong bond. The bond engine on the Starblaster was designed to be sustained even on less significant bonds that form between crewmates and coworkers, but the extra boost that bonds forged from genuine love offered could only be a positive in their situation.

He was set to interview the pair of them soon, to get a better handle on their abilities and personalities, but he already knew that he favored them over others. It wasn't just their twin bond, of course, but that was a major benefit.

Still, it wasn't fair to the other applicants to chose them on that basis alone, and so they needed to prove themselves to him and the selection committee just as much as any of the others.

When the twins arrived, they arrived together. Davenport intended to segment their interviews into a section together and a section apart. He needed to know both their individual skills and personalities as well as their combined skills and personalities after all.

He stepped out of his office to greet them and introduce himself, reaching a hand up for them to shake. And he immediately noticed something that might be a problem.

Well, he shouldn't say that, he supposed. He saw something that prompted a suspicion to rise in his mind, but he wasn't certain at first. After all, you can't simply assume these things. He didn't even know if Taako was physically capable of carrying a child, after all, let alone know enough about the man and his life to be certain that he was currently doing so, but he certainly had his suspicions.

There was a curve to the man's stomach that seemed different than simply being a matter of his build. The weight there did not appear to match the weight distribution on the rest of his body, in a way that suggested a potential pregnancy more than just fat.

Combine that with the appearance of his sister beside him, an identical twin sister as he knew from their files and the essays they had submitted with their applications. Of course it was possible for identical twins to have different builds due to differences in lifestyle or diet, but the sight of the two standing next to each other allowed him to compare their appearances in a way that reaffirmed his suspicions instead.

And the fact that they were identical twins with different gender identities pointed to the possibility that at least one of them could be capable of carrying a child. Elven biology meant that identical twins could be assigned different genders at birth, but it was a fairly rare occurrence. More likely to assume that one of them was trans.

If true, that could be a problem.

Still, there was no reason to be rude, so he took care to not let his eyes linger as he invited the two into his office.

"Please, sit," Davenport offered, gesturing to the chairs on the opposite side of his desk as he settled into his own chair. He noticed that Taako sat down with a particular heaviness, and set his hands to rest over his stomach.

Both Lup and Taako appeared to be eyeing him just as intensely as he was eyeing them, sizing each other up and disguising it under aloofness and professionalism. He could see the glint of intelligence in their eyes past the facade of distance, and he nodded approvingly in his mind.

The interview proceeded fairly normally from there, with Davenport taking some quick notes on the two for his own records. The conversation was being recorded as well, to ensure complete accuracy in relaying their words to the rest of the committee.

"I'd like to speak with you individually now," Davenport said, reaching for the recording device and turning it off briefly, before speaking again. "Apologies. There is one more question I have to ask the both of you. Do you have any medical conditions that might be relevant to discuss prior to departure?"

"We're allergic to peanuts," Lup offered, expression not moving in the slightest to indicate that she understood the question he was really asking. In fact, her expression only became more casual, clearly unwilling to let anything slip.

Taako looked to Lup, and they seemed to have a silent conversation before Taako turned back to Davenport and admitted, "Yes, I'm pregnant. And I totally get it if that disqualifies me. Figured it was worth a shot applying anyway."

"Thank you for your honesty," Davenport said, smiling warmly at him. It was good that he was acknowledging it instead of trying to downplay or deny the situation. "I admit, it may be disqualifying, but I wouldn't rule you out yet. The committee will have to discuss this more before making a decision on the matter. May I ask when you're due? It may be relevant."

"Doc says between 6-7 months or so," Taako offered. "Baby's half-human, so hard to be specific at this point. I'll keep you updated if I get any more info before you make the final call."

"I would appreciate that," Davenport said, handing Taako a card with his contact information. "Now, which of you would like to have your individual interview first?"

"Me," Taako said, immediately. "I refuse to stand up again until necessary. Lulu, get out."

Lup stood, maintaining eye contact with Taako as she left, saying, "The pregnancy card is gonna get real worn out if you keep abusing it Koko! Just sayin'!"

Davenport was practiced at not letting his amusement show on his face, but the exchange did prompt him to smile slightly.

Yes, he still favored the twins for this mission, even if it was now slightly against his better judgement.

As soon as they left their interviews, Taako found a bench and switched his dress shoes for a pair of comfier sandals that he’d brought along in his bag, letting out a noise of relief as he did so.

The sandals didn’t particularly match the rest of his outfit that well, and they weren’t particularly professional either, so Lup understood why he hadn’t worn them into the interview.

“Your feet really hurt that bad?” she asked, wincing in sympathy. “I didn’t think it would be so bad this early. Like, honestly, it’s still barely noticeable.”

“It’s still a lot different than what my legs are used to!” Taako insisted.

He stood up, holding onto Lup’s arm to keep him steady, and kept speaking. “It’s fine, mostly. These shoes just suck.”

Lup hummed in agreement, letting her brother vent. The dress shoes were an old pair that Taako had dragged out from the very back of the closet for the interview. He usually preferred to wear boots or heels, so he didn’t own very many flats. He hadn’t been able to find any boots that were both interview-appropriate and well-matched to his outfit, and he’s already learned that wearing heels nowadays was just asking for painful feet and ankles, and that he probably didn’t want to risk losing his balance when he was already so unsteady recently.

“We gotta find something better for graduation, then,” Lup said. “We’ve worked way too hard for it to let your day to be ruined by ugly, painful shoes.”

"No shit, Lulu, who do you think you're talking to? Already working on that," Taako assured.

Lup let her excitement wash over her for a second, laughing in delight. "Koko, we're about to fucking graduate! We made it!"

Taako met her outburst with a widening smile of his own. "Yeah, natch. Don't tell me you doubted it, Lu- it's us we're talking about. Course we fucking made it."

"We just interviewed to go into space! We didn't just make it- we made it," Lup said, eyes wild and delighted.

If someone had told them when they'd been kids that they'd be here someday, they'd have assumed they were being scammed- or, at best, politely lied to. All their confidence had been hard-won, over years and years of failures and let-downs, but here they were. The best of the best, graduating top of their class, possibly going to space- so much of the last few months had been stressful, trying to graduate while also helping Taako as he adjusted to his new situation, but they were in a good place. Finally.

There had been so many years where this would have devastated them. Years where an unplanned pregnancy would have set them back miles, where it wouldn't have been feasible for Taako to even consider keeping the kid if he wanted to. But now he could, and it had barely hurt them at all.

They'd gotten where they had dreamed of going. They'd really made it.

Lup's approval was fairly swift after the interview, with Davenport's continued firm approval and her excellent performance. But Davenport wasn't surprised when the selection committee seemed to immediately write off Taako as a candidate when they learned of his pregnancy. That didn't mean he agreed with them though.

They brought up good points- if a pregnant individual died or was lost on this mission, it would look far worse to the press than otherwise, they didn't know how interplanar travel would affect a fetus, and they could always simply offer the man a space in a later mission- assuming this one went well.

Truthfully, Davenport couldn't quite put his finger on why he was so insistent on the matter himself. But his instincts were telling him that he should fight for Taako's inclusion- that he was needed on this mission.

And so he fought for the inclusion of both twins. It seemed absurd not to take the offer of two highly skilled potential officers with as strong a bond as they twins had.

The committee finally agreed to speak with the science team about the potential affects on a fetus, and Davenport was glad to at least get a foot in the door to the idea.

Dr. Bluejeans spoke for the science team on the matter, and Davenport worked to hide his grin as the man explained that the team couldn't see any potential dangers for a fetus that were any worse than the dangers they would all be in simply due to the unknown nature of where they were going.

He got the feeling that a few of the committee members had been hoping that the team would give them an easy out, but at least a few of the members seemed more reassured by that knowledge.

"I understand your hesitance," Davenport addressed the committee. "But none of the other candidates that have been suggested for this position bring nearly as many advantages to this crew as Mr. Taako would. And that is without mentioning the advantages gained by having Ms. Lup on this crew as well. If we turn him down, I truly believe we will lose them both, and they will not be easy to replace. There are risks to this mission, but that has always been true. And as long as we have planned this, we have worked to mitigate those risks- and not only because we don't want to lose any of our people, but because we know that if we lose someone on this mission, it will be a long time- perhaps a lifetime- before we will be given the resources to try again. Regardless of who in particular we lose. We cannot afford to lose anyone on this mission, no matter who we send or don't send, and I fully believe that Mr. Taako and Ms. Lup are our best options to ensure that that doesn't happen in the first place."

And when the official letters of acceptance were sent out, there was one household that got two of them.

Taako was fiddling with his graduation outfit when Lup got home with the letters. The robes were issued through the school, and one of the workers had offered him some advice on making sure that the whole set would actually fit and look nice by the time he graduated, based from their own experience of graduating while pregnant. Taako had greatly appreciated it, and with graduation coming up soon, he was finally starting to put it in place, altering the clothing subtly.

Lup made sure he wasn't holding anything sharp before she announced that the letters had arrived.

Taako immediately dropped what he was working on to hurry to Lup's side. She handed him the letter and they both paused, neither willing to take the jump and open it. For this moment, they could still live in the reality where they might go on this mission together, and it was terrifying to think that it might fall apart in a minute.

Taako was the one who finally opened his letter. Lup didn't open her own, instead waiting and watching her brother's face as he pulled out the papers inside with shaking hands. He started to read-

-and his eyes lit up and he smiled wider than Lup had ever seen from him before, and it felt like everything inside of her settled immediately. He'd been accepted. And if he'd been accepted, even while pregnant, surely-

She ripped open her envelope, finally, and couldn't hold back her scream of excitement at what she saw inside.

Taako hugged her, immediately, and he was crying a little, but Lup wasn't going to judge since she was near tears herself without the mood swings.

"We're going to space!" she enthused, and Taako laughed, unable to do anything else with how happy he was.

"We're going to space!" he agreed.

Lup hugged her brother even tighter for a moment, before pulling back and addressing the bump.

"Ya hear that, nugget? Your dad and aunt about to be the coolest people on the planet."

"Coolest people in space, goofus," Taako corrected, laughing and shoving her shoulder lightly.

"In the universe!" Lup shouted, throwing her arms up in the air with joy.

They'd fucking made it.

#taz balance #taako adventurezone #Taako taaco #lup adventurezone #Lup taaco #my writing

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crashdevlin · 4 years

Text

Crashing 2- Sensitive Compartmentalized

Crashing Masterlist

Author’s Note: Originally posted to ao3 (This is an edited and improved version) Part Four of the Red Queen Chronicles!

Summary: Everyone wants to throw blame around about Cassie’s new personality, but does the blame really matter when she’s taken her birthright as head of Hydra?

Word Count: 4070

Pairing(s): Clint Barton x OFC, past Loki x OFC, past Bucky Barnes x OFC, past Steve Rogers x OFC

Chapter Warnings: mentions of brainwashing, mentions of murder, violence and anger

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cassie kicked in the door to the bar and looked around the dusty room. “Tell me there’s a SCIF in this dump.”

A short man with short salt and pepper hair approached her. “A what?”

She rolled her eyes. “A SCIF. Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility?” She groaned, adjusting the sheet of metal over her thigh. “A room with radiant foil in the walls that shuts out transmissions and WiFi and hackables.”

“Who the hell-” the man snapped as he started to grab her, but she grabbed the back of his head and bounced it against the bar.

“Heil Hydra,” she said, turning to the others. She pointed to one toward the back. “You. You dress like SHIELD. Were you?”

“Yes...uh, ma’am?”

“John Garrett, Grant Ward; these names ringing your bells?” she asked, wincing as she adjusted her grip.

“Yes, ma’am. Garrett recruited me to Hydra.”

“Were you with them when they took the Fridge?” she asked, smiling when he nodded. “They spent an hour, probably closer to forty minutes, looking for someone. You ever get a description of who?”

“Short, blond, green eyes...oh, my God, you’re her!”

“Awesome, no introduction necessary. SCIF?” she requested again. The young man nodded and rushed for a door labeled ‘Storage’. Cassie followed him into the room and leaned against the table in the SCIF. “Okay, what’s your name, man?”

“Derek Shipton,” he answered.

“I’m Cassie, Derek. Now, I need you to get me some needle-nosed pliers and some liquor. I have to cut a tracker out of this thigh, so I need you to get me a foil-lined metal box to put it in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said before rushing out. He came back almost immediately with her supplies.

“Thank you. Oh, and Derek? I need you to look up my file and give it to the guy who used to be in charge. He kinda needs to know why he’s not in charge anymore. Projekt Kind is the file. Once I deactivate the SCIF, bring in the guy I just demoted, okay? Thanks, Derek.” Cassie smiled as the man rushed out and she locked the SCIF down.

Cassie stripped her jeans down her legs and grabbed the knife she stole from Clint. The wound had already begun to heal itself, the flesh making its efforts to grow closed over the foreign object. She took a deep breath, grinding her teeth as she dug the knife deep into each side of the wound to reopen it and grabbed the pliers. The tracker had a little blue light that blinked a slow, consistent blink. She dropped it into the box Derek brought her and slammed the lid. As she pulled up her jeans over the already-clotting wound, she unlocked the door to the SCIF, prompting Derek to run in with a tall blond man with a beard following him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the blond man snapped.

She sighed and looked up at him. “Derek didn’t show you my file?” she asked, boredly.

“He wouldn’t even look at it, ma’am.”

“Hm, shame,” Cassie said, standing on a chair to give her the height to wrap her hand around the bearded man’s throat and lift him up off the floor. “I was hoping to do this without much blood. I mean, I know that death and destruction, that’s the Hydra way, but I wanted to keep as much of our ranks intact as possible. We’ve been dwindling a bit. SHIELD, Captain America, the Avengers, even Ultron took out some of our high-level heads and there just aren’t two for every one anymore. I want as many of you to stick around as possible...but that doesn’t mean I’m against killing you for disrespecting me.”

She dropped the man to his feet but kept her hand wrapped firmly around his throat. “If you’d bothered to open that file, you’d know why Herr Whitehall wanted me. You’d see that I am the second daughter of Johann Schmidt.” The man’s eyes widened slightly. “You’d see that I was bred to lead and taught to kill at an early, early age. You’d see my trained proficiency with all manner of weapons and my specifically engineered IQ. Now, the only thing you wouldn’t see is the genetic fiddling that happened a few years ago that made me just...like...Daddy.”

She chuckled. “Minus the complexion issues, of course.” She licked her lips. “You will follow me...or you will die. I will tear you to pieces, just as an example and don’t...not for one second, think you can get the better of me. Do you understand?” The man was silent, looking at her in fear. “Verstehst du?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand,” he whispered.

She smiled and jumped down off the chair, letting go of his neck. “Great! I’m Cassie Campbell. You are?”

“Karl...Kraus,” he whispered, his hand going to rub at his throat.

“Awesome. Now, full disclosure, just in case it comes up...I was hanging with the Avengers for a while. I was confused, there were some identity issues...trying to be a good guy but I got over that. I’m ready to do what needs to be done now, in order to usher in the next great age and I hope you’re with me on that.”

Karl looked from Cassie to Derek, who just stared at his feet. “You’re...you’re the Red Queen. From the Battle in Sokovia.”

“Yeah. It’s not important. I’m done with them. The Avengers are the past. Hydra is the future. What do you say, Karl Kraus? You wanna help me?”

“Do I actually have a choice?” Karl asked.

“Well, you were very dismissive when I first got here, Karl, but I will still give you a bit of a choice.” She pulled open the door and walked out of the SCIF. “You can choose to stick around and support me, or you could choose death.”

Derek followed close behind her and Kraus sighed loudly as he stayed behind. “Not much of a choice.”

Cassie walked over to the bar and grabbed the first bottle that caught her attention, twisting the cap off and gulping down what turned out to be dark rum before turning to the Hydra agents. “My name is Cassie Campbell. I am the daughter of Johann Schmidt and I am going to be your new...leader. Your new queen,” she said with a smile. “I doubt any of you have met my sister Sinthea. I mean, I haven’t either, but you’ve heard the stories about her and our father but you don’t have to worry because I’m not like her.”

She sighed and shook her head. “But I have no time for questions or bitching. You will follow orders or you’ll get cut loose. You do what you’re told, I won’t kill you. It’s that simple. I will, of course, need files on everyone. Your names, numbers, ranks, blah blah blah. Shipton and Kraus will be in charge of that. When I’ve found a place to bunk down, I’ll be back. If you don’t support me, then leave quietly while I’m gone. There’ll be no retaliation for the lack of faith.” She nodded at Derek before walking out, bottle in hand, as the Hydra agents in the bar started to whisper amongst themselves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What do you mean, you were too late? Romanoff couldn’t stall her?” Fury’s voice could be heard throughout the farmhouse dining room, even though Coulson’s phone wasn’t on speaker. The house was full of sad, silent, seething people who couldn’t decide who they were angry at.

“An arrow to the leg couldn’t stall her, Nick,” Steve said, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at his feet. “She was determined not to have her memories wiped again.”

“Put me on goddamn speaker.” Phil fiddled with the buttons on his phone. “She what?” Fury snapped.

“She knew you were going to wipe her memories so she ran to avoid going through that again. Hydra wiped her several times and then SHIELD did, too,” Bucky spoke up. He pushed his hair out of his face with the new prosthetic Cassie provided him when she woke him up. He looked around the room at the others. “Knowing that there are pieces of your memories, pieces of you, missing that you can’t even identify...that’s so much worse than knowing what Hydra made us into.”

Clint growled deep in his chest, finally deciding who he was angry with. “This is your fault!” he shouted, glaring at Bucky.

“Excuse me?” Bucky asked. “I wasn’t even here when-”

“Barton, calm down,” Steve said, stepping protectively in front of his best friend as Clint jumped to his feet.

“No! We were fine!” Clint fought the urge to clench his left fist as his right hand went to the empty holster for his knife. “We were happy and we were gonna be married until you came in with your ‘kindred spirits’ hunky emo guyliner bullshit! She would be in this mess if you hadn’t convinced her to freeze herself so that Loki could grab her. She hadn’t had any issues with him in months! He was leaving her alone but you served her up on a silver fuckin’ platter and how could he resist?!”

“He never stopped watching her. He was trying to endear himself to her by helping her, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?” Bucky asked, standing. He pushed Steve a bit as he leaned closer to the archer. “You’re just her ex-fiance and that’s because you were such a self-absorbed crumb that you couldn’t even tell when her insomnia got to her. You couldn’t tell when her nightmares took over.”

“I knew she was remembering, Barnes! You think I’m an idiot?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Bucky responded, calmly. “I think you’re worse than that. I think you act like an idiot to disguise the fact that you’re an asshole. I didn’t convince her to go into cryo, you did...because she knew that you would treat her different if you knew she was a killer. Something about you looking at me like I’m a rabid dog and her not being able to deal with you looking at her the same way. She just knew you wouldn’t love her if you knew she was a monster. So it’s not my fault, Barton, it’s yours.”

Clint’s eyes went wide. “She’d already sent you to kill Steve! She was beyon-”

“Shut the hell up!” Fury yelled, pulling the men’s attention from their fight. “This is not Sergeant Barnes’ fault and it’s not Barton’s either. This is my fault. I should have grabbed her when she was in Africa, wiped her before she ever made it to the Wakandan Border.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “Wiping her is what caused this whole-”

“I appreciate your input, Sergeant, but wiping her would have ended this just as much as it started it,” Fury interrupted.

“She would have known that something was wrong. She’s known something was wrong the whole time,” Steve spat toward the phone.

“A temporary solution is still a damn solution, Rogers.”

“Whatever. What are we going to do about her now?” Natasha asked, moving from standing next to Clint to be closer to Coulson’s phone. “She’s decided she’s Hydra. We can’t wipe her without getting rid of everything that made her Red Queen.”

“We could add new memories...similar memories,” Phil responded.

Steve looked around the room at everyone. “So, what, we’re just going to find her and erase her again?”

“Is that not better than letting her try to kill everyone she cares about?” Wanda finally spoke up.

“Maybe she’ll leave everybody alone if we leave her alone. Let her live her homicidal dreams with the Nazis.” No one could really tell if Barney was joking.

“Was that your brother, Barton?” Fury asked.

“Yeah. I live here,” Barney defended.

“He kinda lives here,” Clint corrected. “He’s the one that shot her, since…I am not gonna be shooting anything any time soon.” He looked down at his hand.

“You could always pick up a gun again and shoot righty,” Nat suggested.

“I don’t want to pick up a gun! Not if we’re going after her.”

“Okay, I’m gonna have to be the one to say it,” Sam said, looking upset to be in that position as ‘the one to say it’. “She was more than willing to kill all of us. She sent Barnes to attack Steve. He’d be dead if I hadn’t pulled distraction.” He gestured at Clint. “She was gonna do a lot worse than a broken hand to Clint. She’s taken up with her father’s Nazi friends and I, for one, can’t back rehabilitation for a Nazi. She’s not our Red Queen anymore. She’s gone so far darkside that even Loki thought it was a good idea to give her some space. The school-approved solution for evil is not wiping memories. School-approved solution’s exactly what Steve did to her dad.”

“We can’t kill her!” Clint and Steve exclaimed at the same time.

“Then capture and incarcerate,” Natasha suggested. “Put the Raft to the use it was actually made for.”

“Has anyone called Stark?” Steve asked, suddenly. “He’s going to need to know. Rhodes, Vision, they’re all in danger.”

“I already made that call. It wasn’t pleasant,” Fury answered. “Of course, now I need to update him that she escaped. I am not happy to be making that call either.”

“Let us know what Stark says,” Steve demanded before walking out of the farmhouse. Bucky followed close behind. “This is our fault, Buck. We should have had Nick Fury come get her after she killed that warlord in Africa.”

“That’s not our fault. She didn’t want to go with him. You know that. She wanted to be with us.”

“Did she?” Steve snapped. “Or did we just want her with us? What if we just wanted her and she remembered, got taken by Loki and remember all this horrible stuff, because we wanted her?”

Bucky shook his head. “She got out of the Raft and she could’ve gone home but she didn’t. She took Loki’s help to come find us in Egypt. She wanted to be with us and we did the right thing taking her to Wakanda. She shouldn’t have gone on ice, but when we did it, it seemed like the best option. We didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Steve scoffed. “And now she wants to kill us and take over the world. She was such a good woman when she went in.”

“She still is,” Bucky argued.

“After what she’s done, you can’t say that.”

“I can. I believe she still is. I mean, look at me,” Bucky said.

Steve sighed. “It’s different. You were brainwashed. She’s not. She’s the opposite of that. She’s had all her brainwashing taken away. She’s who she was supposed to be now.”

“No. Who she’s supposed to be is the same woman who dropped everything to come help us in Germany and who trekked through Africa with us. That’s who she’s supposed to be, and she can be again.”

“I hope you’re right, Buck.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tony walked into his penthouse of Stark Tower and headed for the bar. “Lights.” He looked perplexed as he stayed in the dark. “Friday, lights.”

“Hope you don’t mind, boss,” a voice from the closest sofa made him turn, instantly alert. “Thought we might be better off just the two of us so I told Friday to take a nap.”

The sight of the blond woman sitting with her back to him, a drink in her hand, shouldn’t have made him so nervous, but it did. “My suit?” he asked. He had ways to call the suit, even without Friday, but it would be more than a little difficult.

“These bracelets look so much better on me, don’t you think?” She raised the hand that wasn’t holding a good crystal tumbler of his best scotch to show off the remote to summon his suit. “Come have a seat, Stark,” she commanded.

“You don’t need my suit to kill me, Cassie,” Tony said, not budging from his spot behind her.

“I’m not here to kill you, boss. I came to you because you’re the only one I knew would actually talk to me...without any of the bullshit about trying to send me to Fury. Come have a seat, please.” Her tone was desperate but not angry, so Tony walked down and sat on the sofa across from her.

“You look like crap,” Tony said, candidly, as he looked over her. She was paler than normal, her eyes ringed with dark circles.

She let out a scoffing chuckle. “I feel...like I’ve been put through a blender. All of this...got so out of hand. I remember now. Those words they put in my head, they were just to make me remember.” She leaned forward slightly. “See, Strucker wiped me when SHIELD showed up so I’d be able to deny everything if SHIELD asked. I’d be able to pretend to be normal because I wouldn’t know that I wasn’t. I guess Wolfgang forgot the part where he comes and gets me back from Fury...or maybe I was supposed to stay at the Fridge until they revealed themselves and killed SHIELD, I don’t know.”

“Remembering your shitty childhood made you evil? Pretty sure every Avenger on the roster has that box checked and Vision never had a childhood.”

“I didn’t want this,” she whispered, looking away and taking a drink. “I didn’t send Bucky to kill Steve. He’ll remember that once someone actually asks him what his mission was. I just needed Bucky out of stasis because Loki has the red book and I couldn’t risk Loki using Bucky against us. I sent him to the new base because I knew Steve wouldn’t let anything happen to Bucky and he’d be safe with the one man who would move Heaven and Earth to keep him that way.”

She ran her hand across her mouth and leaned forward more. “I was going to try to ease into telling Clint the truth...what I remembered I did in the past, the changes that happened when I remembered, but...I said one word, one thing that wasn’t what Clint thought his woman should say, and he attacked me.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before shaking her head. “I had to make a split-second decision: grovel at his feet, apologize for the woman I am now, the woman I was always supposed to be...beg him to love me and tell him how much I want to change and be the woman he fell for…” She shrugged and leaned back into the back of the sofa.

“Or be the woman he decided I was in the moment before he hit me. I couldn’t bring myself to go the weak route, not after so many years doing just that, so I had to commit to the Hydra angle and for me to do that, you all have to either leave me the hell alone or die.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “You aren’t even gonna give the rest of us a chance to get to know the new you?”

“If Clint, who swears he loves me, can’t deal with the new me then why should I expect the rest of you to be okay with me?”

“Cass...people change. We can get to know the person you are now if you let us,” he offered.

“The man supposedly blinded by love couldn’t deal, Tony,” she exclaimed softly. “I’m too different. I’m colder, angrier, more prone to violence. I like violence, and the smell of gunpowder the-the snap of broken bones. I am so not the Cassie you know.”

“Okay, so there’s a little more Red Skull in your Red Queen,” Tony said, leaning forward to grab a tablet from the table between them. “But you don’t wanna kill us, Skipper.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Of course I don’t. You’re the only family I have.” She licked her lips and shook her head in exasperation. “But if it comes down to a question of me killing all of you or me being sent back to Fury for him to wipe me clean and become the person he and Clint think I should be...I will shed a tear for each of you and then I will move the fuck on with my life.”

“I know you, Cassie. You’re one of the few people in this world that I’ve taken the time to actually, you know, know. Just because you’re a little angrier than you used to be doesn’t mean you need to go Dark Side. You can be Anakin without being Vader.”

Cassie smiled and looked into his eyes. “You think any of them will wanna talk to me now? With the woman I am now? I broke Clint’s hand and I enjoyed it. I sent Winter Soldier after Steve. I am the embodiment of everything Hydra wanted of me.”

“Not true,” he disputed. “You aren’t a Nazi. You’re just a little different. You could come back, be an Avenger. It’s really just me, Rhodey, and Vision right now, the Spider kid is a ‘sometimes’. We can get used to you.”

She looked conflicted as she took another drink. “I’ve already taken over Hydra, Tony. I’m fine to go all the way on this. I can even turn Hydra into a respectable organization, maybe even better than SHIELD. No secrets in my organization.”

“No, you can’t. Even the Avengers aren’t better than SHIELD,” Tony said, tapping on the tablet. “We’ve all got our secrets. We’ve all got our issues. Don’t write us off. Write off Barton, I don’t give a fuck, but don’t write me off. I don’t care if you have a rage issue. I mean, look how close I was with Banner.”

She sighed and leaned forward to set the glass on the table. “You really don’t care? You don’t care that Strucker had me brutally murder two SHIELD agents before my age was even in the double digits, or that I crushed an African warlord’s hyoid bone? You don’t care that I broke Barton’s hand and I relished the sound of his bones crushing under my foot?”

“I can get behind that, all of it. As long as you’re crushing the bones of the bad guys. I mean, you signed the Accords. You belong to the UN. As long as you’re breaking the bones of the guys they send us after, I don’t mind it. Look, this might not be you anymore…” Tony held up the tablet to show a picture of Cassie smiling with all of the lab techs in the Olympia lab. “...but I think you could still be this.” He swiped the screen to show a screen capture of footage from the battle of Sokovia. She was beating an Ultron into the ground next to the core, her fists through it’s metal face. “Red Queen was a little more violent than Cassie Campbell, but you always seemed more free when you were in the field. I liked that. Com’on, Red. You don’t have to be Hydra to be yourself.”

Cassie stared at the picture for a long few moments before she stood. “I’ll think about it...if you can guarantee me that I will not be erased again. Hydra wiped me, SHIELD wiped me. I just wanna be me. If you want me to trust you, Stark...and I desperately want to be able to trust you...I need assurances that I will not be wiped by the people who are supposed to be my friends.”

He stood as well, putting down the table and picking up what was left of the glass of scotch. “I won’t let anyone change you, Red. Never again.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a slight smile. “Should’ve come to you first. I was just really hoping Clint would give me the time.”

“That’s what you get for letting your heart guide you,” he chastised.

“Oh? And what exactly is guiding you to be so supportive of me, boss?”

“Ah, that’s all in my beautiful brain, Lab Rat.” Tony swallowed down the last bit of liquor as Cassie walked toward the elevator. “You’ll let me know what you decide?”

“I’ve got your number.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Kitchen Sink - @emoryhemsworth @flamencodiva @wasabiwitteks @rainbowkisses31 @rissbennett @mariekoukie6661 @officiallyunofficialperson @dolphincliffs @mrs-meghan-winchester @gayspacenerd @foxyjwls007 @ilovefanfic86 @marvelfansworld @f-yeahfandoms @wonderlandfandomkingdom @hhiggs @sev3nruby @hobby27 @paintballkid711 @divadinag @thewhiterabbit42 @fantasymyth-1 @queenoftheunderdark @cosicas-cuquis @superfanficnatural @letsby @supernatural-bellawinchester @onethirstyunicorn @swinchester27 @chalicia @sunnyroadtrips @screechingartisancashbailiff @death-unbecomes-you @dayasvalkyrie Hero Tags - @atc74 @winchesterxfamilybusiness @holylulusworld

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