#even if there is no cure you cannot tell the uncarable there is no cure why would you want to worsen their life this vile way

[superconductivebean]

#560: Hogwarts Inquires - III

That's hit me.

MC was worried Solomon might turn her and Sebastian in to the Headmaster and they'd be expelled.

But what would Solomon's evidence be and why would Black ever care without any caught-on-scene for anything really, especially, when Solomon is easily annoyed by simply everything about his nephew.

Besides, even if he would have somehow convinced Black to look into the matter, who could guarantee him that his supposed wish to come true -- if we assume MC was right about him turning them in and that he wouldn't back down on his word (which I believe to be the actual truth, as Solomon was trying to put down / kill the both of them, MC and Sebastian, rather than to have them expelled or worse, sent to Azkaban; that's… the supposed sense of mercy this man has is absolutely vile).

But. Behind MC were Fig, as her mentor (and he would never let the opportunity of finishing his and Miriam's work slip away), also a person of trust to Black, and Sharp, as someone really worried about MC and who I think to be allied with Fig, therefore in the know to some great extent, and subsequently interested in keeping MC out of trouble, at least, of this particular sort, for Fig's sake.

Howevor, even if the toughest defense imaginable would be breached by sheer stubbornness of this man, even after a tactical retreat to Dinah&Matilda duo, what would be the evidence and why would Solomon be sure, that knowing his temper, whatever it was Sebastian took possession of was worth a legillimens from any investigator or, if Black wouldn't let anyone in, Sharp or Dinah.

You know. People who are entangled with Eleazar's inquiries about goblin activities and are likely in support of whatever party that fights goblins back. They wouldn't ever not to condemn the usage of Unforgivables, howevor, but would they cater to Solomon's vile wishes? Doubtful. They'd rather fight him off than let him do justice himself because killing someone for the sake of THEIR OWN good -- what really the fuck is wrong with you Solomon.

Back to evidence.

The Book could've easily be hidden by a third party.

The Relic, too.

But. If we're to jump forward to the dungeon, where it was already too late to change Sebastian's mind and Solomon came across The Evidence…

He destroyed the only evidence he had on them right away… The destruction of the Book would be the only a matter of Anne getting inside the dungeon and, enraged by the extent of it all and by how far Sebastian was ready to dwell, would have still casted Incendio.

The only solid ground would be the usage of Unforgivables. Which Black secretly or not so secretly do not condemn; he doesn't judge MC when she uses any of them in front of him. Meaning, Solomon's only option would be going straight to the Ministry, as Black would likely approve of that Imperio, but.

Given how reluctant was the Ministry. Given the fact Sebastian hadn't harmed anyone. Solomon doesn't have A N Y grounds to imprison him or convince anyone of Sebastian's danger to anyone. He doesn't have a chance on MC either, or he'd face Fig, who can contact the Minister directly at seemingly any time, and Sharp, likely being a man who might have a few things to say to anyone who're live in a disbelief of any cure existence and although it's not a crime, who're also induce that disbelief on unwilling or dependent others.

[sabineelectricheart]

Marionette with its Strings Cut

Summary: If he manages to cure that perfidious final ailment until then, very well, but if he does not… Well, there is more than one way to end his agony.

Rating: M - Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language.

Words: 1000

Notes: Heheheh... I wonder what you think the motivating incident was...

“Do you love me?”

It is cold and late at night. The only source of light was a small, flickering candle to the side of the bed.

The question fills the quiet, stale air of the bedroom. It was dark and only two figures inhabited the ambient. The voice was heavy, not too loud, as the phrase claws its way through his throat and out of his mouth.

Sebastian already knows the answer. Both what she would say, and what she truly felt in her cold, cold heart.

Rosalie looks at him. A flat gaze, there is only a chilling emptiness in her verdant eyes. If one did not know her, did not know what had happened to her, could even interpret it as confusion. He almost feels tempted to fool himself into believing it, but he knows her and he knows what happened, and so did not delve himself in worthless efforts. He does that enough with his magic.

Yet, that response will not do. So, he takes his wand from its holster, tracing it over the artery running along her wrist. He whispers his incantation and forces his sickly green magic into her skin.

“Do you love me?” He repeats softly.

The woman comes to life. A lightning flashes in her irises and a sudden blush bloom on her cheeks. Her limbs grow softer and her skin is much warmer to his touch. It is almost as if the sun itself rose, breaking the dark Scottish night outside and blowing a new breath into a discarded marionette.

She giggles, and it almost makes him sick to his stomach. Almost.

“Of course, I do, Sebastian!” She breathes out reverently, as if she was really in love. As if she was still capable of love. “Why do you ask? Do I not tell you this every day?”

He swallows, feeling like there is an ice shard penetrating his heart. Guilt, he supposes it is the name of this feeling. He might not have caused this situation himself, at least not directly, but it still weights on him. He has done everything he could to make up for it and some more that he probably cannot, including exterminating the vermin that, all things considered, truly is the guilty party, but it still weighs on him heavily that he is rendered unable to grant her peace, to find peace for himself in the same manner.

This is so, so wrong. The human body was not meant to trifled with magic like this, death was not meant to be curable or reversible. The dark curses he uses to keep his husk fresh and to let out a few phrases like a macabre voice recorder are unworthy of the love he felt for Rosalie or the woman she was when she was alive.

Sebastian feels an angel fallen to earth, as someone who had great expectations and a desire for good and greatness, and was kicked out of Paradise for unjust reasonings by an uncaring god. To have given him her taste just to take it away, it is much too cruel.

Perhaps he was fallen to the wayside, using her like this for his own selfish purposes. Locking you into this false state, as though her was a mere puppet. He was much too proud, too averse to loss. Was it not cruel, though? Have he not had enough of it?

However, a voice argues with him, loud and deafening in his mind, it is not as if it makes any difference to her. After all, she is dead and will not use her limbs for anything else ever again. More, she was the one who died, she was the one who broke the understanding they had, she was the one who left him behind. Who was she to judge what he does to survive after that?

There is good in his goals, there is justice in what he intends to do. If he can only achieve his goals, successfully conclude his research, then, just then…

In the end, maybe Ominis was right all along. The Dark Arts were poisonous, dangerous, not to those who are its targets, but to those who are its users. No hope was ever going to bloom from those curses, only a false promise, a clever trap laid out just for him. There will come the day when he would not stand this mockery any longer, it is fast approaching in the horizon of his frail mental state, and he will demand the real thing for himself again.

If he manages to cure that perfidious final ailment until then, very well, but if he does not… Well, there is more than one way to end his agony.

“Yeah,” he croaks, all melody lost from his voice.

Rosalie lays her hand on his soft jawline, pressing a butterfly kiss to his cheek. It was almost like she used to do when she was still alive and he was in one of his moods.

“Oh no, is my poor husband feeling unloved? I shall have to rectify that now, should I not?”

Sebastian shuts his eyes closed, trying to keep his tears at bay. He releases all the inhibition, all the guilt, and just allows himself to revel in her love, no matter how fragile it may be. No matter how fake it is.

With it, he pulls her in for a fuller kiss, one that lands on his lips instead of his cheek. He lays her to the bed lovingly, their marital bed, the bed where everything happened. His hands touch the repulsing gash on her stomach, the material proof to her death sketched against the otherwise alabaster skin, and suffocates any thoughts to the contrary in his mind.

He draws her love from her lips and concludes that her laughter makes his misdeeds worth it.

Sebastian may have had scruples one day. Alas, he strayed much too far from it all, and he will bring Rosalie alongside him.

*_*_*_*_*

Hogwarts Legacy Masterlist

[thesilkentheater]

night sickness

Nightshade blossoms on the windowsill, its scent gently blown in by the midnight breeze. Sheer curtains ripple gently, as though mimicking the waves of an ocean they've never never seen. The apartment is lit by the gentle ethereal glow of the phosphor lights and the moon; her pale light is interrupted by the purple-blue that dyed magic often lends its creations.

They'll never go out unless she tells them to. Not for a strong gust of wind, or water, or a spiteful look, or the end of the world. True and faithful, in some sense; uncaring and unobserving in another. They wait for one thing and one thing only, and in that sense their nonexistent heart is just as bleeding as the next statue.

But does it matter? They cannot betray her, and so onto them she might project whatever she pleases. What use is there in paranoia, when these lights can have no quarrel with such a label; when everyone in the end is satiated? Were she to rely on them for her day to day existence, they would stay stalwart; were they to stop existing the moment she did, it would matter not.

Sleep takes her now, but in the morning she will think this over and come to a very strange conclusion regarding this information. Fate is indeterminate, of course, and so what exact thing she will decide is nonsensical; but the puppet strings she can't see are indelible and precise, and thus it will be rather unexpected.

Can the expectedly unexpected be unexpected anymore?

The room is rather cluttered, with assortments strewn here and there. A copy of some botanist's guide lays over a tome detailing proper alchemical procedures in the field of machinery. An artificer's glove has been haphazardly tossed on a little plush whale with cross-mark eyes and black fluffy skin. Sheets of paper with scribbles and unintelligible notes are everywhere, sometimes with a writing utensil in the center where there's many.

One such place is the bed, where she lays. Stock-still and as a statue, back perfectly straight and hands clasped above her stomach; but beneath her hands is a set of scrawlings that seem nearly unrelated until you pinpoint a central variable to the whole ordeal, at which point the math becomes both more and less confusing. Her pencil has since fallen off, and seems to have rolled slightly towards her head in hopes that it won't be instantly crushed in the morning when she tries to get up.

Her notes are in vain. They will be, no matter what she does- this line of inquiry is too slow, too safe to save her. By the time she finishes the work she will have been dead for years, and her research undiscovered by anyone who would care; or perhaps it will be found and promptly stolen, because a dead girl who knows no one cannot complain about such things.

It will kill her first. Maybe this night, but likely not; she's got a bit more time in her than that, one would hope. Even now she has little clue of the severity of her situation, as the man that told her she had a month to live was being kind when he turned to his assistant and asked her to fudge up the numbers a bit on her personal copy of the documents, just to give her a little hope. She'd die in her sleep for certain, and in a month someone will go and pick up her corpse and bring it to the hospital.

They won't find their cure in corpses, either. It is the doctor's hope, and why he now watches from the apartment across the street through the open window, but this tail is loathe to end in anything but tragedy for either party. Vitriol for such a situation can be tasted through the lemon-lime spice of the black lemonade in her mini-fridge, cold and sparkling and refreshing and meaning nothing to a dead girl.

But she's still breathing. He watches this from the window, undeterred, hoping that perhaps a fresh specimen is all it will take to rid the world of this cursed thing. Maybe, just maybe, if he were to discover a cure, he could stop the world from using it as another pawn to play their games, and allow as many people as possible to live once more. Perhaps starvation and medical attention wouldn't be two things to choose between.

It's a fever dream, he knows. In that he's certainly dreaming, and he feels rather feverish. Perhaps he has a flu coming on, though that would be a shame; should he let his manager know they'll never let him dissect and use this body. So he can't get sick, not now, and certainly not like this.

She's under the covers, window open, the gentle breeze coming in, and she's still cold. It might nearly bring her awake, but she stays asleep just barely by snuggling into the wall, thereby convincing her mind that everything is safe, everything will be nice and warm in just a moment. This motion convinces the man, who gets up to leave but stops in his track from just how dizzy he is.

But this is no time to be standing around. This is about a moment of weakness on her end telling him when she's going to die- tonight, and soon. He leaves for her home as quickly as he can.

Nobody's at the front desk of the apartment building. He goes up the elevator, and the door is unlocked. Strange, especially considering no one else lives in here with her. He wondered why when she said it and does again now.

Inside her room, her shivering has gotten worse. She would not have died tonight, but it appears the illusion of warmth has gotten to her, and it may come earlier than expected. Meanwhile, the doctor walks, one step forward-

realizes that, at the end of the day, he is no better than the banks who call her constantly and hound to make a will, uncaring of her actual diagnosis and treatment and feelings-

and starts to cough blood.

[episkystyles]

Diabolical // H.S. [PART FOUR]*

Summary: Y/N never was one to believe in supernatural beings — even with the many mysterious cases of missing people starting to pile up in her hometown. But when she catches the attention of one peculiar man during a winter trip to see her parents, she soon uncovers things she thought only existed in books and movies. [PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE]

Warnings: Mature content [mentions of blood]

“Mom, do you really have to go?” Y/N pleaded, watching as her mother zipped her suitcase. “I don’t think whatever doctor you’ve found is going to be of much help.”

“I understand your concern, Y/N, but Dr. Winston had been emailing me profusely about his theories on your father’s condition. He’s proven to be an expert in his profession, and I trust that he’ll be the one who figures this whole mess out.” Her mother walked over to her daughter and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll only be gone for the weekend. I think you’re perfectly capable of handling your dad on your own.”

She sighed. She wished she could tell the truth to her mother about her father’s “illness” that no doctor could possibly cure, but she cannot. At least, not now. She wouldn’t believe her anyway if she had; she’d think that she had gone crazy, accusing her own dad of being a vampire. It also enrages Y/N that some scammy doctor on the other side of the state is filling her mom with false hope so she could throw money at him. This Dr. Winston guy doesn’t know shit.

Once her mom left, Y/N went to check up on her father, still in a pretty comatose state as his body twitched and throttled against the bed. She could it now, as his mouth opened slightly; two fangs starting to grow, and she wondered if her mom had noticed it at all.

A loud thud is heard from the living room, making her jump in a panic. Had someone broken in? Was it one of those vampires who thirsted for her “pure” blood? Ever since she had spoken to Harry, she was nonstop paranoid about everything and everyone. She was basically a walking target now and there was nothing she could do about it. Y/N took a step into the living room, eyebrow raised as Harry stood before her, inspecting the family photos that lined up the wall.

“Lovely family,” he murmured, tapping his finger against a picture of her from when she was about three. “You know, you should really learn to lock your door, especially after what I told you about this town. I just walked in.”

“I thought vampires are supposed to be invited in,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Common misconception… and stereotype,” Harry stated, now walking over to her. He placed his hands on top of her shoulders and leaned in, kissing her gently. He pulled away and whispered, “How’s my favorite human?”

She rolled her eyes. Leave it to him to point out her mortality. “Worried. My mom’s gone to some doctor who thinks he can cure my father, and my father’s just grown fangs. He also can’t stop contorting in his sleep.”

“He must be hungry then,” he said, now walking over to a bag she just noticed placed on the coffee table. He pulled out an enclosed styrofoam cup. “Luckily, I came prepared.”

“Is… is that blood?”

“No angel, it’s tomato soup,” Harry chuckled sarcastically, shaking his head at her sour expression. “This is the only way that can help your father come to a lot sooner. His body is in pure agony from all the physical changes and feeding him will make him a little more comfortable. He must be starving.”

Y/N chewed on the bottom of her lip nervously. “I don’t know, Harry…”

“It’s better than him waking up randomly in the middle of the night and him feasting on you or your mother. Newborns are especially vicious and uncaring, blind by their thirst,” he said pointedly. “I do not want that happening. It’s a miracle it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Okay fine, follow me,” she said, trembling at the proposed thought of her potential fate. Her father being too consumed with the thought of blood and murder that he wouldn’t stop to recognize his own daughter and wife.

She led him to the room where her father rested in. Harry took off the lid and it was like her dad’s body became immediately aware and absolutely ravenous. He shook vigorously and made monstrous noises, and Harry quickly walked over and handed him the container of the blood, God knows where it came from but she didn’t dare ask. As if his unconscious state knew exactly what to do with it, Y/N’s dad brings the cup to his lips and he downs it rather fast, his body soon relaxing afterwards when he puts the empty container down. The blood appeared to have been incredibly helpful, as he settled down and stopped moving about. Like he was really sleeping.

It felt so nice to see him look a lot more like her father again.

“Thank you Harry,” she whispered, smiling lightly despite how messed up this all was. “He looks a lot better now.”

“I’d like to take you somewhere, angel,” Harry said, grabbing her hand with his own. “Let’s go out for a little while.”

“I’m not sure if I can leave my dad all alone…”

“Don’t worry darling, I’m certain he’ll be fine.”

Not needing much convincing, Y/N agreed to go out with him. Another misconception about vampires, she learned, is that sunlight doesn’t bother them all that much. They just prefer the darkness and cold weather as it’s a lot easier for them to hunt and run about.

Harry had led her into the woods, venturing through the trees which she’d feel uneasy with if she weren’t with him. She trusts him though, and trusts the fact that he would do anything to put her life at risk. While they haven’t known each other for all that long, she cannot help but feel a strong pull towards him, even after everything he has told her. It’s crazy because she knows she should stay far away from him. He’s a blood-thirsty vampire who could take her life any time he wants to — hell, he could be doing exactly that right now. Leading her into a vast forest so that nobody could hear her screams while he feasts into her flesh. But Y/N knows that he won’t do that. He would never.

She just knows.

He abruptly stops, and turns toward her with a smirk before holding out his hand. “Give me your hand, angel.”

Y/N does so, and almost instantly she feels herself being hoisted onto his back while he climbs a very large tree. She squeals very loudly and Harry chuckles, pushing past branches as they made their way to the top. Once doing so, he placed a firm grip on her waist as they gazed at the wondrous view beyond them, Arringdale being somewhere amongst all those trees and hills. She could see a large expanse of a lake glistening just a few miles away, and she sighed in delight as a breeze flew through her hair.

She truly felt alive.

“Are you scared?”

She looked at Harry, and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to the insane height they were currently standing in or him, but she still answered, “No, I have no reason to be.”

He smiled. “I truly think we belong together, Y/N. Something about you calls to me, and I’ve never been so enchanted by someone as I do with you before. You’re… you’re a rare creature.”

“Says you,” she teases. “But I feel the same way about you, Harry. I mean, I think it says a lot that I just do casually agreed to come up all the way here. I’m typically afraid of heights.”

He furrowed his brows. “I thought you said you weren’t scared.”

“I’m not,” she said. “At least, not when I’m with you. I feel safe with you.”

That’s when Harry leaned in and kissed her deeply. He pulled her close against him as their mouths intertwined perfectly, careful to not miss a step otherwise he’d lead them — well, her — to their demise. Y/N pulled away and whispered with a glint of mischief in her eyes, “Take me to your cabin, Harry.”

The second they stepped through the door, Y/N was all over him. He had slammed her up against the wall kissed at her neck, making sure not to graze her skin with his sharp teeth. His hands tugged off her shirt, exposing her bra-covered breasts in a lacy fashion, which made his eyes darken in delight. Harry dragged their bodies over to the bedroom, where he laid her down and began kissing all over her bare skin.

“Is… is it… is it dangerous for a vampire to have a sex with a human,” Y/N breathed out in heavy pants as he slid her bottoms right off, his lips now dangerously close to a particular area of her body.

“No, not really, but it can be if we’re not careful,” Harry murmured, pressing a warm kiss to her inner thigh. “I promise to be real careful with you though, angel. M’gonna make you feel real good.”

“Harry,” she hummed, leaning upwards to unhook her bra, flinging the material away before laying back down and spreading her legs slightly further apart. “You don’t have to be too careful with me. I can handle you.”

“Are you sure?” You’re tempting the devil.

“Yes, I am.” I don’t care.

That’s when his head leaned forward and he takes the material of her underwear between his teeth, immediately snapping it apart and sliding it down her legs. This made a shiver crawl up her spine, turning her on even more than she already was. Harry grinned in satisfaction at the sight of her, naked and needy underneath him. He pulled off his own shirt, throwing it back behind him as he pushed himself up against her, his fingers gently wrapping themselves around her neck.

“Ready, darling?” He planted a kiss against her collarbone. “I can feel you shaking underneath me.” His one hand removed itself from her neck and placed itself right between her thighs, making her most quietly. “You’re so wet for me, you have no idea the things I want to do to you.”

“So do them,” Y/N murmured, looking right into his beautiful eyes. “And do them well.”

That was enough for Harry to rip her legs right open, removing every last article of clothing her had worn before pushing his length right inside of her. She gasped and her fingers clung his back as he started to move, showing no mercy as he rocked his hips against hers back and forth at a rapid speed. The bed underneath them creaked and slammed against the wall, and she briefly wondered why he had a bed in the first place when he most likely doesn’t sleep a wink.

Oh right. To do things like this.

“Is it too much for you, angel?” Harry whispered in her ear as she whimpered from his thrusts, her nails burying themselves into his pale skin. “Need me to stop?”

“No, never. In fact, I want it harder,” she begged, swearing loudly when he did just that and really started fucking her right into the mattress, merciless as he swung her legs over her head and drilled himself right into. “Fuck! Harry.”

“I like it when you say my name like that,” he murmured lowly, staring right into her wide open eyes. “It makes me feel alive.”

When they finished together, Y/N was an absolute exhausted mess but Harry made sure to take care of her. He helped cleaned her right up in his bathroom, massaging gentle circles into her sore legs as he kissed her upper temple. She sighed in content as she leaned against his body, “How many lovers do you have, Harry? If you don’t mind me asking.”

She’s not sure why she hadn’t bothered to ask before they did anything, but now, she was curious. She never considered that he’d have potential past (or, unfortunately, current) suitors other than her. Were any of them like her? Human? Or were they like him, vampires?

“You,” he answered, taking a washcloth and rubbing the warm water over her stomach.

“What about before me?”

“Only you, Y/N. You’re the only person I’ve been with in… about a hundred years,” he said, not seeming to want to keep up with the subject. “Does it hurt to walk?”

He’s deflecting. Clearly he doesn’t want to address his one-hundred-year celibacy, so she doesn’t push the matter any further, but there were still so many questions roaming in her brain. “No, not too badly. But you still did a little number on me.”

Harry chuckled, and she leaned over the counter to grab her phone. Surprisingly enough there was cell service, so when she turned the device on, she was met with a few text messages.

Mom: Ugh, forgot my wallet. Have to come back early.

Mom: Y/N, where are you? You were supposed to be watching your father.

Mom: Your dad is acting strange… a lot stranger than usual. Please come home soon

Mom: Oh my God he’s awake. He’s looking at me

Mom: HELP

“Oh my God!” Y/N belted, pushing herself away from Harry to gather all of her clothes. “I have to go home right now. My dad woke up!”

Harry’s eyes widened and the two of them hurried to get ready before leaving. Her mother’s last text was sent over an hour ago, and by now, it’s dark outside. She hope her mother was okay — as well as her father. He couldn’t possibly harm her in any way, right? They fed him already, and he seemed satisfied.

However, when they got back to her house, everything was completely silent. The pair tiptoed quietly, noticing all the broken and shattered vases and glasses, living room and dining room furniture thrown about, and… traces of a red substance all over the floor that led to her parents’ bedroom.

“Mom?” Y/N called out, shaking in complete and utter fear.

Her and Harry shared a glance before going into her parents’ room, discovering her unconscious mother laying limply on the floor, looking drained of blood.

And her father was nowhere to be found.

a/n: sorry if this was bad LOL ahhh

[pigeontheoneandonly]

25, 27, 29 and 49 of Not So Nice Asks. The situation in 49 is indoctrination of a loved one she cannot save.

Thanks for the ask!  I enjoyed this list a lot. :)  Answering for Nathaly.

25. Have they ever been betrayed by someone they thought they could trust?

More than once.  Leaving aside some of the more obvious, the one that really caught her by surprise was working a joint mission with a spec ops squad from the Hierarchy, when one of the turians went rogue and shot her at close range from behind.  She acted alone and her motives were never made clear, as she died shortly thereafter from Nathaly's counter-attack, but it did lead to a difficult situation, trying to explain what had happened to the rest of both teams.  Privately, Nathaly believes that maybe was the point-- to try to sow division between the Alliance and the Hierarchy.

27. How many times have they been in the hospital?

Not counting minor incidents or basic overnight stays, she's had a handful of extended stays in the hospital.  The first occurred when she was a teenager and wrecked her father's car drag racing on the Martian planitia.  Her friends thought she'd died, got scared and left.  She woke up in the cold and had to walk back.  Most of her injuries were minor, but between the mild hypothermia, severe dehydration from getting lost in a very dry desert, and the concussion, she was kept in-patient for a week.

29. Does what they cannot see scare them?

The unknown doesn't scare her very much, to be honest.  She finds it more exciting than frightening.  But the unknowable, that's another subject altogether.  The answers she can't have to crucially important things, how she came back to life, what the reapers want, those questions haunt her.

49. If [name] was put into ______ situation, they’d rather die than live to see it through.  Situation: Indoctrination of a loved one she cannot save.

Hackett met her at the airlock.  Shepard had no patience for the small courtesies.  "I left a very fragile situation in the Traverse for this.  It had better be important."

"It is."  And it said something about the truth of that remark that Hackett didn't offer so much as a raised eyebrow in response to her blatant rudeness.  "I thought it best to brief you in person.  The Crucible project has suffered a severe setback."

They began walking across his dreadnought to the nearby elevator.  A few of his crew glanced up as they passed, staring at her with worried eyes and glancing away when they saw her notice.  A knot of unease began to form in her gut.  "What kind of setback?"

An officer stepped smartly to the side.  She'd held the elevator for them.  Shepard's concern ratcheted up another notch.

Hackett cleared his throat.  "An explosion in the makeshift dock.  We lost an entire shipment of palladium, and nearly a hundred personnel.  The project's at a standstill until we can rebuild."

"That's not good news, but why exactly couldn't you tell me this over the comm?"  The project was classified but they discussed its progress routinely.

"We have the perpetrator in custody."  Hackett looked at her, expression unreadable.  The elevator stopped.  He gestured her forward, a small politeness, and she recognized the corridor beyond as the ship's brig.  She didn't want to take a single step.  Every instinct screamed at her not to move, that she wouldn't like what was coming.

But there wasn't any help for it.  She allowed him to escort her to the solitary holding cells at the far end.  Each one had a front wall consisting of reinforced glass, and most were unoccupied.  

Every cell, in fact, save the last.  Shepard's heart stopped.

A gray-haired woman who could have been her twin if she was thirty years younger rushed towards the window, laying her palms flat against it.  "Nathaly, thank god."

For a long moment she couldn't even speak.  She looked at Hackett.  "You must be mistaken."

He shook his head, the barest of movements.  Her mother banged the glass to get her attention.  "Nathaly, honey, there's been a huge misunderstanding.  I was in my quarters the whole time--"

"We have it on security vid," Hackett said, more to Shepard than to Hannah.  Quiet sympathy in every word, but not the barest hint of doubt.

Shepard shook her head.  "No."

Behind the glass, her mother's eyes were wild.  This woman who believed good character and tidiness were intrinsically linked stood in a rumpled uniform, slept in for the past few days, hair sticking up and completely undone, completely uncaring.  "You have to believe me.  I don't remember anything they've accused me of.  I was asleep.  All those people-- my people-- I'd never harm them."

She stared at her mother.  Her hand went to her mouth.  Barely able to force the word out.  "Indoctrination."

In that same quiet tone, like they stood graveside at a funeral, Hackett said, "Yes."

Both of them knew very well there was no cure.  Shepard sucked in a shaky breath.  "How… how long?"

"Maybe if we win…"  He trailed off.  Meaning, maybe once the reapers are gone, the indoctrinated would go back to normal.  But neither of them believed that.

Neither of them believed the indoctrinated were anything but enemy agents, and in a war for survival, against an overwhelming enemy that lacked the capacity to surrender, they couldn't afford to take a chance.

Hackett's eyes were full of pity.  "I thought you'd want to say goodbye."

"What does he mean?" Hannah demanded.

Her throat closed.  Her chest tight, the air stilled, like time itself had come to a halt.

"Nathaly, you have to fix this.  Listen to me."  Pleading now.  Her mother, her unbreakable, stubborn, unassailable mother, all but on her knees.  

A tear slipped down her cheek.  Staring at her through the glass, the closest they'd ever be again.  

"Nathaly, please."

She couldn't respond.

"Nathaly--"

[accidentally-a-writer]

a dangerous game

Hello! After a much waiting (we’re so sorry) here is chapter 2 of Part II of the Past Patiently Waiting Series; the end for which we live. 

written by: @stegekay and @accidentally-a-writer

Read it on A03

tw: non-consensual drug use 

... 

Alexander storms away from the general and his quarters, taking the stairs two at a time despite the fire it sends up his side to do so.

He needs to find those notes, he’ll show Washington… he’ll prove that the error wasn’t on his part. He slams the office door a little louder than he’d intended but it doesn’t deter his anger any, Hamilton can still feel his fury burning through his veins.

The desk drawer rips open with a satisfying thud, his fingers leafing through all his saved papers at an unprecedented speed. He finally sees the bound stack of scrap papers where he collected the notes he used to draft his missives. Good. This is the proof he needs, he’ll annotate all his supposed mistakes and show Washington, he’ll force him to listen.

But he certainly won’t do it in the general’s own office; it’s been made perfectly clear that he’s not welcome at the moment.

Hamilton nearly crashes into Laurens as he rips out of Washington’s office. He doesn’t feel like explaining what’s just happened, even though Laurens probably knows to some extent - he was most likely woken by it - so he shoulders past his friend in favour of getting the Hell out.

“Alexander, wait! Slow down!” Laurens calls after him, easily catching up to the boy and grabbing his arm, forcing the younger officer to face him. He lowers his voice so it’s just for them two. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hamilton mumbles.

“Frankly, I don’t care what you feel like doing; you’re upset. Come, we’ll find somewhere private to talk.” Laurens expects more of a fight, but Hamilton deflates and nods.

“Not your chambers, I won’t- I want out of here.”

“We needn’t stay here, there are plenty other places.” After a quick nod Hamilton rips himself from Laurens’ hold and marches himself towards the front entrance. Laurens grabs both of their cloaks and follows, wondering what the Hell could have happened that was so volatile so early in the morning.

The door slams before he reaches it, and Laurens cringes internally and spares a glance up the stairs. There’s no shouting, no one questioning what’s going on, but when Laurens follows Hamilton out, he makes sure the door doesn’t close so loudly behind him.

…

“Is that all he said? That Congress called for your discharge?”

“After accusing me of carelessness? Yes.” But Laurens sees it behind Alexander’s eyes, there was something else, something he doesn’t want to divulge even to his closest friend.

“Is that all you said?”  

“Of importance to this conversation? Yes.”

“How little our friendship must matter, for you not to disclose what hurried you away from Washington’s quarters in such a speed I thought your hidden affliction cured.” Hamilton scoffs and averts his gaze, but still he feels the rush to his cheeks at his friend’s sardonic words.

“You’re rather forward today, Colonel,” Hamilton says instead. “First rejecting my wish to keep the matter undisclosed and then scolding me when I turn out to be, in fact, uncomfortable in broadcasting the details of a private conversation.”

“Is it forward for a man to wonder after his friend?”

“When his friend makes it known the matter is a private one? Perhaps. You’ve yet to tell me what the general sends you riding out at all hours of the day for; do not speak in haste and discover yourself a hypocrite.”

It is Laurens’ turn to blush. Hamilton is right, he has no right to demand the boy’s secrets with the general when he keeps such an enormous one to himself.  He utters a short apology and follows Hamilton to the nearby stables.

They don’t ride for long, it can’t be more than an hour, if that. It’s a quiet place where Alexander finally stops, and it seems to pass whatever requirements Hamilton could not find in the camp. He dismounts, tying his horse to a nearby tree. Laurens follows without a word.

Hamilton retrieves his portable writing desk and shifts himself into a sitting position, though he can’t hide the wince as the movement pulls at his side.

“Alexander?”

“I’m fine,” Hamilton hisses in sharp reply. “It’s not that bad.” He glances up quickly enough to see Laurens open his mouth, and an instant later close it. With no more hesitation Laurens sits on the ground next to him.

Hamilton settles his desk against his knees and removes two bundles of papers from his coat, tossing them in the space between he and Laurens.

“Explain to me exactly what we’re doing?”

“Congress blames me for the mistakes in my reports,” Alexander bites out the words and snorts at the end. “That’s why they want the general to remove me. But all of the information from the reports came from these notes, you see?” He hands the stack of reports to Laurens and takes the notes for himself. “The mistakes here aren’t mine.”

Any other man Laurens might doubt at such an arrogant sounding statement, but not Hamilton.

“Alright,” he says, “so we find the mistakes in the letter and the information in the notes, and match them.”

Alexander sighs in what could be relief, nodding gratefully as Laurens separates the bundles from two into four.

“The general will have my head for missing a day’s worth of work,” Laurens mutters, eyes already scanning the document. “And for riding out here with you.”

Alexander hums, ingrained in his work already, “When standing next to me you can rest assured his ire will not fall to you. Besides, you’re protection enough, oui?”

“Neither of us have our pistols Hammie,” Laurens grins. This is harmless disobedience, surely. Washington will indeed reprimand them when they return but for now it is worth it to see Alexander look at him and wink, at ease in the world at last.

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to work quickly.”

John shakes his head in amusement, returning to his task. Congress has done them the convenience of underlining all of Alex’s alleged mistakes, making it a far easier job to find the mistaken information in the notes. Hamilton is right, he didn’t make any of these mistakes. His dictations were reported back incorrectly, he doesn’t deserve to be expelled or even suspended.

It’s nearing suppertime when Laurens finally sits back from the bundles, charcoal and ink staining his fingers.

Alexander scans his final document furiously before making a definitive angry underline and throwing it onto their pile of stacked correspondences.

“He’ll see now,” the boy announces, “he’ll see that I’m not at fault and I’m not being arrogant by not accepting fault.”

“He does not think you an inept worker Alexander, even now, he merely thinks-”

“The general thinks that my encounter with Samuel Davies has left me so broken that I’m unable to complete my tasks to a standard of his office,” Hamilton spits. “That is not the case, if anything I feel Washington is the greater affected, the way he obsesses over protection and guards and control-”

“Alexander there was a great deal of time where we thought you dead or hours from. So do not chastise the general for now being protective, when he spent weeks wondering how he might have failed at the task so severely that you were left injured and dying in his care.”

Alexander flushes and looks down in shame. He breathes a moment and then- “Forgive me.”

Laurens also averts his gaze. “And I as well, I was harsh. Just- try to remember that what Washington does he does out of concern, out of care.”

Alexander nods wordlessly and Laurens takes it as a good moment to end the conversation.

“Come, we must return while we still have the light.” He stands, offering Alexander a hand up which for once the boy accepts. Laurens gathers the letters back into their bundles.

“Might you put those on Washington’s desk for me?”

“Alexander, I am not afforded the same leniency as you, I cannot just walk into the general’s study-”

“Please? I… I’m not quite prepared to meet him yet.”

Casting his friend a disapproving glare, John mounts his horse. “I’m not getting in between any of you and Washington’s domestics.”

“I’m not asking you to, I’m asking you to set them on his desk.” Alexander mounts his own horse. “Please.”

John breathes a long sigh. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Hamilton’s face is that of a spoilt little one, and Laurens would daresay he is. “You ride first, I’d like to collect my thoughts for a moment.”

“More like you want me to take the brunt of any ire our disappearance has caused.” Alexander grins and quirks an eyebrow. He neither denies nor accepts the accusations. Laurens shakes his head and spurs his horse, casting one last remark behind him. “If I am discovered I’ll have your head!”

All he hears for a reply is Hamilton’s laughter.  

…

Laurens doesn’t stay half-asleep for long. At the general’s clearly growing panic he blinks a few more times, harder, chasing away the rest of his sleep. “Sir? Is there something wrong?” He sits up, uncaring that his commanding officer will see him in his bedclothes. “General Washington?”

Washington is pale, his breaths coming too fast and too short to be anything but panic. He’d asked Laurens about Alexander.

“Sir? Is something wrong with Hamilton?” No reply. Washington isn’t looking at him, he’s looking through him. “General Washington? Where is Alexander?”

“I-I don’t know,” Washington finally gasps. “He’s not- are you sure he did not sleep here last night?”

The desperation in the man’s voice pains Laurens, especially because it will do nothing to change his answer. “Yes sir, I always wake up when Alex comes in, he didn’t last night. I thought he was with you.”

Worry gnaws at Laurens’ stomach, he’d been sure that Hamilton returned, he’d only left him alone for a moment...

As if just realizing where he is Washington snaps away from John’s bed like he suddenly realized it was on fire. “This is improper. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“If you cannot find Alexander that is ample reason to rouse me Your Excellency.” Washington nods and meets Laurens’ eye, and the general sees the guilt hidden within them.

“Laurens,” he starts slowly, “you left with Hamilton yesterday morning. You two were absent for hours, where did you go?”

Although Hamilton had been placed on leave Laurens had technically still been on duty, he was meant to report to Washington that morning and hadn’t. When he reappeared that evening he and the other men expected him to get a thorough tongue lashing, but Washington hadn’t done anything to punish or even chastise him - the other men rolled their eyes and whispered of more favouritism.

“I... we-”

“John.”

“We didn’t go far outside the camp’s boundaries sir!” Sitting up in bed, dressed in little more than his nightshirt and hair sprawled over and around his shoulders, Laurens looks every bit his few twenty-three years, like a child pleading innocence to their schoolmaster. “Alex needed- he was going to leave on his own anyways, he was upset… I went with him.”

“On horseback?” Washington knows his tone is too harsh as Laurens jumps in place and refuses to meet his eye, but he cannot rectify that now.

“Yes sir, only to the halfway point between here and the town sir.”

“And what time did you two return from this halfway point?”

Laurens meets Washington’s eyes and the general immediately knows what he’s about to say. Those eyes are filled with guilt and worry and confusion. “A little after supper? Alexander gave me those letters to deliver to your office and said he’d join me in the evening, he was supposed to be right behind me. I heard someone come in and I thought it was him and that you two had merely resolved your… row. I thought he slept in his own bed.”

Washington is angry at the situation - no he’s terrified about the situation - but that terror manifests as anger and there’s nothing for that anger to direct itself at except the poor boy confessing in front of him.

“You left him alone?” The general’s voice comes as a dangerous hiss which Laurens can do naught but flinch at.

“No! He was meant to be behind me, he only asked for a moment alone to collect his thoughts. He needed to be alone-”

“No, he wanted to be alone, he needed to be kept safe! For God’s sake John you of all men should know why he should not be left alone outside the camp’s boundaries!”

“I’m sorry,” Laurens whispers. He watches Washington carefully, muscles taut in fear he knows should be unfounded. “Your Excellency, what’s happened?”

“The incorrect notes, they’re in Davies’ handwriting.” Laurens gapes at that revelation. But then that would mean-

“He was waiting for Alexander to be expelled for his mistakes.”

“Evidently.” There is nothing but fury in Washington’s eyes, nothing but ice in his voice. Laurens bows his head again in response. “And yet I did not expel him, he would have been fine if he’d not left the camp grounds!”

It’s his fault. Washington clearly thinks so. Laurens should have stayed with Alexander, despite the fit he would have thrown if his friend were to persist. “I’ll take a horse and search for him, just give me a moment’s time-”

“Never mind Colonel, I’ll send other men to search for Colonel Hamilton.”

Laurens stares up at him and Washington can see the guilt in his eyes, how crushed he looks. He blinks quickly - forcing away tears Washington realizes - and Washington feels a jab of guilt in his own gut. He’s almost made this boy cry, whose only crime was indulging his brother.

“Please allow me to accompany the search party.”

Washington’s remorse does not show on his face, but he does not shout at Laurens again. Washington nods stiffly and jerks out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a resounding thud which reverberates far longer in John’s head.

Laurens lets out a breath and then is scrambling to dress himself; this is his fault, he was the last to see Alexander before he was- he knew that Davies is still alive- he knew and Alexander didn’t…

Now his best friend, his brother, might be in a living Hell that he was unaware still loomed over the horizon.

…

Beer tastes vile, Alexander has always thought so, but he drinks it anyways. Men don’t drink beer for its pleasantries after all.

Right now it gives him something to do to escape, and as long as it takes to finish his second he does not have to return to the camp. After this one however he will return, he’s had plenty. Any more and he’ll be on his way to drunk.

Well actually… perhaps he ought to stop before then. He might be well on his way to drunk now. He’s not eaten all day, he realizes, Washington will be even more displeased with him if he returns to camp roaring drunk.

Someone sits across from him and Hamilton does not want company right now. He lifts his head to tell the stranger so and feels himself go absolutely rigid.

Davies.

How-

How is he alive? Washington told him that he was dead. He saw him fall to the general’s bullet-

Hamilton pushes away from the table, trying to put as much distance between him and his tormentor, but the man catches his wrist and pulls him back. It’s too easy. Hamilton’s limbs feel weighed down by a force outside his own body, unnaturally heavy and compliant.

“Don’t scream now,” Davies grins. “Sit down, let’s just talk.”

Sit? Hamilton does. He’s not sure why. He… he should want to leave. He does want to leave. But sitting makes sense right now. So he sits.

“I’ve so missed you Colonel, these past few months,” Davies’ tone is far too casual, but it still has that sadistic quality that Alexander remembers from their encounters and his nightmares thereafter. Hamilton wants to run. Why can’t he run? “What have you been up to, pet? Keeping busy? I see that nasty wound never properly healed, shame.”

Davies smirks at the unsaid question in Hamilton’s eyes. “Your general is a fine shot,” the man reaches for his shirt collar and pulls it back, revealing a jagged scar against the side of his neck, “but he’s not the best. He missed the vital regions of the neck. And true, most men die anyways from a shot like this one, but I had very good doctors.”

Hamilton grunts, his limbs are so heavy and he can’t understand why. He only had a few-

His eyes dart to where his beers sit, and then back to Davies. In his hand Davies fiddles with a vial, flipping it up and down and around his fingers. It’s empty.

“Just something to help us along, pet,” he explains.

How? How did he… And then it strikes Hamilton's muddled mind. Davies has been watching him, following him. Whatever substance had been in that vial was in his drink before it ever got to him.

“You still look thirsty. Go ahead," Davies prompts him out of his head. "Finish it all in one go.”

Hamilton doesn’t want to, he knows it’s drugged Davies has just told him it’s drugged but- he drinks it until he chokes and even then he gulps down more. It’s like a compulsion, like he can’t say no.

Something lights up in Davies’ eyes as he watches Hamilton struggle to finish his drink. By the end he reeks of alcohol and everything around him has gone fuzzy. His ears ring like they do when a pistol is fired and the world sends tingles through his skin.

Davies stands and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in tight against his side.

When Hamilton stands he expects the sharp pain of his wound, but it doesn’t come. It should hurt, he knows. There’s a lot of things that should be happening but aren’t, he can’t remember what they are.

“My poor friend I think has had a few too many,” Davies says distantly. Or right next to his ear. Hamilton doesn’t know. “I’ll get him to his bed safely.”

This is wrong. Alexander can feel it deep in his soul; something is wrong. But… but he’s not sure what it is. He’s not sure what… what’s happening right now. What anything is.

Words. He doesn’t know what the words are.

Davies pulls him along and he stumbles, breathless mumbles of “No…” and “Stop” slipping from his lips, though he doesn’t know why he says them. Nobody spares a second glance, this is a common scene coming from the pub.

When Davies disappears into the night with him no one sees anything out of the ordinary.

…

The words fall from Washington’s mouth easily, orders for men to ride immediately to search for Colonel Hamilton.

There’s confusion, of course there is, but he is in no mood to explain himself. His men should obey anyways.

The small group of soldiers return, Hamilton is not to be found in any nearby area or surroundings, not even where Laurens points them to, the clearing they spent the previous day in. His horse is still missing from the stables, by all accounts it is likely he did not return to the camp.

The terror Washington feels is familiar now, how it clutches at his heart and suffocates his lungs. It’s all too coincidental… Davies handwriting in the notes, Alexander’s disappearance, Washington knows something is wrong he knows.

What if Davies had been waiting for this? That must have been his plan, to wait until the mistakes he forced onto Alexander’s head roused Congress to demand his suspension.

Whether or not he thought Washington would truly expel him, Washington doesn’t know, but he must have known it would be enough to prompt Alexander to leave the camp. Foolish, stubborn, boy.

Foolish, stubborn, boy who Washington cannot bear to lose.

Please be safe, please, please, please be safe.

Washington hears Davies voice near every night in his sleep, promising and threatening all in one, describing how he’d make Alexander scream, holding the boy too close and too tightly.

Washington still does not know what possessed him to take the shot, but he knows that in the following hours when it was still unsure if the war could proceed due to the false orders he had looked at the sleeping boy, safe and sound in his bed, and decided it’d been worth it.

Why didn’t Washington go after him? He was upset, they both were, why did he let the pair of them leave the camp when he could have so easily called Alexander back. He doesn’t care what was said anymore, he doesn’t care if Hamilton made the mistakes himself or not. He just needs to find his-

“Your Excellency, Colonel Hamilton might be anywhere. Perhaps he took it upon himself to deliver the early morning missives himself, maybe he did return after all…”

Washington says nothing of Hamilton’s suspension. He won’t, it was made under false circumstances anyhow.

“I am almost certain that this is not the case. Keep looking. We all know how dangerous situations such as these can become, I’ll not have a repeated history. We cannot afford to lose Colonel Hamilton, if the British were to question him for information I’m sure he would not willingly give it up, but I worry if they were to try and use more aggressive means.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The man salutes and rushes away.

Torture. Washington is talking about torture. But he knows that if that is truly the case then it will not be the British administering it, no, it would be someone far worse. And there’s nothing in Heaven, Hell or the Earth that Washington would be able to do to stop it.

The sudden severity of the situation becomes apparent to the men, and they rush to organize themselves in a broader, more thorough manner. Washington is not questioned again, until he orders his own horse brought to him.

“Your Excellency, you mustn’t ride out yourself,” one of the other aides urges him. “It’s too much of a risk if you are not to be accompanied.”

Before Washington can object that his orders are not to be argued with another voice interjects. “His Excellency will not be unaccompanied.”

Laurens leads two horses, his own and Washington’s. He salutes, and then hands Washington the reins to the stead. Washington takes them gratefully, too aware of the angry words he’d spat at the boy earlier; Laurens must be exhausted, he’s been riding hard all day.

“You heard the general, he will be assisting the search parties while others are to be organized and dispersed, now.” There will be grumbling later, that Laurens orders these men as if he were above their station, but they move to obey him and to Washington that is all that matters.

The boy bows his head to Washington, waiting for something Washington himself doesn’t know how to give.

“Mount, Colonel,” Washington orders instead, “we ride hard for the town.”

“Yes sir.”

Laurens rides first, for his duty is to take any bullets that might wait for them first, instead of the general. Washington follows not far behind, his thoughts clouded with guilts and regrets and what-ifs, enough to drive a man mad.

As he watches Laurens’ back he comes to one of many conclusions; of strategy and war and literature and language Washington was well taught, but apparently, how to properly communicate with young twenty-something men in his care he was not.

Laurens and Washington search, but just like all of Washington’s efforts to do the right thing their efforts are useless. They find nothing. The barkeep mentions he perhaps saw a young man matching Hamilton’s description earlier in the evening. Perhaps he left with an older man dressed as an officer, but he can’t be sure.

...

“Your Excellency, sir!” Washington’s just barely dismounted his horse when a soldier jogs up to him, saluting stiffly before dropping his hand into his messenger bag. “A letter sir, marked urgent. I recognized it as Colonel Hamilton’s handwriting.”

Washington is quite sure he can feel his heart stop. But that’s impossible, for it thunders just as noticeably in his ears. “Give it here.”

The messenger passes him the missive, and sure enough handwriting he knows better than his own decorates the page.

Urgent: For the desk of General George Washington the inscription is simple, standard, and yet Washington feels something insidious behind it.

“Thank you Officer,” Washington barely glances from the letter to address the messenger. “Please inform my guard I’ll not be seeing anyone for the remainder of the evening.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The man salutes and rushes away, and Washington is left staring in his wake.

Does he know what he’s just delivered? Does Washington?

…

The room he’s in barely sees the light of day. Alexander knows by now the sun should be coming up, they travelled for hours.

It’s comfortable, it reminds him of his room back home, or… Washington’s room anyhow. But darker. The candles spread throughout it cast an orange glow against the expensive furniture and velvet blankets on the bed. The window is so small that hardly any light gets through, and even though this room is furnished almost exactly like Washington’s it doesn’t feel like… home.

Davies pulls him towards a desk and pushes him into the seat. His hands linger against his shoulders, an ever present pressure warning him from trying to stand.

“I want you to take a letter,” he murmurs, too close to Hamilton’s ear.

Alexander nods, this makes sense. This is what he does. The hand on his left shoulder pulls away and opens the desk, producing ink pot and quill. Hamilton is quick to trim the quill and set a piece of parchment at attention; this is what he does.

“Dear General Washington,” Davies starts, lips curling into a satisfied grin as Hamilton’s hand moves immediately. “I know you are wondering where I’ve gone, and more importantly worrying about who I am with.”

Davies is quite satisfied with himself, he’s mastered plenty of things in his lifetime and his concoctions are one such substance, but to accurately estimate the exact amount needed to get his pet behaving exactly as he wants him - obedient, subservient, but still there - is a true indication of his genius.  

“I write to you today to tell you that your worry is perfectly founded. I’ve been reclaimed by my rightful master and am in his care now. He wants to thank you, for your carelessness, marksmanship and stubbornness; without all three I would surely still be safe within your camp.”

…

Washington hand trembles as he holds the letter, and his knuckles turn white as he clutches it in an iron hold.

You’ve known for weeks now that Samuel Davies lived on, and yet when I was caught I was caught unawares. But still, you should count your blessings, Your Excellency, that my dear friend John Laurens was not at my side when my master came to retrieve me, for he knew and would have had to die for it.

He can’t breathe, there’s a pressure against his chest and it is pressing against his lungs. Air won’t fill them, no matter how hard Washington tries.

As for the marksmanship, if you had checked Davies’ wound you would have seen that it was not an immediately fatal one. You should have understood that your fear of hitting me would throw your aim to the side, even unconsciously. I shall take your penance for delivering a wound against my master, and he wants you to know that it will be agony.

You had to have known that you could never be enough to protect me.

This couldn’t be happening, how could-

Washington doesn’t recognize the sound that comes from his throat as he drops into his chair like a stone.

…

“I’ll be sure to update you often as to how I’m progressing, or rather, my master will. He’s certain you’ll be interested to know.”

Davies paces the floor behind him, and as easily as the words roll from his tongue, Alexander copies them to the parchment. At last he stops, and then his hands are back, fingers curling around his shoulders.

“That should do it, pet. Sign your name.”

Alexander does, with his natural flourish.

Then Davies moves again, rounds the desk and takes a seat on the other side. “Fold and seal it, and address it to His Excellency.”

Alexander does.

“He’ll recognize your writing, won’t he?”

“Yes,” the answer comes before Hamilton can stop himself. There is no stopping whatever this is, it seems. He can’t think, can’t run, he can’t even bring himself to move.

Because he wasn’t told to.

Davies takes the finished, folded letter and carefully sets it aside to allow for the wax to dry.

His hand slithers from Alexander’s shoulder to rest against overtop his wrist, he feels the boy’s pulse beat against his fingertips.

He snaps his wrist. It’s easy.

“Well, you won’t be needing that anymore, will you, pet?”

Without so much as a flinch, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle, Hamilton looks at him and shakes his head.

[jastiss-blog]

Grief

So, as the year is now closed, and a new one begins, I decided to write a horribly self-indulgent little ficlet to help deal with the grief that accompanies having a rapidly worsening chronic illness. It's neutral, so maybe it even could apply to some of you. But, I thought I'd publish it for funsies.

Ardyn x non-specific reader

TW: a brief mention of suicidal ideation without details

~~~

Sun sets on yet another day, the vibrancy of the pinks, reds and oranges of dusk slowly bleeding into the murk of twilight.  

Not just any day.  Not even just the last day of the year, in which people typically sit in quiet contemplation over the successes and pitfalls of the previous three hundred and sixty four days.

You're not even sure how many days you've had like this.  If you had to guess, the figure is probably upwards of five thousand.  Yet, those odd four and a half thousand have nothing on what you've experienced in the past year.

Agony, depression, anxiety… even suicidal ideations.  Watching your life crumble as if you're a stranger outside of your own body, observing the rapid downward spiral with a strange juxtaposition of extreme dread and clinical indifference.

Another year with an incurable illness.

Each new treatment comes with a promise that, “this one should work!”  You no longer have the will to hope it is so. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, falling rapidly before you have any hope to stem the tide.

That's how he finds you, head in your hands as great sobs tear through you.  At this point, it's a common enough occurrence that he no longer panics as a knee-jerk reaction.  Instead, he draws a great breath to brace against the tsunami of grief he feels at witnessing your pain.  It's something that never, ever gets easier, and if he feels this way, surely what you are feeling in these moments is nothing short of monstrous.

Before he moves to join you, he again makes an attempt to summon magic, but not the typical sort he's grown used to gathering at his fingertips.  The pitch miasma of the scourge is not what he hopes to conjure, but rather the ancient powers he wielded in a time long lost to the ages. For this, for you, he wishes he could return to being a healer, if even for a single day.  Yet, the gods have been silent in the face of his daily pleas on your behalf; they surely have abandoned him to his fate.  It seems cruel that you should suffer as well.

He seats himself quietly at your side, unmoving at first; he knows the wrong touch upon the wrong muscle will cause agony, and it fluctuates by the day.  Instead, he is but a hair's breadth from you, arm outstretched with his palm facing the darkening sky.

You take his hand gratefully, yet with more force than intended.  He never winces, simply sighs in relief that you have chosen to cling to the anchor rather than float away toward the void.  Another second passes before you scoot the remaining millimeters between you, ignoring the flash of torture that comes when you move to crawl into his lap.  He knows you've felt it, although you haven't allowed a single sound to pass your lips.

Today he hesitates, not knowing where to place his limbs without causing you excess grief.  Uncaring, you place them around yourself and squeeze as you bury your face in his chest, still sobbing.  Father once said, “pain is good. It tells you that you're still alive.” It's something you try desperately to hold onto in moments like these, but really, when pain is all you have, is life worth living?

When Ardyn's chin rests gently upon your head, you take a moment to remind yourself that pain isn't the only thing you have.  His hand laces with yours, careful not to put too much pressure on aching joints.

“Inquiring about your day seems cruel, so I ask instead: what may I do to make you more comfortable?” he whispers into your hair.

“This is fine,” you hiccup around hitching breaths.  “More than fine.”

His hum of assent is deep, a rumble you feel under your ears that calms the rate of your panicked breaths and heart.  Several moments pass before he speaks again.

“It frustrates me to no end that I cannot heal you,” he admits, voice more gravel than words, vibrations sinking straight into your soul.  “Curse these useless hands of mine!”

Your hands snake up his back to bury into soft auburn locks, massaging circles in his scalp to ease his frustration.

“I know,” is all you say.  What more needs to be said?

“I believe it is well past time to seek assistance from Lady Lunafreya,” he insists, knowing you'll decline as you always do.  “It is no trouble. The girl is home from her most recent pilgrimage. Please, allow me to bring her here, or take you to her.”

“The doctor said this treatment will work,” you protest weakly.  You're not really sure why you keep declining to see Lunafreya. Perhaps it's the tiny glimmer of fear that not even the Oracle can help.  “Let's see if she's right.”

The way his jaw clenches does not escape hour notice.  He won't fight you, he never does, but he will surely protest.

“It is no cure, my dear,” he grits.  “It is merely symptom management. Please.  I cannot remain idle while this illness destroys you.”

“I know,” you repeat.

Silence once more.  Ardyn rocks gently, humming a tune he says his mother used to sing when he was young.  Just as sleep pulls at your consciousness, he speaks again.

“It has been a trying year,” he says to the gathering darkness.  “Yet, you are here, alive. You have chosen to spend your time with a man spurned by the gods, a man whose long dead heart knows life once more.  I know not what the next year brings, but I will gladly stride forward into it at your side.”

“Always,” you choke out, tears of a different nature welling in your eyes.  “And if this next treatment does not work, we will see Lunafreya.”

Though he does not speak it aloud, you know what his next thought is: if somehow she cannot help, he will take on the gods themselves.

[mythicamagic]

Swimming in Silk - Chapter 8

Training in front of her, engaging her in conversation and now lending her his clothes…Kagome is starting to suspect that Sesshoumaru is trying to gain her attention.

Sesskag - Romance, Humour and some drama

Rated M - As always you can read this story on Ao3, fanfiction.net or Dokuga

Chapter One - here       Chapter Three - here    Chapter Five - here

Chapter Two - here        Chapter Four - here       Chapter Six - here  

Chapter Seven - here    Chapter Nine - here

Mourning Mortals ~

Her legs had given out beneath her, though Kagome did not faint. In fact she remained lucid to the very real stabbing pain through her heart, if her scent was anything to go by, Sesshoumaru surmised. She hadn't really responded after the subsequent crying and numbness, seemingly lost to painful memories as the world kept turning without her. Sesshoumaru had carried her back to the stronghold and brought her to a new room, since their own needed repairs.

Shippo wanted to follow her in, but Inuyasha had grabbed him by the tail and dragged him away.

Sesshoumaru had given orders to remove the dragon carcasses and start the repairs, but remained with her in the room.

"You should...go and oversee the damage."

Burning gold glanced down at her as she lay curled on her side, hands drawn up to her chest. "It is fine."

Her cheeks looked sore, stained with red blotches from crying. "I should...go. Mom and Souta probably need me."

When he remained silent, she blinked tiredly up and him. Unreadable eyes observed her, a slight softness to them, despite their intensity. Kagome bit her lip and drew herself up on the furs, reaching for him. Being wrapped in warm silk only made her burrow further into the security he offered, into the place where she didn't have to do or say anything. She held onto him tightly and inhaled his scent, her own calming. Sesshoumaru watched her silently, for the first time experiencing something he never thought he would.

He felt strangely inept.

The Killing Perfection had lived up to his name and slain many, including countless mortals- fathers and husbands alike. He'd given no more thought to them than one would a moth wilting in the dark or crunching under boot. They died so quickly, easily compared to he, that were it not for Rin and now the Miko, he would never have acknowledged them at all.

"What is...cardiac arrest?" He asked, testing the words on his tongue. Inuyasha had struggled to say them earlier too, though perhaps for different reasons.

Kagome inhaled sharply, causing his claws to twitch. He should not have spoken.

"It- it's when our hearts suddenly malfunction and stop pumping blood around our bodies. When our hearts stop pumping blood, the brain is starved of oxygen. T-then we fall unconscious and stop breathing."

Golden eyes widen, a chill running down his spine. "Your very hearts can kill you from within? Simply by stopping?"

She squeezed him slightly and gave a weak chuckle. "Yeah. We don't need to get impaled by claws or withered by old age or illness to die. It just happens sometimes, but can be triggered by a bunch of stuff like our diet." She paused for a moment, "but then there's freaky stuff like having a brain hemorrhage, or spontaneous human combustion-"

Suddenly appearing to read the room, she looked up. He'd become very stiff against her, eyes flitting over her body as though trying to see any signs of weakening. She smiled tiredly, "let's talk about something else."

His hand settled atop her head, stroking gently. "This one does not know what you require."

"There's not really a cure-all for grief. I-it just helps to have your loved ones around you. Then you're not alone." She rested her cheek against his chest, exhaling. Silence engulfed them as her fingers clenched and relaxed in the furs beneath them, his natural calm working wonders for her frazzled state.

"Tell me of him," came his deep baritone.

Kagome squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered violently, "h-he's stupidly eccentric and talks- talked...about history stuff all the time. Thinks he knows everything about demons. But he...he cares about me and Souta, I even kind of felt like he was my kooky Papa. Probably sounds strange," she murmured, continuing to talk about him in present tense. Sesshoumaru did not correct her.

Her lips moved up to press against the mating mark on his neck, feather light. The bite marks looked to have bruised, the purplish magenta taking on an almost semi circle form. Like a sunset.

He parted her clothing- though this time not to illicit desire, instead brushing his thumb lingeringly over the crescent moon hiding beneath.

Claws dragged through her hair, calloused palms stroking down along her trembling spine.

She only managed to stall for time another hour before Inuyasha returned.

In a way, he'd willingly made himself the bad guy, the tough love. Kagome knew that, could tell from the lowered ears pressed tight to his skull that he hated every second he barked for her to leave.

"They need you dammit. You can't just bury your head in the sand!"

When she didn't shout or bluster, only nodding numbly, the Hanyou's guilt and worry only doubled. Sesshoumaru glared at him, eyes narrowing into slits, but Kagome put her hand on his arm.

"You're right. And I'm sorry, Inuyasha. You rushed here to tell me but I've taken so long..." she trailed off, grip tightening around her crutches. "I just...needed to recharge. Let's go now."

Sesshoumaru felt her bite marks on his neck pulse, ebbing and flowing as her emotions tore at her. He carried the miko without another word, rising up into the air in a flurry of white silks.

And that was how Kagome found herself standing before the Bone Eater's Well.

The Daiyoukai stood quiet and watchful at her side, staring into the dark depths with thin lips. His dislike for it was palpable, and her hand reached out to squeeze his.

"Funerals and stuff afterwards can take awhile. I'm not sure how many days I'll be, so..."

He gave a curt nod. "This one will not linger, but should you return-"

"I'll send for you and wait at the village," she finished for him, smiling tiredly despite it all. He hummed, hesitating to relinquish her hand and instead turning to her.

"Kagome. This one cannot know with certainty, but my double may be there, on the other side."

She blinked, thrown. In all the bombardment of information, she hadn't even stopped to consider that. Her hand reached up to touch her bite marks as he continued.

"If this is so, you should accept the elixir and return to me once you're ready." Sharp eyes fixed on her face while various emotions crossed it.

"Oi! Don't you think whatever it is you're yappin' about could wait until AFTER this stuff? Her damn Grandpa just died and you're talkin' about something else?" Inuyasha piped up, leaning against a tree not too far away.

Sesshoumaru's jaw locked, glancing at him with a cold expression, "silence whelp."

He's just trying to cover all possibilities, but... Kagome thinks to herself, reaching out to grasp Sesshoumaru's shoulder. It had the desired effect as his attention fell back to her. "If I do that...we don't know if that's leaving your future self alone after 500 years."

His gaze was stony and unsympathetic. Her heart leapt in her chest, "I-I can't think about the schematics of time travel right now. We don't know if this works on Back to the Future Logic, I can't wrap my head around alternate timeline implications right now,” she rambled, uncaring as her reference flew right over his head. His arm slid around her waist and tightened, until she was rocked forward on her crutches and feeling lips crash onto hers.

Inhaling sharply, Kagome soon melted against his mouth- his teeth catching her bottom lip and biting down briefly. Heat flushed down to her toes. Her fingers climbed from his chest to his shoulders, soon burying themselves in the hair at the nape of his neck, combing through the long strands. His tongue brushed inside her mouth and she squeaked, realising they were being beyond rude with Inuyasha right there, though he appeared to be ignoring them.

Trying to pull away, Kagome growled when he held fast- nipping his lip.

Braking away, she blushed slightly. "I'll heavily consider it," she mumbled, tightening her arms around his neck. "Don't worry, I'll be back in two weeks tops."

"Hn, this one is not worried."

I am, she chose not to say, kissing him briefly once more before leaning away. Sesshoumaru released her waist but surprised her by turning to look at Inuyasha.

"You will go as well," he muttered lowly.

Inuyasha blinked, mirroring her shocked expression but quickly scoffing. "Keh, was gonna anyway. Not like you have a say."

"Be nice," Kagome sighed, turning to face the Bone Eater's well as the Hanyou strode forward. He wrapped an arm around her waist, while she glanced over her shoulder at Sesshoumaru. His expression remained unreadable, but she forced a small smile and touched her shoulder briefly.

Gold flickered. His hand rose to skim sharp claws over his neck, making her heart do a funny thing in her chest.

Inuyasha jumped up, lifting her and the crutches with him. Their forms disappeared into the depths of the well, scents disappearing soon after.

Being enveloped in Mama Higuarshi's arms had been both cathartic and gut-wrenchingly painful. Kagome had burst into a fresh set of tears, hugging her close. When Souta had joined them they'd turned into a barber quartet of wailing, crying humans. She could sense Inuyasha somewhere behind her, deeply uncomfortable. His ears remained pressed back against his skull the entire time, even when they'd gone inside to chat while preparing the wake.

"We rushed him to hospital but it was so quick. One moment he was here and the next..." her mother had explained softly.

"Was he in pain, in the end?" Kagome murmured.

"I-it's hard to say honey, but I saw him. He looked very peaceful. Just like he was sleeping," Mama Higurashi forced a smile, smoothing the edges and wrinkles as always. No pain or sadness was allowed in their house. Kagome could tell the strain of keeping up that facade was starting to take it's toll.

"I'll help with everything that needs doing- the arrangements for the funeral. Just anything, mom. Please know you can rely on me," she said seriously.

"Thank you, sweetheart. I think your Auntie will be here soon to help too, don't worry."

Kagome nodded slowly as she continued tugging on some black clothes, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

It was in the early hours of the morning that Kagome first realised that the present Sesshoumaru hadn't been waiting for her in the Well House, and for that, she felt grateful. There was too much going on to add that craziness to the mix. Flopping onto her pink bed, she sighed heavily, searching for a certain energy outside.

"Inuyasha," she called softly.

The window slid open. Hearing a shuffling, she felt his very slight weight rest against the side of her bed, sitting on the floor. "What?" He grunted.

"You can sleep in here like old times you know. It's not a big deal."

"Keh. Maybe not to you, but your hubby might have a thing to say about it," he grumbled, laying down on his side none the less, facing away from her as she looked at the wall. "How come you haven't told them about him, anyway?"

"T-they know I'm dating him," she said defensively, soon sighing. "Come on, I can't bring up getting essentially married while this is going on."

"Guess so," he grunted, closing his eyes. "You all alright?"

Sensing the genuine concern behind his gruff persona, she hugged her pillow and hummed. "Not really, but we're dealing with it. Sorry, I know our blubbering must be hurting your ears."

"Don't be dumb, dumbass," he pillowed his cheek against his palm, nose twitching. "So...it's over now."

"No. That was just the wake. It's the proper funeral tomorrow." Kagome squeezed the pillow tighter, imagining it was mokomoko.

She felt incredibility grateful when he didn't comment on her tears soaking into the material.

A week passed.

They'd had Grandpa's funeral on an ironically beautiful day. He'd been dressed in his best clothes to be cremated.

The seven days had been a good amount of time to get things organised. They hadn't much family, but what few who had attended gave condolence money to help with the expenses. But it still hadn't been enough to cover the whole thing.

Mama, Souta and herself had found three packages hidden under Grandpa's bed, meant for each one of them individually. Mama had received a beautiful traditional calligraphy set, and recalled that she'd wanted to buy one for awhile. Souta found a bundle intended to pay for his tuition fees in the future, though he'd offered to use it to help with the funeral. Mama's voice had sharpened then, declining.

"What did you get Kagome?" He'd asked her.

Kagome touched the package wrapped in brown paper. It pressed down like there was something soft underneath, perhaps a kimono, but Kagome theorised it would be miko robes.

"I uh...I'm not sure. I'll open it later," she'd forced a smile, before hurrying to go finish the chores.

A picture of the deceased had been placed at the family altar in the household, and following the memorial services, Kagome had been all but wiped out. Too tired to think or mourn.

It was when the second week passed and began to leak into the third that it happened.

Inuyasha had been living off ramen noddles and not complained all that much, considering. But finally home sickness got to him. Hugging him tight, for the first time in a long while- bridging a gap Kagome had tried not to be aware of, she'd smiled genuinely at him. "Tell Sesshoumaru that I'll be there tomorrow, I need to make sure the memorial goes up okay."

He nodded and awkwardly patted her back, ears flicking. "See ya soon."

Waving him away, Kagome watched as he ruffled Souta's hair in passing, rushing towards the Well House. She tested her leg for what felt the hundredth time that day, standing upright on two legs. She'd finally rid herself of the crutches, and smiled to herself because of it. No more stiff cramping hands from holding the grips or aching ankle. It was still a slight bit fragile, but Kagome dismissed it as a habit from her reflexes to try and ease off it.

"When's Inuyasha coming back?" Her brother asked, grinning as he kicked a ball towards her.

She caught it under her previously injured foot and playfully turned, kicking the ball back with a bounce. "No idea, kiddo. He's been here for nearly three weeks, I'm sure he's eager to get away at this point-" a loud yell caught her attention, before his red and white form sped towards them. "Or maybe not?"

"Kagome!" The Hanyou burst, landing in front of her in a billow of red robes. His golden eyes were wide and panicked.

Her stomach plummeted. No, not again. "What's wrong?"

"The fucking Well ain't opening!"

They say bad things come in threes.

If her ankle nearly breaking had been one, and Grandpa's death the second, then surely the well's sudden closure again was the third. The how and the why frustrated Inuyasha more than it had her. She patiently listened as he ranted and raved about it, a very clear worry in his eyes. Kagome however, just sat, cast adrift. Sesshoumaru was not there to anchor her. She couldn't recharge. The most she could do was touch her shoulder and inspect the crescent moon on her flesh. It hadn't faded, which assured her somewhat and remained the only reason to hope their circumstances might change.

But present Sesshoumaru did not arrive either.

"Where the fuck is he, anyway?" Inuyasha grunted, pacing up and down her bedroom while she hugged her pillow on the bed.

"He wouldn't just ignore us. There has to be a good reason." Her hazy eyes drifted around her room, grazing the puzzle boxes she'd meant to give him, the children's toys for Rin and Shippo. She looked at the package Grandpa had left for her, sitting innocently on the desk, and felt her heart lurch.

"Maybe he lost track of time trying to wrestle out that stick shoved up his ass. It's not like he'd care about- hey!" Inuyasha jumped when she suddenly stood. "W-what's up with you?"

Kagome exhaled, curling her hand into a fist. "I'm going to go look for him," she muttered. She'd wasted time, she realised. Not on Grandpa's funeral, no, before that. Arguing with Sesshoumaru about mortality or monogamy. She'd let her worries and emotions overtake her then, but faced with sitting there, stewing in loneliness- her heart cried out for action.

Turning on her heel, Kagome raced from of the room, out the house- down the shrine steps. The simple act of running felt amazing to her legs.

"Hey!" A voice called behind her. Kagome stopped at the bottom of the stairs to see Inuyasha clear them in a single bound, landing beside her. "I'm coming too, dumbass."

She smiled and reached to grab one of the white ears perched atop his head, "not without your hat- dumbass." She pinched it, causing him to yelp, before letting go. "I'll try the city downtown. You check this area first and see if you can sense anything. See you later!"

Inuyasha grunted, watching her leave, black hair dancing wildly behind her. His brows furrowed.

Kagome hurried down the streets, following them into the denser parts of the city, spreading out her reiki. I want to see you, she thought, and became ashamed that it wasn't Grandpa she was thinking of

Her shoulder pulsed, and she tried to think of it as guiding her. Maybe if she pushed herself harder and harder, some of her desperation might reach him, wherever he was.

Please, I want to see you!

Yet no matter how far she stretched her reiki, spreading it thin throughout the city- all she caught was the faint flicker of Inuyasha's presence.

She ran until her legs and lungs burned, until the air began to feel thin. Stumbling to a stop, Kagome panted, feeling a few passerby's bump into her shoulders as they carried on with their busy days. Looking around wildly for a sign- anything at all- a hint of red and white, or gold. The lush, fluid, exciting brush of his youki, anything- Kagome stopped.

Catching sight of herself in a store window, she slowly touched her black clothes. Still in mourning.

Guilt swamped her.

"Why don't you open the package that Grandpa left for you?" Mama Higurshi had asked.

"I...I don't know," she'd admitted, hugging her legs. "Maybe because...once it's gone, that's it. I'm not going to get another present from him. And I just-"

Kagome remembered her mother's soft comforting touch on her shoulder. The mating mark had pulsed underneath, hidden by her clothes.

"Was Grandpa ever angry or sad because of me?"

Warm brown eyes became concerned. "What makes you say that, honey?"

"B-because I wasn't here- never here. I was always so busy in the feudal era. I'm so sorry, Mom."

Kagome stood among the sea of people she was supposed to belong to. It was not lost on her that she was still doing it. Still looking for a way, a solution to escape the modern world again. And despite her Mother's assurances, Kagome felt like a stray puzzle piece trying to fit into a separate jigsaw.

So when a gentle- cripplingly familiar youki brushed her cold cheek, Kagome's head rose. Her heart squeezed. Soberly making her way through the crowds, she followed it until stopping at the bottom of Higurashi's shrine steps.

Despite the guilt it caused her, Kagome felt intrinsically that she couldn't ever ignore the Daiyoukai. Even if she wanted to spend time with her family and be there for them, something hooked into her and wouldn't let go as she scaled the stairs. The youki led her inside her house, up the stairs and to the threshold of her room once more. Opening her door with her heart thundering fast, her eyes fell to Grandpa's present on the desk.

Youki coated it, emanating out, as though he'd touched it and let slip just a little energy to grab her attention. Glancing around, there was no sign of Sesshoumaru, but a part of her felt like he'd been standing there. In her humble little room, surrounded by pink. The mental image almost made her smile.

Kagome smoothed her hands over the plump package, sighing heavily but setting her shoulders. She'd put it off for long enough. Tearing into the crisp brown paper, she ripped it aside to expose pure white material. Miko robes, as she'd anticipated- except, no. Miko robes didn't bare such a crest. Bringing the clothing out and holding it up, her stomach dropped. Ice shot through her veins.

"Oh Grandpa,” she murmured. Her hands shook a little as she held Sesshoumaru's signature red and white silks.

They were pristine, having been kept in mint condition. How they'd come to be in Grandpa's possession or why he'd kept them went unanswered. Kagome distantly wondered these things, but was distracted by the familiarity of the clothing.

Bringing the material closer, she rested her cheek against it's rich softness. Tears pricked her eyes and Kagome hid them- burying her face in the clothing.

It didn't smell of him. Pale fingers clutched tighter, hugging the silks to her. In another act of impulse, she slid her arms through it's sleeves and wrapped herself up in something so painfully his. She clutched the parting over her chest and exhaled. Why hadn't he stayed to see her?

A flicker of something caught her attention, small but growing. Pink light spilled out from the clothes, brushing along her skin almost like her reiki. It filled the room until everything bled away, drowned out by the soft colour.

Kagome felt herself be plunged into pink tinted waters.

Blue eyes widened as her lungs protested. She instinctively searched for the surface amidst the sea of pink and floating bubbles. Looking below, past her feet, Kagome instantly pushed herself to swim down, seeing a bright circle of light beckon her closer. Energy flitted around her, feeling similar to when she'd floated through the well. White silk caressed her legs as she swam, desperately kicking them while her sleeves lifted up past her elbows. She struggled to push herself on, holding her breath and clawing through the water until she broke the surface.

Breathing in gulps of air greedily, Kagome peeled back the black locks plastered to her face, blinking and glancing around.

Open countryside greeted her, bathed in the warm colours of sunset. A forest lay behind her. Hope dared leap into her heart and Kagome eagerly pulled herself out of the river she found herself in. Breathing out, she steadied herself before standing, hearing water drip down from her soaked clothes onto the grass beneath her toes. Seeing a familiar village in the distance, Kagome took off instantly in it's direction. Old fashioned huts, horses and carts, rice fields. Even the same hill leading up into Inuyasha's forest.

Barely containing her tears and not questioning a thing, Kagome bolted through the village entrance. Bursting into Kaede's hut, startled gold eyes met hers.

"...Kagome."

Sesshoumaru stared, expression frozen with shock.

She raced forward, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. "I'm back. I- I was so worried when the well stopped working, but you're really here."

Breathing in his scent, she barely noticed that he remained stiff. His clawed hand settled on the back of her head, stroking slowly, as though he were only just registering her. His body then seemed to cave in on itself and he wrapped strong arms around her, pulling her in almost painfully close. Her bones protested but Kagome didn't care, lips crumpling into a fragile smile.

Hearing footsteps behind her, Kagome turned her cheek just slightly to see grey hair and miko robes. "Oh Kaede!" She sniffed and pulled away, rubbing her eyes. "I'm sorry I was gone a little longer than planned, but I'm here now-"

"Lady Kagome?" Came a different voice than she was used to from the old woman.

Kagome frowned and rubbed her eyes again, blinking away the tears to see a brown gaze staring at her. Laughter lines creased her face, while crows feet dotted the sides of her eyes. This was not the weathered Keade.

"Um, hello. Who's this?" Kagome glanced over her shoulder to look at Sesshoumaru, whose hand found the small of her back. His lips drew into a thin, grim line.

"You have been away for some time," he said quietly.

"I don't understand, I was only gone three weeks-"

"Grandma Rin, Grandma Rin!" Some children ran into the hut, clutching at the woman's hands.

Kagome blinked and felt horror shoot into her heart. The old woman met her gaze and smiled sheepishly, giving that same bright look, like human sunshine. A few daisies had been twisted into her grey hair.

Rin's smile turned a little sad and sympathetic as the colour drained from the shikon miko's face. "I think it's been a little longer than three weeks, Lady Kagome. More like 50 years."

Kagome stared, feeling warm, steady palms support her back just as they had before.

Perhaps bad things come in Fours.

[satansagittarius]

🧞‍♀️ WEEK TWO OF ASCENSION 🧞‍♀️

GOALS MET 🔎

Stopped being anxiously attached and let go again. Life works out better when you let things, thoughts, people, experiences, and feelings come and breathe and pass. Just because they are gone doesn’t mean they won’t come back, and just because they are there doesn’t mean they will stay.

Life is better in the moment.

Stopped putting so much emphasis on the “correct way” that arguments, feelings, sentences, or conversations should go. Still take everything at face value, but am now willing to peek through and wonder what’s behind the words. And I no longer wish to have everything be black and white.

Life is not black and white.

Relinquished control over situations and people. I cannot stress myself with playing house and hoping everything goes perfectly. I cannot look for signs or answers.

Life is more entertaining when you just let it happen.

No anxious attachment, no correct way, and no control has cured my anger and hostility. I wasn’t angry, I was frustrated things weren’t my way. I wasn’t hostile, I was on edge to see where things went.

I can’t be angry if any outcome is okay with me.

EXPERIENCES THAT TAUGHT ME 🎲

I realized I can be happy with or without someone. I was just avoiding the painful feelings of their absence. My need for control and attachment was self-serving, as it’s easier to hang on rather than let go. Letting go of my assumptions, predispositions, expectations, or fear...

Letting go doesn’t always mean giving up, it means being present with any outcome.

My black and white thinking causes anxiety and perfectionism in all my relationships. I have had more butterflies, happiness, calmness, and excitement living in the in-between. 

I live in the gray again.

I stopped looking towards the future and looked up at the stars. I am currently here and living, the future is unknown and that’s now exciting to me. 

Control and expectations only lead to helplessness, you can’t lose control if you never had it. And we’ve never had it.

I realized when I am fully present with myself, I can give everyone else the best of me. When I am present with the future, or the idea of myself, I attempt to shift the world into a picture. 

Love and trust all, people come and people go.

GOALS UNMET ⌛️

My reliance on other people’s opinions to grant me self worth.

Issues: My self confidence has been at an all time low this week for some reason. No matter how beautiful I think I look, the mirror says different. No matter how good of a person I feel like, I take little evidences to say otherwise.

Steps: Find validation from within. Take steps to make myself feel more beautiful and practice legitimate self care. Stop putting so much emphasis of people’s actions on your life, everyone is busy. It’s not personal.

Commitmentphobia.

Issues: I fucking hate commitment and feeling tied down.

Steps: Honestly I’m almost 23 and I’m okay with keeping my commitmentphobia right now. If the right situation comes, I feel as though I would be willing to work through it.

I do not want to jump into a situation head on and destroy my dreams. I am selfish right now.

Procrastination and getting in my own way.

Issues: I still feel compelled to not do things out of convenience. It could also be a deep rooted fear of moving forward or success because I really just don’t want to grow up yet.

Steps: Made my planner, looked at all my classes.

I do not avoid my email anymore.

I do not avoid my computer anymore.

Selfishness and problems listening.

Issues: I am selfish because I am young and ambitious. It can come off as uncaring but I truly have deep love for everyone. However, my self love and dreams come first and I need to express to people that even though that’s the case, I still will be with them through anything. 

It is a catch 22 because I love everyone and myself so deeply I just want everyone to be happy. I feel as though everyone should enrich lives instead of take them over.

I do not listen because I kept thinking my own words would impact the other person’s.

Steps: Be selfish with your dreams and time, not with other people’s feelings. 

Listen because you love the person, not because you want to change them.

Routine.

Issues: Still cannot bring to completion most days. Sometimes slack off on one or two things.

Steps: Just fucking do it dude, you know you feel better afterwards.

Ignoring People / Avoidance of Situations

Issues: I ignore people because I am selfish with my time and fear that whatever I leave my comfort to go do will bring me unhappiness, yet I feel sad when people drift away.

Steps: Reach out first. Say no if you don’t want to. Stick with plans. Be present.

Independence vs. Dependence

Issues: I crave independence but always run from things trying to help me. I try to maintain myself but when I’m drowning I realize in hindsight no one was trying to trap me, but help me.

Steps: Be observant. Do not let people control you but do not let control be mixed in with help. Look at people’s pure intentions and open yourself up.

OTHER TINY GOALS 🦔

Cuddle and be more patient with Nala.

Tell more people you are grateful for them.

Call mom just to say hi.

Find a job.

Reach out to people when you feel like it.

THINGS TO BE GRATEFUL FOR 🍄

CK holding my hands through the desert and telling me how to be more open with people who love me.

Sam and Jared buying me a Bassrush ticket because they said it wouldn’t be the same without me.

My dad joining our fantasy football league and calling me for an hour.

Vinh sending me Stardew Valley so I could de-stress.

Ramen. So much ramen.

Sorry this was long future Mia, but it’s fucking Virgo season and you are getting it the fuck together. Don’t stop growing, and be patient with yourself, others, and especially Nala! Love yourself, love others, and let others love you fully. 

[hanalwayssolo]

Of Prophets and How They Save The World

A/N: First of the three-part thing I wrote feat. a pre-game Ardyn, which I’ve had since December. This all started thanks to this fanart I came across c/o @clave-razon, then I set this story idea aside for awhile, but then I saw another brilliant fanart, this time a WIP from @hanatsuki89 and I’m like, I gotta get my shit together haaaah anyway

Link in AO3 | Tagging some fellas per usual: @eternallydaydreaming2015 @lazarustrashpit @bleucommelhiver @louisvuittontrashbags @hypaalicious @mooshinspace @animakupo @noboomoon 

Ardyn rarely counts the days he is away from the Crown City, but today, he is starting to feel the weight of the time that has passed.

Perhaps the unusually blazing climate is to blame. Ardyn is no stranger to the tropical regions in Lucis, but this year has been hotter than the Infernian’s fickle flame. The season has transformed the roads of Cleigne into a parched wasteland, the soil cracked and bone-dry in the searing heat. In his growing discomfort, Ardyn rolls the sleeves of his loose white dress shirt that now sloppily clings to his frame thanks to his own sweat, and he ties his red-violet hair into a messy bun. Nero, his ever faithful chocobo companion, can even sense his unease that the majestic black bird descends to a slow trot down the dusty road.

Behind Ardyn, Gilgamesh steers his own ride—an equally majestic golden chocobo named Weiss—and sidles up to him.

“My lord, the next town should already be nearby. I apologize if the route we have taken has caused you any inconvenience.” Gilgamesh politely offers, bowing his head. Despite his daunting appearance, Gilgamesh’s display of his gentle courtesies and utmost propriety directly contrasts his massive height, broad shoulders, and striking amber eyes; even his long silver hair parted like braided curtains on both sides of his face does little to help encourage a less menacing look.

Ardyn faces Gilgamesh with a cheeky smile. “My dear friend, there’s no need for you to apologize on behalf of the machinations of nature. It is what it is.”

“But are you exhausted, my lord?”

Ardyn hesitates, but he lies, “No, I’m perfectly fine, Gilgamesh. I appreciate your concern—“

Nero lets out a loud kweh! that Ardyn pulls into a halt. Gilgamesh finds it difficult not to laugh.

“It seems that the bird only knows how to tell the truth,” Gilgamesh says, amused. “We’ve been on a long journey, after all.”

Four months, three weeks, two days...

Ardyn sighs and offers no response, and he fails to notice that Gilgamesh is keenly watching him. The weight of four months, three weeks, and two days begin to manifest in Ardyn’s face; his eyes reflect a heavy weariness, his lips tighten to an exhaustion he refuses to acknowledge.

It is true that Ardyn embarked on this noble expedition for a genuinely good cause; for months, he dedicated his time traveling from one bustling town to another, visiting houses of people afflicted by the unknown malady rampantly spreading all throughout Eos, and blessing them with his gift of healing. He treats them all with profound care, and not once did Ardyn fail to welcome the wounded and weary at his feet, the sick and dying, the lost and uncared for.

His stubborn younger brother insisted that Ardyn did not need to bear the burden of their powers alone; but with his stubbornness directly proportional to his own, Ardyn still pursued this rigorous journey, despite knowing that the eleven-year-old Somnus is right. His brother might still be a child, but Ardyn found him too wise and brazen for his age. He loves him for it, and fiercely so.

Let me protect you, brother. Let this burden be my cross to carry.

And if he could only allow himself one moment, or a fraction of an hour, or a breath of a second, Ardyn would admit how much he misses his brother. Or just simply how tired he truly is, how he condemns the frailty of his own flesh, how he wants to strip away his body’s limitations, to rid himself of his own weakness when people around him are suffering and dying and—

“My lord?” Gilgamesh finally cleaves the silence with the sudden sharpness of his voice. He is still looking at Ardyn, confused and concerned. “We shouldn’t be much farther now. Are you—”

“You worry too much, my friend,” Ardyn chews and swallows all of his inhibitions into a flashy smile. He pats Gilgamesh on the back before he pulls in Nero's reins, galloping away, leaving his trusted steward’s worries to wither at the corner of his mouth.

Your trembling hands are calloused as the day your lover left without a word.

Not that it matters now, anyway. What matters now is that your hands quiver and shake that you lose your grip around the porcelain bowl, slipping away from your fingertips, and gracelessly meeting the concrete floor with a wild crash. Your bandaged forearms are burning without fire, and you bite the inside of your cheek as you shuffle around your little hut in a frenzy, searching for that vial of remedy you had personally concocted to relieve the pain, if only temporarily.

But you cannot seem to find it. So instead, you whisper a sincere prayer to the Six to grant you a swift death.

You have been enduring this scourge—or blight or daemon’s curse or whatever name the villagers of Lestallum have decided to coin this monstrous disease—since the day your lover discovered the patches of ghastly gray erupting from your skin. The same day they probably decided should be the last day to be around you because, well, what’s the point in staying with a person about to die, anyway?

Again, it doesn’t matter now. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that the pain either subsides or kills you in a moment’s time.

But the sound of a hundred footsteps and excited voices jolt you out of your silent suffering.

You drag your feet and you press an ear against your front door. You cannot bring yourself to open it and let the people see your current state, so you only listen. “The Healer is in town!” You hear someone announce amongst the collective chatter, and your heart stops.

Lestallum may be a small canyon town, but with the occasional mercenaries and peddlers passing through, it is no surprise that the news about this Healer have been circulating around to both travelers and townsfolk alike. Even someone like you who live far off the main thoroughfare and all the way on the outskirts of the town have heard about this Healer. Revered and respected by many, people claim that the man works miracles. They say that with just his touch, the blind could finally see, the cripple could walk, the deaf could hear.

The ones with the scourge are reported to be cured, too.

Gods be good, if this is hope...

You are, in every way, a skeptic right to the bone. But today, you decide to take your chances and gamble on otherworldly wonders and miracles and whatever this Healer has to offer.

So you snatch your cloak and you bolt out of your door, still throbbing in the agonizing pain. Past through the barren fields, past the baked pastures, and past dry stone huts and wooden houses and withered trees, you run across the sweltering road. From afar, you can see the crowd gathering like a wake of vultures over a carcass, all squawking in morbid anticipation. You try to squeeze your way in, only to fail miserably.

“If I may so humbly request everyone to please settle down,” a booming voice suddenly commands, and like some sort of sorcery, the townspeople fall into hushed whispers. You tiptoe to get a better look behind the menacing voice, but you are only able to glimpse, even for a mere second, a gigantic armored man with beautiful silver hair and frighteningly piercing eyes.

Is he… the Healer?

Another voice speaks up, and it is not the silver-haired man.

“We thank you all for such a warm welcome,” the voice starts, and whatever the person says next gets drowned by people hollering and cheering. Piqued with intense curiosity, you back away from the crowd and you find yourself climbing on top of the roof of a nearby house. Not your finest moment, you admit, but desperate times call for very desperate measures.

At this distance, you spot the Healer’s face among the throng of spectators.

You are somehow surprised to find that the man possesses a young face: comely and handsome, with the exception of his striking velvety hair. The armored man stands on guard beside him, hovering menacingly, as if ready to shred anyone who dares to pose a threat. And yet, despite his efforts, the Healer seems to pay him no mind as he welcomes a sick man infected with the scourge with open arms.

And with all honesty, you did not exactly prepare yourself to witness something so… strangely ordinary.

Perhaps you should not have expected the Healer to perform some sort of spectacle or riveting spell out of his so-called miracles. There is no bolt of thunder nor a single spark of flame, nor did the earth part beneath his feet.

And yet, there’s something so gripping in this strange ordinariness. One by one, he attends to the needs of anyone who comes to him, and he beckons for them to come closer with such patience and gentleness, treating them with a benevolent kindness, like he owns a well of affection inside of him that never runs out. He carries children with utmost care, holds the sick with unfailing compassion, touches the foreheads of men and women who seek his blessing, and he does all of these things—these strangely, brutally ordinary things—over and over, repeatedly as if in a perpetual loop, all with a solemn smile on his beautiful face. And the people walk away crying out of joy and gratitude, having been freed and cured of their afflictions with the simplest of his touch.

It is a bizarre sight to behold, watching these people from all walks of life celebrate and rejoice that it made you lose track of time. Like being engulfed in a trance that makes everything feel so possible, or infinite. Little by little, you mindlessly watch as more people come forward and walk away, until the waves of people begin to ebb, happily retreating to their homes, and the Healer and his steward start to march away, about to leave town…

Gods be damned, I am a fucking idiot!

“Wait!” You yell as the pair already depart riding their chocobos. In your panic, you hastily climb down from the roof that you scrape your knee—an additional pain to your many other pains, which by now you have no time to pay any attention to—and you break into a desperate run.

“Wait, please—“ you yell again in between heaving breaths, but they cannot seem to hear you. They are already halfway outside the town, and you are still running to catch up...

Until you see that they stutter into a halt.

Unlike your broken porcelain bowl, the Healer staggers to his side, slowly slipping away from the saddle of his black chocobo, his body gracelessly meeting the ground with a quiet thud.

For what it’s worth, Ardyn is pretty certain he has not returned yet to the Crown City, but he finds himself in his room. He knows it’s his room when he immediately recognizes the desk drowning in multitudes of books and scrolls, the dusty shelves behind it, and the unmade bed at the corner where his brother is now sitting.

“Why do you always push yourself too hard, brother?” Somnus asks, his voice low and lonely. He raises his head and looks at Ardyn, his dark blue eyes curious and searching.

But Ardyn only responds to his brother’s question with a faint smile. He approaches the boy and wraps him in a tight embrace.

“I’m fine,” Ardyn finally says, pulling away and ruffling his brother’s well-kept raven-black hair.

Somnus protests with a groan, “No, you’re not fine. You’re sick.” He stares at Ardyn and in a whisper, he tells him, “Please come home.”

“But I am home, Somnus—“

“Please don’t go, brother.”

In a blink of an eye, Somnus’ gentle face changes to something grotesque—eyes bleeding black, his skin paler, mouth foaming with blood.

Terror washes over Ardyn and he seizes Somnus’ face. But with his touch, the image of his brother only blurs before him. And he tries to scream but his voice would not come out, and the silence only grows around him until he is completely devoured by darkness.

Ardyn wakes up thrashing in a cold sweat with the fullest intent of killing you.

Well, at least that’s what it feels like when he has his hand wrapped around your neck, wringing the life out of you. But Ardyn does not mean you any harm, and you know it; for the past few days, you have been watching him restlessly drift between consciousness and his nightmares, and right now, you just happen to be within the perimeter of his worst nightmare yet.

And it’s a good thing that Gilgamesh is quick on his feet. He hurriedly steps in between the both of you and he pulls Ardyn back.

“My lord, let go—“

“Where am I?!” Ardyn demands in a hysterical fit. “And Somnus, is he—“

“Your… brother is... not here,” you cough out, and you struggle to explain as you try to pry Ardyn’s hands off your neck, “And… you’re… in my house…”

Ardyn turns to you, and in an instant, he calms down and he returns to his senses. He drops his hands, and the realization of what he has just done finally dawns on him that his face reddens in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Ardyn falters, and he looks at Gilgamesh. And then at you. After a painful second, he sheepishly asks, “How long have I been... asleep?”

You and Gilgamesh trade a knowing look.

Gilgamesh clears his throat and answers, “It’s been five days, my lord. Our host has generously taken their time to take care of you.”

Gilgamesh begins to explain what happened. A flash of urgency crosses Ardyn’s pale face. Like drawing strength from an empty pit, he weakly smiles at you and croaks, “Thank you… for your hospitality. But I believe we must go—”

Before Gilgamesh could even protest at Ardyn's ridiculous suggestion, you beat him to it. “Are you mad?” You return Ardyn’s smile with a frown. “You’re still burning with fever. Look at you.”

Ardyn sighs, “But you have done so much for me—us—that I can’t bother you any much longer—”

“With all due respect,” you curtly interrupt, “refusing to receive help when you are in dire need of one is not an act of selflessness but an act of foolishness. I understand you are in a hurry, but wouldn’t it be best that you rest for the long journey ahead?”

Ardyn does not answer. Gilgamesh is stunned by your audacity, and he only nods in agreement.

Before the silence could stretch any longer, Ardyn politely asks, “May I know your name?”

This time, it is you who do not answer. Ardyn steps closer to you, and you notice him eyeing your bandage-covered forearms. You turn away, and you can feel his amber eyes burning a hole at your back. After a while, you say, “I’m afraid my name is of little importance.”

“How come?”

“Because I’m just a nobody,” you respond, albeit a little too tartly. You face him and offer him an empty smile before you take your leave.

[dunnystuff]

Sent: Wednesday, September 08, 2021 2:28 PM

Subject: Rich's Blog

Fauci revealed - by his own words

Hi to all -

Fauci

Well, wouldn't you just know it. A third party got hold of some 900 pages of his emails, and guess what a tale they tell? Yes, boys and girls, all the stories you heard were true. And, the good doctor was lying through his teeth. For years, Fauci had been sending funds to Wuhan, even after being told to end this kind of research. He funneled those funds through Peter Dzack and his 'Ecohealth Institute', to hide the source and purpose of the money. The purpose was to do 'gain of function' research to weaponize SARS type virus in order to make it more dangerous to humans. In other words, the whole thing was done to create a bioweapon to harm people. This in spite of all the loud denials by Fauci, and the clever way he tried to present the law he violated. Kind of like Bill Clinton arguing 'it all depends on the meaning of 'is'. '

Perhaps Fauci is concerned that he might be held liable for the deaths of so many, and his role in creating this virus, and the non-cure that is being peddled as a 'vaccine', without meeting any of the requirements of a vaccine. If this becomes widespread knowledge, and people realize what has been done to them in the name of 'health and safety', why, they might become a bit upset.

Rev. Patrick Mahony

He asked to hold a prayer vigil in the capitol in celebration of 911. The Capitol Police denied his application. This same reverend tried to hold a prayer vigil at the phony wall set up around the capitol to protect democrats from 'insurrection', and was denied by Kamala Harris and Nancy Pelosi. Those folks cannot abide any such display of faith in their world.

Texas

Their Election Security bill is now signed into law. The Nifty 50 Democrats have failed. So much for their walkout and refusal to do their jobs. It remains to be seen if they will actually keep those jobs, come next election. Mail in votes must be by individual request only. It is now a felony to send out unsolicited ballots. Those who want those ballots must also present Driver's License numbers, not just a signature match, to ensure that they are the one doing the voting. A number of other changes are also part of the bill. The democrats are screaming about 'minorities not being able to vote.' Which, of course, is false.

It has been a bad week for the left in Texas.

In California, with only a week before the recall election, people are complaining that they are getting at least two mail-in ballots each. Newsom mandated that all voters receive a mail-in ballot, even if they did not request one. And, ballot harvesting is legal in his state, What could go wrong?

The Taliban and State Department

These Taliban folks are not all that dumb or inexperienced. After all, they have defeated one empire after another that has tried to run their territory. And, they were prepared and organized to complete this takeover. Only our president and his team seem befuddled.

Okay, we have six planes on the ground, with passengers fully cleared to leave. But it is not the Taliban keeping them from leaving, it is our State Department. They keep changing the rules, even as the planes are descending to land, and ordering them NOT to go to neighboring countries, nor to the US. And, they gave the manifests to the Taliban. This is the work of our Secretary of State, Antony Blinken. And, by any definition, this is actively trying to get Americans killed. Treason? He seems to think that if we let these people die, like was done in Benghazi, that it will all go away, and the bumbling mismanagement of this will just disappear.

In the case of Congressman Waynemark Mullin, who rescued some people by private means, in spite of the opposition of State, as soon as he got those people out of danger, that same State tried to take credit for the rescue - after opposing it in every way they could.

Have you seen on the news stories of the families who did get out? Those heartfelt reunions, and expressions of gratitude for the help they received? Neither has anyone else. We have never seen a government so inept, so uncaring for its own, and at the same time so supportive of our enemies. This cannot end well.

Michigan

Well, life under 'The Gretch' has been difficult. She seems to think she can do anything, and play the petty tyrant, and so can her minions. The Allegany School District decided that their school children may, possibly, have been exposed to someone, somewhere, who had the virus. So, they sent out a letter to the parents of those kids, ordering them to get their kids vaccinated, and otherwise obey, or they would put the parents, and the kids, into 'protective custody'. This was just too much, and the parents got lawyers and went after this school district. Like all bullies, as soon as they were challenged, they backed down, and tried to talk their way out of what they did.

As the left sees their power fade away as facts take over from fear, and people have had enough of all this bullying, they will respond with ever increasing repression and violence. We all know how that ends, don't we? Faith and Firepower - hang on.

Rich

[sarissophori]

Hither Yonder, Chapter 3

Yuta’s Departure

Spring bloomed to summer, then matured to autumn. Outside their homes, the people of Thargorod hung charms over their doorways and lit bundles of sage on the window sills, filling the streets with a pungent aroma; such was the customary farewell to the final days of the harvest, predating the rise of the Imperium. Pumpkin, squash, potatoes and corn abounded in the marketplaces. The city’s fields were picked bare in preparation for the festival marking season’s end, as were the private gardens of the nobility. Wine and ale were rolled out by the barrel and consumed in equal volume. In the spirit of this merriment even the serfs received libations, and were treated with a limited dignity.

      The hour of the king’s feast came with the setting sun. The palace was lit with torchlight, the marble pillars gleaming from the mound, shining on the bay. Supply ships were moored on their piers, sails battened for the night. A group of merchants stepped off the plank of a skiff docked in a harbor reserved for foreign trade, when they were immediately seized by a contingent of soldiers by sword point. Their leader stood forth and ordered the apprehension; it was Avangar.

       “Bind them. Search everywhere.”

      The soldiers boarded their ship and upturned all its cargo, throwing much of it overboard. The merchants kept silent, though fidgeted nervously. The soldiers eventually found what they were looking for, concealed in a false panel along the inner hull: small bags of white powder.

      The captain was unimpressed.

       “Be this the poison, lord? It seems more to be flour, and smells like potpourri.”

      “Small wonder, then, so many officers as yourself fall victim to its application.”

      Avangar held up a vial of blue water and sprinkled a pinch of the powder into it. A few shakes, and the concoction blushed red in the lamplight.

       “Ithliya” he said. “Damsel’s rouge; a toxin that dissolves in water, leaving a fragrance best drowned in wine. It needs only minutes to attack the senses and render one witless, leading to a deathly paralysis. A favorite in the courts of Ahn.”

       “Why be it here, then?”

      “Why indeed?”

      Avangar showed the vial to the merchants, letting them see it.

       “I want answers, and I shall receive them quickly, to my satisfaction, if a most unpleasant fate is to be avoided. Start talking.”

 So a plot to poison the king was revealed, masterminded by families of lesser nobles and carried out by their servants, including, with bribery, the king’s own. Names were given, and Avangar sent his men to arrest them at their homes, moving swiftly amid unsuspecting and inebriated crowds. Those suspected were rounded up and sent to the prisons within the keep, pulled indignantly from their revelries. Avangar himself led his personal guard to the king’s palace; outside the hall, royal servants were readying the feast’s final course of sugar bread and sweet wine, very much alarmed at the intrusion.

      “Seize the tables” Avangar said. “Seize everything.”

      The servants were then herded into the courtyard. Avangar and his captain inspected the trays, speaking in quite discussion. Once laced in food or drink, Ithliya was almost impossible to detect, its sweet aroma effectively disguised. Which tray, if any, had the poison, was a guessing game. Avangar’s mood leaned away from games. He confronted the servants as he did the merchants.

      “A plot has been confessed to me, to poison the king and usurp his throne. What promise of payment was made to those who assisted in this coup I cannot say, but it won’t be honored. There won’t be any reward for your treachery. Step forward and admit your guilt, and you will be judged with leniency. Do not, and you will suffer our law’s fullest wrath.”  

      None came forward. Confusion and worry gripped them, as they slowly understood the severity of the moment. There were whispers, murmurs, but no confessions.

      “Step forward! You won’t have another chance.”

      A few of the women started crying. Some of the men shook and sweated. Their whispered pitch rose in their panic. If no one dared accept the blame, then all would be punished by law. So it seemed they would. Avangar was about to have them carried away when a lone man stepped forward.

       “T’was me, lord! I held the poison!”

      “Oh? You?” Avangar pointed to the trays of bread and wine. “Tell me then, conspirator, which of these is poisoned?”

      “I, I, ah –”

      “Ah? What is ‘ah’ to me? Do you know or do you not?”

      The man stuttered out, falling silent. It was clear he was no conspirator. He barely had the nerve to sacrifice himself for the rest, still trembling.

        “You at least have courage, if not sense” Avangar said. “Your neck shall be spared the noose, I’ll see to that.”

      He ordered his guards to take the others to the holds, while he would inform the king of this plot against him, once the court had sobered.

      “What of the bread and spirits, lord?” the captain said. “Which is poisoned and which is not?”

      “Think a moment, if you will” Avangar said. “What good does poison do, if it goes uneaten or undrunk? No assassin worth their pay overlooks such amateur chance. All of it is poisoned.”

      The captain looked suspiciously at the trays.

      “If you are certain. How then shall we dispose of it?”

      “In a manner befitting of the crime. Come with me, and bring the trays.”

      The guards obeyed and carried the trays into the palace kitchen, where the maidens were still cooking.

      “’Tis a night of celebration, is it not?” Avangar said to them. “Then everyone, partake!”

      He had the cups handed out through the kitchen to cheers and laughs. In came Yuta with an empty platter, curious of the liveliness.

       “What be this?”

      “A way of staying the cold” they said. “For you, child!”

      Yuta took a cup and smelled it. “I don’t think I should while I’m on duty.”

      “Just one, to warm the bones!”

      So Yuta drank, and they cheered. She coughed a little.

      “Warm the bones indeed.”

 Halli was out in the fields, sitting by a campfire with other slaves, telling stories and laughing, since the autumn festival afforded even them that luxury. Old lives before servitude were the main topics, getting the most knee-slapping, back-patting and belly howls, trivial happenings that, now more than ever, meant the world. Halli’s own telling went to her sister and their barn, their little village by the stream, as the rest recalled their bygone families and livelihoods. It was almost enough to feel the weight of them again.

      Siri ran to the fire, hiking her dress.

       “Halli, is Halli here?”

      Halli stood. “Here I be, lady.”

      “You must come with me to the keep. It’s your sister.”

      An instant cold gripped Halli’s spine. “What mean you by that? Where is Yuta?”

      “With Sador, now come!”

      They went into the city, up the high battlements, the only tinge of worry in a sea of jubilation as the night wore on. Halli began to sweat in her anxiousness, her heartbeat heavy. They were allowed through the palace courtyard and taken into the maiden’s commons. Yuta lay in her bed, shivering from fever. A damp cloth was draped over her brow. Sador was by her side, getting her to sip medicine from a bowl.

      “I don’t understand” he said. “What sickness could affect one so young and healthy? What disease? What am I missing?”

      Halli ran to Yuta’s bed and looked on her, alarmed at how pale she had become, how ill. She nudged her shoulder, but Yuta was still, breathing shallowly. Tears welled in her eyes.

      “What’s wrong? Why doesn’t she move?”

      “I’m not sure” Sador said. “I have not the skill to diagnose it, and my leech-craft is failing. It may be as I fear; not a sudden sickness, but poison, and that only raises more questions: Who? Why? What kind? A most fowl intent.”

      Halli reached for one of Yuta’s hands and clasped it, rubbing it tenderly in her palms.

       “She will pull through, won’t she?”

      Sador was silent, preferring not to answer. He mixed another bowl of herbs into a potion, mulling over every cure he knew with the suspicion that none of them would work. The poison was too strong, and though Yuta fought valiantly against it, her health was fast waning. So Sador administered yet more ineffective doses, Halli watching on as Yuta’s face lost color, and skin lost warmth. Soon there was no tenseness left in her hand. In the hour before dawn Yuta finally succumbed, and suffered no more.

 Halli’s chores resumed with the sunrise. She dried her tears and tended the fields in quietness, solemn and stone-faced, under the lingering merriment from the festival. She buried her anguish, and spoke none of it to anyone.

      In his suspicions, Avangar was right in one assumption. The wine, not the bread, was indeed poisoned, though only a single cup; a cup to be given to the king by hand, to ensure his sole part as victim, instead given to Yuta by chance. A small consolation, if that it be.

      The day was unbearably long, but night came, and Yuta’s body was carried out from Thargorod on a litter, having been washed and cleansed per custom. In the fields by the harbors a pyre waited for her, secluded by the trees. She was placed by servants as if she were sleeping, adorned with cuts of sage and sweet grass. Torches were thrown at its base and the pyre burned in a bright steady flame that engulfed the timber, crackled the sage, and consumed the body of whom it bore, silhouetted in its crimson-amber glow.

      Halli stood witness without word, without thought, in a blank stare entranced by the burning, and who the flames devoured. The stars shone overhead, wavering in the heat, flecked by the rising embers. It did not stay the cold, and Halli’s skin soon felt numb. Still she remained, watching, as evening turned to midnight, to the first twilight of morning. Overseers kept an eye on her from the trees, yet here she stayed, uncaring of their patrol. She would not run, nor entertain the fantasy. Apathy had sapped her inner strength, and quenched her own heart’s fire.

      Her little sister was gone, while she was left behind. A punishment for failing to save her, as her honor-word demanded. So Halli told herself in that bitter dark, with nothing but the shadows for company. Her duty as the eldest was over. Halli had no greater purpose now than to serve her masters with the same fealty she once gave to Yuta. The realization of that made her drop to her knees, and she cried.

      The pyre continued to burn, high and roaring. A subtle wind blew through the boughs in the night; the reddening fire blazed as torchlight, helping the spirit to find its way to the Undying Lands, as was believed since the first sunrise in the forgotten lands of the east.

[honeypotpreschool-blog]

This is for mod Kei! Hii I saw you said you are autistic and I was wondering if you could explain autism a little bit to me because I found out my little cousin has autism (they said he's high functioning if that makes a difference on your explanation) but I'm a little confused on what that means and how I should interact with him or care for him when I baby sit Thank you!

Hey there, nonny!

“Autism is a lifelong developmental disability that affects how people perceive the world and interact with others.Autistic people see, hear and feel the world differently to other people. If you are autistic, you are autistic for life; autism is not an illness or disease and cannot be ‘cured’. Often people feel being autistic is a fundamental aspect of their identity.Autism is a spectrum condition. All autistic people share certain difficulties, but being autistic will affect them in different ways. Some autistic people also have learning disabilities, mental health issues or other conditions, meaning people need different levels of support. All people on the autism spectrum learn and develop. With the right sort of support, all can be helped to live a more fulfilling life of their own choosing.” (http://www.autism.org.uk/about/what-is/asd.aspx)

^^^ This is one of the best descriptions I have found of autism.

I am also “high functioning” (I personally do not like functioning labels but I know other do).In my words, I find my autism affects my ability feel minor emotions - I experience emotions on a level that is very high. I also find that it can affect how I react and latch onto certain shows, people, music, etc.

I think in regards to interacting with your cousin, act the same way you did before his diagnosis - or ask him if there is anything you can do that would help.

Also, if he does things with his hands, arms, legs, that is a clapping or flapping motion this is called stimming - do NOT reprimand him for this, just let him do it, or make noises, if it becomes annoying ask him why he is doing it or if he could replace it with another motion or noise.

If he has a special interest - this can be show, artist, music, person, etc - let him talk about it, be interested in it even if it isn’t something you enjoy, act excited, do not act uncaring about it.

But, as much as I can tell you this, every single autistic person is different, we all have different stims, special interests, and actions and feelings surrounding our autism.So what I can say is ask. Ask your cousin what he needs, how he feels, and about his diagnosis.

I hope things work out well, and please come back to me and tell me how it goes!

- Mod Kei

[smartalker]

Magpie Bridge [2/10 - Orihime]

ENTITLED: Magpie Bridge FANDOM: Mass Effect Andromeda - Reyes/Ryder RATING: M LENGTH: 50k via 10 chapters GENRE: Romance/Sci-Fi/Drama/Humor, in that order SUMMARY: With the Kett subdued and Andromeda’s terraforming system running at full power, Kadara Port swiftly establishes itself as the trade capital of the galaxy. The city’s unique combination of affluence, corruption, and growing power inevitably earns the ire of both the Nexus, and Aya. Under tremendous pressure to disavow a known criminal’s legitimacy, Ryder once again returns to Kadara hoping to broker peace, but the Charlatan wants something very different from her… ALT SUMMARY: Two people fall in love, galaxy breaks.

Ryder was different, but in a way that was hard to explain. Rather than changing, she had become more of herself. More confident, more focused. If life could be seen as a series of blows and each strike was another opportunity to shape a person, she had sharpened. Like a blade beneath the blacksmith’s hammer, she had solidified, shook off excesses—rather than bending.

Reyes leaned out over the veranda’s railing. He was at a local favorite, a new restaurant that specialized in breading and frying the local vegetation. The establishment’s peak hours hung between midnight and dawn, the darkest time. Kadara’s vegetation naturally contained weak toxin that, when warmed correctly, could act as a psychedelic for both humans, Angara, and the Asari.

“Waiting for someone?”

Distracted, Reyes reached for his battered leaves. The waitress who’d spoken to him raised her eyebrows. He’d been squatting for nearly half an hour, and the place was overflowing. “You could say that,” Reyes conceded. “But I think it’s going to be a while.”

Annoyed, the waitress eyed him for another moment, then left. He’d have to buy a round for the house soon.

Another important change: Ryder had more freckles.

Reyes considered the aesthetics of freckles as he checked his omni-tool. Nothing. Quiet.

The street below was very dark.

“Not much of a view,” said a soft, low voice.

He glanced back over his shoulder. A petite Asari in clean, new-looking space armor was lounging at a nearby table. She had a small, smug smile, and very dark lipstick. Once she knew he’d seen her, the Asari stood, and picked her way towards him. She was very slight, almost underdeveloped. No scars. Young? Hard to tell. “So who is this person you’re waiting for?” she asked. “A woman?”

“Of course,” Reyes smiled easily. “She takes her time. But I am very good at waiting.”

She regarded him for a moment, her black eyes curving with laughter. “Forgive me. A human is never patient.”

She attacked a half-second later than he’d predicted, with monstrous, raw biotics. Her power was wild, unrefined. It blew out the balcony’s iron railing and sent the now mangled metalwork not only across the street, but through the neighboring building’s wall. If he’d been slower, he’d have been dead. There were screams as those who had avoided the balcony’s blast rushed back into the restaurant—and still more commotion from the street below. Reyes scrambled to his feet, smiling at his attacker. “I thought someone was watching me.”

The Asari was frozen, her eyes livid. She writhed ineffectively at the biotic chokehold his bodyguards had slapped upon her. The veins in her hands bulged, and receded again into her skin. She stared at him, furious, still trying to smile. “You are more important than I had realized.”

“Perhaps.”

“You met with the Pathfinder,” the Asari snapped, her voice clear, almost loud. Was she wearing a wire? Or perhaps she had an accomplice? Reyes kept his features even, careful. He’d been with Ryder only hours before. His opponents were quick. The Asari continued speaking, with that same aggressive, almost confident tone. “Has the Charlatan allied himself with the Nexus? Are they finally ready to pay attention to the problem they can’t contain?”

“I thought the Charlatan was a woman,” Reyes said mildly. His assassin sneered.

“The Angara is nothing. Don’t take us for fools. Tell the Charlatan he can wear as many faces as he wants. We will rip them away, one by one, until there is nowhere left to hide.”

“Tell her yourself!” Reyes said brightly. Her jaw locked, struggling. Reyes watched apathetically. “I always wondered, why do would someone with biotics bother with poison? Surely you can just blow yourself up. Can’t you?”

The Asari’s jaw, frozen to keep her from biting down, strained to answer him, or to end things. You could never be too careful. He kept watching her as the mental chokehold’s pressure increased, until finally, she wavered, her eyelids fluttering. Her body fell pitifully to the ground, and as Reyes searched her, he realized that her slightness was, in fact, to be expected. She was barely more than a child.

She was carrying Angaran daggers, Initiative boosters, and her armor was worth more than the average mercenary could afford, sporting some kind of stylish shield tech he hadn’t seen before. Scans showed that several of her teeth were filled with poison, but she would need to crush her molars to access it. It would be very painful.

Reyes glanced up as his two shadows slid forward, awaiting his orders. He’d chosen the twins—a pair of ancient human biotics, the sort of old women whose discretion could be matched only by their uncaring savagery. Reyes had never liked using the Asari commandos. Too flashy. “Take her back to Keema. Whoever’s sponsoring her already knows she’s been captured, we might as well make sure the Initiative knows it too. When she wakes up, see what you can get out of her.”

“If she refuses to cooperate? We kill her?” one of the old women asked.

Child murderers. Leaving little bodies in the streets. Reyes sighed. Annoying, when the child had lived longer than him. “We’ll give her to the Pathfinder. The Nexus can take her into custody.”

The old women exchanged glances. Telepathy? He would have believed it. Respectfully, one woman dipped her head, considering the young Asari. “There is a chance she may be able to divulge something unsavory to the Nexus…” she trailed off, her silence fat with meaning.

Torturer. Murderer. Sadist. Ryder’s face, when she’d seen what he did to Avitus as punishment for failing to renounce Sloane. Her face, when she’d seen him as the Charlatan, known that even the title he’d chosen for himself marked him as a liar. Her face, aging and recoiling before his eyes, her obvious and instinctive horror. The moment he had realized that there was a part of him she would never, ever be able to see without flinching.

Absently, Reyes dusted the rubble off his thighs, and turned away. “Get what you can from her. Keep her alive. Make sure she’ll never be able to tell anyone, anything. Especially not the Pathfinder.”

Decision: he liked her new freckles.

As Ryder’s party stripped out of their armor and boarded the Tempest, several heads popped around the corridor’s corners to watch. “Nice to see you’re back,” was Lexi’s greeting. It seemed innocent enough. Ryder was already afraid.

“We just stopped for a drink on the way back,” Ryder explained, her voice oddly high-pitched. She glanced hopefully at Drack and Cora, neither of whom seemed interested in covering for her.

Lexi’s arms were crossed, her spine rigid. Very slowly, and with considerably deliberation, her weight shifted to one hip. “Of course,” the doctor acknowledged. “A drink.”

Or several. Ryder grumbled, then realized that Drack had apparently mastered the art of evaporation. Her favorite Krogan was nowhere to be seen.

Lexi had privately decided that she didn’t have the energy to badger someone who regarded their internal organs as currency, and she now settled into easier targets with a sense of relative comfort. “I’m not sure where to start. Wait, yes, I do. Cora?”

Cora’s mouth actually dropped a little. She looked indignantly at Ryder. “Me? Why am I being singled out?”

“Did you even wear sunscreen?” Lexi demanded.

“Yes.” Cora said, immediately and definitively and shifty as hell.

Scans reveal she is lying, SAM pitched in.

“Sunscreen is important,” Ryder pitched in. “Very anti-cancer, that stuff. Yep.” She slunk rapidly towards the nearest escape route, and was more than a little perturbed when Lexi’s hand snagged her jacket sleeve, especially since there should have been several meters separating them. Ryder smiled nervously. “You’re pretty speedy for a Doctor.”

“Aloe vera,” Lexi barked at Cora, who was actually jogging down the hall. Casually. Casual jogging. Lexi returned her glare to Ryder. “And you.”

The Pathfinder wore sunscreen, SAM reported. Nice to know someone was on her side.

“I thought we were arresting your boyfriend,” Lexi growled. “I don’t see a detainee. SAM’s monitors show your oxytocin excretion levels all over the place!”

“I don’t think the word excretion should be allowed on this ship?” Ryder said, to the ceiling. “I also would like to point out that SAM is a traitor and this is totally an invasion of privacy? Just, you know. For the captain’s log.” Lexi was still holding/pinning her by the arm. Which was buzzing. Her arm was buzzing? For one wild moment Ryder wondered if her weird headaches had migrated, but no, it was just her omni-tool. Someone was calling.

“Ryder, you might be able to lie to me, but your body can’t. And I am telling you, as your doctor, you cannot rationally or fairly involve yourself in this mission.” Lexi insisted. Ryder groaned. Why was Lexi so smart and caring? Why couldn’t she be a practitioner of the Band-Aid cure-all methodology? Twisting the knife still deeper, Lexi’s tone softened (her arresting grip did not). “Personally, Ryder, I don’t want to see you or anyone else be hurt. I kept quiet before now because, to be blunt, I knew you wouldn’t listen to me. I also was unable to argue that someone else would be better suited to the job. But I cannot continue to sanction your behavior without, at the very least, regular psychological evaluations.”

Trapped like a rat. The psych evals weren’t bad, truthfully. Lexi was a big believer in comfort as a facilitator of intimacy, meaning she had a very nice couch.

The Pathfinder is considering stabbing a fork through her hand to avoid discussing her feelings, SAM reported. Lexi’s attention diverted.

“Left or right?”

Non-dominant.

“At least you’ve still kept some pragmatism,” Lexi acknowledged. She let go of Ryder’s arm. “Fine. Collect yourself first. But then, we talk.”

Ryder nodded furiously, almost disbelieving her good luck as Lexi turned to go. For good measure, and because she was an excellent doctor, Lexi still remembered to nag. “And for the love of the Goddess, hydrate yourself.”

“Yes. Hydration and reflection. Doing that,” Ryder noted, already checking her omni-tool. Reyes? Reyes.

Meet me tomorrow morning? Café called Tiramisu.

Hell yeah.

Keema flinched the moment she saw him. Reyes preferred to work from the shadows when he could—but there were some things that had to be done in person. And there’d been a time in his past when he’d been good—very good—at climbing in through people’s windows. Even the locked ones. Even the ones that should have been impossible to open, like the window to Keema’s private quarters. “My god,” Keema breathed. She pressed a hand to her breast, likely more for dramatic effect than shock. “There’s no need to glare.” She recovered herself, obviously stalling for time as she waltzed to her private collection of liqueurs. “Drink?”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Reyes snarled. He’d meant to keep things cool. Plans changed.

Keema didn’t quite look at him. “I disagreed.”

Reyes rolled to his feet. A weird, unknown energy vibrated through his limbs. Keema poured, offered. He shook his head. “I don’t want her involved.”

“She is involved.” Keema snapped, and tossed down her shot. She smacked her lips angrily. “Don’t let your feelings get in the way of yourself. The Pathfinder is more than capable of handling herself. She’ll probably find the fake Charlatan before you can.”

Reyes ground his teeth. “Not everyone will be able to tell the difference between the good and the bad, when this fake is found.”

“So that’s it?” Keema’s face began to glow. “I don’t understand you at all.” She poured again, almost forcing the next drink on him. “You worry what she’ll think of you.”

“I worry about losing our alliance—”

“She wouldn’t dare. And you know it. You’re a nasty piece of work that likes pretending to be just rough around the edges. And she’ll find out. And she’ll hate you,” Keema laughed. “You know, I sometimes wonder. What do you tell her about yourself?”

Extremely little. Reyes pulled himself back, returned to the dark window he’d cut his way through. The cold air helped, moderately. He’d come too far to lose control like this. “I should have listened to you,” he conceded, relieved to hear his tone could pass for polite. “Your concerns are real ones.”

“If I’d known it only took a human woman to make you back down, I’d have found you one sooner,” Keema snipped. Reyes drank before answering. Whatever she’d given him was hot, and painful, and nasty.

He turned back to Keema, offering a pleasant smile. “Now who’s being petty?”

“I beg your pardon,” Keema replied.

Cold air. He could be cold. “Your decision to ask for the Pathfinder’s help was the right one. But you still made it without me. I can’t have you making those calls on your own.”

At last, Keema nodded. “I know.”

“We were both wrong. Let’s agree to put this behind us.” He thought about leaping back out the window. It seemed a little dramatic. Reyes headed for the door, adding as he left, “Do this again, and you’re done.”

Reyes was late.

Ryder slouched back against her chair, ignoring SAM’s reminder that doing so would atrophy her muscles. Reyes was late. Of course. No biggie. Except that she was the Pathfinder and how dare he keep the Pathfinder waiting. Just saying.

Kadara was sleepy in the morning. It felt cleaner. Less crowded, that was for sure, but she also could have been feeling lonely thanks to her decision to shake her team. ‘Shake her team’ meaning ‘sneak out of the Tempest,’ a thing that was generally frowned upon and, definitely, bad. Very bad. Bad Pathfinder.

Ryder rubbed her eyes, sulking. She deserved to sulk. She was good at her job and responsible and could shoot a bird out of the sky at 500 meters. Did Kadara have birds? Irrelevant. Point was: people needed to get off her back because she had this.

Suddenly, darkness. A hand, hot and very dry covering her eyes. Close enough for her eyelashes to graze. She should have been afraid. She shouldn’t have relaxed. It was a very big and very stupid problem that she relaxed. “You should take off your armor sometimes,” Reyes mused. “It’s just me.”

Ryder twisted around, pretending to glare. “Do you have some sort of problem with approaching so people can see you?”

“No, just you.”

“Why just me?”

He took his time strolling around the table, claiming his seat opposite her. Even as he pretended to pout, his face was alive with laughter, almost mocking. “You’re so good at running away from me. I don’t want to play nice anymore.”

“That’s not fair.” Ryder protested, with new guilt. Did he think she was running away? She wasn’t running away. She was doing Pathfinder things.

“Isn’t it?” he smiled, almost gently. “Don’t look so upset.”

Ryder blushed, feeling stupid. Of course he didn’t think that. He probably didn’t think of her at all. She tried for a breezy laugh. “Upset! I’m not upset. Anyway. You’re supposed to be telling me about the bad guys.”

“What’s your rush?”

“Uh,” Ryder clamped her mouth shut. She was truthfully not even sure where to begin. Her sense of duty? Professionalism? Her crew’s constant vigilance and clear dissatisfaction with the mission at hand? “Nothing. No rush.”

“Such a bad liar. I almost want to teach you.”

“Why don’t you?”

He just looked at her. Defiant, Ryder stared back. He looked tired. A little older than she remembered. What was he doing that made so worn out? Did he ever get hurt—would he even tell her if he was? Would he tell her anything?

Reyes smirked, and she shook herself free of her thoughts. “Have you eaten?”

“Is it safe?”

“Don’t be that way.” Reyes leaned back, settling himself more comfortably into his chair. “You know, I’ve been thinking about you.”

“About me? What about me?” Ryder squinted at him, suspicious.

“This time apart, has it changed things? Between us? You seem more distant.”

“Distant!” Ryder squeaked, now indignant. “We kissed!”

“No. I kissed you.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“I like it better the other way.”

“You would.” Ryder snorted, then caught herself. She was not going to spend the morning flirting. She had definitely promised herself that. Trying for neutral ground, she gestured at their surroundings. “Why this place? Come here often?”

He rocked forward, pulling his chest over the small table between them. There was a new scar on his forearm, almost startlingly white against his skin. Ryder promised herself not to ask. Watching his shoulders hunch, the way he filled the space in front of her, she struggled to accept his physicality. It was ironic, considering how much time she spent ignoring Liam as he paraded his abs across the Tempest. “It might surprise you to know that it isn’t easy to get good coffee on this space rock,” Reyes intimated. He did his usual sign language with a passing waitress, which Ryder watched jealously.

“Let me guess—you drink it black?”

“Are you out of your mind? Three spoons of sugar. I like them sweet.” He winked.

Ryder stared.

Reyes giggled. “Okay. Sorry.”

“My father would have punched you.” Their coffee arrived. Ryder drank it straight, with a poker face that was almost murderous.

“You old soldier,” Reyes continued to snicker. He leaned back, now trilling an R at her. She kicked him under the table.

“Stop giggling! And! This coffee is terrible!”

“Like I said, you’d be surprised how hard it is to get good coffee on this space rock—”

She kicked him again. “Did you seriously just call me here to drink bad coffee with me?”

“I dream of the day,” Reyes returned. He was coming down from whatever giddiness he’d felt before now, and she felt sorry for it. Ryder glanced down. Her stomach was cramping. She should have eaten something.

The moment stretched and dropped between them. Their silence shrank and made space for the noise of the world around them. Ryder let herself relax, feeling oddly at peace. Beneath the morning sun, saying nothing with a dangerous man, she drank her bad coffee and watched him wake up.

Reyes finished his drink and offered his hand to her, “Come with me?”

She thought about refusing. Or even just asking questions. Instead, she followed. She followed him down side streets, through dizzying crowds of people, into long, dark hallways. Past empty apartments and arguing peddlers. Two fire-eaters were about to brawl for a street corner, their eyes and their flames both flashing. She followed him until she realized that she was lost—so lost that it would be hard to find her way back out, even with SAM. There had been too many things to see, so much to take in. “Will you be escorting me back out of here?” she asked him, half joking. He had never let go of her hand.

Reyes stopped. “I’ll consider it. What do you think of this?”

She wasn’t sure what she was looking at. It seemed like just another of Kadara’s alleys—small, foul-smelling. There was one thing, though—it was empty. An empty path in a city swollen with people.

The street is freshly washed, SAM noted. Ryder’s fingers clenched.

“Did someone die here?” she asked. Reyes glanced at her. He had been looking at the wall. Surprised, Ryder followed his gaze.

“Yes. There was a child here,” he agreed. There was something about the wall. She could sense it. Cautiously, Ryder reached to brush the rough-cut stone with her fingers. Someone had painted this building green—but not recently. At least a year ago. She was just about to ask SAM to run a scan for a deeper analysis, when she saw it.

“It’s a face?” she asked, already knowing the answer. She reached out to touch the left eye’s image. SAM was scanning. Rather than painting or drawing the face, someone had gone into the stone itself, and cut out a rough approximation of human features. The overall effect suggested that someone had just begun to emerge through the wall, face-first. “Well, that’s creepy.”

“Isn’t it?” Reyes asked. “It took me a while to notice too. They usually use the victim’s blood to paint something ridiculous on the walls, which covers up the face. It’s only after things are washed away that you see it.”

“The others were like this too?”

Reyes sighed. “There are others. Not all. The problem is there are too many copycats. Someone’s seen the paintings but not what hides beneath them, is my guess.”

She had to tell her crew. “You have pictures of the others, right? Can you send them to me?”

“Done,” Reyes agreed. He waited for her to finish scanning, then reached her wrist. “I’ll take you back.”

She looked around once more, then followed him obediently. He glanced back at her, grinning. “Some date.”

“We have our own style.”

He laughed. “I like that.”

He’d trusted her, letting her in. She felt good. “Is that the only thing you like?”

“It’s a start,” Reyes murmured. He’d paused to touch a passing door knob—and he’d twisted—something? But with the barest push she heard a lock snap and in the next second Reyes tugged her wrist, and she was in, off the street and in his arms, while whirls of lazy dust lit the air with gold around them.

Her heart was racing. “You came prepared.”

“I am always prepared,” he pulled her more tightly against him. “Are you impressed?”

“Do you want me to be?”

“Yes,” he said, and just barely in time. Ryder lifted herself onto her toes, and pressed her mouth to his. She didn’t want to hurry. As she kissed him she peeked one eye open. He kissed her with his eyes closed. Somehow, this thrilled her. She broke away to kiss his eyelids, and beneath her mouth, they trembled.

“Silly,” he whispered.

She wanted him. She had to go back to the ship. She wanted him.

He knew it.

She pushed herself away, unsuccessfully.

“Where are you going?” Reyes asked, his mouth grazing the edge of her ear—a feeling between ticklish, and an itch. She wasn’t going to look at him. She wasn’t going to look. She looked.

“This isn’t going to work,” she hissed through tight, determined teeth. “I can’t do this right now. I snuck out while everyone was sleeping to be here, I—I said I wouldn’t do this.”

“Okay.” Reyes didn’t let go. “But do it anyway.” He pushed her hair back, rough hands on her neck, holding the base of her skull just a little too firmly. He kissed, lovingly, the extent of her throat. He bit, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Distracting me is definitely not going to work—”

“Oh yeah? Prove it.” He was pulling on her armor. No, he was barely touching it. Like a lock pick, her gear fell around her, like nothing had been standing in his way to begin with. Her shield plate, nearly banging her foot as it dropped. She didn’t even know that her arms could feel naked, but they did—they did. She couldn’t bring herself to even think about stopping him, not when it was so easy—why was it always so easy for him?

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Ryder protested, barely hearing herself. He had knelt, and was unthreading the straps and snaps around her legs. Her thighs, now, bared to the air. Unconsciously, she reached to touch his hair, only just grazing the side of his head with her fingertips. He looked up at her, his face now catching the sunlight, his eyes shining. He seemed, suddenly, vulnerable.

“But don’t you want to?” he asked. She couldn’t tell if he asked to tease her, or because—maybe—she was actually something he actually wanted.

“Yes,” she admitted, horrified when her voice cracked. He gazed up at her, unreadable. For too long, he said nothing. For too long, she fell without a safety net.

It was too much. Her face burning, Ryder scrambled to grab her armor, throwing it back on. “I should go,” she muttered. He watched her. She wouldn’t look at him.

“Hey,” Reyes said. Ryder paid attention to her breast plate, to sealing things as fast as possible. “Hey,” he said again.

“What?”

He handed her a missing glove. “Can I try again?”

She hated herself for falling for him. Of all people. He probably didn’t even like her that much. When he smiled at her, when she saw his uncertainty—she believed that he did. Trying to hold on to her anger, Ryder groused, “You’re not a good man.” She pulled on her glove. He pulled her to her feet. His uncertainty was gone, or hidden, or had never been there in the first place. She turned before he could kiss her goodbye.

“Would you believe me if I said that I try to be?” he asked her back.

Ryder didn’t answer.

She was going back to the ship. She really, really was. As soon as she figured out the right way to sneak onto a secured military vessel, she was in there.

Ryder huddled behind a few of the docking bay’s larger shipping containers, sweating. She was so busted. She’d been brave enough to check the messages on her omni-tool earlier. Lexi was pissed. So was Cora. So was Kallo. She hadn’t even opened the messages fully—both because she was sure the read receipts would damn her further, and because the subject lines alone were terrifying.

“It’s the truant,” Vetra said.

Ryder choked, and whirled. Definitely Vetra. Ryder couldn’t tell if the Turian was angry, or amused. Or both? Probably both. Also: everyone and their mothers were sneaking up on her these days. Everyone. This was why she didn’t do things without a sniper. “Oh, hey there Vetra,” Ryder squeaked. “I was just thinking, it’s funny, because I had SAM install all these ‘predictive combat matrices’ yesterday and then everyone started getting the jump on me.”

Vetra crossed her arms. “Ha.”

“So. I was just—”

“I honestly hope you at least got laid,” Vetra interrupted. “Because Lexi has requested a full psych eval.”

“No,” Ryder whispered. She stared hopefully up at the Turian. “You’re teasing me.”

“You are arguably a deserter.” Vetra shrugged. “No biggie.”

Ryder wilted. Vetra snorted, “Jeez Ryder, take a joke. It’s fine if you’re fine. But don’t pull that shit again. You want someone to discreetly supervise your trysts, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Ugh,” Ryder rubbed her forehead again. Seriously, ow. “You’re right. I’ll apologize. I just wanted—I thought—I don’t know.”

“You thought you had a connection.” Vetra said simply. Ryder tried not to die.

“I guess you could say that.”

“You thought that by confronting him solo, you’d somehow be able to…reach an understanding? Or something to that effect.”

Stupid stupid stupid. Ryder buried her face in her hands. “Can you maybe not tell everyone about this?”

Vetra sniggered. “Probably. For a price.”

She could only lurk behind shipping crates for so long. Sheepishly, Ryder straightened, and tried to act like she had always been striding confidently back to her ship. “It’s not like I was completely playing hooky, you know. I got some good data. I’ll have SAM upload it.”

“Good data? From Reyes?”

Ryder lifted her chin proudly. “He showed me some stuff.”

Vetra sighed, and fell in line behind Ryder as they approached the lifts back to the Tempest. “So did you know that the Collective took an assassin into custody last night? Some Asari kid with really nice armor? Ringing any bells?”

Ryder froze. “What?” she whispered.

“He didn’t tell you, huh?” Vetra crossed her arms. “Thought so.”

“It might not be what you’re thinking,” Ryder defended. She’d never felt this way before. This cold, sinking feeling. It wasn’t disappointment or anger, but something more physical—something like fear. And what was she saying, anyway? Like Reyes tickled people until they told him what he wanted to know? Come on.

“Cute,” Vetra snorted. “Almost like you’ve never seen him torture anyone before.”

“We don’t know that,” Ryder snapped. She winced. She hadn’t meant to sound angry. Vetra’s face shifted, expression cool. If Turians had eyebrows.

“Listen Ryder, I don’t have anything against the guy. It’s a rough world. A part of me thinks he’s doing what he’s gotta do, but a bigger part of me doesn’t want to see what happens when you get sucked into it. Just remember that I’m on your side here, and I’ve dealt with more crime lords than you have.”

“Right.” She felt like such an ass. Ryder closed her eyes. Migraine. Again. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Vetra shrugged. “Don’t look so bummed. I don’t care if you fuck him.”

Ryder ignored this. “Wait. How many crime lords have you dealt with?”

“Does it matter? They’re mostly dead.” Imperious, Vetra keyed in the shuttle request to deliver them back to the Tempest. Ryder squinted up at her.

“You know that thing where there’s like a hundred rats locked in a box together and eventually they eat each other until only the strongest one’s left?”

“Ugh,” Vetra wailed. She looked genuinely horrified. “Seriously Ryder, what the fuck? Rats? Those furry things with the little wormy tails, right?”

“I mean it’s not like I ever did it!” Ryder defended. Vetra continued to look repulsed.

“Why are humans so gross?” she moaned. She spent most of the shuttle ride sitting as far away from the Gross Human as possible.

Ryder, meanwhile, spent her time bracing herself for the Mom Coalition, and the snarky looks she’d probably have to endure from Vetra, Chief Audience Member.

Upon arriving at the Tempest, however, Ryder realized she’d made a mistake. She’d assumed Lexi wouldn’t have adapted her tactics. Vetra had already settled into a comfortable vantage point against the wall when Lexi, smiling beatifically, said only, “Oh, Ryder. Your brother’s expecting you.”

“What.” Ryder said. It was not really a question or even an accusation—more like an instinctive, deep rejection. Lexi sniffed.

“I do have the authority to notify next-of-kin in states of emergency. Like, when you go missing.”

“Oh man,” Vetra chortled. “You’re gonna get it.”

“What.” Ryder said again. This wouldn’t do. She cleared her throat. “What did you tell him?”

“Probably just that his sister’s fucking a gang leader,” Vetra whispered gleefully, then in her normal voice, “I mean you are though, right?”

Like Ryder really needed a reminder of how much she wanted to punch a hole through the wall right now. She glowered at Vetra. And Lexi. And the whole damn universe. Assholes. Her arm buzzed. She had four missed calls from Scott—meaning her upcoming conversation with him had officially reached natural disaster levels of bad.

“I hope there’s something left of me after all this,” Ryder said pointedly, now shuffling to her cabin. “I hope you’ve all picked out your new positions of authority following my death. But just remember: someone’s getting a bot downloaded into their head. No movie nights while the mourning period’s on. You’ll be sorry. You’ll all be sorry.”

“Stalling is unattractive.” Lexi snapped. Vetra nodded. Heartless bastards.

Ryder sealed the door to her cabin, walked to the middle of the room, and simply stood there. She gathered her courage. Scott was still 14 seconds younger than her and, also, had once dated three Krogan at the same time, so his opinion on her love life was PRETTY RICH IF YOU ASKED HER—!

Her omni-tool throbbed, interrupting her outrage. Reyes? Scott. Oh, god, it already was Scott. Five missed calls meant she might as well start setting up his guest room. “No, no, no, no,” Ryder whispered. “SAM, put him through. Shit.”

“Shit,” Scott echoed back at her, with venom. SAM had transferred the call to her room’s main terminal, making her brother’s (furious) expression five times life-size.

“Scott!” Ryder laughed nervously. Her brother was glaring. He glared like their mom. Why was everyone in their family so much scarier than her? “Hey! You look tan. It’s good. A good look. I mean, it suits you better than being frozen for hundreds of years. The coma thing was not awesome either. But at least it beats acne! Right?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. So Scott had clearly not forgotten being fifteen. Ryder laughed nervously, now loathing herself. “So, how are the Krogan?”

“I don’t know,” Scott said flatly. “Probably fine, since they can survive nuclear fallout.”

“Yep. Nuclear fallout. Gotta love aliens!” Ryder babbled. She looked frantically for some sort of plausible interruption: the Kett attacking, a sudden loss of gravity, a hull breach, her pet space rodent’s sudden mutation?

All very manageable problems.

“The Krogan have been aggressively expanding their territory on Elaaden by building roads and aqueducts,” Scott said coolly. “Also, shooting things.”

“The tried and the true.”

“Cut the shit,” Scott snapped, his eyebrows shooting up even as his voice lowered—an intimidation tactic he’d copied from his mother. Ryder could feel herself physically shrinking.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the Nexus sent me here—”

“Don’t start,” Scott interrupted. The video feed of him wavered, and for one glorious second, Ryder thought she might be able to avoid The Conversation. But he was back, snarling, “Do you seriously think I’m going to hang out in a desert while my sister acts out her own Shakespearean tragedy in Andromeda’s asshole? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Ryder coughed. “I think calling it a Shakespearean tragedy is pretty strong.”

“Is it?” Scott screeched. So the feed was definitely not flickering, as she had previously thought. That was just her brother’s rage-spit. “Because from my point of view,” Scott yelled, “I’m watching my last family member ignore procedure because she thinks playing detective for some shady-ass flyboy is more important than her life.”

Ryder squirmed as the familiar Familial Guilt began chewing up her insides. “Look, Scott—I don’t know what you’ve heard, and I get that this has you freaked out, but everything’s fine. It’s seriously fine. I’m not doing anything outside of mission protocols—I’m not, like, running off on my own—,” guilt levels were now overwhelming, Ryder swiftly changed direction, “—and anyway, I don’t think half the people here even know I’m the Pathfinder.”

The angry lines in Scott’s face grew deeper with every word she spoke. For a long moment, he was silent, only glaring at her. She could see him chew the inside of his cheek—an old habit. When he spoke next, his anger had been muffled into resolution. “You shouldn’t be there,” Scott said calmly. “And you know it. You should be with me. We should be continuing Dad’s work, our work—together. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“It is, Scott!” Ryder burst, “Of course it’s what I want!”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “Then wrap it up, and leave. Or I’ll come to you. You might be the Pathfinder, and maybe that means that the others can’t stop you, but you’re my sister. The Nexus can go to hell.”

“Scott—!” Ryder started to protest, but he’d already ended the call. She stared at the screen for over a minute, seething. This was too much. He wasn’t even the older twin! There was a line between concern and controlling and why did no one seem to observe that?

Without another outlet, Ryder simply shrieked. It was sharp, and loud, and none of her crew apparently thought it sounded urgent enough to warrant investigating. Ryder threw herself upright, pacing angrily. It wasn’t enough to have Aya, the Nexus, and her entire crew riding her ass for doing her job, now her baby brother was joining the fray. Great. Just great.

Ryder stormed out of her quarters, brushing past a jittery Kallo, who was lurking near the Med-Bay.

Wait.

Ryder turned around. “Did Suvi eat something?”

“She ate three!” Kallo wailed.

Ryder shrieked again.

[imagine-loki]

The Powers That Be

TITLE: The Powers That Be CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Ten AUTHOR: wolfpawn ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki discovering a hidden mutant when he realises they are at risk of being found by S.H.I.E.L.D. who experiments on mutants, he is the one to help them.

RATING: Teen and Up

Alexia felt as though she was spinning, or was it the room that was spinning, either way, she felt nauseous. She whimpered pathetically as she began to open her eyes.

“Whoa, someone get a bucket, she is about to hurl.” The plastic basin was placed in front of her just in time as she was violently ill.

“You didn’t see that coming.” She looked up at the silver haired man in front of her, his thick accent confused her slightly, she did not know if she knew him. He was winking at Barton.

“Yeah, yeah, smart ass.” The archer shook his head. “Good call.” He slapped Wilson’s arm.

“What can I say, I know that look, all new cadets to flight programmes lose their lunch a couple times before they get their wings. I’m going to get her a few saltines, they help settle her.”

“Lady Alex?”

“I feel worse.” She groaned. “I feel like I am on fire and freezing cold at the same time.”

“Is Dr Banner finished analysing that blood yet?” Thor asked worriedly.

“Little longer Big Guy.” Came a shout down the hall from Stark, who made his way back to the living area.

“She requires aid.”

“It’s been five hours since her last paracetamol.”

“I don’t feel sore, I feel sick.” She groaned.

“Yeah, the vomiting gave that much away.” Barton made a face as the smell came toward him.

“Shut it.” Loki snapped, Barton took a step forward. “It is not as though she is doing this to purposely irritate you.”

“What has you so defensive of her when you are so willing to annihilate the rest of us huh?” Barton demanded. “What makes her so special to you?”

“She is treated differently by your kind for something beyond her control and is then subjected to torture as a result and your concern is with regards me?” Loki snarled.

“Enough Loki. Barton, perhaps you and I should go and see if we can get some wood for a fire.” Thor suggested. All too willing to get away from Loki, Barton stormed from the room, followed closely by the blonde god. “I know you do not trust my brother, and after everything he has done for you, I cannot for one moment blame you, but please my friend, I beseech you, do not cause tensions with him with regards that at this time.”

“There is something odd going on, and brother or not, you know it too.”

“Yes, I agree.” That took some of the wind from Barton’s sails. “He was tortured by Thanos, I told you this did I not?” Barton gave a small uncaring nod. “I have seen the manner in which he treats her, it is different to how he treats the rest of you Midgardians but there is reason for it. He understands what it is like to not be part of normal society.”

“Meaning?”

“He is not my brother by birth.”

“Yeah, your parents adopted him, you said.”

“My father took him from a land that my own despise, and whom he was reared to hate and fear. Midgard has taught you all to hate and fear those different to you also, those like Lady Alex, he sees the similarities and sympathises with them.”

“Thor, I get you want the guy raised as your brother back, but I am telling you, the guy who tried to take over Earth is not capable of such things as compassion and sympathy.”

“I know you have seen the darkness of my brother, but I know him to be capable of good also. There was a time that were you to have met me, you would have thought the same of me, I was selfish, arrogant, and I thought you all beneath me, but I changed.”

“Really?” Barton looked at him.

“The time I came to Midgard first and tried to get Mjolnir back, you were aiming an arrow right at me, back then, had you and I spoken, I would not have been as I am today.”

“And you think he is not trying to warp her?”

“I cannot see any evidence to suggest such wrong doings.”

“I still do not trust him.”

“I am not asking you to my friend, but I am asking you to not try and cause issues as he aids Lady Alex, she is weak at present, and with Dr Banner close, we do not need her becoming agitated, for fear we may unleash the beast.” Barton simply nodded, there was no need for further motivation, the last thing any of them needed was for a ‘Hulk-Out’. “Thank you.”

“Yes well, as soon as this is all over, I am going to take a vacation.”

“What is a vacation?” Thor inquired.

“At this stage, were we both to come face to face with one, we would be equally stumped.” Barton clapped his shoulder.

“I do not understand.” Thor frowned, disliking that he was not able to comprehend the term Barton had used. They entered the house again and were met with a grim-faced Stark and Banner. “What news is there, what is happening?” Thor looked between them.

“There is nothing we can do to help her, her blood needs to be allowed to replenish and she, well she is not like us anymore.”

“In what way?” Captain America asked as he joined them, his arms folded.

“Her DNA is different, usually in humans there are four nucleobases, cytosine, guanine, adenine and thymine. She has a fifth. And her chromosomes are slightly different too, there is an extra pairing.” Banner explained. 

“So technically, she isn’t actually a homo sapiens,” Stark stated. “That is how SHIELD has been getting away with this. JARVIS hacked the files, as soon as they prove the test subject has these differences, they are not deemed to have human rights and therefore can be experimented on til death.”

Wilson stared in disbelief at what they said. “They do this on a technicality?” Banner nodded. “I think I’m going to be sick. Man, this is wrong on about twenty levels.”

“So how do we get her blood to replenish?” Rogers asked.

“Well, she is O positive, but it’s not like we can just walk into a blood bank and take some,” Stark stated.

“Why not? Show me the nearest one; I’ll be in and out in ten minutes.” Barton offered.

“She may react badly to it, if it is so fundamentally different from the blood flowing in her; it may make her more ill.” Banner explained.

“Or cure her,” Stark added. “Or poison her.”

“How was anything you just said helpful?” Rogers asked bemusedly.

“It was only meant to explain, whether you found you useful or not is none of my business.”

“Have you told any of this to Lady Alex?” Thor asked.

“Not yet, from what we gather she is gone back to sleep, with nothing in her stomach, she got pretty weak again and dozed off, with her guard assassins and God, she seems to be sleeping off most of the narcotics they pumped into her,” Stark explained.

“And Coulson?” Barton queried.

“I’m not sure we can tell him too much, I mean, can we actually trust him?” Stark questioned.

“He is in as much crap as the rest of us now, more actually. SHIELD will want his ass for taking his kid out of there.” Barton argued.

“But she was only there because of him in the first place too, and from what JARVIS showed me, he was willing to ship her halfway across the world before even talking to her. I really am not feeling like sharing too much with daddy dearest.”

“Didn’t you have a strained relationship with your father?” Barton challenged.

“Yeah, guess that means she and I have that in common, workaholic fathers who just don’t give a damn, I knew there was a reason the kid and I always got on.” Stark rambled.

“She’s popular, isn’t she?” Wilson commented. “I mean, Bucky isn’t leaving her side and he doesn’t even know her, Stark is going sass master, Thor is going all ‘Protector of the Realms’, Hill and Coulson have effectively lost their jobs for her, hell even I am cooking for her, and lets not even get started on her being the only human to ever get Loki to give a crap.”

“You just know she was one of those ‘no friends all study’ kids at school, though,” Barton added as he walked inside, sick of standing in a hallway with his arms filled with logs. He walked through to the room where Alexia was still sleeping on the sofa, a warm blanket over her and went over to the fireplace. “Anyone got a match?” Silence was the response. “Wonderful.”

“So nothing can be done?” Loki turned to face those entering the room. “She will not be able to contain it until she recovers fully.”

“Any idea how to, I dunno, let it out safely?” Stark questioned.

“She would have to be far stronger than she is at present,” Loki replied factually.

“In Asgard, when a child is ready to use magic, they have a tutor who contains the magic as they learn to unleash their potential,” Thor commented.

“I am powerless, remember?” Loki gave a sarcastic smile. “I am of no use on this front.”

“But can you teach her to unleash it carefully, in little bursts?” Stark asked him.

“I am unsure what it is she even does, and she is even less sure, it is a gamble, to say the least, but as she is so weak, if she were to try and unleash it purposely, it may well be dangerous.”

“How had you planned on getting her to unleash it later in your little lessons?” Coulson spat.

“I had not intended on getting her to, not until she even figured out what it was,” Loki stated boredly. “Contrary to your beliefs, I do not tend to go playing around with the first weapon I find and start randomly pressing buttons, hoping it will do what I wish, I analyse and calculate. Ask Thor, it is how we are trained.” Thor nodded his agreement. “Speak with her when she awakens, if you get her to keep down food, I can see her attempting such in a few days, she is more attune to it now, that will aid her.”

“What did you find from the blood tests?” Coulson asked. Stark left the room, choosing not to be part of it.

“Her DNA is fundamentally different, we know nothing of how to deal with the differences, so it is too risky to do anything other than get her to rest and recuperate naturally.” Banner explained.

“Fundamentally?” Her father’s voice was fearful.

“Yep, is there an echo in here?” Stark came back into the room, a scotch in hand. “And guess what JARVIS was able to dig up and tell me. No one? The genetic alterations are a result of abnormalities in the males XX or XY chromosome.”

“Meaning what?”

“A kid inherits these things, from their father. So everything she has been through.” Stark pointed to Coulson. “Is because of you.”

[scurvgirl]

Queen of the Stone, Part 3

Read on AO3, Part 1, Part 2

She has been a Grey Warden for eleven years, and the taint is beginning to consume her. She needs to find a cure soon. So Elodie Amell sets out in search and finds herself in the city thought long-lost, Kal-Sharok. There she discovers something much bigger than just a cure for the taint running through her body.

A companion story to my other story, In Your Gaze I Wish to Stay, but this can be read separately!

Lost Girls

Elodie descends deeper and discovers a shocking revelation.

They walked for another hour before Effir slumped against a wall, clearly exhausted from the day’s journey.

“Paragon-Elect, I request we make camp,” they asked, eyes half-way closed.

But Karega shook her head, “I know of a spot just up over here. C’mon, Shaper, you demanded to be on this expedition after all.” Effir sighed but pushed themselves off of the stone. Elodie murmured a little spell and gestured towards them, trying to give them the little boost needed to get through this next part.

They eyed the magic suspiciously then waved at it and shuddered when it continued to wrap itself around them.

“What is this? Spirits of the Stone? Leave me be, ancestors!” Their voice broke and Elodie frowned, waving again and making the magic dissipate.

“I apologize –

“Warn a person before you do that,” they growled and took off after Karega. Elodie sighed and reminded herself that the dwarves here hadn’t seen magic in…thousands of years.

She winced at her own insensitivity and followed along quietly once more. They jogged up a ramp that seemed to go on for miles before arriving at a huge open plateau.

Elodie’s jaw dropped at the sheer size of the space.

The ceiling was so high that she could barely see the dangling chandeliers. Towering pillars framed the space and section off other spaces containing large square holes that looked suspiciously like….

“Is this a bathhouse?” Elodie asked. Karega turned back and smiled.

“You reek, and I remember running past this place – two nugs, one bath!” She declared happily. Effir and Pritte paused for a moment before gravitating towards the pillars, recording any and all information possible.

“Are you not going to enjoy a bath?” Elodie called back as she followed Karega in search of a lever to turn the pools on.

“In a bit, perhaps,” Pritte said absently as he scribbled into his journal. Their voices carried through the space, echoing off of remarkably smooth and pristine stone. With a few careful words, Elodie illuminated the room, igniting torches, braziers, and even the chandeliers hanging above.

The light allowed Elodie and Karega to spot various hallways leading off of the main chamber. And in the third room they investigated, they found what they were looking for – or at least what Elodie hoped was what they wanted.

It was an entire wall of levers, pullies, and various notes attached with what Elodie to be descriptions. Karega leaned forward to inspect the descriptions only to huff and swear once more.

“Damn. Ancient Dwarven, you would think our language and writing would not have deviated this much, but here it is.”

“Is there really nothing you can make out?”

“Uh, just barely. Maybe…this lever?” She pulled a lever and a great WOOSH went through the room. There was a pause and then distant screaming, hissing, and clanking sounded out in the main chamber.

“Shit!”

They ran back out just in time to see Pritte burying another axe into a spider’s skull. He looked up, and smiled while Effir, now covered in spider gore, scowled.

“Wrong. Lever.”

Karega snorted in an attempt to smother laughter, earning Effir’s continued ire. The dwarf then dropped their things and proceeded to walk to the chamber where Karega and Elodie had just been. They grumbled to themselves unintelligibly, though Elodie guessed they were cursing herself and Karega for getting them drenched in spider gore.

They inspected the rune work on the wall, then began to pull different levers.

“It is required for the Shapers to know the ancient tongue.” They explained tersely before turning from the wall and heading back out to the baths.

Pritte danced around happily as he stared up at the ceiling where water was now flowing from into one of the larger baths.

“Marvelous! Great work, Effir!” He then quickly began to strip, seemingly uncaring for those that saw him.

Karega was the next to begin disrobing. Elodie and Effir turned away while they both quietly shucked off their rancid smelling robes. It had formed some sort of sticky seal to Elodie’s skin and she gagged as she pealed it off.

“This is disgusting.” She grumbled.

“I hate spiders.” Effir groused before turning and quickly sinking into the bath. Elodie soon followed, testing the water. It was warm, though not to the usual degree Elodie took hers, but she supposed that was easily rectified…if the dwarves did not mind a bit of magic.

“Would you mind me making the water warmer with magic?” She asked politely. Pritte looked wildly excited by the whole idea, scrambling up over the edge of the bath to grab his notebook. Karega frowned and Effir was about to deliver the hard ‘yes’ to the question when Karega shrugged.

“Very well, as long as you won’t fry us.”

Elodie nodded and grabbed her staff, then drove the end of it down into the water, hitting the bottom. She murmured a few words and drew the warming rune. It flickered orange then simmered out and soon the temperature began to rise. Steam was floating off the top in no time, turning them all into flushed versions of themselves.

The bath was amazing. Elodie scrubbed all of the spider gore off of herself, and potentially a layer of skin, but it was worth it to feel clean and refreshed. She was convinced that the water had some mineral in it to aid with cleaning, but she could not tell what it was.

Pritte set to cleaning his beard meticulously, though he babbled on about how he was limited in that there weren’t just some beard oils laying around and oh dear, he forgot to pack some. Effir, like Elodie, scrubbed until raw, but they seemed much less tense with all the ichor now sloughed away.

Karega actually relaxed in the warm water. She leaned back against the wall and let her head dip back; Elodie thought she even took a nap.

The warming glyph eventually wore off and they exited the bath with long sighs. Pritte set to work drying himself off, and with all the hair covering his body, Elodie was a little concerned he would be drying for days rather than hours.

Elodie told Effir to sleep, that she would take first watch and wash their clothes. They scowled at her but eventually reluctantly agreed, seeing as they could barely keep their eyes open.

One of the good things about the Deep Roads was that there was little need for an actual tent, which reduced the amount of stuff they had to carry with them. That being said, Pritte somehow produced a tent-like tarp, pinning it to the wall, creating some privacy for those who wished to sleep.

Elodie took watch and wash, settling down by the now partially murky water to begin the slow process of cleaning fabric covered in spider guts.

She was not twenty minutes in when Karega tapped her shoulder. Elodie turned, surprised to see the woman in such soft clothing for the Deep. But more shocking was she was holding a small portrait that looked very familiar…

“It fell out of your pack when we moved it into the tent,” she handed it to Elodie. The mage took it with a small smile, and looked down at the now rumpled and fading micro-portrait of Alistair. She started carrying it with her when her duties took her away from him. Which made it ten years old. Maker.

“Thank you, I would have missed this.”

“Your husband, I take it?” Karega settled herself next to Elodie, still angling her head at the portrait.

“Not…exactly. He is my love and I am his, but we are not married. He is the king of Ferelden and when he ascended the throne, he had to marry the current queen to ensure unity, which we desperately needed.”

Karega paused for a moment then nodded, “You are his…concubine? Is that the correct word?”

“Oh goodness no! I am his Mistress. It’s a little funny, we were both so hesitant about that but when he became king and I remained at his side, absolutely no one was surprised…or even remotely upset. Even the queen was agreeable with the arrangement.” She tucked the small portrait into her clothes and resumed cleaning the battle robes. But Karega remained, still contemplating.

“Who mothers his children?” She suddenly asked. Ah. Yes, that question. It was always that question. ‘Yes, but who does he sleep with? Didn’t he have to sleep with her? Didn’t that hurt you?’ No, it didn’t. And she wasn’t less for it not hurting. She felt no remorse about Morrigan or about Anora, they were both necessary, and he loved her, not them. Sex was sex was sex.

“Anora, the queen, gave birth to his son, and heir apparent, seven years ago. We…I cannot bear children,” her voice was soft and the old failures crept into her.

The first pregnancy, they had been so happy, ecstatic. Duncan was only a year old and everyone was thrilled to think that he would have a sibling he could be so close to. Alistair had spent that entire month with a goofy smile on his face, cradling his son his arms and touching Elodie’s stomach whenever he had the chance.

The miscarriage was a shock for most, but Elodie was somewhat expecting it. The taint…it ran deep and she knew that bearing a child while riddled with it could be almost impossible.

The second pregnancy was approached with wary excitement. They kept it secret, just Anora, Alistair, and Elodie plus the healers knew. When that miscarriage came, it wasn’t so surprising, but it still hurt, and like the first time, she locked herself in her room for two days, crying.

Her hand fluttered to her stomach and she recalled the third pregnancy. It was the shortest one, lasting only a week after she found out. There and then suddenly gone.

It was the fourth that was the worst. She had the healers swear not to tell anyone until she was past the first trimester. And then the fourth month arrived and she broke out in excited tears. This was the one! Her baby! Her child! But she was careful, and they kept the pregnancy secret once more so as to not stress Elodie and the baby.

A miscarriage in the fifth month was nothing she would ever wish upon anyone. It was more than a miscarriage, of thick blood and cramping. It was a death, tragic and devastating. And the scars were longer lasting, her body not fully recovered and her heart bearing a wound that would never heal completely.

She stopped trying for a child after that, and began searching for a cure. She could be happy with being a second mother to Duncan, and she was. It was not a lack of love that made her want a child with Alistair, but because she loved Duncan…and wanted to be a mother again.

Elodie blinked the memories away and looked at the small portrait in her hands. He looked so young in the portrait, short hair, and a thinner face.

“He looks like a child without a beard,” Karega commented absently.

“Oh he has a beard now, nice and full, not to worry,” Elodie teased. She glanced down at her hands, still healing from the lyrium burns but also still strangely mottled from the blighted tissue removal. She hadn’t told him, but…he probably knew, could feel the taint getting stronger in her than in him.

Wardens made during the Blight had it worse. She was supposed to have thirty years, and it was looking like she got thirteen max.

She was going to die, taken by the thing that had once saved her from a life of imprisonment and ridicule. She would never have reached her full potential in the Circle, would have either languished in complacency or been made Tranquil once they discovered just how powerful she was…or when she began to speak out against the injustices put upon the mages by the Chantry and its Templars.

She would never have met Alistair in the Circle. This life…however short and tragic, was a monumental improvement over the lack of one in the Circle. She would not have loved, not have learned how to embrace her magic, she would never have met some of the most amazing friends and people. And in the end, when she ventured back out into the Deep Roads that actually had Darkspawn, she would be grateful for these thirteen years. Elodie Amell had done a lot of good, had enjoyed a lot of wonderful things, and come death came rest.

The night continued on and Elodie was eventually forced to retire into a wary sleep. And like the previous nights, the hallucinations returned.

A song more infectious and seducing than anything she had ever heard flitted through the air. It led her down halls and up pathways, then down slick passages. There was lyrium everywhere, but none of it was creating such a song. She dove deeper into the depths of the roads until coming to a great pulsating lyrium vein. It ran the height of a pillar once covered in runes, only to now be squeezed by the lifeblood of the Titan.

It drew her in and she was helpless to not sink to her knees, pressing it into the base of the lyrium while she pressed her hands to it.

She gasped as images flooded her mind. She expected to see the man diving into the ball of light once more, but instead she saw…a woman. Taller and slimmer than any dwarven woman, dressed in beautiful ceremonial armor. Her form wavered and suddenly she was standing in front of the great ball of light, a man stood in front of her, himself clad in stronger armor with a great battle-axe waving menacingly at the tall woman.

But she merely outstretched her hand and a…red tinted magic emerged like slithering shadows from her arm, sinking into the man.

There was a scream, a bright flash of light, then a hiss, and Elodie shot up awake in her bed, the palms of her hands bleeding from the burns.

What…was that? She had believed that the first vision had been of Karega’s husband being chosen and that was symbol enough to draw her to the Titan, but this…this was nothing like that.

A woman, overtaking a man defending the Titan? Was this woman…her? Was she supposed to do something like that? That had been sinister magic, nothing like what Elodie actually practiced.

Or was this a story of some sort? Did this happen in the past? And if so…what did this have to do with her?

Elodie went through the ritual of patching her hands, hissing in pain at how tender her flesh was. The burns were excruciating and the dabbing and healing and bandaging didn’t seem to lessen the pain.

“Alright, Long Legs! Time to head out! Let’s move,” Karega shouted from outside.

“Just a minute!” Elodie replied before murmuring a healing spell into her hands and then changing into her traveling robes. They weren’t perfect after yesterday’s encounter with the spider, but they would have to do. She packed the rest of her things and ran off to continue the trek into the deep.

**

The deeper they delved into the earth, the more her wounds burned. It started as a dull throbbing, but by the end of the fifth day of walking, her body itched and ached from the pain. The hallucinations happened nightly and her body was slowly becoming more encompassed by the burns. There was only so much elfroot could do to stop the pain and the pain itself was fatiguing, requiring them to make more frequent stops for her to regain herself.

Her body groaned under the stress, and as they climbed through yet another spider passage, she hissed at the pain of her skin sliding against the rocks. Tears slipped down her face, dripping in an angle down her neck and onto a burn that hissed at the contact.

She was dying, but she had to keep going.

On the sixth day, the roads ended. A hush fell over the group as they stared at the awaiting abyss.

The only way was forward.

They took a collective deep breath and sojourned forth. Elodie bounced up a light for herself only to have Effir hiss at her to put it out. There were other creatures here who would be drawn to the light, and that she would just have to rely on the dwarven eyesight to see her through.

They attached ropes to themselves, mostly for her benefit she thinks, and slowly began to trudge forward. She had never come across a darkness so complete in her life. No light pollution or refraction from stars or the moon – just…pitch black. Not even lyrium veins seemed to touched this place.

She slid her hands across the rock to keep her righted and with the group. She wished they could talk to further help guide her, but noise in this eerie quiet could spell disaster for them, so she kept quiet.

The darkness stretched on for hours until finally, a faint glow emerged. Relief flooded Elodie as she took a step toward it.

The light moved.

A low sound of discomfort escaped Karega followed by the sound of steel being freed from its holster. Elodie grabbed her staff and ignored the pain in her hands, watching the slow movement of the light. It bobbed slightly before…suddenly leaping up high.

The rope tugged on Elodie and she moved along with the dwarves. They’re being stalked, these were close quarters, it was time to move.

The pace was quicker than before but she fully approved of moving as quickly as possible as a hiss seemed to start at the far end of the cavern and more lights appeared, bobbing and moving even more quickly than the group could manage.

Her feet found the edges of rocks, her body slamming occasionally into the walls. Pain. So much pain, but she had to keep going.

The only way was forward.

The hissing got louder and soon she could hear the thumps of the creatures landing on the rocks above them, nails scraping against the stone as they moved. Vibrations from whatever communicative noises they made filled the void spurring the group to hustle even more quickly.

When the first creature leapt down at them, it purposefully missed. Elodie turned, found the light and sent a warning burst of magic at it.

It growled in pain and the vibrations in the cavern only seemed to increase. She had angered them, shit. The creature behind her leapt once more and this time she was forced to use lethal magic, sending forth a sharp burst of telekinetic energy. There was a sickening crunch and then the light went out.

The vibrations stopped.

Lights around the cavern went out.

Elodie swallowed thickly and prayed that they had left.

Karega screamed as she hit the ground. Effir lunged forward, pulling the group with them as they hacked into the creature attacking their queen.

“Skrimmers!” Pritte declared as he hustled forward as well to aid Effir. The creature, a skrimmer, howled in pain as axes hacked into its hide. Elodie kept her head on a swivel and drew up a barrier around them. She made it exceptionally physical to keep more of these creatures from attacking.

“HRAH!” Karega shouted as the skrimmer was finally slain and hauled off her body.

She shouted something them in her language and they were barreling down the cavern.

“What are those things?!” Elodie shouted.

“Skrimmers! Fabled ancestors of the deepstalkers! Rumored to be twice the size with two heads, brain is located in the body cavity!” Pritte shouted back. Body cavity, that’s where she should aim, got it.

A skimmer hissed and jumped at her from above, but she anticipated the blow and stepped forward before it could land on her. She whipped around and shot ice into the thing, severing its worm-like heads and burying them into the body.

It sputtered and died before Elodie was tugged back along by the rope. She could hear the footfalls of the skrimmers above, hissing to communicate as they jumped down at them.

Elodie tossed up another barrier as two landed, shielding them from more. She felt the hits to her barrier and staged under the weight. There was…power in them, potentially lyrium based, and it wanted to shatter the barrier.

“I can’t help with them!” She cried, but the dwarves seemed more than capable of handling the monsters.

Karega began to spin and promptly hacked into the skrimmers as Effir bludgeoned their heads with their hammer.

A large skrimmer slammed into Elodie’s barrier and she winced. Every blow hurt, but that was the nature of physical barriers, natural extensions of yourself to prevent actual harm to yourself.

She screamed as acid was suddenly spewed against the barrier, her already tender flesh feeling as if it was being sloughed away.

She couldn’t maintain this, it was too much, they were too much. But she couldn’t see them, couldn’t let loose specific attacks that would kill them but not her and her group.

The darkness pressed on them and the lights were still hidden from the creatures.

You’ll have to rely on our eyesight.

Creatures here are sensitive to light, you’ll make us a target!

Sensitive to light!

“CLOSE YOUR EYES!” She shouted and promptly dropped the barrier to draw in all her strength. And let it billow out in brilliant light.

The skrimmers hissed in pain as they flinched away from her. The light died down and she opened her eyes on the last of the dying light to see where they were…and let out a torrent of ice spikes down the cavern.

She slammed her staff down, then whipped it up, directing the magic into their soft underbellies. She extended the ice as far up as she could get it, up and away, impaling and destroying them in undoubted death.

When it was done, a wall of ice containing the broken bodies of a dozen giant skrimmers glowed before them, giving them just enough light to see.

“You can open your eyes now.” Elodie huffed, falling fatigued against a stone wall.

“Shit, Long Legs, that is…impressive,” Karega breathed. Effir watched her closely for a moment before nodding and turning from her.

“Are all mages capable of that, El-o-die?” Pritte asked, fascinated and seemingly no less for wear. Elodie smiled down at him and shook her head.

“No. Magic is unique in every mage, and I have…had some unique experiences that have allowed me to grow my magic.”

“You can grow magic?”

“Like how you build a muscle, more like. Here,” she took his notebook and piece of charcoal, scribbling on it, “when you make contact with the surface, contact the Inquisition and ask for correspondence with their Arcanist, Dagna. She’s a dwarf who studies magic, I think you’d get along great.” She handed the book back and his face lit up.

“A dwarf who studies magic? Fascinating!”

“Pritte, we got some carvings over here, care to translate?” Karega stepped up to them, her rope temporarily removed. Pritte untied himself from Elodie and quickly excused himself to go inspect the carvings with Effir.

Karega stood before Elodie, quiet, imposing. Elodie let out a long breath and looked down at her hands, still covered in barely recovering lyrium burns.

“Can you walk?” Karega asked, her voice low so the others could not hear.

Elodie nodded but it was not reassuring, “You said I had two weeks, but I do not know if I even have three more days. How much longer to the ruin?”

“If we walk through the night, we can reach it by next day.”

“Then we walk through the night,” Elodie decided. Karega nodded, understanding, before calling for a break to eat. They were going to need all the energy they could get for this next stretch.

**

Her feet ached. Her skin burned. Her head was starting to feel light when the cavern finally opened up and lyrium branches once again resumed to wrap around the rocks. Giant, almost encased river-like lyrium that branched out over every surface of rock possible.

Her teeth rattled in her skull, but it felt good to be able to see again. The rope was removed from her once more, relieving her already stressed back. She leaned a bit more than normal on her staff as she followed Karega into the depths.

The rock began to change color, slowly warping into strange colors under the influence of the lyrium, she imagined. Oil slick colors seemed to cover rounded surfaces while younger stone appeared to be jagged and dull.

There was no dirt, only rock and lyrium as the cavern opened up. Oh. There was also steam…which meant water and fire of some sort, potentially lava. The walkways were suspended over what looked to be an unending chasm, steam billowing up from its depths.

It was interesting, she thought, that even so deep underground, one could find suspended high enough to die.

Pritte stepped forward, “Amazing…” he murmured.

They crossed the bridge and passed into an oddly shaped cavern. There were eroded striations in the rock and precise cuts that allowed the light from a lyrium vein to bleed through. The lines were mostly straight only worn with time, which meant….

“This was shaped by someone.”

“Clearly,” Effir said, inspecting the work more closely. They pulled out their journal and made some quick notes before Karega gestured for them to keep going.

“We’re getting close to where Gurendar disappeared, keep up.” Karega led them through the passage and across a short bridge into another passage that opened up into a great hall. Its ceilings weren’t as tall and overwhelming as the bathhouse, but the pillars were larger, the statues were more ornate and the lyrium had been cultivated along the walls into designated channels for optimal aesthetic appeal. To conserve energy, Elodie did not illuminate the space. Pritte stayed close to her, helping to guide her through the low light.

“You don’t have to stay by me, I know you want to explore,” she told him.

“I do. But you need me more at the moment. Besides, I am thinking of having another expedition down here after this whole thing is settled. You would think we’d know more about this place, but we don’t. It’s quite unfortunate,” Pritte rambled, his voice low and gentle as they maneuvered through the space.

“We don’t know more because of superstition,” Effir commented, falling just a bit behind Karega to join the conversation.

“The senior shapers tell tales of disturbances down here that no dwarf should ever encounter and has long forbid entry without good reason.”

“And this is the good reason.”

“The only reason good enough, to be precise.”

Karega suddenly stopped and held up a hand, “Quiet.” Everyone went on alert, heads turning to examine the wings of the hall. Other than the soft light emanating from the lyrium veins stretching up into the ceiling, coiling around pillars, Elodie couldn’t see anything. But then she heard it. Whispers like the drifting fluff off a dandelion.

Her magic rose in her, orienting her to the far left end of the hall. Her skin prickled and her lyrium burns itched, but she drifted closer to the whispers. The lyrium pulsed a bit more brightly and the whispers moved. Fuzzy, white figures began to coalesce into actual forms of dwarves gathered in the hall.

Karega and Effir shifted away instinctively away from the stone spirits, apparently unaccustomed. Pritte took it in stride, gasping in surprise but yanking a new journal out of his pack to begin furiously scribbling.

Elodie turned to Karega and Effir, lifting her hand in reassurance, “I’ve seen this before in the Deep Roads by Orzammar and Kal-Hirol. They’re harmless…usually.” She recalled the spirits turning on her and her party with vicious intent as they had explored the City of the Dead. She had made sure to be more vigilant about her behavior in Kal-Hirol, where the spirits had been so numerous. The death had weakened the Fade, even in the depths of the roads. It was so weak that the spirits had looked different from those beneath Orzammar. The Kal-Hirol spirits had faces, discernable features, clear, resonant voices, their memories forcefully stamped into the stone.

Karega and Effir relaxed somewhat, but their weapons remained out and their eyes sharp as they watched the spirits flow over the stone. They crossed into the center portion of the hall and a reverberation carried through the hall and into Elodie. She shivered, hair and magic on raw end as the spirits solidified into forms that resembled the spirits of Kal-Hirol more than Orzammar.

They spoke in the ancient tongue, five in total.

“They’re discussing war plans,” Effir murmured.

The forms moved and living dwarves fell silent as they strove to listen and record everything they were hearing. Elodie wondered if she should tell them now that this scene would likely repeat after completion. But she remained quiet and the scene continued. More spirits joined the fray and their faces became more distinct, the details in their attire more profound, making a Elodie’s stomach churn in anxiety. These dwarves were about to be slaughtered.

All at once the spirits turned their heads, looking past Elodie and her crew, down the hall to where Elodie suspected were invaders.

The lyrium around them pulsed, the stone groaned, and the entire space lit up in brilliant display. Elodie felt the Veil waver, pulling back to reveal new spirits, looking more like echoes from the surface than the Stone, running through the hall. The dwarven spirits braced themselves, there shouts and Pritte flinched, coiling inwards on himself as he inched towards Elodie.

In the middle of the invading force stood the tall woman that seemed vaguely familiar. It reminded Elodie of her hallucinations, of a woman standing over the cliff of blinding light, sinking her magic into the dwarf before her…. But this woman was different, in a way. She carried herself with a righteous regality that was unlike the threatening and consuming stance of the woman from Elodie’s hallucinations.

Her spirit let out a brilliant display of old magic, so potent and horrible that Elodie flinched from it, instinctually tossing a barrier up around her and the dwarves. The remembered spell coursed through the hall and engulfed the dwarven spirits, killing them instantaneously.

Effir and Pritte gasped while Karega growled, gripping her weapon with vicious intent. But there was nothing to be done, these were echoes of an event long since passed. The spirits remained, the woman glided through the halls and into more clarity. Elodie’s eyes widened, she was an elf. They were all elves. Tall and slender, bedecked in elaborate armor that wavered with magical enchantment not so unlike the dwarves.

When the woman began to speak, Elodie blinked, surprised she could understand her.

“A pity. They would have served well.”

“Shall we continue, my lady?”

“Of course. There is no time to waste.”

The spirits wavered and dissipated, the Stone no longer supporting the memory far past the death of its own. Pritte sniffled, eyes wide as he turned to Elodie.

“Is it too much to hope you know what they said?” His voice wavered but his hand was still, hovering over his notes. Elodie took a breath and nodded.

“They…were disappointed at having to kill the dwarves. The woman, the leader, said that the dwarves would of served well. Then they moved on, presumably in a hurry.” Pritte took to his journal as did Effir.

“Someone care to tell me what in the Stone’s name was that?!” Karega demanded. Effir glanced up from their notes and slowly put the journal away.

“The Stone takes in the memories. Shapers can make the Stone take it, shaping it into the stone, hence the name. But the practice was inspired by its natural ability to do this. To record. And to sometimes show. This was a memory, Paragon-Elect,” they explained with the slightest twinge in their voice.

“Memories like this one from my experience form because of great fighting and battles. Death,” Elodie continued.

Karega fell silent, her face harsh in the low light.

“Who was that elf? What was she doing down here and slaughtering my people for?” She asked, perhaps more to herself than the others.

“There are no records of this,” was all Pritte could say.

“I thought the you recorded everything.”

“If there is no one to report something, there is nothing to record, just…for the Stone to absorb,” Effir answered.

Karega let out a breath and straightened, “It’s unfortunate, but we are also running low on time. We need to move.” She picked up her axe and set forward again, her stride strong. Effir tossed their pack onto their back and followed Karega, their footfalls heavy and laden with exhaustion.

“I do not understand,” Pritte murmured as he put his things away, “the elves…why would they come down here?”

“I don’t know, Pritte, I don’t know.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder and patted it gratitude before they marched after Karega into a dark side chamber. This chamber was less ornate than the other but a vein of lyrium ran overhead, illuminating the area. Wispy spirits drifted into the room but didn’t say anything, they were just there, unformed until the elven woman and her entourage billowed through, killing the dwarves along the way.

There were three consecutive rooms like this until they came to a final chamber that just…stopped. There were no passages leading out which to Elodie meant to keep looking for a different passage but the dwarves pressed their palms to the far wall.

“We need to go this way,” Effir affirmed.

“There is unfortunately a wall there, we should look for a route around.”

“There is only one way,” Karega agreed and stepped back. She trailed her hands over the wall and Elodie’s magic began to prick at her skin. The lyrium pulsed, flickering and snapping making Elodie’s head pound. Memories flowed into the space, dwarves in ancient heavy armor formed a tight barrier in front of the door, shouting at each other. Effir scrambled for their journal, needing to record.

When the elven woman and her group entered the memory there was shouting on both sides. She switched to the dwarven speech, her voice saccharine sweet and condescending, making Effir huff in distaste.

The dwarves growled a reply that displeased the woman enough to let out a disappointed sigh. She gave her people an order that had them straightening their backs and raising their hands.

They set to cast. The dwarves charged. The relatively confined space was filled all at once with battle and blood, screams, and close quarters combat that the elves should not have stood a chance in.

The warrior elves surged forward to protect their lady, becoming a shield of armored bodies. The spirits flashed into different colors as spells were cast. But the dwarves were unrelenting, pushing and pushing. The elves broke rank and fell back only for a new spirit to suddenly invade the space. A great reptilian head suddenly extended into the space and let out a torrent of fire against the dwarves. Trapped in the room, the dwarves screamed, flailed, and died under the heat.

The dragon stepped into the room and bumped its head against the far wall where Karega, Effir, and Pritte stood. They gasped, shutting their eyes in some expectation to be hit. But it was only a memory of the dragon shoving and shoving against the wall until there was a loud crashing sound.

The dragon pulled back, its head bloody. Its form wavered and suddenly an elf stood where the dragon was, bloody but grinning. They turned back and the leader smiled.

“You did well.”

The memory faded as the elves pressed forward.

Karega growled, “What in the Stone’s name was that nonsense?”

“That elf turned into a dragon,” Pritte commented, more in awe than anything. Elodie blinked and let out a long breath. Well.

“I knew there were shapeshifters, but I did not know that there were shapeshifters who were once capable of that,” Elodie supplied.

“What? The elves don’t just sprout into dragons anymore?”

“I was not even aware that they ever did!”

Karega turned from Elodie and began to curse as she felt along the scarred wall for…something. Elodie leaned against her staff and contemplated. Elves that could turn into dragons. Elves that invaded the deep roads to what? Enslave dwarves?

Elves…that could turn into dragons.

Oh. Oh sweet Maker.

There was no real confirmation that they would be the Archdemons but the thought, the fact that long ago this was possible…could that mean…they were susceptible to the Blight? That the dragon-appearing Archdemons were just that – dragon-appearing because they were not truly dragons but…elves? Elves were susceptible to the blight, they became either Shrieks or Emissaries, depending on magical ability. And maybe…if they were infected while in draconic form…as Archdemons.

Elodie excused herself for a moment and ran into the hall to vomit. She panted and cleaned her mouth out with water and some of the ale they packed. It was just an idea of what the Archdemons were, and really, it was a better hope than thinking they were actually divine figures – just extraordinarily powerful mages. Who could make their souls somehow jump from body to body.

Right.

She rejoined the dwarves in the room who were now bickering in their language to figure out to get the blasted door open. Pritte scrambled along the far left of the wall while Effir handled the bottom. Karega made some sort of odd shimmying move before brightening.

“Aha!” She proclaimed before pushing harder into the wall. The Stone groaned and creaked as the wall began to move outward. Old, stale air blew into the room and light beamed in so brightly that Elodie had to close her eyes to adjust.

When she opened them, all of her breath left her.

Karega had said that Gurendar had fled into an ancient city but she thought they had already made it to the city but no, the comparatively minuscule chambers were nothing compared to the cavernous grandeur before her.

Buildings rose from mist covered depths, built on what appeared to be miniature mountains. More buildings were built into the sides of these outcroppings, with long bridges connecting each rock. There were trees growing out of the sides of the space, walls covered in lichens, mosses, and even vines. The buildings were reminiscent of the architecture in Kal-Sharok but unique and striking.

“Is this…”

“The home of the Titan,” Karega said, brimming with pride.