#fic: will you greet the daylight looming

[screechthemighty]

And here it is, the final part of will you greet the daylight looming? Just to repeat a point from last time, this one IS going to have a sequel, so don't worry, any dangling plot threads are surprise tools that will help us later. Anyways, AO3 link in the reblog and enjoy!

will you greet the daylight looming? | a god of war fanfic part 6/6: spring (epilogue)

Winter ended. The snows thawed. The flowers returned. Kratos had already been invited to several spring celebrations by the time they were in full bloom. He chose his attendance carefully and tried to spend more time alone in the woods to prepare himself.

He was not sure what the coming days would bring—more political maneuvering, more conflict, more questions about where he fit into all of this, to be sure—but at least he would be facing it all in sunlight and warmth. It all seemed far more manageable that way.

The sound of the wolves’ whining drew him from his thoughts. They had caught the scent of something. Kratos quickly realized that it was not prey; they would have been more silent if it were. Instead, their whimpering grew more frantic, turning into excited yips. The sort of noise they only made when…

The realization hit him as the wolves looked back at him pleadingly. “Go,” Kratos said. “Go!”

The wolves ran, and Kratos followed.

He was more than capable of keeping pace with them, but they were better equipped to navigate the terrain, and he soon lost sight of them. Fortunately, he could still track them by their excited calls. Soon, Kratos could also faintly hear…

“Speki! Svanna! Here gir-“

The voice was abruptly cut off but quickly followed by laughter. “Okay, okay! I missed you guys, too!”

Kratos finally broke through the foliage between him and the wolves. Both of them crowded around a figure seated on the ground, licking his face, sniffing unfamiliar clothes, occasionally stopping to yip excitedly. “I know, I know!” laughed a familiar voice. “Hey, where’s…?”

“Atreus?” Kratos said.

His son locked eyes with him.

He was older, taller, his hair a bit longer. His clothes were of a make Kratos did not recognize. But he was unmistakably his son.

“Hi,” Atreus said.

Kratos nodded in response. Everything he’d wanted to say to his son was suddenly trapped in his throat. He did not bother trying to force the words out; instead, he walked to Atreus and pulled him to his feet and into a tight embrace. Atreus hugged him back.

His son had come back to him. Now, Kratos was certain he could face whatever lay ahead.

“I missed you, too,” Atreus said, as if he could read Kratos’s thoughts. “How is everyone?”

“They are well.” There was more to it than that, of course—the changes to Sindri, the return of the true Týr, the rumors, Höðr, all of it—but that could all wait. One fact was more important: “We have survived the winter.”

“Good. That’s good.” Atreus pulled away from the embrace. There were tears in his eyes, even as he smiled. “I do have one thing I’m gonna need some help with.”

Kratos’s heart beat faster. “You found them…?”

Atreus’s smile turned into a grin as he turned around. “Guys, it’s okay!” he called. “We’re almost there!”

Kratos heard the rustling of branches and the snapping of twigs. The first figure to emerge was a girl about Atreus’s age with dark hair and eyes. A man with a scarred face and a woman who looked much like the girl followed. Other figures emerged—men and women, young and old, all different skin tones and hair—but with some features that he recognized. Braids he’d seen Faye wear. Tattoos that matched hers, Atreus’s, Angrboda’s. They had the look of people returning home after war, unsure of what they would find, but still holding on to hope.

Atreus had done it.

The giants were coming home.

[ivystoryweaver]

Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #2: It Comes At Night

prev next | Fic Masterlist | My Masterlist | next

Event #2 Summary: A day in the life of Marc...without you. And a night...with you?

Pairing this chapter: Marc Spector x f!reader (alters are mentioned)

Word count: 3.1k

Content: angst (more below the cut)

Warnings: coping with death, grieving, loneliness, fear, longing, language, anxiety, mental health concerns, self-esteem probs (I mean, it's Marc), mentions of food, mentions of therapy, contemplation of DID, graveyard, not beta'd

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PREVIOUSLY on "Spectre"...

The bedside lamp flickered eerily as you repeated your partner's name.

"Marc?"

It dimmed again, slower this time and then suddenly, went dark.

"Shit," Marc hissed, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he scrambled to find his phone.

He knocked into the bedside table with a thump, wincing in pain as his fingers finally found the device. Frantically touching the screen, he activated the flashlight and whirled around

... to no one.

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Event #2: It Comes At Night

There was no more sleep for Marc that night.

Steven and Jake seemed oblivious to the...visitation incident. Or hallucination, perhaps. Marc felt reluctant to clue them in at this point. They had enough struggles as it was, mentally speaking. Marc didn't want to deliver anything in the form of potentially bad news until he knew more.

He had always considered himself a loose cannon in the system anyway. A sort of weakest link. Steven was smart, inquisitive, mindful of the body's needs. Jake was the protector. Steadfast.

Marc didn't want to rock the boat right now. Maybe he was dreaming last night. How many beers did he have? Only one, right?

No matter. He was up early, shuffling through the streets of town to the old Green Lawn cemetery. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd visited your grave.

But on this chilly October morning, he needed to ground himself. Reality was his ally.

The macabre decor of neighboring houses didn't loom so ominously in daylight. For that, he was grateful. Still, it was a bit ironic that pretend headstones had made his stomach churn, and here he was, pulling open the heavy iron gate guarding actual headstones.

The hulking old metal groaned out a warning, as if reminding all who entered that its looming density separated the world of the living and the dead.

Marc scurried along the familiar path, down the cemetery's manicured walkway - the kempt grounds attempting to welcome the reluctant living.

Down the center path, past the old poplar tree, leaves painted golden before winter stripped the branches bare. A right turn, over three rows and one more walkway over.

To you.

Heavy fog kissed the earth where you lay resting. Gathering his courage, he trudged the remaining distance to your name. If he only had a little more time with you, maybe that would be his last name there, listed after yours. If you wanted to marry him at all, or even take his name. Fine if you didn't - but still -the possibilities haunted him.

"Hey baby," he softly greeted, sinking his hands protectively into the pockets of his soft leather jacket. "Miss you a lot today. Always do."

A gust of wind sent a flurry of golden brown leaves dancing around your headstone.

"Thought I saw you last night," he continued, hoping a trip here would calm his imagination. "I know it wasn't really you, but...you were sitting on the bed wearing that hoodie you love? You know, the-the one Jake thinks is his, but it's actually mine..."

He darkly chuckled, remembering how cute you looked in that old thing.

"Anyway...I hope...I hope you're resting. I hope you're happy. That's all I want, babe. I just want you to have peace..." His voice trailed off as fresh tears slid down his cheeks. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. "I miss you."

Pressing a kiss to his fingertips, he traced the shape of your first name. "Love you."

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Marc continued his morning walk from Green Lawn to historic downtown, where he and Steven worked. This was a small town, and everyone was...or had been proud of their small town author - you. By proxy, they loved and accepted your boyfriend Marc. And Steven and Jake.

Yes, most of the people you had known were aware that you lived with a system, and learned to treat them accordingly.

Marc had a part time job at the hardware store. Steven worked at the library. Jake was a driver, but that took place mostly at night, in the city, or at least to and from the city, which sat about 95 miles to the northeast.

The system stuck to a decently regular schedule, but who was fronting wasn't always so simple. Their employers understood this, and took it into account. Sometimes, Marc worked Steven's library shift, and sometimes Steven worked at the hardware store. Didn't make for as enjoyable of a work day, but they had both learned to deal.

Jake worked for himself, so if he didn't want to drive one night, or if he was exhausted, or busy with Khonshu (or you), he simply didn't drive.

Before he arrived at work, Marc stopped at Triple B's - his favorite breakfast spot, famous for their breakfast burritos. (Hence the name Barney's Breakfast Burritos, or...Triple B's). After weeks of avoiding the townspeople, Marc reluctantly made it a point to interact, at the insistence of both Steven and his therapist.

It's also what you would have wanted. And, if he was honest, as much as he tended to withdraw into himself, he knew he would ultimately feel better with at least a little human interaction. After last night, he kind of didn't want to be alone.

"Spectorrrr, what's up?" Barney, the Triple B's owner called out as Marc pushed open the glass door, ringing a little bell as he did.

"Hey, B," Marc called, over the small crowd of customers gathered to place an order - most of them hyped for some sort of overly sugared fall drink like pumpkin spice something or maple whatever.

Despite Marc being about seven customers deep in line, Barney gave him a quick wave. "Usual?"

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Marc replied.

Barney nodded his head to the side, indicating that Marc should skip the line and ring out his order on the side register. Marc didn't like attention - he didn't want to make anyone else waiting upset, but Barney had a strong personality and he was wonderful to all his customers. He was too charming for anyone to actually get truly mad.

Shouldering his way around the line, Marc made it to the far end of the counter, meeting Barney there.

"You're early," Barney commented, noticing the dark circles under Marc's eyes. Dark circles were part of Marc's look -always had been, but they were deeper today. "You sleep okay?"

"Nope," Marc confessed. Easier to tell Barn the truth. "Tried though. Went to see her this morning."

"Gotcha," Barney nodded, ringing up Marc's typical order of one breakfast burrito all the way, and black coffee. If it was Steven, then the burrito would be vegan and the black coffee would be tea with non-dairy milk. Jake was a rare customer, but he was café au lait and a giant plate of hash browns. Sometimes eggs.

Your order had been the same as Marc's, almost always. Sometimes you liked something sweet to drink.

Marc reached for his cash but Barney refused. "On the house, Mr. Spector."

"No, no, you can't do that," Marc insisted. "I'm gonna put you out of business if you keep on giving me food."

Barney stubbornly folded his big arms over his round tummy. "I knew your girl since she was twelve-years-old. Miss her all the time. Can't even imagine how it is for you boys. A burrito and coffee's the least I can do."

Marc's order was up, so Barney handed him a brown paper bag and a similarly drab disposable paper cup with a lid. "You go on and have a nice day, and get some rest tonight, all right?"

Well damn. Marc had tears in his eyes for about the fifth time in as many hours.

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Marc chomped through his breakfast by the time he meandered two blocks down to the hardware store. Work was uneventful, which was a blessing today. He needed this - a day to be left alone and work with his hands. Between his free breakfast, some encouragement from Barney and a low-key day on the job, he left that evening feeling marginally better.

It had even helped him to stop by and see you. He missed you so badly he could hardly breathe sometimes, but it somehow helped him to really accept you were gone and imagine you were at peace.

He passed by the library, remembering Steven had a shift tomorrow. Hopefully his alter would be up and about, so to speak, because Marc wasn't in the mood to shelve books.

Next he passed the florist. Mrs. Alraune paused her task of sweeping off her shop's front stoop to give Marc a little wave.

A few more doors down, he saw a shop he'd never noticed before. Must be new for Halloween.

A simple, hand painted sign swung over the doorway. It read, "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties". What and odd name for a shop. Marc almost smiled to himself because this is exactly the type of shop you would love to venture into while walking through town. Still...he decided against it since the sun had set and he wanted to get home.

No need to spoil his sort-of-okay day.

His hands found their home in his jacket pockets and his head dropped - his typical hurry-through-town posture.

But the "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties" shop was not to be ignored this October evening.

Twinkling lights lined the shop's windows. They flickered ominously as Marc approached.

"Lovely evening," an elderly female voice intoned, seeming to appear in the shop's doorway in an instant.

Marc's pacing paused. Pressing his lips into a thin-lined smile, he nodded, ready to carry on.

"Won't you come inside before it's too late?" The old woman inquired, kind eyes nearly hidden by wrinkles. She gestured with her hand at the shop's window, adorned with antique treasures. Perhaps this was a new antique store.

"Uhh, sorry, I have to get home," Marc halfway fibbed. "Goodnight."

She nodded understandingly. "Safe journey to all who protect the travelers of the night."

That phrase gave him pause...protector of the travelers of the night...

His eyes narrowed as he glanced back her way. "Uh...thanks."

With that, he headed home.

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He passed by Mrs. Nockles' house without an invitation inside. He avoided the run down old spooky house and even managed to ignore the house with the fake headstones.

This brought him to your front yard. Well...his front yard now. The thought of owning this home by himself reminded him why he was considering leaving this town.

His eyes traced a path up the front walk to the whitewashed steps of the front porch. You had only just repainted the front door last spring. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were nearly a century old, and painted bright, artsy colors. Marc remembered the playful argument as to whether the front door would be painted periwinkle blue (his choice) or cornflower blue (your choice). You won, of course.

He couldn't really see the door right now because it was dark, and because he forgot to turn on the front porch light before he left. Even in the dark, he could only imagine how your flower bed had overgrown with weeds during the summer. Fall would give way to winter and the whole damn thing would probably shrivel up and die.

Pretty typical. Marc felt like a bit of a curse to everything he touched.

Blowing out a breath, he bounced on his toes. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm off day after tomorrow and I'll get out here and...I'll try for you, okay? Promise."

'Packed up her garden tools. I'll get 'em out tomorrow night.'

Jake.

The system must be feeling feelings because Jake hardly said anything.

"Thank you," Marc voiced aloud.

'Course. Knew you would go looking for 'em when you were ready. I can help if you want. Probably shit at it but we can let her whole damn garden die, can we?'

Marc laughed out. It was a strange, almost bitter sound. As if he could stop anything bad from happening ever. Kind of Jake to offer though.

Probably enough time lurking around in his front yard. With a heavy sigh, Marc gave the bungalow a final once over when something strange caught his eye. Up in the highest window appeared a figure - a woman.

Your bungalow was small, but a master bedroom had been added about twenty-five years ago on a partial upper story. It was about all that was upstairs aside from a small hallway, master bath, and a tiny loft you spent your days writing in, when you weren't sitting on the porch or the back deck.

Marc squeezed his eyes shut and then rubbed them in a cartoonish manner to make sure he wasn't imagining something else that wasn't really there.

But sure enough, when he looked again, he could clearly see a woman - about your size.

It couldn't be.

"Wait," he whispered, dashing up the whitewashed steps even faster than the night before when he was panicking.

"Wait!" He called louder, jamming his key into the deadbolt. It seemed to take forever, but finally, he made it inside, not bothering to shut or lock the front door behind him as he bolted toward the stairs.

He sprinted upward so fast that he almost tripped over his boots, bursting into your bedroom...which was empty.

"Damn it!" He cried, tossing his keys aside and pushing his hands through his hair in frustration. Maybe he really was losing his mind. Or maybe he just wanted to see you again so badly.

With a huff, he scoped up his keys - he had to put them in the kitchen or Steven would never find them in the morning. Stumbling back downstairs, he shut and locked the front door, did put the keys on the counter and grabbed a glass of water.

He should probably eat but all he wanted to do was shower and go to bed. The nice day he'd attempted to construct for himself had been obliterated by his stupid brain playing spooky tricks on him.

Ridiculous.

After a quick shower, Marc wrapped a towel around his hips and trudged back into the bedroom.

He half expected you or some sort of spectre to be waiting for him on the end of his bed. But there was no one, which was an oddly painful relief.

Maybe time for a drink. Of course Steven would insist that food accompany any alcohol. So Marc found some black joggers and pulled them over his hips, tossing aside his towel.

His nightly ritual was beginning to look depressingly mundane and overly repetitive. He had a glass of whiskey tonight instead of a beer, and made himself a sandwich. After watching some more postseason Major League Baseball, Marc went to bed.

And stared at the ceiling. He wanted to be tired. He just wasn't.

He needed a friend. Or a pet? Steven liked fish. Jake liked cats. Marc wasn't sure what he liked. Hmm.

He tossed and turned, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room.

Just when his eyelids grew heavy, he heard the faintest whisper.

His eyes snapped right back open.

It happened again - an indistinguishable whisper - something almost mumbled, but so softly.

Whatever he was hearing became obscured by the harsh, shallow breaths he was now taking. He squinted his eyes as if it would help him distinguish the darkened room from the pitch black corner, from which the sound emanated.

Slowly, a figure emerged from the blackness.

Marc sat up in bed, staring as he leaned forward, certain he couldn't actually be seeing someone in his room.

The whisper sounded again as the dark figure seemed to float closer.

Marc had dealt with the vilest of criminals in his lifetime. The worst of the worst. He wasn't afraid of anyone.

But he was afraid now. And paralyzed, somehow.

The figure inched closer to the bed.

Marc's skin prickled with heat, even as a wave of chills swept over his bare chest and arms. Breaths quickened to shallow pants as the figure hovered dangerously near.

"It's...too late," the figure murmured, as faint as a breeze.

Heart thundering in his chest, Marc tried to move - to reach for a light, or his phone, or ask for Jake or Khonshu or something...but found himself completely paralyzed.

"W-who...what are you?" He finally gasped, shrinking backwards toward the headboard of his bed, physically unable to do anything more productive.

Then...he could have sworn he heard your voice.

"Marc."

Suddenly, he could move. He bolted off the opposite side of the bed and reached for the light, switching it on.

No one was there.

"Fuck..."

Hot tears pricked his eyes as his fingers tore through his dark curls. "What the fuck is happening to me?"

His alters were strangely absent. They were often a bit one-at-a-time with the body, but couldn't they hear you?

Even the lamplight spilling into the room left a few darkened corners. Marc grabbed his phone, switching on his flashlight. He swept the room, searching every corner, behind the curtains, in the closet, under the bed, and finally the master bathroom.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered if Steven would notice his distress. Shaking his head in frustration, he switched off his flashlight and splashed his face with water. He probably wouldn't be able to sleep again. Hopefully Jake would need the body. If not, Marc was considering smashing his fists into something himself. Or someone.

He was wired and frantic and so fucking sad. And scared. What if he really was losing it? It was one thing to grow up thinking he was fucked up, but now, his problems were Steven and Jake's. How could he tell them he was hallucinating?

Maybe...maybe this was another alter? He didn't know. He finally grabbed his phone and walked back into the bedroom.

You were there. In the same hoodie. On the edge of the bed.

"Shit!" He hissed, jerking back in surprise.

You actually flinched, rising from your seated position and easing backward toward the window.

"No, no, wait, don't go!" Marc urgently pleaded, holding out his hand to try to get you to stop.

Your face was somewhat obscured by the hood pulled over your hair, but it had to be you. It was you.

"Sweetheart, It's okay. Don't go. Don't go," he begged, easing carefully toward you.

You backed so far away from him that you almost blended in with the curtain. He was sure you were about to Jacob Marley right out the window.

The lamp flickered again, just as it had done the previous night. Then went black. Marc rushed blindly toward the window, yanking open the curtain. Moonlight spilled into the bedroom, granting him the slightest ability to see.

"It's not too late," the whisper echoed, right beside his ear...but you were nowhere to be seen.

next

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I tagged everyone in the first update and masterlist, but since this fic does eventually venture into nsfw, I'm now doing the tag list for that specifically. (The general NSFW list and the Moon Knight NSFW list.) If you want to be tagged for this story, just holler!

Join the tag list (or tell me your tagging preferences by fandom and NSFW/SFW)

@deputy-videogamer @toecurlingstories @zephyrixx @juleshadalittlelamb @tsukkie-daisuke

@pockcock @minigirl87 @uncle-eggy@cookielovesbook-akie @wyldeflwr

@animechick555 @tiffanypooh @thexsanctuaryx @majestic-jazmin @rosecentaur1916

@deezisnotreal @serren-diamandis @alexxavicry @onefinnedwonder-fm @spidey-3

@stevengmybeloved @just3rowsing @howellatme

@i-still-dont-like-your-face @wordacadabra @lilacspider @imonmykneessir @saints-and-sinners

@steven-grants-world @thewinterv @aquaarietes @suddenlysteven @ohantonia

@whatthefishh @sammi-doll483 @silvernight-m

[loosingmoreletters]

hi, firstly i read the new in-laws chapter, it was great, more about that later

secondly i want u to know i totally understand and respect ur decision to not introduce lwj in dtti, but i really do need the first he does when he does appear, to instantly fall head over heels in love with ren yihan and then feel so ashamed and guilty about it

alright back to the road trip au, i think u could, still, totally the whole pregnancy thing, i think that would be fun and the pregnancy could have started just weeks before a wild wei ying appeared and could still be unknown, it would be fun dramatic und kind of soap opera or telenovela like

bye bye, schlaf schön

Das Deutsch hat mich einfach richtig rausgerissen xD

Alright so kicking off with patching the road, dtti spoilers beneath the cut all way down!

I could really still toss in the pregnancy plot, and for sure play it soap opera style, but I think I’d prefer to treat it much more in the style of weeds in the garden, how pregnancy is very much a choice about autonomy in all matters, and a bit more serious than my crack premise in this fic. Especially since the way characterizations have gone so far, I do not think this fic can carry the weight of a situation that would’ve started with dubcon.

Alright, as far as dtti goes - LWJ is not gonna fall head over heels for “Ren Yihan” because Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian still have two braincells left to lose and are gone be real fucking stupid.

I can offer you this draft of a post get together scene, but it’s gonna be at least a year before I get to this. Can you believe that originally dtti was just gonna be the flashback arc of a bigger fic? Yeah, imagine that. We’d be no where even near it yet. The sequel might end up being called greet the daylight looming but I’m not sure yet.

(.)

The robes were pulled just low enough that the top of the scarring was revealed. The longer Lan Wangji stared, the more did the smooth even lines blend into something less like mindless cruelty and more an intentional mark.

“What is that array on your back?”

Wei Ying looked over his shoulder, a teasing smile on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Why, Lan-er-gege? Do you perhaps want to see me undress? How shameless.”

“Wei Ying.”

He paused and sighed. Then, with mindful deliberation, Wei Ying dropped his robes down to his waist. In another situation, Lan Zhan might be embarrassed by the display, suppressing his own desires, but bone-chilling horror won out.

Wei Ying’s entire back was covered by a terribly complicated array. Not a single bit of skin was unmarred, thin lines criss-crossing. Somebody had carved that into his flesh over hours, days perhaps with how delicate some of the lines were.

“I designed it,” Wei Ying said. One hand held his robes, and the other faintly tracing the delicate lines. “It keeps this body as it is. Took me a year or so to perfect, which is probably the longest time I’ve ever worked on anything consecutively. And when I wasn’t working on that, I was learning how dress and sit and talk. Lan Zhan, being a woman is so much work!”

[acaciapines]

I was listening to Thus Always To Tyrants by The Oh Hellos and it struck me how much the last chorus reminds me of Kris, Ralsei, and Dess in The Holiday-Dreemur Kids!! Like "Where I go, will you still follow?

Will you leave your shaded hollow?

Will you greet the daylight looming?

Learn to love without consuming?"

Is SO them especially kris and ralsei

ooooh yeah i see that! 'will you leave your shaded hollow' is a cool way to look at dark worlds lol i REALLY like the constant between the safety of a shaded hollow vs the 'daylight looming'--there is Something There that really fits with how i tend to write dark worlds , with the idea of the light world being so big and bright and endless, and scary, sometimes, but worth it. compared to dark worlds where you would stay like. unchanging forever.

also sidenote. WILD that other people are out there relating songs to my fics fdnkgdfg like i do it but im the author i LOVE that other people do it to....we are connecting over music <3

[seijuurouxryuu]

Of Death, Of Time

Title: Of Death, Of Time Author: Shiro (TeitoxAkashi [AO3]/ seijuurouxryuu [tumblr]) Rating: T Pairing: Death/Tsuna; Reborn/Fon Event: @khrrarepairweek Prompts: Necromancer AU | Unknowingly Flirting Tags/Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warning

Day 5: Rain Day

Tsuna was a witch—a necromancer in his first mortal life. He didn’t know how he became one, but one day he became aware that he was one. One who steals from Death, one who forces the souls it reaps to work for him. And that was all he does.

Every life he went through, every reincarnation—he called upon the dead souls, and called upon Death. He was the unrest of the world.

AO3

��P-please,” The boy rasped. “S-save her. Just her, please don’t take her away too.” Death looked down at the boy expressionlessly, face half humane half bone. “It’s her time.” It whispered, ghastly and solemn, time ticking in the background like a countdown, like a reminder. “It’s both of yours.”

 The boy sobbed, tears mixed with red as he coughed out blood, head bleeding all the same. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, only whisper. To the reaper of souls, to the one who looked far sadder than he who would soon die. He was unwilling, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Clutching on his sister’s hands, as cold as his, unmoving, pulseless. He could only resign to it—resign to fate.

 He was unwilling, but seeing Death’s boney hand clutching against the scythe tightly, he relented.

 “W-where will we go next, then?” The boy tried to smile, tried to relief Death’s sadness. Ah, how many has it seen, the pleads of those whose time were up? How many times had Death seen the rage, unwillingness, sorrow, fear? How many times had Death went through such events that even it felt such overwhelming sadness for humans?

 The boy could only wonder as he felt his strength slipping, sleepiness and darkness slowly engulfing him. For a moment, he felt as though he was home with his sister beside him, safe.

 “… Home,” Death said as it watched the child relented to eternal sleep’s grasp. “You both are going home.” It tilted the tip of the scythe down gently and reaped the souls, watching both the boy and girl, two glowing children, pulses and disappear to where they would reincarnate; to be siblings once more.

 ‘Thank you.’ They both whispered.

 Death watched as they went, and it disappeared into thin air.

 .

 Tsuna was once a bird, a tree, a child, a father, a mother, a fish, a dragon. He was once a lot of creatures, and was once nothing. He was once air, and he was once the ground.

 He was everything.

 Tsuna never knew how he came to be, but he knew he was what he was. He was the universe itself. He remembered of vague changes, shifts, and stutters of the world. He experienced those changes, helped the build up of civilization, watched life came to be and left.

 He remembered mostly of Death, at every step he took.

 Tsuna was a witch—a necromancer in his first mortal life. He didn’t know how he became one, but one day he became aware that he was one. One who steals from Death, one who forces the souls it reaps to work for him. And that was all he does.

 Every life he went through, every reincarnation—he called upon the dead souls, and called upon Death. He was the unrest of the world.

 “My lord.” Tsuna opened his eyes, glowing orange as he looked at Death who stood by his bed, looming and blending into the darkness. He saw him all the same, as clear as daylight. He smiled.

 “Welcome home.” He reached out and encircled his arms around Death.

 .

 The boy and girl had a long dream during their journey home. It was but a blur, but they saw; of their past, present and future. They remembered, of those they forgot. And they yearned, to see their home sooner.

 Lambo and I-pin.

 They wanted to see Tsuna.

 .

 Tsuna woke up again the next day in Death’s embrace. He didn’t mind, he loved it even. He smiled at the half humane half bone face, kissing the white skull and whispered a greeting. Death was never asleep, it remained awake even as Tsuna slumbered. The humane part of its face crinkled in silent delight at that as it let go of Tsuna.

 Tsuna stretched, back arching as the blanket that covered his naked upper torso slipped down, letting Death sees every part that it knew oh so well. Tsuna stepped out of their bed and got dressed. He picked up the ring of Time on the desk and slipped it onto his right middle finger, playing with the chains around it.

 “They are here.”

 Tsuna smiled, relieved. His shoulders relaxed as he felt for the souls of his family, warm and burning in the ring. He could feel the youngest two were restless, all but wanting to see him again. He would, soon. He would get to them soon.

 Not just yet.

 “You would be the harbinger of blood in next life.” Death piped out from where it was.

 Tsuna barked out a laugh. “When am I never, Death?” He teased. “I am your reflection, after all.”

 It shook its head, walking over to caress Tsuna’s cheeks, feeling the warm radiating to its bones. “You may be my representation, but you are you. You are yourself; not me.”

 Tsuna sighed, nuzzling against its hand. “I know.”

 “… And I don’t think you are allowed to summon the dead souls next life.” Tsuna raised an eyebrow at that.

 “Why not?”

 Death’s lips were pursed, disgruntled yet resigned. “… Life reincarnated.”

 Tsuna paused and stare at it.

 “… It will be your tutor next life.”

 “… Fuck.”

 .

 When Tsuna remembered, he was 34 and the Vongola Neo Primo of Vongola Famiglia. That night, he went to sleep drunk from the party of his 34th birthday, and he woke up with a splitting headache from the rum and gin the Varia and Reborn chugged down his throat.

 And as he groaned, he remembered everything. Life fucked him up so badly this lifetime.

 “Rise and shine, Dame-Tsuna!” Tsuna snapped his fingers and the shadows of undead shot straight towards Reborn. The hitman—Life—merely snorted at the weak attempt and squashed all of them, straight away sending them to reincarnation.

 “Fuck you, Life.”

 It rolled its eyes at Tsuna, grinning ferally. “Good morning to you too, Time. By the way, stop playing with those dead souls every time you remember. It’s so annoying.”

 “My business.” Tsuna hissed. He shook the hangover gone and gathered the rest of the undead souls from every corner of the house. Soon, shadows and silhouettes of those once alive gathered in his room. He looked through each and one of them, pelting a few at Reborn who punt them into reincarnation, and breathed, keeping the rest in his indispensable space for those dead.

 The pocket watch in him ticked. And stopped.

  Life leaned back and started floating to the air like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. It pouted, black obsidian eyes turning white as it stared right through Tsuna’s space.

 “Why keep such untasteful bunch of souls? Why not just let them reincarnate and suffer in the mortal world?”

 Tsuna knew that it was trying to make him let the souls go, but he wouldn’t. Not like he needed those souls, but he knew keeping them would piss Life off, which it deserved for throwing Tsuna all over around for almost two decades of his mortal life.

 “Whatever that is you're doing, it’s not working.” He huffed as he clenched his right fist. Opening it up, there sat on his palm was the ring of Time, sealed. He smiled and pull off the chain, and it glowed as Tsuna’s sealed powers returned to him.

 “Worth a try.” Life muttered, too used to Time’s chaos that rip the balance of life and death apart just to keep Death in its track. “It took you long enough to wake this time.” During last lifetime, it remembered that Tsuna woke up the moment he was nine in mortal world.

 Tsuna shrugged. Maybe because he overworked Death this lifetime, with the number of people he had to kill. Or maybe because he was just lazy, who knows. Time did not have such concept as long or short. It just knew when to continue or stop.

 Tsuna blinked and his eyes turned bright orange. Standing by his side was Death, still half humane half bone. Tsuna smiled up to it and reached over. Death easily took him into its arm.

 “I missed you.” Tsuna hummed, nuzzling.

 Death whispered of the same as they kissed.

 Life rolled its eyes at the two sappy being of unrest and disappeared off to its own beloved.

 Tsuna soon pulled away and blinked cheekily at Death. “Time to start summoning to piss of Life.”

 Death’s lips tugged up into a smile. “It is no longer disturbed by such moves.” Tsuna rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. I’m going to make it a bigger event this lifetime. Reborn screwed me inside out for almost two decades, I’m angry.”

 Death stroked his fluffy hair and shook its head resignedly, letting Tsuna do as he liked. It didn’t matter anyway, because whatever Tsuna did would mean lessening its workload and it could spend more time with Tsuna.

 “Whatever you are happy with, darling.”

 .

 Two years later, a zombie apocalypse happened.

 Reborn almost shot Tsuna to death if not for Fon stopping him.

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

A/N: Death is Death! Tsuna is Time! Reborn is Life!

Yes this is Death/Tsuna + Reborn/Fon fic :3 although Reborn and Fon didn't have much screen time uwu

First part is during their previous life before Vongola; Tsuna and the others left earlier than I-Pin and Lambo, who were last of them to leave the mortal world. Timeline's a bit wonky, but ye. They are always the youngest. ALWAYS.

A bit of lore, which is Tsuna or Time was the first existence of the universe, but remained asleep when Death and Life appeared. Then somehow he woke up when civilization started, and forcefully wedged himself between the balance Death and Life created. He hated how Death has to go through all those sorrow when he reaps humans' soul so he made it a goal to at least screw Life up once every time he reincarnated into a human. Which is a handful of time.

But yeah, Time Tsuna who is also a necromancer since he could just isolate-turn back time of the soul right after Death reap it and before it gets noticed by Life, and make it his minions or something. Always hits up Life's workload :3

Anyways this is a sudden plunny that popped out so have a short impulsive story from me :D

[I apologize for any grammar, spellings, etc. etc. mistakes]

[capricornus-rex]

A Legacy Begun (8)

gif found and saved from pinterest

Chapter 8: First Steps | Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: After a long time of running and fighting, you and Cal decided to finally settle down after all these years to raise a family. However, it was never a life of peace whilst the shadow of the Empire looms over your heads.

Prompt/s in play: Anon prompt (found in Chapter 1 link) + fic idea

Also posted in AO3

Tags: Scruffy! Cal Kestis, Daddy! Cal Kestis, Adult! Cal Kestis, Jedi Family, Jedi Offspring, Force-Sensitive Offspring, Settling Down, Rebel Alliance

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 | Previous: Part 7 | Next: Part 9 | Masterlist

8 of ?

4 BBY

Young Cassidy Kestis has just turned seven years old.

As she grew, she has become more exposed to the doings of her parents: watching them trade strikes with beams of light that emit out of a metal cylinder once ignited, wave their hands around to move things from something as a bug to something as large as a boulder without needing to touch them, and her childhood was heavily influenced by that—she was a constant spectator of her parents.

It fascinated her. Though she didn’t know that she was more like them.

You and Cal have been teaching her mostly about the Force ever since she was five years old. It was you who taught her the ways of the Force, how to reach out to it, and how to strengthen her bond with it.

“So, when can I learn how to lift things without my hands, Mom?”

The innocence and naivety of your daughter amused you. Perhaps it’s inherent in many younglings to ask when they can start to lift things using the Force—you were no stranger to that, you and Cal are practically guilty to such an inquiry once.

“Soon, Cassidy,” you still entertained her question, but quickly added the important bit. “But lifting things with the Force isn’t the most important thing you’ll have to learn.”

“Then what is?”

The sprightly young girl hopped from one rock to the other as she followed you into the forest. She showed off her balancing skills by lifting her one leg up while keeping the other planted on the narrow tip of the boulder stuck on the ground; you quickly caught her in your arms when she started to stumble facedown.

“The Force itself, no less,” you settled her atop a stone’s throw in the middle of the clearing. “That’s the energy that surrounds us and binds us everywhere.”

“But how can I know it’s there when I don’t even see it?”

She had a fair point, you thought, her insight was repaid with a chuckle stifled by a smile.

“That’s very perceptive,” you commented. “But you’re right, though: how could one know something is there when they don’t see it?”

That was a rhetoric, though your daughter’s acumen reminded you of the very same standpoint you once had as a Jedi youngling. You recall the words of Master Yoda from one of your lectures back in the day. You paced back and forth, stringing together the words of the lesson, her head followed your every step as she loosened her shoulders and lay her hands over her legs crossed together on the stone’s throw.

“The Force doesn’t need eyes to be seen, Cassidy, it needs to be felt. So, can you tell me how does one feel?”

Her eyes wandered the forest, in search of an answer, and then she perked up right away.

“Touching!” she showed you her palms wide open and wiggled all ten of her fingers.

“That’s right, that’s one thing,” you reward her answer with a smile and she shifted in her seat. “Can you think of another?”

“Not exactly, Mom,”

“All right, I want you to try something. Close your eyes,”

The child did as she was told. Nothingness shrouded her eyes. With her vision darkened, her other senses keened—it was more of an unconscious action than something noticeable—her hands were pulled away from her knees and then were planted against the cold, smooth surface of her perch by you.

Feel, Cassidy…

The hushed words of her mother faded into the still, afternoon breeze, they swirled about in her mind as if to embed itself into her system; at first, she didn’t know what or how to do with it, but she never let go of those words and acted upon them.

The ambiguity of your words afforded Cassidy a lot of wiggle room as to how she’ll go about it. She was attempting to comprehend what you meant—the lack of sight was beginning to make sense, she was able to make out sensations and emotions that stretched farther than the span of her arms.

“I think I feel something…” Cassidy whispered. “Warm…? No, cool—like the water in the river.”

An indescribable feeling seeped into her, like an inward embrace. All kinds of sensation coming from all around her entered her system like a siphon.

“There is something…!” she gasped, overwhelmed by the things flooding her mind—it was perhaps too much for the seven-year-old. She squirmed in her seat, refining herself to control it better.

“That’s the Force, Cassidy—you’re letting it flow within you,”

A certain warmth blanketed her. It commanded her body to relax and loosen away from the tension. Moments later, even with her vision darkened, she had a full view of the forest clearing—the stream, the grass, the rocks that she made stepping stones out of, and her mother standing opposite her.

Her fingers curled over the stone’s throw where you had planted them, as she allowed the Force to guide her silently and act on her pure instinct, you observed the pebbles rattling next to your feet—unfazed yet intrigued by this, you return your attention to your daughter.

“Deep breaths, Cassidy,” you instructed in the middle of her trance.

She obeyed as she heard. To her, it felt like the influx of sensations have balanced itself out when her lungs released the air they collected—but little did she knew that it was all on her as she tried to calm herself and clear those thoughts. She had yet to understand that her actions and the Force itself were symbiotic with one another. Later on, even if she wasn’t told, she attempt to open her eyes, slowly.

Standing right in front of her were her parents, their posture were alike—shoulders loose, hands behind their back, and a smile greeting her as the light enters her dark eyes.

“Well, Cassidy?”

“There was something, but I don’t really know what it is—it just made me feel things,” the scarlet-haired girl struggled with her words, hoping that you would understand her takeaway—you knew exactly what she meant.

“You did a good job, Cassidy,” you chirped. “That something you said? That was the Force reaching back to you, because you called it and it answered you.”

“So, it’s like talking but without the words… and with my eyes closed?”

An amused smile stretched from ear-to-ear, you caressed the curve of her cheek.

“Something like that, my sweet,”

You gave her a few minutes’ worth of rest before it was Cal’s turn to train her. It has become a point that he teaches combat while you teach Cassidy how to wield, connect with, and use the Force. BD-1, excited as always to reunite with Cassidy, skittered off of Cal’s shoulder towards her and the two friends immediately got lost in their own little world.

“She’s learning,” Cal chirped.

“Yes, she is. She’s a fast learner, I’ll give her that,”

“But she has much to understand,”

The absence of a reply from you meant that you agreed, though you weren’t sure how to word it out. The two of you watched Cassidy prop herself on her knees and concentrate on her own, applying what she has learned just now without any supervision—it’s a consistent trait of hers to do something independently after having learned or been taught about it; she has exhibited that when she first witnessed Cal lift a fallen log that blocked the path using the Force—that event was two years ago.

Eventually, it was Cal’s turn to train her today.

“Cassidy,” he summoned. “It’s time for instruction.”

“In a minute, Daddy!”

Her smiling face paled the radiance of the daylight as she scampered towards Cal with open arms, running towards him in a bear hug; their scarlet hairs clashed and shimmered a fiery hue against the sun as Cal brushed noses with her. They were binary suns personified.

Cal’s teaching methods take after Jaro Tapal’s style—straightforward and concise, firm yet gentle. Perhaps, the only thing Cal differed from his late master was patience. Cal handed over the prototype saber that he had fashioned for Cassidy, but it wasn’t technically hers—she has yet to undergo her own Gathering pretty soon.

“Now then,” he started as he configured the training droid. “Let’s have a little warm-up.”

Cassidy assumed a stance, she did an adorable job in doing so, the hilt was unignited but the weapon was positioned in the defensive. Cal smiled at the eagerness of his daughter, the tiny lights that riddled the body of the training flickered open and then it hovered up and away from his palm. Using the Force, he gave it a little nudge towards Cassidy’s direction.

The young Kestis girl’s stance stiffened, eyes glued to the floating droid, her palms sweated and coated the sleeve of the saber. The slightest centimeter that the hovering sphere made, the girl’s eyes followed. Her thumb had already pressed against the switch, a blue blade hissed out of the emitter, and the sphere became more hostile in a sense.

The lightsaber mirrored where the training sphere hovered to, anticipating an attack; the two of you can sense the uneasiness in her which Cassidy herself confuses with determination, however, she meant well, she strived to do well especially in combat—witnessing the two of you perform combat techniques and fighting patterns which was ultimately impressive and spectacular in her eyes, she’s made it her personal goal to reach a level such as her Jedi parents.

“Relax, sweetie,” Cal instructed.

Although she tried to loosen her shoulders, they always tensed back up. When the droid found a window of opportunity, it zapped out two white projectiles in quick succession.

Left. Right!

She succeeded in deflecting the blasts, but a third one caught her off guard as she celebrated mentally too soon—a zap got her shin, bringing her to her knees to rub away the sting.

“Do not think that you’ve won—not until the enemy is down,” he interjected.

Cassidy pulled herself back up, resuming into the same position as she started, and narrowed her sights to the floating sphere only. The blue beam of light protected her from two more successive blasts, learning from her mistake earlier, she anticipated the third shot—and deflected it at the last minute.

A short exhale huffed out of your mouth, impressed, you watched her experiment with her stances combined with her handling of the saber and how effectively she defended herself with such a position.

“My girl’s a fighter,” you hummed within Cal’s earshot, an agreeing smirk from him was your reply.

The training sphere stepped up its game, going beyond three successive strikes and recalibrated its attack patterns, rendering its opponent clueless of its next move. It hovered to one side, releasing two quick projectiles to Cassidy’s right side, and then zoomed to the opposite direction to zap two more before she had time to react. The floating sphere did this a second time around which greatly frustrated the redheaded youngling.

She growled at the object, the hissing noise it made as it zoomed to the other direction annoyed her—as if mocking her—out of the four total blasts the droid made, she was able to deflect two: one for each side whenever the droid changed positions. Before it could get any worse, Cal abruptly cuts the session by freezing the sphere in place with the Force as he knelt down to Cassidy’s level.

“You’re getting angry,” he pointed out.

“I couldn’t hit the zaps!”

“That’s okay. The hardest part of fighting with a lightsaber is controlling your feelings and not letting it do things for you,”

This moment afforded Cassidy to clear her mind, going to a full mental restart before engaging the training remote again. When Cal returned to your side and gave the floor to Cassidy versus the training droid, the child tried to understand her father’s advice and apply it in reality. In fairness, she was able to do much better compared to what she was getting herself into moments ago.

“She reminds me of myself,”

“Never took you as the type to be easily frustrated,” Cal half-joked to which you responded with an exhale through your nostrils as you smiled.

“Oh, believe me, it took me a great deal of practice,”

Cal craned his head, catching a glimpse of your smirk—whether it was a proud smile for your daughter improving her skill or the fond memory of your childhood amused you—he found himself infected by it as the two of you watched over little Cassidy.

[tinybyul]

The Jewel of Starlight

Synopsis: Brought together by the impending vampire-human war, eight men from vastly different origins band together on a quest to find a long-forgotten artifact that will restore order to the continent of Gudae.

Author’s Note: howdy, y’all :^) I mentioned it once before, but I wanted to again let everyone know that I have been writing an Ateez fantasy fic on ao3. It’d be neat if y’all could check it out. I figured posting the first chapter here might bring some more exposure to the story, so I hope you all like it!

Chapter 1: The Sunless Mountain

"Your Majesty."

The prince stood before the king and bowed, his black and red outer garments crinkling with the movement. The great hall, usually filled with the bickering of the court and the simmering rage of the king, was now silent as the heir to the throne of the Sunless Mountain announced his return.

"You have returned from frolicking in the glorified tundra, I see," His Majesty scoffed, his booming voice filling the silent hall as his dark red eyes looked down at his only son.

"I have, Your Majesty," the prince replied bitterly as he straightened out from his bow, being careful not to look up at the glaring eyes resembling his own.

"Crown Prince Seonghwa, it is good to see that you have returned to the Sunless Mountain," Master Cho, leader of the Cho Clan of the Western Peak, greeted.

"Indeed," Lady Shin, leader of the Shin Clan of the Northern Peak, added icily, "it is good to see that the Crown Prince remembers which is his home."

Seonghwa contemplated a response but decided it was best not to anger the court he would more than likely inherit. He would no doubt have time for that once he succeeds his father though he hopes they themselves would have all been succeeded by their heirs by then.

The great hall remained silent for a moment, for once Lady Shin spoke, no one would dare challenge. She was a stern woman with sharp features and eyes so dark they were almost the color of a starless night sky.

"Has the Snow King enlightened us with any useful information or was your journey over to the Glass Kingdom just for pleasure?" King Park asked, his patience wearing thin.

"He's stated nothing we haven't heard before, Your Majesty," Seonghwa replied tensely.

Members of the court snickered at the answer. This Crown Prince of theirs, though promising in skill and talent, was terribly unmotivated in his kingdom's affairs, leading them to view him as a good-for-nothing failure that they hope may be succeeded by one of their own. However, with one glance from the Crown Prince, the hall was once again silent. He may have been viewed as a good-for-nothing heir, but he still inherited the same deadly gaze and dominating aura of his father.

"So it seems to be the latter," His Majesty sighed disapprovingly, "you may go; there are people that are actually trying to be productive members of society."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Seonghwa said with a bow before leaving the great hall with the grace only a member of the royal family could possess.

He retreated to his often unoccupied quarters which consisted of an entire section of the palace reserved only for him and those that served him. It was a servant's dream to work in the Crown Prince's quarters since there was barely any work to be done. The Crown Prince spent most of his time in the Glass Kingdom, a beautiful kingdom carved into the Mountains of Perrenial Winter. This meant that there was no one to attend to for the greater part of the year. Though even when he was in the Sunless Mountain, the Crown Prince's neat and orderly nature also meant that the multitude of servants did not have much to do other than simply enjoy the fact that they live in such a beautiful palace.

Before reaching the personal library he often cooped himself up in when visiting his kingdom, Seonghwa stopped to admire the stream that flowed through his quarters. The stream glistened ironically with the light of the sunset casting down upon it.

Despite the kingdom's name, the mountain range in which the kingdom stood was filled with daylight. It was only named the Sunless Mountain because the inhabitants were the descendants of the Night Legion, a group of rogue vampires who destroyed the oppressive regime of the Heavenly Kingdom. The Heavenly Kingdom was arrogant and likened themselves to the Sun, using it as a motif to signify dominance over all vampires. To spite the spirits of the dead leaders of the Heavenly Kingdom, the Night Legion, who also named their legion out of spite for their enemy, named their growing empire the Sunless Mountain.

The history was well-known by the subjects of the Sunless Mountain. The Night Legion, once led by six rebels, united under one leader. Park Kyunghwa was the eldest of the group and the most well-received by the members of the legion. She became the first monarch of the Sunless Mountain with the support of the other five leaders, Shin Hyunjin, Cho Ilwoo, Hwang Jiyoung, Woo Jinseok, and Jeon Yoonsung. These leaders created clans within the kingdom which later became known as the Five Great Clans of the Mountain, or the Five Clans for short.

Just as Seonghwa was about to continue to make his way towards the library, he heard the hushed voices of a group of servants from a near distance.

"So that's the Crown Prince? I heard he was handsome, but the word 'handsome' feels like a wildly insulting understatement," one of the servants, a girl, mused.

"He's away for so long, I often almost forget just how breathtaking he is. It's like a celestial being has graced us with his presence," another servant, this time a boy, fawned.

"How can you forget a face like that?!" another servant questioned incredulously.

"I said 'almost', you dimwitted toad," the boy retorted, finally forcing out the embarrassed laughter Seonghwa tried to hold back when he started overhearing their conversation.

The sound of Seonghwa's laughter both alarmed and enchanted the group of servants. This was enough of a distraction for them not to notice the threatening presence looming behind them.

"Is this really how the servants of the Crown Prince behave themselves?"

The servants quickly turned to see the owner of the voice, which pierced the air like ice-cold daggers, and felt that their souls almost left their bodies upon seeing who it was behind them.

"Lady Shin," Seonghwa called out, having also turned around after having recognized the voice.

Lady Shin stood proudly, her waving red robes making her look like a goddess who had come down from the heavens to bring justice to a broken world.

"Your Highness," Lady Shin bowed, making her way to where Seonghwa was standing.

Seeing that neither Lady Shin nor the Crown Prince was paying them any mind, the servants scurried away, grateful to have escaped with their lives.

"What brings you here, Lady Shin?" Seonghwa asked.

"Am I not allowed to visit my nephew when I please or is that suddenly forbidden?" Lady Shin scoffed before giving Seonghwa a gentle smile.

Seonghwa's mother, the late Queen of the Sunless Mountain, was Lady Shin's sister. When his mother passed away, Lady Shin took it upon herself to raise her sister's son to make sure the king, a man known for his boiling temper, did not pass on his fiery personality to his son. She raised him between the palace and the Northern Peak, teaching him the importance of righteousness. However, unlike the other disciples of the Shin Clan, Lady Shin taught Seonghwa that being kind and understanding was also just as important as being stern and just. These were things the other disciples would have been taught at home, so she only did so in order to ensure that Seonghwa and the other disciples were receiving the same education. Besides, her sister was the softer one of the two and would no doubt want her son to be fluent in empathy and compassion.

"I have not known you to ever show up unannounced to someone else's dwelling," Seonghwa responded, returning the smile.

Lady Shin sighed, looking out to the horizon. The sky had already become dark, and the reflection of the twinkling stars replaced the glaring sun in the gurgling stream.

"Does what you came here to say weigh down upon you so heavily, Lady Shin?" Seonghwa asked, looking down at his aunt with concern.

"Why don't we find a more private place to speak, my dear boy? The information I am relaying onto you is not one for all ears to hear."

[pain-somnia]

Title: Everything Series: vampfiction Rating: M like way harder M than the first part everyone Day’s Notes: okay so this took a lot a lot longer than I wanted to but I was super busy and then also not feeling well. I would be sick than have to make up for being sick and then get sick again. It’s that time of the year where being out in public is dangerous for me. Like please guys take care of yourselves and also rest at home. I know it’s hard to take days off but you could be risking the health, the lives, of other people. This fic is now on ao3! Part 1 and this part is called Eat Me, Drink Me which is the first part of the vampfiction series. Warning: you may be squicked in a section here. TW: menstruation mention. It’s not that much in my opinion nor that detailed but it’s there. Everything | ao3

He wasn’t supposed to kiss her. That was where he first fucked up.

When his father first sent him to get a warm donor to decrease the amount he needed to drink, Sasuke assumed he would meet with a plain housewife that doubled as a donor to help provide more to her family’s income. Maybe even a NEET that needed to show his parents he was doing something.

He even expected a fangbanger, a person that offered themselves as a warm donor because they fetishized vampires.

The photograph he had received was of a pretty girl in her twenties. A photograph that did no justice for the live person he met with at the blood bank. As colorful as she appeared in an image she was much more vibrant when she spoke and moved.

He wasn’t supposed to kiss her but weeks of knowing Sakura, added with the blush that bloomed on the apples of her cheeks when she was frustrated with his teasing led to the moment.

If Sakura didn’t hum, so content when he continued to press kisses to her mouth. If Sakura didn’t sigh, so pleased, when he dragged those kisses down her jaw, down her pale, slender neck.

If. If. If.

Thinking of “Ifs” couldn’t help Sasuke. It was too late for all of that and if he were honest with himself, he didn’t have a single regret.

. .

Sasuke got lucky with Sakura. He could text her or call her and tell her any available time he had and she would be ready for him.

Often he would find himself in her bed during daylight hours. If he forgot to bring his sunglasses and hat he would be trapped the whole day in Sakura’s apartment.

If he was lucky he was trapped on a day that Sakura was free.

She would get up from bed to eat and do her chores but when she was done she would grab her school work and crawl back into bed. Sakura would sit up and study while Sasuke snuggled against her hip, one of his arms thrown across her lap.

“You should be sleeping,” Sakura would comment, not looking up from her laptop. She would mindlessly stroke his hair, giving him affection without putting any thought to it.

“You should take a break,” he countered. “I’m already naked. You should take advantage of that.”

Such a curious creature. Sakura had already seen him naked on countless occasions but she never failed to get flustered.

Her cheeks would flush and he could track the spread of the heat from her face down her neck and further past her shirt. Sasuke could smell the heated blood, hear the thumping of her heart and the rushing of her blood.

“Your eyes are doing that thing again. So red,” Sakura’s voice wavered as Sasuke pulled her laptop away from her and set it down on the floor. “If you’re hungry you can just say so. You didn’t eat last night.”

“If I was hungry, I would say I was.”

Sasuke loomed over her, dragging his fingers up her torso, lifting her shirt with the movement. He drummed his fingers along her ribcage.

If he wanted to, he could apply enough pressure to crack them. It wouldn’t take any effort on his part, just a press of his thumb and the bone would snap, puncturing a lung and causing it to collapse.

“Sasuke-kun…”

Her voice was always breathy when he brushed his fingers under the swell of her breast and rubbed his thumb up the line of her throat just under her jaw.

A press of his thumb and he could crush her windpipe.

But instead he stroked along her jaw and enjoyed the way her eyes became hooded as he touched her. There was so much trust in those eyes, never a worry about how dangerous a position she was in. So much adoration in them right before she took his hand in hers and turned her face to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

Is that all for me? Really?

Sasuke wasn’t sure what he did to deserve that look in her eyes. That look of pure happiness whenever she opened the door and he was on the other side. That look that made him forget.

Forget that the delicate woman lying underneath him would age and want more and drift away from him.

Forget that he wasn’t allowed to get attached.

. .

“You should drink more.”

Sasuke watched as his older brother brushed off his mother’s hand as she reached to stroke his face.

“Izumi-chan, would you mind? After your meal of course.”

Itachi had always been sickly and needed more than just the blood of a cold donor. Blood provided by the dhampire of his two spouses improved his condition but drinking and feeling the person as he fed had always disturbed Itachi.

Due to his disgust with himself, he never drank enough.

“Damn pacifist,” their great-great uncle Madara had spat in disgust. “Pitiful.”

Their mother wouldn’t allow their father to invite Madara for their more intimate family dinners after that.

“I drink enough.”

“We usually have to, uh, distract him,” Shisui teased, tossing back his own goblet of blood. “Not that it always works but we give it our best shot.”

There was a thumping sound and he choked on his gulp. From the look Izumi was giving him it was clear that she had kicked him under the table.

“Must you be so crass in front of your in-laws?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied it.”

“May I be excused?”

The bickering ceased as everyone turned their attention to the youngest member of the family. Sasuke kept his eyes on his father—ignoring everyone else—who simply nodded before turning his attention back to the warm bowl in front of him.

Sasuke didn’t usually mind when his family gathered every week for dinner. But for the past few weeks there was an irritation building up whenever he sat across from his brother.

Here he was struggling with resisting drinking and his brother as always did so with ease despite the fact that he was being encouraged to drink from his wife.

“That’s a nasty habit.”

Sasuke crushed his cigarette under his foot, kicking it off the engawa and into his mother’s garden.

“She’s going to find that,” his brother warned him.

“I’ll blame Shisui.”

“This isn’t like you.”

“I always blame Shisui for things.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Sasuke sighed and took a seat on the ledge of the engawa.

“How long is this lecture going to take?”

“This is exactly what I mean.” Itachi took a seat, giving Sasuke his space. “You’re really snappy lately and you don’t really care about anything. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” Sasuke cringed at how quick he was to respond, proving that he was being as snappish as his brother said he was being.

It wasn’t his family’s fault that he was feeling the way he was. None of them were to blame for his predicament.

It wasn’t their fault that they were happy while he wasn’t.

. .

Sasuke chose to ignore his phone ringing in his pocket for the third time when he heard her clear her throat.

Sakura nodded toward the bottle on the counter and then looked up at him. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, drawing inward on herself. The gesture made her look even smaller than she already was.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.”

“Then why are they giving me supplements? They said you’ve been collecting cold donations.”

Oh. The cold donations.

In an effort to curb his appetite, Sasuke had been making sure to fill up before he met with Sakura. He was testing a theory that if he were too full before sex that he wouldn’t be driven by instinct to feed. He didn’t need to feed more than three times a week but he wanted to see Sakura a lot more often.

The  problem was that his triggers for hunger were the same things that aroused him when it came to Sakura.

And how was he supposed to explain that to her?

Trying to think of an answer that would suffice was difficult enough without his phone ringing continuously. He pulled it out of his pocket and peeked at the Caller ID. “Uzumaki K.” flashed on his screen and he stared at it.

There was a chance it was work related but there was an even higher chance that it wasn’t.

“I have to take this,” Sasuke told her reluctantly sliding his finger across the screen to answer.

“First let me just say,” a haughty feminine voice broke through without greeting, “Suigetsu did it.”

So it wasn’t work related. Sasuke sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“But it was your fault it happened,” Karin continued. “You haven’t been answering your phone for days and no one knows where you go apart from work and it’s not like you have a life.”

“What did you idiots do?” Sasuke hissed. From his peripheral, Sakura’s eyes widened in shock and her guarded pose dropped a bit of its tension.

“Let me reiterate that it was Suigetsu,” an angry shout came muffled through the speaker. “He may have broken the door to your apartment.”

“You’re fucking kidding,” Sasuke growled. “My door? Really?”

“You really think I would want to tell you that we broke something of yours?”

Sasuke sighed and rubbed his forehead. As snarky as she could get, Karin wasn’t stupid enough to get on his bad side.

But she wasn’t above annoying him and letting Suigetsu take the fall.

“You’re a tracker. You could have found me at any moment if you wanted.”

“You were the one that said to stop chasing you down. Not my fault your messy ass can’t answer a cell phone that’s literally always in your pocket.”

“Didn’t realize you were so clingy. I don’t get how Konan puts up with you. You would think she would be tired of babysitting.”

“Leave her out of this!”

Sasuke smirked as Karin ranted about leaving her girlfriend out of their conversations. If anything was her weak spot that was it. She always got touchy when it was brought up how much younger she was than Konan. It wasn’t the largest gap for a vampire couple but it was still a sore spot for her.

“Sasuke-kun?” Sakura brought his attention back to her and the conversation they had been having.

“Wait? Are you with a woman? You date?! Why didn’t you say anything? Sasuke? Sasuke!”

Sasuke hung up and put his phone on vibrate before he stuffed it back in his pocket. He barely removed his hand before his phone started vibrating. Karin wasn’t going to let it go.

“It was a coworker.” That didn’t sound right at all. “A friend. She and another friend were curious about my whereabouts.”

“You could have told them. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“It’s none of their business.”

The response came out too quickly and it sounded awkward to Sasuke’s own ears.

“Sakura—“

“It’s okay.” Sakura sighed and played with the supplement bottle on the counter, refusing to look at him. “You should go take care of whatever they needed to call you about.”

I should be taking care of this.

“I have stuff to take care of for school anyway. So if you’re here for blood you should just get that over with.”

Sasuke gripped her shoulder and leaned down, tracing the side of her throat with his nose. His lips brushed against her skin and she flinched under his touch.

Biting her wasn’t his intention. He kissed the junction of her neck and shoulder, trailing more kisses up her throat right under her jaw.

I don’t want blood. I want everything.

Perhaps if he had said his thoughts out loud Sakura wouldn’t have pushed against his chest and turned him around so he faced her apartment door.

He sighed and grabbed his coat off of the kitchen island when he heard the bedroom door shut with a click.

. .

It wasn’t the first time Sasuke had been kicked out of Sakura’s apartment. Although the first time it had happened he had been kicked out for something he found far more pleasant.

As much as she had enjoyed her orgasm, Sakura didn’t enjoy finding out the source of blood that caused the smear on Sasuke’s chin.

“It’s still blood and orgasms help with cramping.”

“Get out! Out of my apartment!”

Due to her embarrassment she had pushed him out of her apartment, with his shoes in hand and his pants riding low on his hips. He was stuck outside half dressed until she opened her door again and let him back inside so he could gather the rest of his clothing.

They had sat down and discussed boundaries and that just because her period came early, it didn’t mean he could snack away as he pleased. The days of her period were usually the days he never visited because Sakura arranged their schedule around them and she preferred it that way.

She was supposed to refrain from doing her donor duties while menstruating but Sasuke saw no reason for her not to offer a different way for him to consume blood. Especially if he was more than willing to help her deal with the pesky, painful symptoms of her menstrual cycle.

“It’s not all liquid how can you consume that?!”

“How do you drink boba tea?”

“That’s not the same!”

They had argued but there was a shift in their relationship that day. Something more open about them came about because of the incident. As physically intimate as they were there was something that kept them both so closed off from each other.

“If you want you can stay,” Sakura had mumbled, averting her gaze, “I know I’m on the rag and you can’t drink from a menstruating donor for their health and safety but you don’t have to leave…”

How was it that they could be naked in front of each other but still uncomfortable with leaving their feelings bare for the other to see?

Sasuke knew Sakura wanted more than just his visits. Wanted more than just his touch. It was in the way she looked at him, eyes full of yearning even when they lay side by side waiting for their breathing to slow down. She clung to him in her sleep the same way he clung to her when they were awake.

Their words danced around in an awkward shuffle, refusing to be the one that changed their dynamic.

Although Sasuke wanted Sakura to make the first move, to voice what she wanted from him, he knew it was unfair.

She had more to lose than he did. He could walk away from her, ask for another donor if he felt uncomfortable. Sakura would be hurt and terminated as a donor. He needed her blood and she needed the money.

What they needed not what they wanted because Sasuke was sure that what they had wasn’t out of convenience. Everything could change if one of them would just take the plunge and say it out loud.

I want you.

. .

Sakura would love to meet Karin.

That was all that went through Sasuke’s mind as he watched the redhead socialize and introduce her lover to their coworkers. No one would ever doubt that Karin was a vampire. Karin dressed and carried herself in the exact way Sakura had once assumed all vampires did. Clad in leather and revealing just enough skin to be just short of scandalous, Karin and Konan made a vision of seductresses of the night.

Sakura would probably go nuts over my formal uniform.

Sasuke clutched at the fabric of his cape. Darker than the police uniform, the vampiric military force had a flare for the dramatic. The formal uniforms were for aesthetic purposes not for practical use.

He could almost hear Sakura’s cheerful voice mocking him.

“So you do own a cape!”

Sasuke hid a smile behind his goblet. He had been avoiding socializing as much as he could but someone was sure to ask if they noticed even the slightest tick of his facial muscles.

Sakura could usually tell what he was thinking just from the slightest shift.

. .

“You’re laughing at me!” Sakura pouted, pulling her phone to her chest and shielding it with her hand.

“I’m not even smiling how am I laughing at you?” Sasuke scoffed but turned his mouth into the back of his hand to hide his face just in case he broke through his facade. He had been busy chopping vegetables which was probably why Sakura thought she could sneak up on him.

There was a chance she would be unhappy to know that he was aware of her creeping around him the whole time.

“I just wanted one picture,” Sakura pleaded. “You said it was a myth that vampires don’t show up in photographs. Looks like I have proof now that you were telling the truth.”

“I think what I said was that my great-great uncle Madara was the only one that didn’t show up in photographs. Something about cameras stealing your soul.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No I’m serious. We really do have souls.”

“Not that part!”

Sakura burst into a peal of laughter and there was no more hiding his forming smile.

“He avoids mirrors too. It’s why his hair always looks a mess. The older generation has an aversion for a lot of things because of superstitions and that’s probably what led to all of the vampire myths.”

Sakura laughed harder and the sound caused a fluttering sensation to fill his stomach. It was doing that a lot lately.

Taking his mother’s lead about treating the process like an omiai, Sasuke spent more time with Sakura than necessary. There was no awkwardness about how he would sink his fangs into her slender neck.

The only awkwardness came from how he wanted to drag his lips lower down the line of her throat and suck on something other than her blood.

Her company was enjoyable and she was pretty and his mother really messed him up with her comment.

Treating her like a person and not like his food made Sakura more comfortable with him touching her, putting his mouth on her, but it also made Sasuke more comfortable in her presence.

She wasn’t just something he had scheduled during the week. She was someone he looked forward to seeing. This was more than just blood.

And that was terrifying.

“A candid photo and you still look good,” Sakura grumbled as she looked at her phone’s screen. Her voice was low but Sasuke caught her words easily with his superior hearing.

His tracker hearing.

Hunter hearing.

Hearing of a predator.

“What was that?” He asked her, leaning over so that they were at eye level with each other. “Didn’t catch that.”

“It was nothing.”

Sakura’s face bloomed a pretty blush that dusted the apples of her cheeks.

“I could have sworn you said something,” he continued to bug her, watching the heated color intensify to a deep red.

A pretty, pretty red of blood rushing to her face.

“Something about my good looks, maybe?”

Sakura glared at him, and the blush spread down her neck.

“Yeah I said that. It’s not like you aren’t aware of how good looking you are!” Sakura retorted hotly. Her heart was pumping fast beats that drummed in Sasuke’s ears.

“True.”

He slid his hands on the countertop, trapping her within his arms. She gulped and it was humorously audible now that Sasuke was focused on every little thing Sakura was doing.

Focused on the way her eyes shifted from his mouth to the side and back. On the way her chest was rapidly rising and falling. On the sound of her staggered breathing.

All signs her blood was rushing, swirling around and perfect for the taking.

So Sasuke took what he wanted.

Sakura’s breath hitched against his mouth, soft lips trembling as they parted from the pressure of Sasuke’s kiss. Sasuke sucked her lower lip into his mouth as he cradled her closer to his body. Slipping his tongue inside her mouth, he coaxed a content sigh of hers to roll against his tongue.

Not enough. Sasuke moaned softly as Sakura’s fingers brushed the points of his ears to grip his hair.

“Your ears...?” Sakura pulled back slightly, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. “They’re—“

“Yeah, they’re pointed, don’t worry about them,” Sasuke huffed, frustrated that she had stopped moving her lips against his.

My neck hurts, he griped inwardly.

He gripped her hips and lifted her up so she was seated on her island. Sakura squeaked and dragged her hands down from his hair and cupped his neck.

“You’re too short,” Sasuke explained. Sakura narrowed her eyes at him and opened her mouth to retort but Sasuke didn’t give her the chance.

He pulled her closer to the edge of the counter and stood between her legs. He drummed his fingers on her thighs and slid them up before taking hold of her waist.

Sakura moaned against his mouth as he rocked against her. The more he rubbed himself against her and she scratched lightly at his back through his open flannel and t-shirt the harder he got. She dragged her nails down and with some fumbling she slid her hands under the hem and raked her nails up his torso.

Sasuke was tugging on the waistband of her shorts when Sakura stilled in his hold. She pulled away from him and wrapped her hand around his wrist. She didn’t have the strength to push him away━she was only human of course━but that one movement froze him in place.

“I,” Sakura licked her lips, “don’t have any condoms here. I never have them.”

Sasuke sighed and dropped his forehead on hers. He hadn’t meant to take it as far as they did but he couldn’t deny being hopeful as he stood there with a throbbing ache in between his legs.

“Next time...I’ll bring some, hm?”

“Okay.” Sakura nodded, cheeks flushed and clothes rumpled. “That...that sounds good.”

“You know,” Sasuke smoothed his palms flat on her thighs, “there’s a lot we can still do.”

“You’re laughing at me again,” Sakura grumbled but she slid her hands up his torso and looped her arms around his neck. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re just going to keep teasing me from now on?”

. .

“Are you really hiding in the shadows at a vampire function?”

Sasuke peered through his peripheral at the person disrupting his moment of recollection. Karin sidled up next to him against the wall. Besides being an excellent tracker she was able to mask her presence the best. Not the muscle of their department but without her finding rogue vampires would be difficult.

But her habit of sneaking up on people was irritating to no end.

“You’re so creepy even by vampire standards.” Karin exaggerated a shiver and fished a cherry out of her drink. “You’ve got enough gloom for the whole ball.”

“What do you want Karin?”

“You don’t smell like you usually do.” Karin side eyed him, smile toothy and flashing her fangs. “Cleaned up the reek of human I see.”

Sasuke loomed over her small form. Even slimmer, more lithe than Sakura, and yet his overwhelming height didn’t faze her. Karin just scoffed and took a prim sip of her fruity drink.

“You’re bringing down the party.” Karin adjusted the clasp holding his cloak together. “Just go home. Or wherever it is you would rather be.”

Sasuke glanced over at the rest of the ball room. Everyone was still in the midst of the military force’s festivities.

“No one is going to miss your antisocial ass.” Karin pushed on his shoulder and then waved him away with shooing motions of her hand. “Now go before anyone notices I’m gone because I had to check on your morose self.”

Karin adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and gave him one of her looks that was a cross between disappointment and haughtiness that she had perfected over the years. Usually it was given to Suigetsu but occasionally Sasuke was on the receiving end. It never really affected him until now.

If there was every a time he deserved that look, it was in this moment.

“You’re less depressing to hang around when you stink of human.”

Karin didn’t wait to see what decision he made. She chose to find Konan and link her arm with hers, happily escorting her around the ballroom to be introduced to any of Karin’s coworkers and friends. She beamed at her taller girlfriend and was openly affectionate whenever she got the chance.

She was content and nothing else mattered.

Sasuke rolled his eyes and turned to leave the ballroom. The ball was getting duller by the second and there was somewhere much more appealing to be.

. .

It was two in the morning and he hadn’t called ahead but Sasuke had no qualms over his late night appearance at Sakura’s apartment.

A normal human would have been sleeping or trying to sleep.

Not Sakura. Sakura would be up late and studying. Sasuke knew enough about her habits to know she wouldn’t be sleeping like she should have been.

And sure enough when she opened the door she was in a pair of shorts and camisole to sleep in but was wearing her reading glasses, a sign that she had been in the middle of working on an assignment or reading a medical journal.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

Sakura slipped her glasses off and folded up the frames. She shifted on the balls of her feet and she hid her hands behind her back.

“I didn’t plan to come.”

Sakura jutted out her lower lip and narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. He knew it was out of character for him to come over on a whim.

On his way over to Sakura’s apartment he kept arguing with himself, going back and forth on what he should do.

His mind kept telling him to go home, to forget his urges and stay in control, but his body as if moving on its own had him finding himself at her door and his fist raised, ready to knock.

Sakura took note of his cape and there was a glimmer in her eye. The muscles on her face twitched but remained as impassive as she could muster.

But her eyes always gave her away. Despite herself they had gleamed the way they always did when she opened her door and he was standing outside of it.

She stepped aside and let him into her apartment.

“Before you ask, no I didn’t come for━”

He didn’t get a chance to finish when Sakura pulled him by the flaps of his cloak and stood on her toes, pressing her mouth against his. Without hesitation he molded his lips over hers and slid his arms around her torso, pulling her closer. Sasuke held her tight and prayed she wouldn’t pull away.

Sasuke backed her away from the entry way and into the kitchen area. He wasn’t patient enough to get her to even the couch of the section that made up the living room let alone her bedroom. He lifted her up on top of the island that divided the kitchen and the living room, sucking her lower lip into his mouth.

“I missed you,” Sakura moaned when he released her lip in favor of pressing hot open mouthed kisses along her jaw and down her throat.

It had only been a week but Sasuke was used to seeing Sakura almost everyday with his habit of sleeping over and spending whole days in her apartment. He had only ever gone one day away from her at a time after they had first became physically involved.

So he missed her too.

He missed listening to her stories about her professors and classmates. Missed berating her about her eating and sleep habits. Missed how she would always be so cold and still only wear shorts and a camisole in her apartment choosing instead to bundle up with a blanket.

Sasuke also missed the way they moved together.

He missed the way she breathed. Missed the way her thighs trembled when he glided his hands on them, stroking them. Missed the way his name got caught in her throat.

Sasuke tugged at her shorts, roughly pulling them down. He missed being inside her as well and he knew they would both be happier if she had far less clothing. Sakura yanked off her cami and tossed it aside without a care for where it had gone and Sasuke moved his kisses further down her chest, wrapping his lips around a hardened nipple.

He could feel her fingers fumbling at the clasp of his cloak and he brushed her fingers away. She protested but then squealed when he picked her back up and moved her to the couch. He went for the clasp himself and Sakura busied herself with unbuckling his belt.

“Now. Please,” Sakura pleaded as she unbuttoned his suit jacket. He shimmied out of it as Sakura assisted him in undressing by untucking his dress shirt. She attempted to undo the buttons but her fumbling fingers kept slipping.

“Forget the damn buttons!” Sasuke hissed. He licked his fingers and rubbed them over the tip of his cock before taking himself in hand and guiding himself into Sakura’s tight, wet heat. “Ffuuck...”

Sakura moaned her approval and grinded her hips down, moving without him, not caring to adjust to his intrusion. She squeezed her breasts in both of her hands and bit down on her lower lip.

Fuck…

Sasuke pulled her legs over his lap and gripped her hips as he drilled into her, thrusting deeply causing her to gasp out in staccato beats.

His thrusting got sloppier as moved his focus on kissing her deeply. Sakura whined in frustration and Sasuke felt the vibrations roll against his tongue.

Sakura rolled them so that Sasuke landed on the ground with a groan.

“You okay?” She asked as she straddled his lap, knees at the sides of his hips. He growled at her but gripped her hips tightly. “Good.”

She sank back down on his length and using her hands on his chest as an anchor she bounced up and down on his lap, throwing her head back as Sasuke matched her bouncing with upwards thrusts. He slid his thumb over her clit and rubbed in circles at the same pace Sakura was setting.

“Shit!” He could feel himself slipping over the edge as the muscles of Sakura’s core fluttered around his cock. Sasuke pumped upwards hard, holding Sakura down, no longer letting her move.

Sakura came, crying out as she collapsed against his chest. Sasuke followed after her still holding onto her hips. He gripped tightly and spilled inside of her, finishing with slow lazy thrusts.

They laid there on the ground chest to chest waiting for their breathing to slow down.

“Yeah, so I missed you too.”

Sakura snorted, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. Sasuke felt her sigh, warm breath puffing out onto his flesh.

He listened to her heart slow down it’s beating until she drifted off to sleep.

. .

Sasuke blinked and stretched out his limbs. He huffed out a breath and turned his head to the empty gap Sakura usually took up in bed. He sat up and scanned the bedroom floor for his boxer briefs. Sasuke had finally removed all of his clothing after carrying Sakura to bed.

Everything was rumpled but luckily he had some clothing in the bottom of Sakura’s closet and he could always borrow her iron.

No idea how I’m going to explain some of those stains to the cleaners…

Not bothering with anything but his underwear he rubbed his head forehead with the heel of his hand. Heading out to Sakura’s kitchen he paused outside of the bedroom door at the sight of Sakura sitting on her living room floor in nothing but his cape.

“Um, I…”

Her face flushed red and she wrapped the oversized cloak around her small form. Sasuke exhaled through his nose and

“It’s a good look for you,” he teased her and took a seat on the couch.

Sakura buried her glowing red face into the flaps of his cloak. It was a really good look for her. Sasuke could look at her face forever and never get bored. It was a while before she poked her head back out from his cape.

“You didn’t drink last night.”

“I didn’t come here for blood.”

Sakura cocked her head and her brows furrowed in confusion.

“I don’t come here just for blood. Your blood isn’t what I want when I come over.”

Sakura inhaled sharply and kept her gaze steady on him. Eyes that always glimmered with everything she felt for him. Everything he wanted to keep glimmering for him. Always for him.

Because she━she was everything.

[kieraembers]

Valyrian Steel

Chapter 36

Gendry

Allow me to preface this by saying that I have not updated this fic in a long time. I had two deaths in my family and have been plenty depressed. But the leaks have me spitting mad so I'll probably finally update. Also, not watching the show, living in fanfic world, where Missandei is ALIVE.

Gendry woke up when Nymeria let out a growl in her sleep and Arya fidgeted besides him. He looked towards the messy head of brown hair to his right and the grey direwolf to his left, then he noticed his feet were up against a warm black mass. Shaggy opened one bright green eye and fixed Gendry with a sleepy stare before, he blinked once then rolled over to his side with a tired yawn and settled back to sleep.

This was how he would die, it didn't matter that he told Arya to stop sneaking into his tent, it didn't matter how many times he told her that he was fine, that he was never improper with her, that the wolves were always present, or that Jon actually liked him. No, as soon as any of the Northern lords popped their heads into his tent, or spotted Arya leaving they would string him up by his toes and feed his cock to the wolves who never said no to a meal. He knew the consequences for a base-born bastard to try and reach above his station, and Arya was most definitely above his station.

It started innocently enough, Arya continuously popped into his room before and after her nightly hunt to poke him awake and make sure he had not died in his sleep. It became an annoyance and no matter how tightly he locked his room or where he hid his tent she found him. He'd spend the days exhausted from lack of sleep because it was difficult to go back to sleep when Arya would rest her head on his chest to check his pulse, touch his neck when he bundled himself up in furs, or slip her hands under furs and shirt to check that he was warm. Every night since leaving the Twins it was the same and every night no matter how much he insisted he was fine, she had to check and frustrate him to no end.

Till one night he was driven to near insanity from lack of sleep and he dragged her under the covers with him and held her tight. "Sleep" he had muttered, and held firm even when she wriggled in his arms. If she wanted to leave she had her knives and her teeth, and all Gendry wanted was sleep, even if she rubbed maddeningly against him. From then on she would slip in and sleep under the furs with him no matter how much he objected. But when had any one ever been able to control or deny Arya?

Gendry tried to shift closer to Nymeria and farther from Arya, but she stubbornly stuck close to him muttering in her sleep and burying her face into his side. She was still so small and thin, but she didn't look half starved so Gendry didn't worry if she had enough to eat in the years she was away. He looked down at her, the frown that he so often saw in her face melted away when she slept and the sharpness softened. Gendry brushed some of her hair back from her face then tucked her into his arm.

They would kill him as soon as they noticed Arya leaving his tent, so he might as well get some happiness from the situation. She opened an eye and smiled before resting her head on his chest. Gendry was sure she wasn't fully awake but that smile was all he needed. Her legs tucked into his and he stroked her shoulder with his thumb until he finally fell asleep again.

)O(

In the morning Arya was gone, she always slipped out before daylight and considering his cock was still attached to his body he was sure no one had seen her make her way back to her tent. Gendry sat up and began packing up his tent and bed roll, he could hear the camp being moved around him .

The fires were being put out and the horses saddled while the men scarfed down what they could.  The Crannogmen helped them set up camp in the swampy Neck the night before. They laid out logs and rugs made of reeds and twigs so the men would keep dry. Summer, Meera Reed, Howland Reed and a group of Crannogmen had met them at the Neck and helped the army's barges find their way through the treacherous swamp lands. Greywater Watch was a floating wonder, but the Crannogmen could not sustain such a vast force for long, Jon made sure to only impose on them for two nights before continuing through the Neck.

They were camped a day's march away from the Bite where a ship would wait off the coast to take them to White Harbor, then up the White Knife river towards Winterfell. Arya wanted to attack from the Wolf Woods so that Stannis' men had less time to respond while Jon insisted that he could speak to the man. Tyrion, Daenerys and Aegon were not convinced that Stannis would ever bend the knee.

Gendry spotted Willas Tyrell drawing a dead lizard lion that Shaggy-dog had dragged in early in the morning. He had stopped mid stroke and stared off into the distance, the man was given to bouts of deep thought, so Gendry thought little of it and made his way across the camp where he knew Jon and Arya would be training with Viserion.

Viserion was eating some of the meat Jon was tossing at her and drawing closer to him. She came nose to nose with Ghost, then with Jon before shooting off into the trees.

"She's almost ready, a few more days." Arya said watching the pale dragon weave through the tree's till she found a clearing in the tree's canopy.

"We may not have the time." Jon grumbled while scratching Ghost behind the ears, he noticed Gendry approaching and smiled.

"Sleep well?" Jon asked innocently enough.

Gendry cleared his throat and avoided looking at Arya, "Well enough."

"The ground is softer here." Jon said off handedly and made his way towards Gendry while Arya scampered off towards Meera who had appeared from deep within the swamp. The Crannogmen had fed the men frogs, lizard lion and rice, while some of the men grumbled at eating frogs Jon and Arya focused on making sure they did not insult their hosts. The men could not complain about the frogs when their lady bragged about eating bugs in the past. Gendry didn't mind after his third frog, as long as there was some salt. It reminded him a bit of chicken, a few of the men had even asked for seconds.

Howland Reed appeared besides Meera and motioned for Jon to join him. The man took a special interest in Jon and Arya, mainly because of their father. Meera was impatient to leave with them, she wanted to make her way back to Bran Stark. Arya and Jon had welcomed Meera with open arms for the loyalty and love she showed for Bran even when he was not present. Arya became attached to Meera, since the girl cared for Bran beyond the wall and seemed to deeply love him. Then again Arya could make friends with anyone, it was a skill he had not mastered.

Gendry remembered how big of an ass he was towards Edric Dayne and Arya simply for the fact that they got along. Edric was a likeable boy and Arya had a knack for befriending anyone. All he could focus on was his own shortcomings, imagined and real. Even before leaving King's Landing he had a hard time getting along with others. He either scowled and scared others away or avoided people all together. Arya was never scared away, she stuck to Gendry and the rest even when it wasn’t convenient.

Arya let out a large laugh at something Meera said and Gendry smiled. Hopefully she was letting go of some of her anger. He helped some men load the tents and camping equipment onto the barges.  A few of the older Crannogmen had volunteered their services to fight the undead. Tyrion and Jon mentioned that their first group of recruits would be older men trying to ease the strain on their families.

Gendry admired the northmen, they ran headlong into battle knowing that if they died there would be more food for the rest of the North. It was selfless in the extreme.

Gendry noticed Aegon approached Arya holding a colorful frog in a glass jar. They talked excitedly over the frog and Arya dipped an arrow in and run it along the frogs back. Gendry could not read lips but he was certain that they were speaking of poison. Arya continued to poison the tips of her arrows, a lock of her hair slipped and Aegon tucked it behind her ear. She smiled thankfully at him and Gendry felt something burning in his gut as he watched Aegon continue to loom over Arya.

He stormed away towards where he knew Daenerys was. He found her talking to Jon and Tyrion and bowed as well as he could.

"If the offer still stand I would be honored to become the new lord of the Stormlands."

Daenerys seemed a bit taken aback but she recovered quickly enough and bowed her head with respect.

"Then let me be the first to greet you, Gendry Baratheon, Lord paramount of the Stormlands and Storm's end."

Jon and Tyrion went to greet him as an equal and Gendry tried to mimic them as well as he could. He was a lord, he could barely read, yet he was a lord. No one could say a damn word if they ever caught Arya leaving his tent.

Gendrya

young griff

[rileyomalley]

Peculiar Tattoos

Numbah two fic gift for @projectcodex​‘s birthday. Also if ya’ll haven’t yet you should WISH HIM A HAPPY BIRTHDAY BECAUSE HE IS A WONDERFUL BEAN WHO DESERVES ALL THE LOVE!!! Enjoy reading~

Today could sum up as fairly average in rating, falling into your usual routines of work in the day. You were on your break for the time being, deciding to take a spot outside to get some fresh air. The weather thankfully, dear god, was not that gross smoggy mess that had loomed over Washington like something out of Silent Hill, nor was it glaringly hot and humid. It was that in between that was just right. When you weren't lazily looking through your social media sites, you would idly people watch throughout town who passed by, swinging your legs a bit looking in no particular direction. Something across the way caught within the haze of your spacing mind, leaving your brow to scrunch up and try to figure why. Familiarity hit you like a freight train when one person in particular stood out from all the rest at the shop across the way. It was Romero. Holy shit. It was maybe about...a couple months or so since you'd run into this man by happenstance, stopping in at one of the shops downtown before heading home from work or errands or what have you. It was one of those...you were too tired to remember to be quite honest, but you certainly didn't forget him. He looked to be acquiring something in one of the hobby shops you frequent, to which you inquired striking up a conversation, and from there you both became really good friends. He was a pretty worldly sort, having traveled in a near hermit light style or that of a wandering vagabond with little on his person, he'd seen many sights you loved to hear about and discussed many a common topic between the two of you. Travel, interests in movies, books, hobbies, and topics of the peculiar, otherworldly and strange. Not only were the discussions invigorating, they were very relaxed anytime you both happened to catch each other out and about. Not to mention...he was easy on the eyes. Within your thoughts a reminder told you to head back in and finish up your break, but little did you realize you'd been staring for too long and had alerted the man to your gaze, now standing before you just a few feet away. It was only until he spoke that you sputtered back into reality. "Been a while. You reminiscing or are you trying to bore a hole into someone's noggin?" A flutter of eyes they shot up to his face, Romero giving one of his trademark crooked grins. You breathe out a bit of air before you stand up from where you were sitting, returning a befuddled gaze right back at him. "What if I was? Am I note allowed to hone any other abilities that may or may not involve the demise of people?" Romero just snorted, laughing with a slight shift from one foot or the other. You joined him, happy to greet him and agree that it really had been a while. He asks what you're up to, which you mention you're about ready to head back into work. He almost gives a pout before offering the chance to get coffee after, perhaps dinner if you were feeling terribly peckish within the next few hours. Thinking about it, admittedly you were ready to just flop back at home into a deep nap or to simply veg out with some of your roomies when you got home....but the offer was certainly tempting. You hadn't seen him in a while, and it was a nice chance to catch up and hey...who could deny caffienating themselves further or indulging a little eh? A couple hours pass by, after work you meet up with Romero and the two of you head off to indulge in whatever you were fancying for that evening, settling on a local diner in the area. It was relaxed and had a good selection of food for you both to dig in, to which Romero was happy to spot for. As if he didn't express enough how easily he could eat a horse's weight in food. Good appetite. Relaxing with Romero in the calm thrum of the diner, you felt something tickling at the back of your mind. Recalling the previous times you happened to spend time with Romero, for whatever reason you found yourself attracted to the bits of tattoo's you saw past his sleeve and occasionally near the collar of his shirt. How you weren't without your interest in such things so of course you'd be drawn to it, not only that it was a rather large assortment so they were obvious. Past all that for some reason however, it was almost like some hypnotic draw to them is what threw you off.  You decided to ask. "Romero? Curious about something." He'd been staring off towards the small crowds in the diner before looking over to you, eyebrows perked inquisitively. "Mm? Go ahead, shoot." "I don't know if this'll sound weird or not but...are those the only tattoos you have? Did you also happen to, I don't know, get something done to them apart from the norm? Okay...that sounded weird - but anyway, just asking mostly since anytime I look at them it's like they are...different?" Where were your words. You just sighed a moment trying to sort them before trying again. Before you could speak Romero stopped you. "Nothing terribly peculiar. This is actually a full ah, what would you call it? It's lick a sleeve with a chest and back tat attached? Don't think there's a name for it, haha." He sat forward a bit, undoing a button to give you a bit further look into the expanse of them, to which you quirked your head . "I'd show you the rest of it but, I doubt anyone would want me stripping in this joint." You couldn't seem to hold back the grimace on your face leaving him to laugh. "Really it's fine, I was just curious is all. I'm probably just a bit tired and must have hyper focused on it or something-" "Do you want to see them?" Wait.

"I'm sorry?" He rested his arm on the table between you, quirking a brow. Why was he looking at you like that...

"I asked if you wanted to see them?" Your brow furrowed. "..Romero I can see them just fi-" "I meant all of it, Ikaika." YOU WERE WELL AWARE. Your face seemed to betray you unfortunately, poker facing not in your current repertoire at this point. You didn't answer for the longest time, poking at your food that you had left on your plate. "....okay maybe I'm curious." --- About an hour's worth of teasing later, the two of you decided to pop by his place for a bit since it wasn't that far from downtown and there was still some daylight left. You remember the first few times you popped over to his place, always liking the immediate comfort and serenity you felt here every time you stepped into the threshold. You wondered if curiosities were reaching their limit, yet part of you truly wanted to know what it was that attracted you, save for the obvious reasons. You just couldn't put it out of your mind for some goddamn reason. You were scanning the various decor in his living room before turning to your left at the sound of Romero returning. You were not expecting to see him half naked in front of you, now with the full view of his tattoo. You nearly flushed at the surprise, but found you couldn't look away. The style of the tattoo was akin to that of something tribal - something old that was both clean, simple, yet elaborate. It curled around the right side of his chest, back and became a full sleeve on that arm. Following your gaze he extended his arm out so you could inspect further, chuckling as he watched you closely. There was silence between the two of you for some time before he spoke up softly, the vicinity between the two of you having shortened in that time. "...you know how you asked me if I'd done anything different with these tattoos...other than just average tattoos?" You pulled your eyes away from his arm finally, looking into those light green half lidded eyes. You could feel the heat from his breath, feeling a slight flutter in your chest. That was until suddenly you saw a light out of the corner of your eye, and the glow was coming from ...his arm. His chest....HIS TATTOOS WERE GLOWING. Your eyes widened, stepping back a bit and just...looking over the expanse of it now. You weren't sure what to think. You weren't scared, not really, but it wasn't anything like you expected. You were ready for one of his usual comments, laced with teasing and flirtatious nature, but not...this. His tattoos practically looked like they were living beings on his skin the way they glowed and etched about. "...Romero..." "Yeah. I didn't say anything and figured I'd show you instead. Not really something I show in public." "What is..." He placed a finger on your lips, resulting in a small sound from you. "...I've alot of things I haven't told you. The only reason I show you now is because I feel that you're someone I can trust. That and the look on your face was priceless." He was glad you hadn't freaked out, all things considered he could have done something far more obscure since things like this could be compared to black light tattoos. But this he could do on command. "So...same question. Is this just some...neat effect or is there another...explanation for this. I'm sorry I'm just...my mind is drawing a blank." Romero chuckled at your questions, reaching out and pulling you closer to him. That was also unexpected, having difficulty looking him straight in the eye as you both were terribly close. "Suppose that opens up a whole new avenue for us then, huh? I will give you one answer though about it." You quirked a brow, thankful for the momentary distraction considering you were literally just inches away form his chest; the glow warm and inviting. You didn't want to invade what space there was left, despite knowing him for as long as you did. "W-what's that?" "Well...this is magic, believe it or not. It triggers like this for a variety of reasons." "Oh?" He nods, reaching up and gently brushing a hand through your hair. "Mhm. Good and bad. One of those reasons...unexpected at times, tends to be because I'm near the energies of someone I like." Your mind went completely blank, face heating up instantaneously. "...is that so?" You boldly retort. Romero matched the crooked smile you were attempting to make, and simply nodded. "And...I like you a whole hell of a lot." bonus:

[screechthemighty]

Hark! The penultimate chapter of this God of War fic is here! Fair warning, some stuff discussed in this chapter isn't going to be resolved in this fic...because that's what the sequel is for. >:3c But I just wanted to let everyone know before I post the final chapter/epilogue (which hopefully won't take too long?? But with me you never know). Anyways, AO3 link in a reblog as always, but enjoy the full text below!

will you greet the daylight looming? part 5/6: winter

cw: vomiting mention, animal death, references to odin being a shitty ableist father

.

When he opened the door to the first snow of winter, Kratos felt…underwhelmed.

The snowfalls of Fimbulwitner were still fresh in his mind–large, thick flakes covering the ground so quickly that any attempts at digging out of the house were doomed to fail. He’d spent three years struggling through drifts up to his waist, across frozen rivers and lakes and a landscape changed almost beyond recognition.

This, in comparison, was nothing. A light dusting coated the ground. The air was brisk and cold, but not the biting chill of Fimbulwinter. He surveyed the forest, sighed, and went back inside to retrieve Mimir. “Hunting won’t be a problem,” he said.

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Mimir said. “Suspect the young ones will be disappointed they won’t be able to use the snow to get out of practice.”

“They wouldn’t regardless. They need to learn to fight in any conditions.”

“Of course they do.” Kratos stepped back outside and started down the path to Speki and Svanna’s kennel. “Did you have snow in Greece?”

“Mostly in the mountains. Never like here.” Kratos tilted his face back, feeling the snowflakes melt as they touched his skin. “What about your homeland?”

“Oh! Well.” Mimir sounded surprised. He didn’t often speak of his homeland, only that he was from someplace else, and Kratos had never really asked. Perhaps I should start asking. “That depends. It snowed more where I lived when I was a lad, but it was a lot more temperate where my first lord lived. He wasn’t fond of the cold.”

“He could control the weather?”

“Something like that. We had the odd bit of snowfall, more like this, really, but nothing like here. Took some getting used to when I came north. Especially back when I had more bits to worry about keeping warm.”

“...do you miss it?”

Mimir was quiet. He didn’t speak until Kratos had finished hitching the wolves to the sled. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not all of it…and I probably only remember the good parts when I do miss it. But sometimes, yeah. Do you?”

Kratos didn’t have to think long. “The same as you,” he said. “Only sometimes. Only when my regrets return.” All the moments he would have done differently. The things he would have changed. But…

“No making things right, eh?” Mimir said quietly.

“Hmm. Only better than they were.”

And with that, he got onto the sled and urged the wolves forward. There was work to be done. Things to be made better.

Even a mild winter would bring its trials.

.

There was a time when he could have said that he didn’t care. That the various groups setting in Midgard should settle their differences among themselves and leave him out of it.

Kratos could not do that anymore. Freya was right: he trained their children. He went to their village almost every day. He was a part of this now. He could not simply walk away.

That knowledge did not make the conversation less frustrating.

“Did you actually see anyone enter the storehouse?” Kratos said, struggling to keep his tone even. He didn’t think he was successful; if the look on the mortal’s face was any indication, he still sounded angry. Kratos was beginning to think that tone was beyond his control.

“Well…” The man twisted his cloak in his hands. Kratos had already forgotten his name, but he knew the man was more or less in charge of the village half a day away. “...no…sir…”

“Then you cannot prove that anyone from here was responsible for the theft?”

“Well, who else would it be?”

“Thieves. Plenty of raiders never left Midgard. You do understand this, correct?” He had done his best to eradicate them, or at least strongly encourage them to move on, but many had gone deep into hiding as spring and summer returned. Winter and its lack of resources would likely draw them back out. “They will only grow bolder moving forward. I suggest you find more competent guards instead of starting fights.”

“But…”

“If there is a problem, I will handle it. If you require assistance, ask. But now is not the time for us to fight among ourselves. Do I make myself clear?”

The mortal’s face reddened. “Yes…sir?”

Kratos noted the questioning tone, and simply grunted his approval at the title. He still hadn’t given one (still didn’t want to give one), but sir he would allow. “Do your people require assistance?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we are done here.”

The man departed, leaving Kratos with a headache and a roomful of nervous stares. “Do we have any reason to suspect someone might be stealing from other towns?” he asked with a sigh. “Any at all?”

“None that I can think of,” spoke up one man, Leif. From what Kratos remembered, he served as a sort of quartermaster for the town. “We’ve stored up plenty. There isn’t a need, though…I reckon that wouldn’t stop some people, would it?”

It certainly wouldn’t, and that could cause problems in the long term. Another voice spoke up, this time a woman. “Haven’t noticed anyone sneaking out, for what it’s worth,” she said. Helga was her name. She wasn’t one of the Asgard transplants; she and her people had managed to survive in an abandoned mine through the Desolation and Fimbulwinter. Kratos had been the one to suggest them when the town started forming a militia. By all accounts, they were very good at it. “We started a curfew, on account of the wolves and such. Set up patrols. No one’s gone in or out at odd hours that we’ve seen. No one coming in carrying anything, either.”

That was reassuring, at least. “You should increase your numbers, just in case,” Kratos said. “If other places are facing raiders, it is only a matter of time. I have older students who are ready. I will speak to them.”

Helga nodded grimly. Leif sighed. “If you’ll pardon my language, sir,” he said, “I can’t fucking stand winter.”

Kratos grunted in agreement. This winter may not have been as fierce as Fimbulwinter, but he could already tell it was going to be long.

.

When the first fight finally came, it had nothing to do with raiders. The wolves were growing just as desperate as the mortals, and to them, meat was meat. Goats and small children were just as easy to catch.

He was examining the town’s defenses when he heard the shouting. Kratos ran towards the sound instinctively, drawing Leviathan as he went. A few of his students saw him and joined in the rush, Skjöldr among them. The drills must have been working, because they fell into formation without being instructed. Good, he thought. Well done.

It was over by the time they reached the scuffle–or, more accurately, the ending of it. The animal was dead, a spear deep in its side, having collapsed on top of a smaller form. Kratos ran forward to push the creature aside; Davin was underneath, body trembling, eyes wide, hands still trying to clasp the knife he’d sunk deep into the wolf’s throat. He was covered in blood. It was hard to say how much of it was his. “Are you injured?” Kratos asked.

“...uh…” Davin looked up at him. The closer look showed scrapes across his cheekbone. He must have managed to pull his head back before the teeth could sink in too deeply. “I got it.”

“I can see that.” Kratos looked around. There was a dead goat nearby, and two trembling children nearby. Both looked unharmed, but shaken. “Can you stand?”

Davin could. Kratos carefully examined him for injuries as the others who’d followed him gathered around the wolf. “Shit,” Skjöldr said. “You really got him, Dav!”

“I…” Davin stared at the wolf. “Y-yeah. I…I did have to move to the left. You were right.”

“It is good you remembered.” Davin’s tunic was torn, but there was no sign of injury underneath. The cuts on his cheek seemed the worst of it. They would have to monitor him for infection or illness, but he was very lucky beyond that. “Well done.”

Davin stared at him for a long moment. Then a grin split his face, his teeth vibrant white against his blood and dirt-stained face. “Thank you, sir!”

The boy’s cuts were cleaned and mended. Someone in the town made him a cloak of the wolf’s fur. No further harm came to the boy.

Kratos hoped it would be the most exciting thing to happen all winter. He knew better than to hope too hard.

.

“So,” Höðr said casually, “how’s Freya doing?”

Kratos knew a leading question when he saw one. He could immediately guess why Höðr was asking; it was an implication he had been trying to avoid, one he did not appreciate hearing from a member of Asgard’s court. Especially not one who seemed so nosy.

“Freya is fine,” Kratos said tersely. He glanced the blind god’s way. Höðr leaned against a nearby building, his cloak pulled tightly around his body. Someone had given him a haircut, making him look somewhat less haggard than before. “Why?”

He expected a smirk, another cryptic comment, or for the god to simply walk away. Instead, Höðr sighed and held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I thought,” he said, “that you two would want to get ahead of things. And I don’t really know how to contact her, so…” He gestured towards Kratos. “...here we are.”

It was difficult to tell if he was being sincere. He sounded sincere, his body language was sincere, and he must have known that Kratos would not be pleased if Höðr tried to deceive him. That didn’t answer one question: “Why do you care?”

Freya’s brother, dead though he was, had been the one to blind Höðr. She was Vanir, his former enemy, an interloper on his court. Kratos was the ultimate interloper, a foreign god from a foreign land who had helped overthrow Odin and was dangerously close to being worshipped here. Yes, they were technically at peace. Kratos knew better than anyone that this peace was not necessarily welcome.

Höðr considered his answer carefully. His fingers drummed slightly against his staff. “I know this might sound hard to believe,” he said, “but I don’t want things to go back to the way they were. Some people might, but I’m not one of them.” He smiled briefly, almost embarrassed. “If nothing else, you can trust that. I wasn’t exactly benefitting from being Aesir in those days.”

“And you’re benefitting now?”

“I can walk around most places without feeling like I’m going to be heckled or have something thrown at me, so…yes, very much so.” There was a harshness to his smile now, as if he were still bracing himself for that treatment. “You don’t have to believe me, but can you at least do a poor blind god the mercy of letting him say his piece?”

Kratos considered the offer before nodding. “Speak, then.” Even if Höðr’s words were lies, those lies could still be valuable.

Höðr’s head tilted slightly, as if he were listening for something before he began speaking. “I would’ve written it off as idle gossip if it hadn’t escalated so quickly. In my experience, you don’t really go from a few people thinking you two would make a handsome couple to everyone being sure you two have some secret romance without someone having a hand in it. No one’s tied it back into what happened with Odin yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried.”

Kratos raised an eyebrow. “She broke it off with him,” he pointed out.

“Yes, true, and I wouldn’t exactly call him a faithful husband,” Höðr conceded, “but none of those facts are going to matter in the face of a good scandal, are they?”

No, they wouldn’t.

“I don’t know if this has spread to Vanaheim yet, but if it were me, I’d be keeping an ear on it,” Höðr finished. “The winter’s only going to get colder, and the lean months can make people believe all sorts of things.” This time, Höðr turned his face to the wind, as if test the temperature, feeling the currents and what they may bring. “I can keep an ear out myself, if you want.”

Kratos wasn’t sure about that. Höðr hadn’t done anything to harm him, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t malicious. “You didn’t ask,” Kratos pointed out.

“Didn’t ask what?”

“If we are together.”

Höðr shrugged. “Not my business. And you’ll want to get out ahead of it either way, so it doesn’t really matter. Congratulations if you managed to win her, though.” A slight smirk tugged at Höðr’s lips as he pulled away. “And good luck.”

Kratos grunted in response, and watched the blind god leave.

He debated if she should speak to Freya or Mimir first. Perhaps both of them at once. She deserved to know about the possibility of rumors, and Mimir’s guidance in the matter would be helpful. Kratos had been in the habit of ignoring rumors about him back on Olympus, but he couldn’t afford to do that this time. This was a problem that had to be addressed.

He may not have been addressing it alone, but the thought still made him feel weary. I never had these problems when I lived alone, he thought.

Despite that, as he walked back to his students, he couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t want to give this up.

.

Freya took the news about as well as could be expected: by sighing heavily and immediately getting up to pour herself some mead. “I should have seen this coming,” she said. She sounded calm, which Kratos knew likely meant she was furious. “Of course someone would try to undermine me with a connection to a man. No offense meant.”

“None taken.” She had more to lose from this rumor than he did and he knew it. Kratos had no right to be offended. “How do you want to handle this?”

Freya took a long, long drain from her mead. Kratos didn’t interrupt. She was more than capable of considering the question and taking a drink. “For now? Nothing,” she said. “I want to see who’s spreading this around. It might help us narrow things down.” She turned to Mimir. “Do you think we can trust Höðr?”

“Well…I think we can trust that he wasn’t lying about not wanting things to go back the way they were,” Mimir said. “He was Odin’s spy master until he was blinded. After that happened, Odin replaced him with the Raven Keeper and cast him aside. He reckoned Höðr being blinded by the enemy reflected poorly on Asgard. No one treated the poor lad well after that…except Týr, whenever he had time for him.”

Kratos thought back to their conversation at the harvest feast, the way that Höðr introduced himself with his mother’s name and seemed genuinely glad to see Angrboda alive. Perhaps the isolation had given him some time to reflect on where his loyalties were. “We could consult Týr,” he said. “He may know if Höðr has any ulterior motives.”

“Agreed,” Freya said. “Assuming you can find him.”

Of course, it wouldn’t be that simple. “Has he left?”

“I don’t think he’s gone far. He’s just developed the disposition of a barn cat. He comes and goes and you’re never sure when you’re going to see him again. I’ve been trying to get a council together and it’s been a pain trying to find him to discuss things. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I have.” Freya smirked slightly as she sipped her mead. “It takes a hermit of a war god to know one, right?”

Kratos wanted to argue, but was immediately annoyed to find that he couldn’t.

He was even more annoyed when Freya ended up being right. All Kratos had to do was ask himself where he would go if he were Týr and start checking those places. He found the war god at the second spot. “Not a word,” he grumbled to Mimir.

“Wasn’t going to say anything, brother,” Mimir said. “Honestly, I was just enjoying the more temperate weather.”

“Hmm.” It was true; Alfheim was warmer than Midgard at this time of year. Even if the winter at home was temperate compared to Fimbulwinter, and even if the fighting in Alfheim was still irritating to avoid, it was worth coming to the realm on occasion for the temperature change. Týr seemed to think so; he was sitting cross-legged along one of the river banks, staring out at the running water. He didn’t look away as Kratos joined him. “Did Freya send you?” he asked.

Kratos shook his head. “I have my own questions,” he said as he carefully set down Mimir. “About your brother, Höðr.”

Týr frowned slightly. “He’s not bothering you, is he?”

“He passed along some important information. I wanted to know what his intentions might be.”

Týr considered the statement. “I can tell you this much,” he said after some thought, “he’s definitely not on the side of anyone who might want to reinstate Asgard’s old rule. Between how Odin treated him after he lost his sight and…” A note of grief entered the war god’s voice. “…what happened with mother…he has no love for the way things were. I can’t say if he’s on any side but his own, but his desires are more aligned with ours. And any information he has is good. He might be a nosy little brat sometimes, but he only shares what he can verify.” A fond, if exasperated smile replaced the grief. “It’s not gossip if it’s true, he’d always say.”

“Hmm.” So, there were definitely rumors being spread about him and Freya.

That was irritating.

Kratos sighed irately. Týr had the decency not to ask; he only went back to staring at the water. They sat in silence for a time, in the gentle warmth of Alfheim.

“Freya has been looking for you,” Kratos said finally.

Now it was Týr’s turn to sigh. “For the council. I know. You can tell her I’m not avoiding her. I just have…things to consider.”

Kratos understood what Týr meant. The thought of the council had been gnawing at him since Freya mentioned it. She hadn’t brought it up to him again, but…

What do we call you?

…it was possibly only a matter of time before she did.

He did not know what his answer would be.

.

“…swear, they’re like rats,” Hildisvíni said as they emerged from the gat into a cold Midgard night. “Every time you think you’ve handled the problem, more show up.”

“You still have not located the nests?” Kratos asked.

“Unfortunately, no. We’ve been trying, but…”

Whatever he was about to say next was interrupted by the distant blast of a horn. An alarm. Kratos recognized the sound; he’d only heard it briefly, during a test run of the small town’s alarms, but he knew it. Those were Skjöldr’s people.

Something was wrong.

He took off at a run, not stopping to see if Hildisvíni was responding to the horn call as well. He summoned his spear as he ran. It was instinctive, even more so than drawing his other weapons. It was the first weapon a Spartan used, the one he’d been training them with.

He needed that familiarity now.

Kratos arrived at the town to the sounds of battle. He could make out Skjöldr’s voice above the din, directing his troops. That was the sound he made his way towards. He altered course enough to turn his approach into a flanking maneuver, surveying the battle as he did. His students were holding the line so far, but what the bandits lacked in discipline they made up for in numbers.

But numbers did not always make a battle, and sometimes the surest way to ensure a victory was to convince the other side a fight was not worth it.

Driving an exploding spear through a man’s heart and detonating it was one way to do that.

Almost immediately, the enemy line dissolved into chaos. Kratos heard their call—Sá merkti! Hann er kominn!—and some chose to flee at the sound. Others, too caught up in their desire for a noble end or beserker rage, still tried their luck.

They were dealt with.

This encouraged more of their comrades to flee. Soon, the sound of battle was replaced by the strange unquiet that often settled over a close call. Kratos’s mind turned to his students. When he turned, they were still in formation, still maintaining an admirable shield wall. Skjöldr’s face peered out. “Are they gone?” he asked shakily.

“Yes,” Kratos responded. “It is over.”

Almost immediately, someone started vomiting. Someone else began to weep. The formation slowly fell apart as some of its members turned and ran, calling out for their loved ones. Others lingered, staring at the carnage. Skjöldr was one of them momentarily, before he shook his head and stumbled towards Kratos. “Th-there’s people wounded,” he said. “I, uhm…” He looked around the battlefield. “I don’t know where my spear is.”

Kratos remembered then, very clearly, how Atreus had reacted to killing for the first time. Skjöldr was much older, and there were no tears in his eyes. But some of the same pain lingered in his eyes. Kratos remembered what he had said to his son back then. How he had wished may times since that he had said something different.

This was not quite a second chance, but he took the chance anyway.

“Skjöldr,” Kratos said firmly. His voice softened when he was sure he had the boy’s attention. “They would have killed you, and many more besides. You understand that, yes?” Skjöldr nodded. “It is a horrible choice, but sometimes a necessary one. You led with courage and conducted yourself with honor. That is all anyone could ask of you.”

Again, Skjöldr nodded. “Does it…get any easier?” he asked quietly.

“For some. But you should not let it become too easy. Keep your heart open as you can.” Kratos rested his hand on Skjöldr’s shoulder. “Well done.”

Some tears finally formed in Skjöldr’s eyes as he glanced down. He wiped them away quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Hmm.” Kratos nodded. “I will see to the wounded. You should…”

“No, I’ll help. I think I’ll feel worse if I don’t.” Skjöldr took a deep breath before turning back to town. “This way.”

Unfortunately, there were casualties. If the town had lacked a well-trained fighting force, there would have been many more. Kratos tried to comfort himself with the thought as he oversaw the aftermath of the battle. It did not help him much.

It helped more to see that the survivors, that his students, recovered and went to help. Even if their hands still shook, even if some wept, they helped. Skjöldr lead them, moving among his people with an encouraging smile.

Kratos hoped Skjöldr’s father knew what a fine young man his son was becoming.

He hoped that he would see his own son’s growth as well.

.

Kratos had not spent much time in Jötunheim. He felt as if he would be intruding, like an outsider who had somehow breached their walls and disturbed their peace.

But this place was Faye’s homeland. He still missed her deeply, some days more than others. He did not think anyone could blame him for seeking any connections left to him.

“Where do you think she would have lived?”

“Laufey?” Angrboda scanned the horizon. They were at the edge of the Ironwood, overlooking the rest of Jötunheim. “Did she ever talk about it?”

“She said she grew up near mountains. That her second family raised horses.”

“Hmmm…” Angrboda turned until she was facing the mountain peaks—the same ones they had spread Faye’s ashes from—and pointed in that direction. “That way. Beyond the temple. Some of our most famous horses were bred in the mountain valleys.”

Kratos stared out over the horizon and tried to imagine her there as a young woman. Perhaps her eyes were less tired in those days, her hair a more consistent red, without the small strands of white he noticed even before Atreus was born. She had been far angrier once—he had learned that during his travels in Vanaheim—but he was growing more comfortable with the thought. As much as it pained him to think that she had lived through the same rage he once had, it was an understandable anger. One she had learned to tame.

Many of her words to him made sense now. She had understood him more than he realized.

“The prophecy in Týr’s temple was broken in part,” he said. “Do you think…?”

Angrboda shrugged. “I never knew her. Everything I heard about her before made her more like one of the people from old legends, you know? But…I think she may have been the one to break it.” Angrboda rested her chin on her knees. “I get why she would. I’ve been on the other side of what Atreus would’ve lived through. I had this one moment that would make me important, then…nothing. Forever. And that was already bad, but he would’ve had one moment and then everything forever. That sounds awful.”

“It would have,” he agreed. Prophecies had destroyed his own childhood, and the three years he had spent with the threat of death hanging over him had been exhausting. Atreus knowing had nearly torn them apart. How much worse would it have been if they had known from the start? His life here had been far from perfect, but they had been some of the most peaceful in his long life.

And he had Faye to thank for that.

“You really loved her, huh?” Angrboda said.

Kratos closed his eyes. He imagined Faye walking through the fields towards her old childhood home. He pictured the way the sun would turn her hair gold, and the smile in her eyes as she turned to face him.

He knew, then, that no matter what came, no matter what changes lay ahead, he would still be able to remember her, alive and vibrant and calling him towards something better.

He took comfort in that.

“I still do,” he said.

That much would never change.

[trueloveseyeroll]

When The Tide Turns (2/16)

Summary:  The plan was to go to England, finish the case and head back home in a matter of days. Of course, nothing in Emma’s life ever goes according to plan. Not only does she end up travelling across Europe, looking for a Liam Jones in order to finish her case, she ends up travelling with Liam’s brother - an annoyingly handsome Killian Jones. And she doesn’t trust him one bit.

Rating: T, for language and a bit of violence later on

Beta-reader: the lovely @forget-me-not-s  :))

Artists: check out @theblacksiren’s beautiful artwork for chapter 1 here and @optomisticgirl ‘s banner here. And while we wait for @fairytalesandtimetravel ‘s amazing artwork for a later chapter, go check out all her other stuff! Now three cheers for these three fantastic artists!

Word count: ~3,958 (68k+ in total)

A/N: I’ve been so excited to post this next chapter and hopefully some of your questions will be answered!! Thank you all for the lovely response for chapter 1 - I hope you continue to enjoy the rest of the fic :))) 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 |  Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 |  Chapter 12 |  Chapter 13 |  Chapter 14 |  Chapter 15 |

AO3

Old roads and crooked alleyways shaped the bones of Willesby. Brick houses lined the streets, the Jones’ factory standing tall at the outskirts of the village. In daylight, Emma could see the ocean beyond the hills. The true charm of Willesby though, sparked from the nautical decorations that gave life to the bleak façades all around. A ship’s wheel hanging here and there, oars hanging above doors, a large compass chiselled into stone, and a ship at Emma’s height carved out of one block of wood. The innkeeper had been right when he said that The Brothers Jones had given life to the village. Their love of the sea had made a port town out of the streets amongst the hills.

The notary’s office looked much the same. Rich red wood dominated most of the room. Not just the floor, but the panelling on the wall, the furniture, the doors and even the picture frames. In contrast, paintings of the sea in all its colours adorned the walls. On Mr. Clark’s desk stood a model of a ship, The Brothers Jones painted on its hull.

“Do take a seat, Miss Swan. Please.” Mr. Clark, a short man with an obvious sniffle sat behind his desk, waving Emma into the room.

“I’m guessing you know why I’m here.” Emma sat in one of the two lavish chairs by Mr. Clark’s desk.

“Of course, I was waiting for you! I received a fax from your office yesterday, outlining the situation.”

“Great.” Emma’s terse smile was one she reserved for lawyer meetings. She dropped it after a split second. “We were very sorry to hear of Mr. Jones’ passing.” And pretty damn shocked too.

“It is indeed tragic. Barrie was a good friend of mine.” Mr. Clark ran a finger over the hull of the model ship. “It frightens us all when a healthy man suddenly dies at 74, doesn’t it?”

Emma didn’t know what to answer. She resorted to nodding.

“About the business, Mr. Clark, the negotiations of the sale between Mr. Jones and my client were almost finished, so I trust that you and I will be able to conclude it?” She hated to come across as crass, but the death of a man she had never met wasn’t an easy topic. She had come here to finish a case - now was the time to do it.

“Don’t set your hopes too high, Miss Swan. I’m afraid it won’t be as straightforward as we had thought, and I probably won’t be of much help to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emma narrowed her eyes at the solicitor. “I thought everything was agreed. We have Barrie Jones’ written consent and his death does nothing to invalidate that.”

Mr. Clark swiped at his nose with a tissue. “I understand, Miss Swan. But there’s an unforeseen complication.” His choice of words felt overdone coming from his mouth. Too formal for a small guy like him. Mr. Clark cleared his throat and hesitated through his next sentence while Emma kept her irritation from showing. “You see, there’s an heir.”

“An heir?” She must have misheard him. “We were told there was no heir. Mr. Jones never married and he definitely never mentioned this ‘detail’ throughout the negotiations.”

“I was as surprised as you are, believe me. Everyone thought Barrie Jones was the last of the family alive, but he sent me a letter two days before his death, saying otherwise. Understand, Miss Swan, that had I known about this earlier, I would’ve informed you.”

So far he had had three days to inform Emma or her office of this letter. Emma fought not to call him out on his laziness. Mr. Clark coughed as he retrieved the letter from his desk drawer, handing it over to Emma.

“So who is this heir? I suppose I’ll just have to sign the contracts with him or her, right?”

“Liam Jones; Barrie’s nephew. Brennan - that is, Liam’s father - didn’t always see eye to eye with Barrie, so Liam never lived here in Willesby. He was an adventurous sailor though. Here in Willesby, we always thought he died in an accident on the sea about nine years ago. Apparently, we were wrong,” Mr. Clark gestured towards the letter.

Emma had read about Brennan in her files. The older of the two brothers, he had been meant to take over the family business, or at least run it with his brother Barrie. The factory hadn’t interested Brennan though. He had left Willesby, and died about twenty years ago. But Emma’s files had never mentioned any Liam.

“So where can I find Liam Jones?”

Mr. Clark blew his nose again, and Emma had an odd sense he was trying to hide behind his tissue.

“I don’t know, Miss Swan. All I know is written in that letter, and Barrie only wrote that he had corresponded with Liam for several years. He seems to be travelling around Europe.”

Travelling around Europe. Well, that narrowed it down. Emma unfolded the letter in her hand, skimming Mr. Jones’ words. There wasn’t much information she could use. First two paragraphs of how old Barrie had started to feel. Then a couple of sentences about Liam, a man everyone had presumed dead; nothing specific about his whereabouts.

“Now, I have told you as much as I know, and so the situation in legal terms should be clear. If you want to conclude the sale, you have to find Liam Jones. Believe me, Miss Swan, when I say that I am most sorry for this regrettable setback. Most sorry.”

“Great.” Emma was as insincere as Mr. Clark’s apologies. “What now then?”

“Perhaps you will find more information in Barrie’s office? I have a key here. Two actually,” Mr. Clark fumbled for the keys in his desk drawer before handing them to Emma. “One for the factory and one for the office. I believe my role in this affair finishes here, Miss Swan. If you’ll excuse me, I must rest. You see, my health is not excellent at the moment and my doctor forbids me from working for too long. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Swan. Do not forget to close the door as you leave.”

And like that, Mr. Clark rose to leave the office through a side door, Emma barely managing to say goodbye before he was gone. She stayed in her chair for a moment longer.

An heir. Her mind clung to the word, as if saying it enough times would make it untrue. There was an heir somewhere in Europe, an heir she needed to find if she wanted to conclude this case.

With a sigh, Emma rose from her chair and left the office. Dark clouds greeted her outside, and she fought to keep herself from kicking a lamp post out of frustration. Instead, she followed the road to its end, towards the Jones’ factory.

She did not look forward to calling Regina about this.

The lock gave a last satisfying click before Killian removed the lock picks. Still crouching, he tugged the handle and pushed the door open with a wide grin. It only took him a minute this time; he was getting better at this lock-picking-business.

Killian stood in the doorway for a moment, holding his breath as he looked around the office. He had only been there once before. How old had he been then? Eight? Nine? It had been shortly after his father’s death - that much he remembered. As a child, when Barrie let him enter his office, Killian had felt humbled. Much like then, he now felt like he was intruding on something much greater than he could ever become.

Killian swallowed his uncertainty and stepped over the threshold. Barrie’s desk stood to the left, a great painting of the original brothers Jones on the wall behind it. Matthew Jones, Killian’s great-grandfather, stood proud beside his younger brother Michael.

Two windows framed the painting and let light into the office. His uncle wasn’t a tidy man, that much was clear. Piles of papers littered his desk, some with only a few notes written on them, others with sketches or elaborate drawings. Books lay open and a pen lay ready for scribbling, as if Barrie had only left for a short moment.

The object Killian sought wasn’t on the desk though. He pulled out every drawer on each side of the desk only to find more drawings of boats and compasses and even constellations. Killian ruffled through all the papers, hoping to find something underneath.

With pursed lips, he closed the final drawer and looked at the desk again. What an utter mess. A spindle stacked with bills caught his eye. He wasn’t here to look through papers, yet the bold letters on the bills intrigued him.

Overdue

Killian leafed through each invoice, all of them informing his uncle Barrie of overdue payments and stressing the financial liability of the factory. Killian’s brows stitched together. Did the business really struggle that much? And what would become of it now that Barrie had passed away, leaving behind all this debt? The entire business would probably be sold off and torn down. Killian tried to ignore the several regrets looming at the back of his mind. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he found that bloody trinket.

On the other side of the room stood a file cabinet, as wide as the wall behind it. Killian had no interest in going through more papers though.

Instead, Killian turned to the cabinet against the wall opposite of the door. It was as rich in its design as the desk. Books lined the shelves, along with several trinkets; model ships, an octant, even a souvenir of the London Eye. If the item Killian sought wasn’t here, it wasn’t in the office at all.

He studied each shelf carefully, skimming the spines of maritime textbooks and old classics. One classic in particular caught his attention: Peter and Wendy. Killian grinned, remembering his uncle’s fascination of Peter Pan and Neverland. After all, the stories had been what started this whole mess in the first place.

Killian pulled the book out of its place with a finger on its top. His tug was met with resistance and a subtle click. Killian’s grin only grew wider as the mechanism activated.

What a classic way to hide your secrets, uncle.

The back of the shelf lifted, revealing a hidden space behind it. A space once again littered with both everything and nothing. Killian pulled out old photographs, a teddy bear that had seen better days, a battered notebook and several drawings. The shelf was a mess of rubbish to put it lightly. Items of no value to anyone but Barrie.

Killian shifted through the trinkets and papers, hoping it would be there. Hiding one item of value amidst unimportant things was exactly the kinds of thing his uncle would do. That way, it could easily be overlooked by any thieves or nosy guests. He just had to -

There.

Killian almost laughed, so thrilled to have found it at last. He grasped the round trinket, studying its beauty for a mere moment before tucking it into a pocket of his leather jacket. Finally feeling the weight of it by his side, Killian could rest easy. He looked at the mess on the shelf one last time, his eyes flickering towards a pile of letters.

He knew that handwriting.

Killian reached for the bundle of letters, three in total, with an unsure hand. Liam. They were letters from Liam. He admired the familiar writing on the envelopes, forgetting his former purpose. No matter how much he had tried, Liam was not something he could push away and ignore.

A clang from outside the office startled Killian.

Bloody hell.

The stairs from the work floor to the office - they were of metal grid. That clang meant someone was coming.

Killian’s eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. The office was on the second floor, he couldn’t possibly jump from the window.

The footsteps were getting closer. Killian glanced at the door, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no way out. Whoever entered the door in a few seconds would find him like a deer caught in the headlights - or more accurately, an intruder caught red-handed.

He stuffed the letters in his coat, looked around one last time and made a quick decision.

Bloody buggering hell.

Emma leaned her head back to take in the building as she stood by its door. There was something gothic about the architecture. Maybe gothic wasn’t the right word, but she had never paid much attention in her few choice lectures on architecture. The Jones factory was a grand building, that much she could vouch for. With dark bricks, arched windows and doors, wings on each side and endless details, it might as well have been some sort of cathedral.

Emma chose the bigger of the two keys, sliding it into the lock. She felt odd turning it. The click of the door unlocking and the creaking as she opened it urged her to cringe. She had a key - even explicit permission from the notary - yet she still felt guilty. Like she was breaking and entering. A chill ran through her at the thought.

The door opened to a large open room with miles to the ceiling, or so it seemed. Emma stood in the doorway for a moment, soaking everything in. An assembly line twisted its way through the room with different machines at each station. Pipes followed the line about, creating a net of metal a few feet above Emma’s head.

It certainly looked like a factory. Emma had wondered how compasses and sextants and the likes were made. She had imagined by hand. Like an old-clock worker. The Jones factory was just one large platform, a mixture of machines and tables where workers could do their thing.

Emma wandered about for a few minutes, imagining what the place looked like when the engines were running, the large furnaces in the corner sparking with heat. She almost forgot her initial purpose.

Right. The office. Find the office.

To the right of the main door, a stair led to a gangway with a nice view of the entire factory. The stairs also led to a door, which had to lead to the office.

Against the factory floor, Emma’s steps had been muffled. But against the metal grid of the stairs, clangs echoed throughout the entire building - a stark reminder of how silent the place was. No factory should ever feel this abandoned without even the whirring of an engine. It was like all life had just vanished.

Emma pulled the second key - the smaller one - out of her pocket and slid it into the door lock. Turning it to the left, she heard no click. To the right instead, she heard the wrong sort of click. Emma tugged at the door handle and her suspicions were confirmed. The door had been unlocked before - now it wouldn’t budge. Emma turned the key again. Maybe Mr. Jones wasn’t a stickler for privacy?

Finally, the door gave way and Emma stepped into Barrie Jones’ office. She noticed the sun first. It had found its way through the dark clouds, leaving two long stripes of light on the floor by each window. A few papers lay strewn about. They had probably fallen off of the clutter on the desk. Emma’s face fell at the thought off all those papers she’d have to go through. In addition, there was a file cabinet the size of the entire wall on the other side of the room.

Here’s to hoping he at least organizes his mess.

Emma stood in the centre of the office for a moment, letting her eyes gloss over everything. A painting of two well-dressed men hung on the wall between the windows. The original brothers Jones perhaps? She studied them for a second, squinting her eyes against the light-

The desk chair shifted. The screech of wooden legs against wooden floor lingered. What the hell?

Emma narrowed her eyes at the desk. “Someone there?”

No one answered. Emma kept her eyes on the back of the desk. Whoever hiding there wasn’t doing a very good job. But why was someone hiding there? She was about to say something again or walk over to the desk and expose who ever hid there when the chair shifted once more.

“Swan?”

A head of dark hair popped up from under the desk.

“Hook?”

He looked as surprised as she felt.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, love.”

“Hey, I had a key. You’re… hiding under a desk.”

Hook, still crouched on the floor, surveyed the desk with amusement. “Not as much hiding as enjoying the view. You’ll find that the spaces under desks are quite riveting here in England.”

This guy was full of crap.

Hook scooted the chair further backwards and stood tall behind the desk. Emma’s eyes flickered between him and the men in the painting behind him, a part of her noticing an odd resemblance. The thought was fleeting though.

Hook surveyed Emma as she surveyed him. A challenge sparked between them. Who would explain themselves first?

“You didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who hides under tables.”

“Then what kind of man did I strike you as?” He dodged her meaning with a lewd grin.

“A cheeky bastard,” Emma deadpanned. He laughed at that. “Seriously, how did you even get in here? The door to the building was locked and I didn’t see any open windows.”

“I have my ways,” Hook wiggled his fingers in the air. Emma narrowed her eyes at him again. She hadn’t slept on the shoulder of some criminal had she?

“What are you doing here?” She kept her voice low and level, turning on her lawyer persona.

Hook feigned a sigh and walked around the desk to stand in front of it as he spoke. “If you must know, Swan, I was merely looking around. My father used to be great friends with Barrie. I’m simply interested in learning about the man I’m here to pay respects to on the behalf of my departed father.”

Something ticked inside Emma. Something was off about his words, but she couldn’t place it.

“I panicked a bit when I heard someone coming - wasn’t sure how they would take my snooping about.” A faint blush tinted his cheeks. “The desk seemed the best choice. Precautions and all.” He reached up to scratch a spot behind his ear as he spoke. Then he leaned against the desk behind him, crinkling a few papers as he did so, and raised a brow at Emma. “So, it’s tit for tat, I believe. What’s your story?”

Emma studied him for a moment longer, trying to see why her lie detector was going off. He seemed sincere enough in his words. Something was just… off.

“I’m a lawyer,” she started. “I’m here to finish the sale of the business.”

Hook’s eyes widened for a moment but he was quick to conceal his surprise. Not before Emma noticed though.

“I suppose that’s rather hard to do with Barrie deceased,” he said.

You have no idea, Emma thought.

“It complicates things…” She paused, realizing that Hook’s sudden presence could be a great help to her. “Hey, if you say your dad knew Barrie well, did he ever mention a Liam Jones? Barrie’s nephew?”

Hook swallowed and shook his head slightly. “Not much. He died at sea about a decade ago, didn’t he?”

He fidgeted ever so little, but enough for Emma to see. He was hiding something. Definitely.

“No, not really. But I guess I have to start looking through all the papers in here to figure out more.” Her shoulders dropped in a show of exhaustion.

“Important for the sale, is he?”

Emma smiled, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Afraid I can’t tell.”

“Ah, of course. Lawyers and their confidentiality.”

“At least not until you tell me what it is you’re not telling me,” Emma finished.

“Pardon?”

“You’re hiding something. What is it?”

Hook challenged her by mirroring her stance, arms folded and brows raised. “What makes you so sure I’m hiding something?”

“You wouldn’t be so defensive if you weren’t.” She’d rather not have to explain her superpower to him.

Hook gave up the challenge quicker than she had expected. He dropped the teasing look and uncrossed his arms. When he reached into his pocket, Emma’s back stiffened. She didn’t really think he was keeping something harmful. Still. Precautions and all.

“In truth, Swan, this is why I’m here.”

Emma looked at the object in his hand, carefully held out for her to see.

“A compass?”

“Aye. Not just any compass though,” Hook kept his eyes on it as he spoke, running his thumb over the glass. “My father gave it to Barrie once long ago. I never completely understood the significance of it, but it meant a great deal to my old man”

“So you’re stealing it.”

“I do have the name of a pirate, don’t I?” Hook grinned. And dammit, Emma couldn’t help but smile too. Just a little. She barely even lifted the corners of her mouth.

“I’m not proud of the way I handled the situation when I heard you coming, but in all honesty, I don’t think I could have been more relieved than I was when I heard that American accent of yours.” There he was again with the smarmy words.

“I just told you I’m a lawyer. Shouldn’t you be scared I’m going to hand you over to the cops or something?”

“Will you?”

His stare feigned honest wonder, but he clearly didn’t believe she would. What made him so sure of that? Emma held his stare for a few seconds before shrugging.

“Not really worth it. No one else is gonna find much use of that thing but you, so I guess I can let it slide.”

“I am most grateful, Swan,” Hook bowed his head at her and tucked the compass back into his jacket.

“Yeah, well, you should probably get going before I change my mind.”

He gave her look that easily read ‘you wouldn’t dare’. Nonetheless, he pushed away from the desk and almost made to leave.

“Could I be of any assistance with looking through all the papers?”

Emma smiled. “Nah. You know, ‘lawyers and their confidentiality�� and all that.”

Hook’s lips curled in a grin. Once again, he nodded his head at Emma.

“I’ll see you around then, Swan.”

She wanted to ask why he was so sure of that, but remembered he would probably be at the memorial in the evening as well. Furthermore, he was already on his way through the door.

“Stay out of trouble ‘till then,” she called after him.

“I’ll do my best.” Hook closed the door with one last cheeky smile. His descent down the stairs rattled the office and echoed even when all went silent again. Emma stood in the office alone, trying to gather her thoughts. And motivation. She probably could have used an extra hand for all these papers. She’d look for letters first, that would at least narrow it down. And a list of workers at the factory - Barrie couldn’t possibly be running everything on his own.

Emma set to work, finding a quiet rhythm, glad to at least be doing something. If only her cheeks would cool down.

[aquilaofarkham]

Just Like Home

Summary:

After rescuing a group of orphans from the streets of Boston, Connor takes the children back to the Homestead and plans to build a new orphanage and school for them. A follow-up to this fic I wrote about a month ago: (x)

AO3

--

The Davenport Homestead had quite the reputation. What started as a small plot of land with only a few inhabitants at the most grew into a sprawling yet closely knit community. Over the hills, along each road, and within the woods lived farmers, tradespeople, and outsiders looking to leave their troubles behind and start a new, quiet, and simpler life. While most travelers never stayed for very long, upon leaving they called the Homestead “a haven nestled in a nation of growing disillusionment”. Connor always thought they were being too kind but as time passed following the war, he realized their words held much truth to them.

Aside from its growth, many things remained the same such as the community’s willingness to welcome and look after any new occupant searching for some respite. Especially if they happened to be a group of shy orphans plucked right off the streets of Boston. Godfrey and Terry were the first to see Connor making his way towards the small Homestead Bridge. His horse carried at least three children on its back while a whole other group stayed close to the animal’s side as it trotted along. They also noticed one last child, a little girl wearing a shawl three times too big for her body, keeping a tight grip on Connor’s hand. Needless to say, both men had a few questions.  

“Did an orphanage burn down?” Godfrey asked.

“Not quite.” Connor explained the children’s situation – how their orphanage closed down during the war, forcing them onto the street. How terrified they all were of being sold off to workhouses. How he couldn’t bring himself to leave them alone, hungry, and unsure of their own futures. He retold the same story to the rest of the Homestead, hoping they would understand.

Despite everyone’s shared feelings of surprise, they did and without any hesitation or second thoughts. Father Timothy opened his church to a few orphans; Ollie and Corinne immediately prepared some vacant rooms at their inn, and Prudence was already talking with Warren about adoption.

“It would be wonderful if Hunter had a sibling and close friend.” Warren agreed wholeheartedly.

Connor began to feel more at ease. Yet it wasn’t long before something new started bothering him, causing him to stay up at night when he should have slept easy. It had to do with the children – all of them were given a second chance at a decent future thanks to him, but it wasn’t enough. Connor became utterly convinced that he could do more for them. They deserved something else, something to make them feel truly at home.

The thought plagued him for days on end. But when Connor finally had an idea he felt satisfied with, he decided to keep quiet. He needed to let it linger in his mind for a bit longer before something could be done about it. Even around people like Big Dave and Norris, two men Connor enjoyed conversing with, he remained oddly silent, more so than usual.

“Everything alright, Connor?” Norris asked. “You’ve been pretty quiet.”

“He’s always been like that. Where have you been for the past few years?” Big Dave laughed, finishing up some work on his sharpening wheel. “I’m just teasing. But Norris has a point. Something on your mind, Connor?”

“Hm?” Connor lifted his head and stared at his friends. Maybe it was time to tell them. Maybe they could help. “Oh… not much. I… remember the group of orphans I brought here from Boston?”

“Sure do! Cute as a bug’s ear. What about them?”

“I’m worried about them.”

“Whatever for?” Norris spoke up. “They seem to be happy and settled in.”

“Yes but I was thinking… what if they had a permanent residence? The church and inn are fine and hopefully all of them will find adopted homes, but for now they need a place just for themselves.”

“Another orphanage? Like the one they used to have?” Big Dave suggested.

“Exactly – a home where they and others like them could live and learn until they are adopted or grow old enough to be on their own. Like a school.”

“Well, which is it Connor? An orphanage or a school?”

“Why not both? Then it can be for all children in the Homestead and in neighbouring communities.”

“It sounds like a wonderful idea! I like it.”

After briefly thinking about it, Big Dave had the same sentiment. “Though I think many of the adults could get some use out of the school as well.”

“How long will it take to construct a new building?”

“Well, with enough help a full sized orphanage and school should be finished in little over three weeks. But to be completely honest, that’ll be the easy part. We still have to think about supplies and someone to look after the children. Not to mention teach them.”

The more Big Dave spoke, the more wary he sounded; at least to Connor. “Leave all of that to me.” He said in an attempt to ease his friend’s doubts. “For now, only concern yourself with the construction. I will handle the rest.”

“And myself? What can I do to help?” Norris asked eagerly.

“Building the orphanage and school is our most important priority at the moment. Big Dave will need as many hands as possible.”

“Oui, of course! Hopefully I will be able to keep up with the others. And I will ask Myriam as well!”  

“How is she?”

“The morning sickness still comes and goes, but she is feeling much better now. We have even started making a crib and a few playthings for our own little one! So at least I possess some carpentry skills.”

Connor and Big Dave smiled as Norris went on about himself, Myriam, and how excited they were for their firstborn. It was a conversation they heard before but neither of them had the heart to remind Norris.  

--

It was late afternoon when Connor decided to take advantage of the warm spring air and spend some time outside. He sat on the short stonewall nestled at the very bottom of the steps leading up to the manor, repairing a few of his arrows. By his side lay an old copy of Thomas Moore’s Utopia lent to him by Dr. White. Just in case he got bored and needed something new to occupy himself with.

It wasn’t the first novel Connor dove into whenever he had the chance. On occasion, he even lent a few books of his own to the recruits and other Homesteaders. The Davenport Manor library turned into a trove of knowledge, education, and endless entertainment; how could he keep all of that to himself? Then there were the stories Connor remembered from his childhood. Admittedly he never thought of himself as a storyteller, but it still made him happy whenever he saw his recruits coming back for more after a long day of training and carrying out missions. They, along with his books, granted everyone a sense of focus, optimism, and wisdom.  

“Mr. Connor!” A voice called out from down the road. He raised his head to see one of the orphans running towards him – a girl with a familiar brown shawl covering most of her already small body. Connor often referred to her as the apple girl – a lighthearted nickname inspired by what happened during their first encounter in Boston. After witnessing her intense shyness and desperation for food, Connor gladly offered her one half of the fruit he was about to eat. Now he couldn’t believe how much healthier and happier the apple girl, along with the other orphans, looked.

Connor put down his arrows and smiled as she drew nearer. “Hello there!” He cheerfully greeted, helping her up onto the wall. “How are you liking your new home?”

“Father Timothy’s church is nice and sunny during the day but at night it’s dark and scary.” She replied, moving over to sit on his lap.  

“Yes, many things become a lot scarier once the sun goes down. You should always be cautious, even in the daylight. But do not worry. My friends and I are building something better for you and your friends.”

“Is that why I hear lots of banging and shouting when I’m going for a walk?”

“I would not doubt it.”

“What are you building?”

“A new orphanage and school for everyone.”

“I never went to school. The Mr. and Mrs. at the old place taught us some things, but not everything.”

“This time it will be different. I promise.” Connor made a lot of promises to the orphans and he vowed never to go back on any of them. “Which reminds me, you never told me your name.” Upon hearing that, the girl slowly covered the bottom half of her face with the shawl’s oversized collar. Connor remained patient while she tried to overcome her own timidity.

“My name is… it’s Mariska.”

“What a beautiful name.”

“No it’s not. The Mrs. at the orphanage always told me it sounded ugly.”

“I do not think it sounds ugly. Why would she say that?”

“She said it means ‘bitter’. That’s why she hated it.”

“Do you hate it?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Well, I still think it sounds pretty. You should be proud of your name.”

“Mr. Connor…” Mariska squeaked after a pause. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve been so nice to me. And I’m really excited for the new orphanage. But… would it be alright if I stayed with you?”

Connor’s head perked up as he turned to Mariska with wide eyes. He stammered for a few seconds, trying to find the right reply. “Are… are you asking me to adopt you?”

She nodded. “I promise I’ll be good. I won’t make noise, I’ll go to bed on time, I’ll-”

“Mariska, I am not worried about all that. I am just…” Surprised? Shocked? Pleasantly caught off guard? What could he say? The more Connor thought about her request, the more questions he had. Namely, why him? The Homestead was full of mothers and fathers looking to expand their young families. Connor lived alone in a massive house with a tainted past that loomed over the hills. He was convinced that Mariska would have wanted to live with her friends or with people who had experience with looking after children.

Despite his initial doubts, another thought came to Connor. He remembered how much he wanted to start a family, to raise children of his own. In the past, he didn’t think he was ready; perhaps he was now. I will do my best and ask for guidance if I ever need it, Connor told himself. He had gotten better at thinking positively.

“Yes.”

“Will you do it?” Mariska asked, her face lighting up.

“Yes, I will. Welcome home, Mariska.”

She let out an excited gasp before wrapping her arms around Connor’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank you, Mr. Connor!” A second later she realized her mistake and corrected herself. “I mean papa! Thank you, papa!”

Connor laughed quietly. He knew he’d have to get used to being called ‘papa’. “Now that I finally know your name, I should tell you mine as well.”

“But I already know it.”

“I meant the name I was born with.” Mariska gave him a confused look. “My birth name is Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

Mariska let it sit in her mind for a moment then she tried repeating it to the best of her ability.

“It means ‘life that is scratched’ or ‘his spirit lives’. Would you like to learn more words and phrases?”

“Yes please!”

“Alright. I will do my best to teach you.” And hopefully others.

[pocket-anon]

CSJJ Day 22: Captured

Happy Sunday, Oncers! Here’s my submission for CS January Joy, a oneshot based off the following prompt:

You’re the photographer my friends used for their engagement, wedding, and kids. Now I’m graduating, and they’ve called you to document the happy occasion.

I don’t generally write off prompts, and the fic below is a little different than what you might first expect based on the prompt above, but I hope you enjoy it. Many thanks to @katie-dub for organizing @csjanuaryjoy and helping me select this prompt in the first place. It’s been an emotionally-charged week for me as an American, but writing certain parts of this fic was definitely therapeutic. Happy reading! Comments, as always, are welcome!

Find it on AO3 and FFN.

Summary:  Killian Jones is a promising student who enters law school with no family left and a hunger for vengeance. But three years under the guidance of the right mentors helps him find hope and a new purpose in more ways than one. (Captain Swan, Outlaw Queen, photographer AU, lawyer AU. Romance/Fluff. Rated G.)

Tagged upon request: @optomisticgirl

He first sees her at a wedding.  It’s a predictably classy, predictably ritzy affair.  His law school professor-slash-mentor-slash-boss, Robin Locksley, and Robin’s legal partner-turned-fiancé, Regina, get married a year after Killian lands a highly sought-after summer internship at their prestigious firm.  

He’s busted his ass for the firm, worked twelve-hour days, taken advantage of his nearly non-existent social life to throw in even more hours overtime, gone on countless runs for coffee and take-out, and dozed off over stacks of legal briefs at 2 AM more than once, but it’s paid off.  The partners have been impressed by his resourcefulness and doggedness and personal charm.  Even the notoriously exacting Regina, in one of her rare complimentary moods, once declared him surprisingly good at research.  But Killian realizes, as he dutifully escorts yet another of Boston’s political royalty down the groom’s side of the grand cathedral and tries not to stare at the woman across the nave, that this, his last-minute recruitment as an usher when one of Robin’s other men fell ill, might just be the biggest reward for all that hard work.  Because the woman?  The wedding photographer?  Bloody hell, she’s beautiful.

Her long blonde hair is the color of morning sunshine and held out of her face with a braid that arcs over her temple and disappears beneath the loose waves that cascade to the middle of her back.  Even in the looming shadows that intersperse the halos of daylight piercing the stained glass, he can make out her delicate features, long lashes, and a becoming flush overlying her creamy complexion.  Her figure is graceful, almost willowy, in a petal pink dress with flowing sleeves and a tastefully plunging neckline and her expression largely business-like as she repeatedly fiddles with her camera and aims her lens experimentally toward the altar from various locations in order to find just the right angles.  Every so often, however, she has to sidestep the bride’s guests as they’re led to their seats, and she smiles demurely, a small upturn of her lips that manages to light up half of the church.  And when the guests she’s dodging are a small pair of excited children in tiny dress clothes with their harried-looking parents in tow, the amused glow of her face and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners is pure radiance.

Killian eventually finds himself on her side of the church with some of the bride’s guests on his arm, though some of Regina’s slightly older, female friends don’t actually take his elbow so much as drape themselves all over him while he escorts them down the aisle.  One such woman, a gaunt-looking specter with a striking half-white, half-black dye job and a blood red smirk, seems particularly enamored with him, but the discomfort is a cross he’s more than willing to bear when they pass the photographer and he shoots her a comically pained expression that causes her to erupt in silent laughter, her mossy green eyes dancing above the hand she holds up to hide her smile.

She vanishes shortly after that, presumably to go take pictures of the bridal party making their final preparations, and Killian preoccupies himself with scanning for a glimpse of her return.  It isn’t until the guests are all seated and the ceremony is minutes away that he finds her again, accompanying the bridal party as they emerge and line up for the processional in a hallway just off the main vestibule.  

Regina looks stunning in an off-the-shoulder white gown he has no doubt comes from some exclusive boutique.  The bodice shimmers with hand-sewn crystals, and intricate lace detailing extends all the way down the skirt that hugs her curves and flares just below her hips.  The dark beauty Robin refers to her as his queen looks every bit the title today, especially surrounded by a small court of bridesmaids in deep plum gowns, the lot of them lovely enough for a magazine spread as they whisper animatedly to one another and do their last-minute preening. Nevertheless, Killian finds his eyes drawn repeatedly to the blonde who stands in the corner as inconspicuously as she can while capturing these precious moments with her camera, her motions fluid and practiced as one hand manually focuses her lens and the other triggers the shutter over and over again in a coordinated flurry of minute but mesmerizing movements.

Her lens finds him standing with the other ushers and catches him watching her, and she pauses, pulling back from her viewfinder in order to blink at him over the top of her camera with those big gorgeous eyes, a blush creeping across her face before she hastily retreats back behind her equipment.  They share barely a second of eye contact, but Killian can feel his pulse quicken, and he swallows and scratches behind his ear, flashing her a bashful smile before looking away.  He’s familiar with his effect on women and uses his charms to his advantage frequently, but under her gaze he suddenly feels uncharacteristically shy and much more self-conscious about the stump where his left hand used to be than usual.  Perhaps it’s the scrutiny of her lens, but he suspects it has more to do with the fact that there’s something about this woman that makes him want to watch her work all day.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch, as is to be expected for any enterprise paid for and overseen by Regina Mills, and Killian observes the joyous proceedings feeling genuinely happy for the couple.  In addition to being incredibly grateful to Robin Locksley for taking him under his wing and giving him the chance to prove his mettle in one of the most highly-respected law firms on the Eastern seaboard, Killian actually likes the British ex pat immensely as a person.  For all his sharp legal acumen and storied courtroom victories, the man is the epitome of decency and generosity, the sort of lawyer unafraid to take on corrupt corporations and ne’er-do-wells on behalf of charities or the little guy.  And Regina, well, Regina may have a sharp tongue and be so demanding that the interns occasionally refer to her in hushed tones as the Evil Queen, but she also has a softer side, and even a blind man could see how happy she makes Robin.  Killian has never seen his mentor look more jubilant as the forty year-old stands at the altar, exceedingly debonair in an immaculate tuxedo, his brown hair highlighted with a few distinguished strands of gray and his face split into an enormous grin.

It’s a fairytale wedding, simultaneously grandiose and yet made intimate by the obvious affection between the bride and groom.  The music is uplifting and ethereal, the bishop’s homily funny and poignant, and the wedding party, which includes Robin’s young son from his first marriage as ring bearer, picture perfect.  And as the elated pair say their vows and exchange rings, the clicks of a camera echoing softly in the hallowed space make Killian’s smile a little wider.

*                             *                             *

The wedding reception is held in a lavish Baroque ballroom done in cream and crystal and gold gilt, and the room is buzzing with guests, the din rivaling the volume of the live brass band. The food is exquisite, the champagne like drinkable stars, and the Killian definitely approves of the tumbler of top shelf rum he appropriates from the open bar.  

He divides his attention between hobnobbing with associates from the firm, ducking the handsy cougars, and trying to keep tabs on the photographer.  She’s easy enough to spot during the traditional events – the toasts, the cake cutting, the bouquet toss, and the formal dances – hovering near the head table and the dance floor, her skirts fluttering around her shapely calves as she flits about on strappy metallic heels to get her shots.

Shortly after the dancing really gets underway, however, Killian loses her again.  He cranes his neck, trying to spot her blonde head, but between the constantly moving crowd and the lights which have been lowered for dancing, he struggles to locate her, and his heart falls as the minutes tick by.  Half an hour without eyes on her, his heaves a resigned sigh, wondering if perhaps she’s gone for the evening and chastising himself for missing his opportunity to talk to her.

“There you are, darling,” a voice purrs from behind him.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  Bollocks.  Killian plasters on a polite smile and turns to see Regina’s black-and-white-haired friend standing behind him, her spindly arms crossed and a glass of champagne clutched in one gloved hand as she stands with her weight on one hip and surveys him with a predatory leer.  

“Oh hello,” he says. “Ma’am.”

Sadly, she looks more amused than affronted by his greeting.  “Now, now, no need for formalities,” she chuckles with a little wave of her champagne flute.  “We’re all friends here.”  She gestures toward the dance floor.  “It’s a shame to see such a handsome man hanging back from such a delightful party. Come dance with me.”  She tips her head downward, her blue eyes raking over him, and curls the index finger of her free hand.

A flash above his head catches his attention, the intermittent reflection of light off a lens shining like a flickering star, and Killian looks upward, his heart leaping when he sees Emma standing on a balcony, presumably taking wide shots of the party.  Sweet saving grace.  His face blossoms into a genuine smile, and he glances back to Regina’s friend.  “A tempting proposition,” he tells her. “But something else requires my attention rather urgently.  Apologies. Excuse me.”  

With a hurried bow, he spins on his toe before the woman has a chance to voice her indignance and sets off immediately.  A member of the wait-staff points him toward a set of doors and the staircase beyond, and he strides out of the room at a clip just short of a trot.

His heart begins to thunder in his chest as he takes the stairs, and he fiddles absently with his left shirt cuff, his mind racing to figure out the right opening line.  He huffs, silently rebuking himself.  He’s training to be a lawyer for heaven’s sake, a man paid to think fast on his feet, a bullshit artist of the highest order, and here he is unsure what he can say to a pretty girl that won’t make him sound like an imbecile.

Her back is to him when he wanders on to the balcony.  As focused as she appears to be on her work, the subtle sound of his footsteps causes her to raise her head suddenly and turn to look at him over her shoulder.  Surprise flashes over her features before her lips curl into a little smile that makes his stomach flop.  “Hi.”

He manages a grin, shoving his hand and stump into the pockets of his tuxedo and meandering forward. “Hello.”  Good start, Jones.  Good start.  He tears his eyes off her and tips his chin toward the balcony.  “Quite a nice place to take photos.”

“Uh, yeah.”  She nods amiably and follows his gaze down below, chuckling.  “This whole wedding is kind of a photographer’s dream.  Everything about it is beautiful.”

Killian hums in agreement, appreciating the flawless lines of her profile as he settles himself next to her at the balcony rail.  “Yes, well,” he says, “Regina would have it no other way.”

She laughs, and the sound is music to his ears.  “Right.” She glances at him with an arched eyebrow.  “I take it you know her well?”

“Aye.”  His shoulders start to relax as he settles into the rhythm of conversation.  “I’m an intern at her law firm.  Robin is one of my professors.”  He extends his hand.  “Killian Jones.”

He thinks he sees her cheeks darken a shade as she acquiesces to shake, her hand soft and warm in his.  “Emma Swan.”

Lord, even her name is perfect.  He smiles.  “Pleasure.”

She releases him, flushing prettily and turning to aim her camera back over the balcony.  “So tell me, Killian Jones,” she says, eye in her viewfinder, “Why do you want to be a lawyer?”

“Well, brain surgeon was a bit out of the question,” he quips, raising his left arm and giving it a wave.

Emma glances at him, and her lashes brush her cheeks as she gives a little laugh.  If she’s fazed by his lack of a hand, she doesn’t show it before she resumes shooting.

Killian licks his lips, bowing his head and debating whether he should risk saying more. “Seemed like a good way to go after people who are corrupt and powerful and try to hold them accountable for their crimes,” he tells her at last.

Her eyebrows lift as she continues to work.  “A hero.”

He snorts.  “I’m no hero, lass.”

She pauses.  “No?” she asks.

“It certainly doesn’t feel that way.”  He shrugs.

Emma lowers her camera again and narrows her eyes slightly at him, and for a second it feels as though she can see through him, see his secrets, see the resentment he harbors toward the corporation that failed to disclose the toxicity of the chemicals that killed his brother.  For a second, he gets the sense those amazing gray-green eyes are reading his soul. Miraculously, whatever she sees does not seem to merit her disapproval.  Emma’s expression softens, and she hums thoughtfully.  She allows her camera to hang from the strap around her neck and detaches the lens, tucking it away in the leather bag slung over her shoulder. “Well, if you’re not a hero, then what are you?”

He chuckles and scratches the back of his head, putting on his most charming grin.  “Dashing rapscallion?”

This earns him another lovely laugh.  “I could buy that,” she admits with an amused smirk.

He hazards a small step forward, noting the way her eyes widen with a small swell of pleasure.  “Not to seem too forward, love, but would you allow me to buy something as well?” he asks hopefully.  “A drink?  Or dinner?”

“Oh.”  Emma’s brow wrinkles, and she looks conflicted before giving him an apologetic smile.  “As fun as that sounds, I, um, I can’t,” she answers awkwardly.  “I’m kind of seeing someone.”

Disappointment washes over him like a cold shower, but he does his best to maintain a pleasant poker face.  “Ah.  A shame.”  He holds his hand out again, and when she takes it, he lifts her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across her knuckles.  “It was nice meeting you, Emma Swan,” he says.  “If you’re ever in need of not-a-hero…”

“I can come find you?” She grins weakly, and he dares to convince himself she looks a little wistful.  

His wink belies the heaviness of his heart as he takes his leave.  “Always.”

*                             *                             *

Killian unbuttons his wool pea coat as he pads along the polished stone floor of the law firm’s main hallway toward Regina’s office on a crisp October afternoon.  He flashes a quick smile at Regina’s assistant and holds his hand up in a perfunctory greeting as she waves him on through from behind her desk.

The thick panel of glass that comprises the door to the corner office vibrates with a thunk when he raps his knuckles against it, and the high-backed leather executive chair behind the desk rotates away from the floor-to-ceiling window behind it to reveal Regina with a sheaf of papers in one hand and a pen in the other, a pair of elegant reading glasses balanced on her nose.  She glances up and gestures for him to come, and he enters the austere but stylish black and white office, lifting the flap of the messenger bag he wears across his chest with his stump and reaching in to retrieve a fat file folder.

“Here’s that child welfare research you requested,” he announces, handing it over.  “I think there are some things in there you’ll find useful.”

Her face brightens, and she thumbs through the neat stack of computer print-outs and photocopies, eyeing the colorful Post-it tabs scattered throughout with approval.  “You notated everything?”

The corner of his mouth quirks.  “As always.” His eyes fall upon some new picture frames on the console table behind her desk, and he nods toward them.  “Got your wedding photos back, I see.”

She beams and swivels a little to glance at them proudly over her shoulder.  “They turned out well, don’t you think?  Spectacular.”

Killian makes a noise of agreement, studying a photo of Regina and her bridesmaids consorting in front of an ornately carved limestone wall and realizing that it must be one of the shots Emma captured while he was watching her work just before the start of the processional.  The photo is indeed marvelous, beautifully composed with Regina dazzling as the central focal point, his eye drawn to the bold contrast of her dark hair and thick lashes and laughing red lips against her pristine skin, the surrounding purple of the bridesmaids’ dresses adding a vibrant punch of color in an image largely consisting of shades of white.  The slightest blur of motion manages to clearly convey the energy and anticipation of the moment.  

Killian takes a minute to appreciate the other photos on the table, each of a similarly precious spot in time, and though he’s already reviewed Emma’s online portfolio and familiarized himself with the quality of her work, his respect for her grows still greater. “Indeed,” he agrees, smiling politely, “Everything about your wedding was brilliant.”  

As they have been since the wedding, thoughts of Emma are accompanied by a pang of melancholy deep in his gut.  She’s not the girl who got away considering that he never really had her, but he’s discovered, much to his dismay, that he misses her, despite only having spoken to her for all of five minutes.  

Regina admires her wedding pictures a second longer before turning back to the research file.  “Well, thank you for this.”

He lifts an eyebrow at her thank-you.  Marriage has indeed made a new woman of Regina Mills, he reflects with amusement, though he knows better than to risk pointing this out.  No sense in testing how far her new magnanimity stretches.  Killian merely bows his head.  “You’re very welcome.”

There’s another reverberating knock on the door, and Regina’s assistant peeks her head in.  She glances at Killian and visibly blushes before she clears her throat.  “Mrs. Locksley,” she says, “The lieutenant governor’s on line two.”

Regina nods, and the woman ducks back out hastily.  Regina waits until the door is solidly shut.  “You have an admirer,” she simpers.

Killian glances at the petite redhead through the glass and scratches behind his ear.  “A pity.”

His boss cocks her head. “Not your type?”

The image of Emma’s laughing eyes flits through his memory, and he shakes his head, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag absently.  “Sadly, no.”

“And what is?”  The corner of Regina’s mouth curls as she reaches for the handset of her phone.  

He throws her a small smile over his shoulder and heads out the door.  “Unavailable.”

*         ��                   *                             *

Killian arrives at the law professors’ department offices late in the afternoon in the spring of his final semester, a couple weeks before graduation.  April rain is soaking Boston today, and he runs a hand through his damp hair absently as he pads down the familiar path toward Professor Locksley’s office, filled with curiosity as to what awaits him.  The text from Robin earlier in the week had been a bit cryptic:

Have something for you.  Care to come by Friday after office hours?

Killian trusts it won’t be an unpleasant surprise – Robin and Regina revealed their decision to hire him at the firm as a junior associate following graduation over a month ago – but his mind still whirls with the possibilities of what could be in store.

The office door is open, and his mentor sits behind his old oak desk at work on his laptop.  The usual neat piles of books and papers cover most of the available surfaces in the wood-paneled room, and a fresh cup of coffee steams on the desk next to Robin’s hand.  

He looks up at Killian’s approach and grins broadly.  “Jones,” he says jovially, waving him in.  “Come in. Shut the door.”

Killian arches an eyebrow, the worn brass knob cool to the touch as he complies.  “What’s up?”  He pulls his bag up over his head and lowers himself into one of the chairs across from desk, settling the bag on the floor next to his feet.

Robin beams and shrugs as he leans back in his chair and considers him.  “Excited about graduation?”

Killian narrows an eye at the silly question.  “Of course.”

“I heard your classmates selected you to give the student address,” Robin comments.

“Oh.  Yeah.”  He colors and leans forward with a chuckle.  “You know they’re mad, the lot of them.”

Robin rumbles happily. “Of course they are.  But it was an excellent choice.  You’ll do a bang-up job.”

Killian’s chest swells, his smile reaching his ears.  “Thank you, Sir.  I’ll try.”

“Do you have any guests coming?”

His lips part a moment, the cheer fading out of his expression, and he closes his mouth and gives a rueful shake of his head.

Robin smiles kindly. “Not even friends?  A girlfriend?”

Killian grins regretfully, his eyes falling toward the floor.  “All my mates are graduating with me,” he says.  “And there isn’t… anyone else… at the moment.”

“Ah.” Robin tilts his head back.  His expression warms.  “Well, that will work nicely then,” he announces, sounding upbeat.

Killian’s brow furrows, and he looks up.  “Sir?”

A smile curls at Robin’s lips.  “Regina and I would like to do a little something for you to celebrate your graduation.”

Killian’s expression softens.  “You mean other than giving me a job?” he chuckles.

Robin laughs.  “Other than that.”  He picks up a framed photo of himself, Regina, and his son, Roland, that sits on his desk.  It shows the three of them playing in the autumn leaves.  It’s an artful upward shot taken from near the ground, the image capturing the trio laughing wildly while loose leaves flutter through the air and the sun shines down upon them through the nearly bare boughs of a great tree. “See this?”

Killian admires the picture. “It’s very nice,” he says with a small nod.

“It’s from the same photographer who did our wedding,” Robin explains.  “Talented girl.  Regina uses her exclusively for all our family events.”

Killian blinks, thoughts of Emma yet again rushing to the forefront of his mind.  He looks back down at the photograph and imagines how she must have lain in the grass with her camera to get this shot, a satisfied smile on her face, stray bits of leaves and grass perhaps embedded in her hair, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a bittersweet grin.  

“We want to hire her for your graduation.”

He freezes.  His wide eyes slowly rise to take in the professor’s amused expression.  “Sorry?”

Robin chuckles. “You’ve worked long and hard for your degree, Killian.  You’re graduating at the top of your class and speaking at commencement, and it’s going to be a big day for you, and we thought it would be nice to have some photos from the occasion.”  He sits forward and clasps his hands on the desk thoughtfully.  “Look,” he says more solemnly, “I hope we’re not overstepping, but it’s usually family members that take pictures at these things, and we know you haven’t any, so we thought perhaps you’d let us see to it if you didn’t have other guests coming.”  He smiles kindly.  “Except I’ll be tied up on stage with the rest of the faculty, and Regina is rubbish with a camera,” he laughs.  “If you let her use one of your guest tickets, Emma will do an amazing job – much better than us or the standard University photographers,” he explains confidently, taking the frame from Killian and setting it back on his desk.

Killian’s heart rises in his throat, and his eyes warm momentarily before he blinks the evidence of his emotion away.   He swallows thickly and nods.  “I don’t know what to say,” he admits.  “You and Regina have done so much…”

Robin smiles and waves it off.  “It’s nothing,” he says.  “You’re a good man, Killian.  You’ve done great work for us, and we know you’re going to having an amazing career. We’re happy to be a part of your success.”  He stands and comes around the desk, extending his hand as Killian jumps to his feet.  They shake, and Robin slaps his back in a quick one-armed hug.  “I trust you’ll allow us to take you out for a celebratory drink after as well?” he says, pulling back, one eyebrow lifted appraisingly.

Killian grins.  “Yes, Sir.”

“Excellent.”  Robin swipes his phone off the desk and brings up his texting app.  “I’ll leave the details up to my lovely wife.  You know how she likes to dictate these things.”

Killian laughs knowingly. “Thank you.” He turns toward the door and reaches for the knob.

“Have a good weekend,” Robin tells him cheerfully, thumbs flying as he taps out a message to Regina. “Oh, and Killian?”

Killian pauses and turns. “Yes?”

“Not that it’s of any interest to you,” he says casually, “But Regina tells me Emma’s quite single at present.”  He locks his phone and looks up with a sly smirk.  

Killian gapes a moment before schooling his features back to neutral.  “I see.”

Robin folds his arms across his chest, looking quite pleased with himself.  “Not much escapes Regina’s notice, you know,” he says proudly, “Not even at her own wedding.”  He winks.

“Indeed.”  Killian’s cheeks grow warm, and he ducks his head with a sheepish smile, pulling the door open. 

*                             *                             *

The day of graduation is warm and breezy, and the university campus is swarming with excited students in a mass of fluttering black robes, square black caps visible in every direction and the air thick with chatter and laughter.  Killian meets up with Robin and the rest of the law school contingent at one of the university’s ancient gates for the class march at seven thirty.

His mentor is resplendent in one of the heavy red faculty robes, a black velvet cap angled atop his head, and he greets him heartily with a firm handshake and a welcoming smile. “Ah!  There he is.  The man of the hour.”

Killian chuckles.  “One of many, Sir.”

Robin steps back and turns, bobbing and weaving a bit to see through the crowd until his face lights up, and he cups his hand to his mouth.  “Regina!”

Killian follows his gaze, and his heart stutters when his eyes fall on Regina, characteristically sharp in a snug skirt and matching suit coat, conferring with the blonde angel he hasn’t seen in a year but would know anywhere.  Emma is just as gorgeous as he remembers, this time dressed in a fitted dark red leather jacket over a knee-length black dress embroidered with colorful flowers at the neckline, her camera bag slung over her torso and her pretty ponytail swaying with every little movement of her head.  High heels accentuate the long line of her legs, and Killian’s mouth runs dry when she turns and sees him, her green eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy.

The women approach, and Regina smirks knowingly.  “Jones,” she says, “I believe you remember Miss Swan.”

Killian swallows and smiles, bowing his head a touch.  “Hard to forget,” he says.  “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Killian Jones,” Emma drawls teasingly, gripping his outstretched hand.  “My not-a-hero.”

He laughs, his cheeks growing a bit ruddy.  “The same.”

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He beams.  “Thank you.  And thank you for coming.”  He nods to Regina.  “And thank you for having her here, Regina.”

The brunette tosses her head.  “One good turn,” she says agreeably.  “Besides, it’s not every day you get to speak at your law school graduation.”

Emma looks back at him. “Nervous?”

“Do you think I should be?” he asks, the corners of his eyes creasing as he savors her dimpled smile.

She blushes prettily. “Not from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh?”  He arcs an eyebrow mischievously and grins from ear-to-ear at his bosses.  “I smell perjury.”

“Okay,” Regina interrupts flatly, rolling her eyes.  “Perhaps you two can hold off flirting and making eyes until after the Kodak moments are past?”

“We’re not…”  Emma’s protest dies on her lips with one look at Regina’s imperious expression.  She clears her throat, though her smile fails to fade as she hastily preps her camera.  “Right. Sorry.”  She pops the lens cover off and glances behind her before backing up a few steps.  “How about a few shots of the three of you together?”

The day passes like a dream for Killian, a whirlwind of exuberant celebration and congratulations and the repeated shaking of hands, highlighted by the constant underlying awareness that he’s being watched by Emma’s camera, and, more importantly, by Emma herself.  As it was at the wedding, he tries to keep a bead on her without her noticing, but inevitably their eyes meet from time to time, and the open smile she wears for him, as though she’s actually proud of him, makes him want to punch the air in victory.  

As one of the speakers, he’s afforded a seat on the stage with the rest of the faculty following the conferring of individual degrees, and from there he can see the horde of seated guests assembled behind the rows of his classmates.  One ear on the proceedings, he combs the masses until he finds Emma’s gold head.  Her bright face is buried behind her camera, and he smiles.  He’s tempted to wink, knowing that she’ll see it through her lens, but a glance at Regina, who sits next to her, makes him think better of it, and he quickly adopts a look of reverent attention as he redirects his eyes toward the Dean.

When he’s introduced, he stands and takes the podium to applause and some raucous cheers from his classmates, and he chuckles low into the microphone.  “Thank you, Dean Thompkins, for that very generous introduction.”  The assembly falls silent, and for a second the enormity of the crowd strikes him. He folds his lips and takes a deep breath, glancing down at the typed words in front of him.  “Thanks also to you and to this world-renowned faculty for putting up with me and the rest of this class – a lot so unruly that they chose me to speak at this event, partly because they thought it might be amusing and partly because I’m told my accent lends itself to officious occasions.”  He smiles at the laughter that ripples through the audience.  “Thanks also to our esteemed guests and to the family and friends that have come to help us celebrate this important day.”  He looks at Robin and then gives an appreciative nod toward Regina and Emma. “And, of course, a hearty congratulations to you, my fellow graduates.  Well done, mates.”

Killian licks his lips. “We all came here for different reasons, each with a different tale behind our decision to pursue a career in the law.  Some of those stories are happy ones, rooted in tradition or ambition or optimism or selflessness.  My own tale, however, is none of those.  My decision to pursue a career in the law came out of personal tragedy, and while I won’t waste your time over-sharing or rehashing the details of that sad event, suffice it to say that when I entered law school, I did so with a heart full of bitterness and a hunger for vengeance.”  Killian’s brow furrows, heavy with confession, and he finds himself looking nervously to Emma, who has lowered her camera and now listens intently. Her eyes are fixed on him, and though he can’t see into their depths at this distance, he can tell her face is curious and forlorn, and suddenly he feels like he’s speaking just to her.  

My not-a-hero, she’d said.  Hers.  He knows he doesn’t have any right to read too much into her banter, but it isn’t just those words that fill him with hope.  It’s the way she looks him – the warmth in her gaze when they talked at the wedding, the fondness in her expression when they greeted each other this morning, the way she’s looking at him now.  She barely knows him, but despite his insistence that he isn’t a hero, she looks at him as though she knows he could be one, and it makes him want to believe it’s true.  It makes him want to try.

He continues.  “I came to this place driven by anger and wallowing in self-pity, but I have found that life sends you where you need to be, and while my purpose in coming was to gain the skills necessary to try to avenge my family, my time in law school has shown me a bigger purpose – the pursuit of social justice at large.  I have seen just how many opportunities there are to right the wrongs of this world beyond my own personal concerns.  People wrongly imprisoned or punished with harsh sentences that do not befit their crimes.  Members of certain races or faiths or socioeconomic groups who are targeted by unfair laws.  Families separated by legal technicalities and red tape.  Victims of domestic violence with few means of recourse. People who suffer human rights abuses who go unheard.  Refugees who need asylum.  Honest citizens bankrupted or endangered by corrupt people and organizations that see them only as a means to profits and power.”  He swallows hard.  

“The world is full of pain. But I have seen in the last three years, in my experiences here and in the drive and compassion and intelligence of you, my colleagues and my mentors,” he turns and makes eye contact with Robin, “that there is good reason to hope for a better future.  That there are lion hearts out there.  That we can effect change.  That we can find a way to slay the demons and try to right the wrongs. Law school has not only given me the tools with which to fight the good fight, but two things that are equally important – a family of bloody brilliant individuals who are similarly devoted to the cause of making the world a fairer place and the hope to keep chasing justice even when it seems elusive.”  He can see Emma’s eyes shining now, and he answers her watery smile with one of his own. “And if there’s one thing I’m becoming more and more sure about, it’s that happy endings start with hope.”

*                             *                             *

Killian salutes with his tumbler as Robin and Regina, arms around one another, wave and head for the door of the pub.  Perched atop a tall barstool, his elbows planted on the small table they were sharing, he levers his foot against the rung on the stool and bounces his knee when Emma leans over from the seat next to him.

“You know, for not-a-hero, you give a pretty rousing speech,” she says, her voice raised to compete with the cacophony of simultaneous celebrations happening all over bar.

He grins, his eyes dropping to his tumbler, relishing the fact that she’s near enough that he can detect the scent of her perfume.  “What can I say?  I learned from the best.”  He gestures with his glass out the window at his bosses’ retreating profiles.

Emma chuckles and narrows her eyes a little.  “Again with the modesty.”

“Who, me?”  He laughs.  “I’m a lawyer, remember, love?  I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Her eyes glint as she considers him, swirling her own drink around in the glass beneath her nose. “Fine then.  Prove it.  Tell me some things about yourself that aren’t modest.”

Killian hums and straightens his back.  “Oh, I love a challenge.”  He swallows a mouthful of rum, enjoying the pleasant burn as it washes down his throat, and turns back to face her expectant gaze with a raised eyebrow.  “I’m devilishly handsome.”  His smile widens when she rolls her eyes but concedes the point with a nod.  He begins tracing the rim of his glass with a fingertip.  “I’m ace at liar’s dice.  I read 800 words per minute.  I’m kind to children and animals.  I’m always a gentleman.  I’m quite good at making grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Emma laughs, and Killian marvels for the hundredth time at how alive the sound makes him feel.  He tilts his head and looks her square in the eye, his face becoming more solemn.  “And not a day’s gone by since we first met that I haven’t thought of you.”

Her eyebrows rise, and her lips part a little as she sits there and blinks at him in awe.  “Really?” she breathes at last.

He nods somberly. “Aye.”  

There’s a pause, and then Emma moves, slowly closing the distance between them.  His heart races and an expression of almost tearful rapture overwhelms his features when her lashes flutter downward.  

“Good.”  She presses her mouth to his, soft and tentative at first, but he answers with a deep intake of breath and cups her jaw, and they come together as though drawn by gravity, lips parting and moving with one another like they were always made to do this.  He allows his tongue to graze hers, and she responds aggressively in a way that makes him groan, the kiss growing deep and soulful, and it’s so full of longing and happiness that Killian feels as though his chest is going to burst with pure joy.  

He pants when Emma finally breaks away, pulling back just far enough to be able to gaze into his blue eyes with a shy smile while he thumbs the tiny cleft in her chin affectionately.

“I love grilled cheese,” she murmurs.

Killian chuckles, his fingers sliding forward to cradle the back of her head.  “That,” he says, leaning in to seal his lips over hers again, “is excellent.”

[heyitsthatgirl]

Nights of Malta

It's a quiet night in Malta, the successful job in Malaysia wrapped up, when Elena receives a few unexpected phone calls. (My first foray into writing fic for this particular fandom and pair, so I hope it’s up to snuff! Any and all feedback is very much appreciated!) (AO3) (FFN)

It’s the quiet moments that stick, the soft brush strokes of orange and blue that bleed across the sky like watercolor, the gentle swell of a rising tide cresting against the old stonework of an ancient city on the sea. The rhythmic scratch of Nate’s pencil against his journal as the daylight dies on the glassy horizon, images of sixteenth century architecture mixed with boxy modern busses beginning to appear on the pages. It’s a habit, he says, an instinctive need to commit important things, cherished memories, to pages in a book. (She knows the feeling, the weight of her camera sitting heavily in her lap. Memory card full of images she intends to cherish for a very long time. Records of their life, their new adventures.)

There’s a gentle breeze blowing in from the sea, the salty air of the Mediterranean filling her lungs and tossing strands of blonde across her eyes. It’s only day two in Malta, but a girl could get used to this. The aimless wandering through ancient streets, a husband who won’t shut up about Knights and the Crusades and local legend, and the crystal blue water that greets her every morning. Well, maybe two out of three, anyway. She feels a nudge at her side, sucking her back to reality and the quickly approaching twilight, Nate nodding down at her lap as her phone buzzes in her pocket.

“You gonna get that?”

“Damnit,” she mumbles, shoving her camera into his hands as she fishes the phone from her pocket, swiping across the screen and tucking her hair behind her ear. “Elena Fisher— Oh, hello!” Nate’s eyeballing her carefully as he tucks his leather-bound journal into his pocket and drapes the camera over his shoulder. He’s got an eyebrow raised, his hand twirling, urging her to divulge more information, but she just gently smacks his hand away as she presses a finger to her ear, straining to hear the voice on the other line. “Oh? Tomorrow? And everything is… We’re good to go with the— I see. I see. Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

Quickly thumbing the screen to hang up, she twists to face him, a mixture of excitement and, perhaps, a little disappointment (just a little— goodbye relaxing vacation) painted across her face. “Well?” He asks, hopeful smile plastered on his face. So she simply shrugs and turns back to the sea.

“Crew arrives tomorrow, network’s given us the go-ahead to start shooting.”

He’s up like a shot, all fiery red in the glow of the fading sun, camera still swinging at his side as he beams down at her. “We got it?”

“We got it! They loved the Malaysia demo.”

“You know,” he starts, crossing his arms across his chest while leaning back against the rusty green railing behind him, “Part of me still thinks this is crazy.”

“Which part?”

“The top half,” he smirks at her before going on, “But then part of me knows we can actually pull this off.”

“The bottom half?”

“Oh, oh I see,” on a chuckle he bends down to grab at her hand, tugging her to his side and twisting her to face the sunset, “Joke all you want, Ms. Fisher,” he tuts, snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her against his hip, “But this, us, here… This is all you.”

“Malaysia did go pretty well, didn’t it?” She hums, letting herself relax ever-so-slightly into his grip, her cheek coming to rest against his arm.

“Well, those cable network idiots sure seem to think so,” he agrees, thumb brushing gently at the bare skin of her arm, “And I gotta admit, not getting shot at by thugs with guns is a nice perk.”

“It’s all about the perks,” she laughs, pulling back to look up at him, “Now come on, I’m starving. Treat me to something nice for all my hard work.”

“I think I saw a nice little kebab stand back there,” he’s already tugging her away from the vista and back to the quickly filling streets of evening travelers, “What are your opinions on shawarma?”

“Nate,” she groans, tugging his hand as he leads her into the twilight glow of streetlamps and cobblestone, “You’re ruining the moment!”

“Oh? Are you in more of a fish n’ chips mood?”

“Torture,” she sighs, letting her fingers slide between his as they make their way through the crowded city streets, “You’re torturing me.”

She can’t help but notice the shit-eating grin plastered across his face as they eventually make their way down a series of stone steps to an understated-looking Maltese restaurant. All soft lighting on the edge of a marina, in the shadow of a looming stone sentry box at the top of a small peak. She’d describe it all as old world meets new world, centuries-old stonework wrapped around glass and glowing fish tanks that play home to tonight’s main courses. As she’s about to jab her thumb into his ribs and tease him about playing his cards right tonight, she’s interrupted by her phone buzzing. Again.

“Crap,” she sighs, sliding the phone from her pocket as he cocks an eyebrow at her, “Go, go,” she shoos, “Get the table, I’ll be in in just a sec.”

“Maybe they called the wrong Elena Fisher before,” he teases and she’s shoving him toward the host stand.

“Order me something expensive.”

With a shrug and his hands thrown up in defeat, he wanders toward a young hostess in black while she slips back into the warm night air to bring her phone to her ear. “Fisher.” She says curtly, very much annoyed to be back on the phone, especially with her stomach growling as the smell of fresh fish sizzling wafts out the restaurant.

“El… Elena?”

The voice on the other end is male, faintly familiar, and definitely not the network executive’s assistant who had called earlier (female, British, mousy.) “…Yes? Who is this?”

There’s a long pause, and she can’t help but feel her chest grow tight, her pulse quicken. Like the mystery voice on the other line is about to deliver some kind of soul-crushing news. Like she should be steeling herself for some tragedy. It’s absurd, but it’s where her head goes on instinct. Knowing full well her husband is only a few hundred feet away, most likely fiddling with his flatware and attempting to order a glass of wine in stilted Maltese, she can’t stop herself from suddenly being back in a hotel room in Yemen. Hearing the words “pirates” and “shipwreck” and “no sign of survivors.”

She hears the man on the line puff out a breath, some kind of nervous, soundless chuckle, before he goes on, “It’s Sam. Sam Drake.”

Well, shit.

That feeling in her chest, the tight, pinched, something bad is about to happen sinking feeling is suddenly quadrupled and now she’s imagining her brother-in-law pinned down as goons with machine guns spray the side of a crumbling building. So sue her, it’s where her mind goes as he nervously clears his throat on the other end. Sounding not at all in danger or like he’s in the middle of a firefight. But damnit if that’s not what she imagines. “Sam?” She lowers her voice, as if Nate could hear through glass and mortar and suddenly appear at her side. But he doesn’t of course, though she still tucks herself into a dark corner at the side of the dimly lit building. “What’s wrong?”

He pauses again, but this time it’s shorter and he’s letting a small chuckle puff into the mic, “I, uh, why would something be wrong?”

“Well,” she begins, feeling her mouth draw into a tight, crooked smirk, “For starters you called me, not Nate. And secondly, you’re a Drake.”

“Fair enough,” he laughs, before going on hesitantly, “Actually… I wanted to talk to you. Just you.”

“Well that’s ominous,” she deadpans, peeking out of her shadow to eyeball the door to the restaurant. Still no curious husband with superhuman hearing. Her nerves calm just slightly, even if the phone call is still off the scale on the unexpected weird shit-o-meter. Not that she doesn’t know Sam, it’s just… Their only time spent together was gunning their way through hordes of armed mercenaries and that’s probably not normal in-law quality time (though she’s fully aware of what she’s married into. What’s normal anyway?) Still, she isn’t exactly used to getting evening phone calls from said in-law.

“Nathan isn’t around, is he?” Sam asks cautiously, and Elena laughs out loud because anyone listening in to this conversation would definitely get some weird ideas.

“He’s currently sitting inside of a very charming restaurant waiting for his wife to get off the phone, why?”

“No, I—” He cuts himself off, “You guys just did a job in Malaysia, right? It went well?”

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t just small talk?”

“I know you guys are in Malta now, Nathan said a shipwreck job off the coast. World War One-era, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh…”

“Well, it’s just… I got this lead. Something possibly big, just off the coast of Sardinia, and I need someone I trust, someone who won’t dick me over on this and I—”

But before he can continue, she’s already sighing, rubbing at her temple and leaning herself against the cool stone, “Why, of all people, would you call me? Isn’t this something that the dynamic duo of Drakes should be discussing?”

“Well,” he begins, slowly, before going on, “I didn’t want to ask Nathan, I wanted to ask you. The last time I dragged him into something, I nearly got him killed and almost ruined his marriage. And I just thought, you know, I should ask you. Avoid all that… Shit.”

Elena can very much feel the beginnings of a headache start to settle in the back of her neck. Because for all his well-meaning, good intentions, Sam is still going about this all wrong. And now she’s the one in the position to try and set things right. “Look, Sam…”

“Before you say anything,” he cuts her off, his voice raised just an octave higher. He sounds desperate and it’s evident in his tone. “It isn’t a dangerous job. Just a dive and retrieve, and I need a partner I can trust going down with me. No war lords, no mercenaries. Just an old wreck with some valuable cargo.”

“Sam.” She stops him, her head falling back against the building and eyes searching up at the pinpricks of starlight dusting the night sky. Closing her eyes she sucks in a big breath of salty sea air, “First of all, Nate is the only one who jeopardized anything— life, marriage, so on. Not you. And, honestly, that’s something we’ve worked through and moved past. And secondly,” here, she pauses, opening her eyes to find the thin sliver of the moon peaking out through misty clouds overhead, “I’m not in the business of making my husband’s decisions for him either. Look, I know you mean well, and I appreciate that. But… The three of us? We’re family. And anything you think both Nate and I need to know, or be a part of, you gotta come to us, talk to us, together. None of this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line and for a moment she wonders if she’s lost the connection. But then she hears him clear his throat, “No… You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just. Well… I’m not very good at this. I don’t really know how to do the family stuff anymore.”

She smiles sadly at his confession and relaxes a bit against the wall, “Email me the details, Nate and I will look it over tonight. But we’re pretty married to our camera crew and network funding, so any side quests are gonna have to be on the QT, you know?”

“You guys lock down the deal?” His tone changes at once and instead of a timid, unsure man poking around in uncharted waters, he’s suddenly alight with excitement.

“Locked, loaded, set to shoot this week.” She can’t help but feel awash in pride. Proud of what they’d accomplished, how far they’d come, and what new adventures lay ahead, “Thanks to you, of course.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He says with full cheek, laughing as she shakes her head toward the mossy cobblestone beneath her feet. That’s when she hears it, footsteps coming toward her. A somewhat baffled, “Elena, what the hell is taking so long?” muffled by the sway of the tide in the harbor and the wind rustling through the trees.

“That’s my cue,” she says into the phone, earning an understanding, “Enjoy your dinner,” from the other end. “Shoot me the email, and we’ll take a look okay?” Sam agrees, says his goodnights, and they both hang up just as Nate approaches. Face all twisted into an annoyed, confused expression, one hand clutching a glass of what looks like it could be merlot. What she hopes is merlot. And he expectantly waves his free hand toward her.

“What?” She asks as she stuffs her phone back into her pocket and reaches for the wine glass. But he’s quick, pulling it back and cocking his head to the side to scowl at her.

“What what? I’m starting to get pitiful looks from the waiters. I think they think I’ve been stood up. Wait— have I been stood up?”

She just clicks her tongue between her teeth and snatches the glass away from him, taking a quick, defiant sip, “A little stewing in your own juices is good for you.”

“Clearly you never went to Catholic school,” he says as she pushes past him with a smile, his footsteps falling in behind her as he goes on, “I’m pretty sure that’s a cardinal sin.” She finally lets herself laugh as he reaches around her to pry open the front door of the restaurant. The incredible smell of aromatic spices, fresh cooked seafood, and steaming heaps of pasta hitting her in a sensory overload. Damnit she was hungry. “So?” He asks as he steers her toward the waiting table, a small setting for two against a glass railing overlooking the murky harbor water below. “Are you going to tell me about your mystery phone date or do I have to stew some more?”

“No,” she says as she settles down at the one untouched setting, his own glass of wine across from her already half finished and his napkin crumpled into a heap. Flatware askew, having been fiddled with. “No more stewing. It was your brother.”

“Sam?”

“Unless you’ve got another one lurking in the shadows somewhere.”

Giving his face a quick scrub, Nate settles back in his seat and looks up at her, “Well? What’s the crisis?”

She only shakes her head through a smirk, “That’s what I asked. But no, no crisis. Just a dive he wants some help with. I told him to send us the details and we’d take a look. He says it’s legit.”

“Why would he call you?” He begins as she plucks the evening’s menu from its perch on the table.

“Weird, right?” Her fingers tap against the paper, the mussels catching her eye, before she looks up at him, sighing, “He was trying to… Make up for Madagascar, I think. Asking for my permission. It was sweet, if not… Completely missing the mark.”

He laughs a bit at that, finally easing forward and propping his chin up with his fist, “I can only imagine what other surprises are in store for us tonight.”

Her mouth quirks in a knowing smile and she studies his face with a soft, wistful look. “Yeah,” she says gently, watching as he takes a slow pull at his glass of wine, “I can only imagine.”

[screechthemighty]

OKAY new chapter of will you greet the daylight looming? is live! Tow-part warning for this one. One: Chunks of this are just a perspective flip of events from the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin, so yes, this is the same dialogue as last time. Two: Related to that, Sindri's current and Kratos's past suicidal ideation are both hinted at, though less explicitly than other fics. At least you guys can go in knowing for sure that one has a happy ending.

AO3 link will be in a reblog, full chapter below, full fic tagged on my blog also!

will you greet the daylight looming? part 3/6: summer

cws: suicidal ideation (hinted), fantasy racism (mentioned). ragnarok spoilers throughout.

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“Interesting choice of training weapon.”

The voice still sent a jolt down Kratos’s spine, despite knowing it no longer belonged to an enemy. He fought the urge to summon his own spear as he turned around. Týr stood at the fence, watching his students run through their drills. “But it makes sense,” Týr continued conversationally. “That’s how you would’ve started, right?”

“Hmm.” Kratos still did not know how to react to the true Týr. On the one hand, he was nothing like Odin’s impersonation. There was a thoughtfulness to him that the tyrant had not been able to capture. Kratos could almost picture Týr debating with the philosophers of Greece in his free time. He seemed to have no interest in war or power, but was not so aggressive about it as Odin had depicted. He was simply a man who had fought enough for now, and wished to go home to his family and crops.

But Odin had captured his face and voice perfectly. The memory of that voice going cruel as Odin drove the knife into Brok still haunted Kratos. And then there was the memory of Týr’s treasure room. The bottle of Lemnian wine. The pot with Kratos’s likeness on it,

How much did the war god know?

“You visited Sparta?” Kratos asked carefully.

Týr shook his head. “I only ever knew of it by reputation,” he said. “And I was never sure how much of it was true.”

“If you heard it from an Athenian, it was a lie,” Kratos said immediately.

Týr chuckled. “RIght, and I’m sure you can be trusted to tell the truth about Athens,” he replied.

“They made a great many contributions to Greece. And they were annoying.” And the less said about Athena herself, the better. “I’m surprised I never heard of your visits.”

“Oh, I made a point of keeping to myself. Greece was a beautiful place, but…”

Týr hesitated. Kratos turned his attention to his students. Hopefully, it looked as though he were supervising them, not as though he were avoiding eye contact. “Say what is on your mind,” he said.

“...I never met him directly, but Zeus reminded me of Odin in some ways,” he said. “Not exactly the same, but I left Asgard to avoid thinking about my family.”

“Hmm.” Kratos could see some resemblance. The same obsession with prophecy and habit of stabbing their children, for starters. Same habit of damaging lives with their meddling. It seemed to be a requirement for being king of the gods.

“I’m glad you got out,” Týr added, “for what it’s worth.”

Kratos felt a surge of adrenaline, though he knew no physical attack was coming. It was accompanied by a deep feeling of dread, nausea, revulsion. “That is not how I would put it,” he said.

Týr hesitated again. “I don’t know how else to put it,” he said finally. “I heard of how things ended there, but you could have…stayed, mentally. Remained trapped in it all, spread that distrust and hatred. Instead, you’re doing this.” He nodded towards Kratos’s students. “Helping people. I’ve heard about what you and Freya have been up to. So…you got out, in the end.”

The clarification made sense, and soothed his heightened emotions somewhat. Not entirely, though; his scars still tingled. “I suppose. I only wish…”

Wish I could have done it sooner.

Týr smiled sadly, a look of understanding in his eyes. “Me, too.”

Kratos thought about Týr, held hostage in Niflheim for imagined crimes. He thought of Deimos, bound for sins he hadn’t committed yet, and would never get the chance to commit. He imagined how difficult it must have been to push against an unmoving object like Odin.

He was lucky to be alive at all.

“We are not our fathers’ pasts,” Kratos said quietly.

“Yeah,” Týr said. For the first time, Kratos did not see the threat of Odin in him. For the first time, he saw a possible ally. “I sure hope not.”

.

There was more to Skjöldr than Kratos had realized.

Kratos had seen glimpses of the boy’s work ethic before. Skjöldr had been one of the primary organizers as his people settled back in Midgard, and seemed to be treated as a leader among his peers. These traits became more pronounced as they progressed in their training. He was first to volunteer, obeyed orders while still asking the right questions, and had a talent for encouraging the others. He was, of course, still a mortal boy–growing into his body, voice cracking at odd times, still learning the ways of the world. Kratos did not want to ask too much of him too soon. But he was well on his way to doing something great with his life.

He also had a very encyclopedic knowledge of fish.

“They’re the same fish,” Skjöldr explained, “but the coloration is completely different in Asgard. I still kind of think it’s due to some magical influence.” He started gutting the fish with careful precision. “I’d love to go to Vanaheim and see if there’s a pattern. I’d ask Lady Freya, but…y’know.”

“She’s intimidating?” Kratos guessed.

“No…well, yeah, but it’s more that it’s…dumb? I don’t want to bug the Queen of the Valkyries by asking her about fish.”

Freya would probably welcome the question, Kratos thought. It would be a break from the monotony of questions about Draugr or the pockets or trouble-makers they still had to deal with. But he kept that thought to himself and continued skinning his own fish. “You learned all of this yourself?” he asked.

“No, my dad…” Skjöldr hesitated. “...is a fisherman. He taught me. I’ve had to pick up a lot of it since he just started walking again. His leg got pretty busted up during…y’know.”

Ragnarök. Some were still hesitant to invoke it by name. Kratos understood. “But it is healing?”

“He’ll probably have a limp, but yeah, it could have been worse.” Skjöldr straightened up suddenly at the sound of wings nearby. “Is that…?”

Kratos didn’t have to look up to confirm that it was. He knew that sound by now. The Valkyries were back, and Thrúd with them if the crackle of lightning in the otherwise clear air was any indication. Kratos could hear them talking among themselves. It seemed like they’d missed a few holes out of Helheim. That was irritating. He heard footsteps approaching; Skjöldr attempted to sit up straighter as they grew close. “Hey, Thrúd,” he said.

Ah. Kratos made a point of looking down at the fish he was cleaning. The boy was already nervous. There was no point in making it worse. “Hey, Skjöldr,” Thrúd said. She gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. Her being a goddess, the “friendly” punch nearly knocked Skjöldr over. He didn’t seem to mind. “Keeping everyone fed?”

“Trying to. Uh, everything going okay with the, uh…Helheim stuff?”

“Oh, y’know. Helheim is Helheim.” Kratos felt knuckles nudge into his own shoulder in an attempt at a similar punch. It didn’t move him at all. “Kratos.”

Kratos grunted. He glanced up long enough to see if Freya was there. She stood nearby, examining her swords carefully. Frost marked the edges. Good hunting, if he had to guess. “Where were they entering Midgard?” he asked.

“Oh, right next to Jörmungandr’s head,” Thrúd said with a laugh. “He did half the work for us. Not sure they tasted any good.”

Skjöldr laughed, perhaps a little too quickly. Oh, poor boy. If it had been any other goddess, Kratos might have considered intervening as soon as possible. He still considered it, but not for any fault of Thrúd’s. The heartache of a mortal and an immortal was potent. He knew that from experience.

But he was not the boy’s father, and that was probably a mistake he’d have to make on his own. So Kratos kept his eyes on the fish.

Freya sat down next to him with a sigh. “They’ve got you doing manual labor?” she asked.

“I volunteered.” He liked the normalcy of it. If he feared one thing, it was becoming too used to being a proper god again. He may not be running from his true nature anymore, but he did not want to be some distant thing sitting on a throne. He wanted to keep the life he had created for himself–fish guts and all. “The river’s thawed entirely. Travel should be easier now.”

“Finally. I thought some of those chunks would never clear away.” Freya glanced at Skjöldr and Thrúd. She was talking about her Valkyrie duties while he listened attentively. “Oh, dear,” Freya said quietly.

Of course she’d noticed. Love was one of her domains; if it was obvious to Kratos, it was probably a full signal fire to her. “Best of luck to him,” Kratos said quietly.

She didn’t audibly laugh, to her credit, but he could see the amusement in her eyes. “Best of luck indeed.”

Kratos waited until there was a lull in the conversation before asking his next question: “Do you have fish like this in Vanaheim?”

Skjöldr’s eyes darted over to them, looking surprised, but he kept his mouth shut. Freya examined the fish. “Similar, but they’re more of a…sunset color, I guess you could say. Why?”

Kratos shrugged. He knew the lack of answer wouldn’t give much away; Freya was used to him not answering questions by now. It wasn’t as if she could find him any more odd than she already did.

The grateful look on Skjöldr’s face made it worthwhile, anyway.

.

He had only seen Angrboda in the Ironwood or the Wild Woods. She’d alluded to returning to Jötunheim proper a handful of times (“Just looking around”), but beyond when she helped them during Ragnarök, she seemed content to stay in her part of the world.

It caught Kratos just as off-guard as everyone else when she arrived in Midgard.

“Hey, is that Loki’s friend?”

It was. And Kratos immediately noticed the change in the air around them. He’d set up the training grounds close to the mortal’s growing town, close enough that there were always people walking by. Those people were staring. Visibly.

She hadn’t come with Fenrir. It was just Angrboda, her arms wrapped around herself tightly, her gaze more frightened and rabbit-like than he’d ever seen it. Kratos stepped closer to her, carefully scanning the staring faces, searching for any signs of threat-

“Angrboda, right?” Skjöldr said. He had put down his spear and was approaching her with a friendly smile. “Loki’s friend? I’m Skjöldr.” He held out his hand. “Are you here to train, too?”

“Oh, uhm…” Angrboda unfolded enough to shake Skjöldr’s hand. “No, I was just here to say ‘hi.’”

Some of the students were still staring. Skjöldr’s friendliness seemed to put them at ease, but they were still curious. They had never seen a giant before, Kratos realized. They had only heard stories of them, and likely stories filtered through the lies of Asgard. None of them seemed hostile, at least, but…

“Drills,” Kratos called sternly. “Your enemy is over there.” The students quickly went back to their straw dummies. “Skjöldr, you as well.”

“Yes, sir,” he said immediately. To Angrboda, he added, “We should talk sometime! I never got to thank you for helping.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied with a hesitant smile. “Glad you’re okay.”

Kratos waited until Skjöldr was out of earshot before moving closer to Angrboda. “Are you all right?”

Angrboda let out a shaky breath. “I’m okay. I just…I guess I wanted to see if it was really okay out here. You mentioned coming here a lot, so I thought it’d be safe.”

Of course. She wanted to see how one of the last giants in the realms would be treated for showing her face. If Atreus did return with more giants, that would be important to know. “I would have escorted you,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t really plan to come here today, but thank you.” She seemed more relaxed now that he was close. “I haven’t been to a town in a while. It looks nice.”

“They’ve done well for themselves. There’s been help from Vanaheim and the Aesir left…” He noted one of the students was struggling with her form. “I’ll be right back.”

Kratos was worried that some trouble would find Angrboda in the time it took him to help the student and return. But she was still standing at the fence when he was done, and no one accosted her during her visit.

It may have been naive of him, but Kratos hoped that was a good sign.

.

Skjöldr made a point of including Angrboda after that whenever he saw her. Kratos suspected it was out of loyalty to Atreus more than anything, but he was still grateful. Angrboda herself opened up quickly to the attention, losing the wariness she’d had that day very quickly. He might be the second person her age she’s ever spoken to, Kratos realized. Perhaps that was the other reason she’d risked showing herself.

She was lonely.

“So, these are…” Skjöldr looked up from the hinge he was fixing. “...what, past, present, future?”

“Sometimes. And it really depends on when you see it.” Angrboda kept her eyes on the shrine. They needed some attention after three years of snow. She’d insisted on repairing the art herself while Kratos and Skjöldr tended to the doors. “This used to be past, present, future. Now it’s more like…beginning, middle, end, I guess.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Much as any of this makes sense.”

Kratos understood that sentiment. He tried not to think about the complexities of prophecies now that they were no longer a matter of life and death. He had struggled with the decision before, but Kratos was grateful now that Faye had never told him about it until she absolutely had to.

He wondered how she had stood living with it herself.

“Does Jörmungandr know this is in here?” Skjöldr wondered. “It must be weird for him if he does. Knowing your whole life story is out there somewhere…I don’t think I’d be able to live like that.” He hesitated. “I’m not on any of these, right?”

“Not that I know of,” Angrboda said. “Guess that means you can do whatever you want.”

Skjöldr looked relieved–then, almost immediately, nervous again. “Okay , that sounds really scary when you put it like that.”

Mimir barked with laughter. Even Kratos couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Really no winning is there?” Mimir said. “The burden of choice.”

“Better than being a story with the end written,” Angrboda noted quietly.

Kratos hummed in agreement. He waited until Skjöldr moved away from the open door and nodded before releasing it. It settled back on its hinges, now fully repaired. The shrine may not have been good as new, but it looked much better than it had. “Do you think we can move them one day?” he asked.

“I think they’ll be okay where they are for now, but I’ve thought about it,” Angrboda admitted. “Maybe once things settle down a bit more.”

Maybe once more of the giants return and can make that decision, if he had to guess. But Angrboda was still careful not to discuss that in mixed company. She had been treated fairly so far, but Kratos understood her caution.

Eventually, Skjöldr had to go back into town, leaving Kratos and Mimir along with Angrboda. He was content to watch her paint at first, her hands carefully tracing the pre-existing lines. She was the first one to break the silence: “Thanks for the help with this.”

“You’re welcome.” Kratos examined the canvas before them. “I was hoping…to learn.”

“About the prophecies?”

“About the giants. I know Faye left long before she met me, but they are her people. I want to know.” It was the least he could do to respect her memory. The memory of the family she had only talked about once, but with so much pain in her eyes. “I want to understand her.”

Angrboda set her paintbrush down and looked at him, understanding in her eyes. “I’d love to tell you,” she said quietly. “Do you think you could tell me about her? I know she meant a lot to a lot of people, but I don’t think they knew…her. You know?”

Kratos nodded. “Of course. She would have liked you, I can say that.” His gaze swept over the shrine, the carefully restored paintings. “She was an artist herself.”

“Really?” Angrboda looked pleased. “So Atreus got it from her?”

“Yes.” His Spartan training had covered more than most people assumed. Neither drawing nor painting was on that list. “They were alike in many ways. I know it will serve him well.”

“So will what he got from you.”

The compliment hit him harder than he thought it would. “...thank you.”

He hoped she was right.

.

The invitation was unexpected. Kratos hadn’t had much chance to return to Niðavellir since Brok’s funeral. The dwarves had largely kept to themselves in the wake of Ragnarök, trying to rebuild their realm without outside interference.

But they remembered him, apparently, because Durlin arrived one mid-summer day with an invitation. “We’re tearing down the statues the Aesir left up. Want to help?”

Kratos found he did. And with the dwarf’s permission, he invited Freya and Angrboda as well. The former declined; the latter agreed wholeheartedly, though Kratos had a feeling the possibility of seeing a new realm influenced her decision. She was practically bursting with excitement when she arrived with Fenrir in tow.

“This place is amazing!” she said.

“It certainly smells nicer than it did,” Mimir noted.

Kratos grunted and kept an eye out for grims. They were going to a statue near a mining operation, not the one in town. It was probably for the best, considering Fenrir was there. The wolf was as excited as Angrboda, eagerly taking in all the new smells. Word of his size must have reached Niðavellir, because the few dwarves Durlin had assembled weren’t too alarmed at the sight of him. Still alarmed, but it could have been much worse. “What the fuck were you feeding that thing?” Durlin asked.

“I’ve seen bigger beasts,” Kratos said. The actual answer would take too long. “We thought he could help.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Durlin glanced Angrboda’s way. Like the citizens in Midgard, he seemed to figure out quickly that she was a giant. Unlike the citizens of Midgard, his reaction was much softer. “You want the first hit, little lady?”

Angrboda examined the statue critically. It was about as much an eyesore as the one in Niðavellir city proper. Then again, Kratos had a feeling it would be difficult to make Odin look good at all. “Actually,” she said, reaching into her bag, “there’s something I was thinking about doing first…”

She had small sacs filled with paint. The first slap of bright green struck the statue right in the eye patch, splattering across the face. It was strangely satisfying to watch; the cheers that accompanied it were even more so. Angrboda quickly started distributing the paint balls among the dwarves. Kratos was content to position Mimir so he could hurl insults and watch from a safe distance. Durlin joined him. “She seems like a sweet kid,” he noted. “Reminds me of someone we know.”

“Hmm.” Kratos glanced Durlin’s way. The dwarf’s eyes were fairly clear today. It was difficult to tell if he had stopped drinking entirely, or had decided he wanted all his faculties for the occasion. “You knew her well?”

“Not as well as I’d thought, apparently. Never would’ve picked her as the wife and mother type.” Durlin huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m happy for her, though. She deserved that peace.”

The dwarf’s voice softened as he spoke about her. Kratos was still getting used to hearing that tone when others spoke of her. She had been cared for by so many before him. It was comforting, to know that she had people around her even in her worse days. “You cared about her,” he noted.

Durlin’s next laugh was louder. “Not jealous of you, if that’s what you mean. But someone might be. Half of Niðavellir was in love with her by the end. You’re lucky you managed to get her before one of us did.” More encouraging shouts broke out in front of them. Fenrir had started digging at the statue’s base while the others egged him on. “Think they could use the extra muscle.”

In truth, Kratos could have brought the statue down single-handedly, but he knew the others needed the catharsis. He only expanded as much energy as needed to get the statue lowered down, allowing the others to bring it down entirely. The energy of the crowd was somewhere between a celebration and a battle. Fortunately, most of the insults being hurled were in Dwarvish. Kratos had a feeling they would be too strong for Angrboda.

Then again, he had no idea what her hurled insults were, either. She may have had a broader vocabulary than he realized.

Kratos was helping pry the statue’s head off when he heard it. The shout was distant at first, but quickly solidified into a familiar voice: “Kratos? Kratos?!”

It was Lúnda. When Kratos turned around, the dwarf was running towards them. Her face was as frantic as her tone. Kratos immediately ran to meet her. “It’s Sindri,” she gasped before Kratos could ask. “It’s…”

Kratos suddenly felt very cold. “Where?” he demanded.

“Back at the house…I don’t know, but something’s wrong. Please, I don’t know what to do.”

She was frightened. This woman had fought alongside Freyr against the Aesir, and this had her rattled. Kratos looked over his shoulder. Angrboda must have sensed something wrong; she’d followed him closer, but kept a safe distance away to avoid eavesdropping too much. “I have to…” Kratos started.

She nodded immediately. “Yeah, go. Fenrir can get me back home. I think I’ll be okay on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll look after her,” Durlin said immediately. His face remained calm, but Kratos saw one hand anxiously fiddling with one of his vest buttons. “Make sure he’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

His last sight of the group was Fenrir chasing after Odin’s severed head. He wished the sight could bring him any joy. All he could think about was Sindri.

I should have gone to the house more. I should have spoken to him before this. The thought that he had been giving the dwarf too much distance had crossed his mind, but never for long. He had other things on his mind: helping Freya, training his students, looking after Angrboda. But now all he could think was that he’d been using those tasks to avoid making things right. That he could have cut into the time spent on his own, used that to repair this wrong.

Repair it now. There is no sense dwelling in what-ifs.

He was bracing himself for something terrible. What they found when they reached the house was not what he’d expected. Somehow, that only made things worse.

The house was completely abandoned. The only sign of life was the upturned bucket on the floor, and the brush beside it. The main room smelled strongly of soap and damp, molding wood. The worst damage was centered around a spot near the table.

The place where Brok had breathed his last.

“He’s not upstairs either.” Lúnda ran down the stairs, dislodging her goggles as she ran a hand through her hair. “He was here when I left, I swear.”

“What the blazes was he doing?” Mimir asked.

“I don’t know. He was…talking crazy, saying Brok was in the floor or something. I don’t know what was wrong.”

Kratos knew. He may not have experienced it in the same way Sindri was, but he knew its root cause far too well.

“He is grieving,” he said quietly. Of course Sindri wasn’t behaving rationally. Nothing about grief was rational. For a moment, Kratos was back in Greece, sharpening his knife to the point of damaging it. He knew it was too much, but he couldn’t make himself stop. It was the only thing that made sense in light of the unthinkable. His friend, the man he would name his son after one day, gone.

And that was the most rational thing grief had driven him to do.

“We’ve gotta find him,” Lúnda said. “He shouldn’t be alone when he’s like this. I just don’t know where he’d go.”

Kratos did, or at least he had an idea. It’s where he’d go, if he’d known what he knew now. “I will look,” he said. “You two should wait here, in case he comes back.” He could see the protest forming on Lúnda’s face, so he cut it off quickly: “He may not be receptive if all of us go. One is better than a crowd. And…I need to do this.”

I have to set this right.

Lúnda relented with a heavy sigh, taking Mimir without complaint. “Just bring him back, okay?” she said.

“Good luck, brother,” Mimir said, his eyes soft with understanding.

Kratos nodded to them both and left.

He managed to avoid breaking into a run until he was following the World Tree to Alfheim.

Atreus had spoken sometimes of speaking to his mother, asking her for guidance. Faye’s only prayers had been ancestral; according to Angrboda, this was a giant practice. The gods haven’t really done much for us. All we’ve got is each other. Kratos had never tried, being out of practice with prayer in general and unsure of what to ask her.

He spoke to her now.

Please. I know he’s your friend. I need to find him. Show me where he is, elskan. Help me find him.

Show me.

His time in Alfheim had been limited over the past months, but Kratos still remembered the way. Through the closest gate, to the Lake of Souls. With Lúnda’s help, they had been able to reopen a gate on the far shores, near the forge Sindri had used. That day had been difficult (trying to dodge the latest fight that had broken out had been tedious), but Kratos was grateful for the effort now. He half-expected to find Sindri there, hammering away at a weapon as he had that day in Midgard, but the forges were quiet and still. No sign of him.

Kratos stopped and forced himself to breathe.

He is likely here. He knows this is where Brok’s soul would have gone. But where is the best spot? Closer to the temple? It made the most sense. His hands shook as he shoved the boat into the water. Calm, he reminded himself. Panic will not serve you now.

Then, Faye, please.

He felt nothing but his aching dread until he reached the lake. He steered the boat towards the western shores–the beach near where Odin had kept one of the Valkyries. Good view of the light. Easy access to the water. And something else–a growing certainty that he wanted to trust. It may have been foolish, it may have been nothing…

There.

A pile of armor on the shore.

Pure instinct screamed at him to get out, get out now, get into the water, but he controlled it long enough to beach the boat. He’d risk losing it if he didn’t, and it would be faster to get Sindri home that way. A glance confirmed that the armor was his, which meant…

Kratos barely stopped to leave some of his own gear before plunging into the water.

The water was cool, and only grew colder the deeper he swam. Weeds and underwater plants swayed in the currents; a few times, he could have sworn they were not plants, but arms, hands, eyes watching him from the darkness.

Both eyes forward. Focus.

It was difficult to see, but the same impulse that had pulled him to the shore called him onwards. The deeper he swam, the more it took on a concrete form. A familiar voice–an even more familiar song. There was something different about it now, more urgent. Here, it whispered. He’s here. This way, my love, he’s here.

Kratos followed that feeling, even as his lungs started to burn. He followed it until a patch of darkness turned into something solid, into a small form drifting listlessly, dragged downwards by the plants.

There!

Kratos surged forward to grab the body. As he did, he could have sworn he felt something brush his cheek. Whatever it was, it gave him the energy to swim back to the surface, to the sunlight above, and from there to the shore. Sindri’s body was unmoving at first; when Kratos put him down, the dwarf’s lungs remembered to breathe. The first attempt brought convulsions, movement, Sindri turning over as he coughed up lake water onto the shore.

Kratos breathed a sigh of relief. Thank you. Thank you. The hardest part may have been yet to come, but at least he had the chance now. “Breathe,” Kratos said. “Slowly.”

Sindri’s coughing subsided. He wouldn’t look directly at Kratos. “Can you hear me?” Kratos tried. Sindri may have only been semi-conscious. Perhaps he needed more rest before-

“Why did you pull me out?” Sindri asked.

It was a question Kratos had not wanted to hear. It was also one that he understood.

Kratos sighed and sat in the sands, not too far away, but far enough to give Sindri space. He thought of Sindri’s face in the workshop that day, of his own deep pain in the deepest pits of Hades. Deimos and Brok, each twice-lost. “I had a brother,” he said. “The gods took him from me, too. It took a long time for me to…stop blaming myself for what happened. You should have that chance.”

Deimos. What would his brother think of him now? They’d barely had the chance to know each other. In truth, Kratos had envied Brok and Sindri sometimes. They had been separated for a time, but they still had many years shared between them. Kratos barely had six years when they were children, a handful of moments as adults. All the rest had been robbed from him because of some prophecy.

Some cycles couldn’t help repeating themselves, it seemed.

“You do not have to speak to me,” Kratos added. “I understand, you are angry. You have every right to be. But I am not leaving you here alone.” Not again, not this time. Not when the wounds were still so raw and open. Being alone is worse. He should have remembered that. Should have tried to convince Sindri of it sooner.

There was another stretch of silence. He glimpsed Sindri moving, not quite getting up, but hunching over less. When the dwarf spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I killed him.”

Again, three words Kratos did not want to hear. And three words he understood.

“It’s my fault,” Sindri repeated, louder this time. His voice broke under the strain of his grief. “Oh, gods, I killed him.”

Sindri fell apart.

For a moment, Kratos felt he should not be there. This pain was too raw, too intimate; what right did he have to witness it? But he had sworn he would not leave. Now, more than ever, Sindri should not be alone.

He moved close enough to grip the dwarf’s shoulder. Sindri did not protest. Kratos still could not look directly at him, so instead he looked out over the water. Partially for threats. Mostly for answers.

How do I help him bear this?

How can anyone?

Sindri’s sobs quieted eventually. Once they had, Kratos stood and walked to the boat, and the pile of discarded items next to it. The Blades, Leviathan, a few of his own things. He made sure his weapons were out of the water’s reach and picked up a water skin before returning to Sindri. He grunted quietly and held it out in offering. “Do you have anything stronger?” Sindri asked, his voice ravaged by tears.

Maybe I should’ve brought something stronger. “Water first,” Kratos said. “You need it more.”

He sat back down in the sand, half-watching Sindri drink. The knuckles of the dwarf’s exposed hand looked red and raw, probably from the cleaning he’d been doing. He’d lost weight, too, his already thin face looking more haggard than before. He needs rest, Kratos though. Food. If he could be convinced to take it. “How did you know I was here?” Sindri asked as he handed back the water skin.

“Lúnda said you were distressed. Talking about Brok. I thought…”

If it had been me, I would have tried to bring her back, too.

“I heard her here,” Kratos said instead. “Both times. Your shop is not far. It seemed a logical place to start.”

“...Lúnda’s not here, is she?”

Kratos shook his head. “No, she stayed at your home. The head, too. I made sure they wouldn’t follow. You have time.”

He likely needed it. Kratos had asked them to stay for a reason. Just because Sindri shouldn’t be alone did not mean he needed a full audience for his grief. Kratos was sure his presence was bad enough. And yet despite that assumption…

“How do you do it?” Sindri asked quietly. “How do you…handle it all?”

Of all the people Sindri could have asked. Kratos almost wanted to laugh. “Not as well as you’d think,” he admitted. He cast aside his self-mockery and carefully considered his next words. “I simply lived with it, for a long time. If you can call it living. Faye, she…” He had to pause at the memory of that day in the woods. Of the first time she ever held his hand, soft and careful. “...she said once that we would always walk together. That she would always carry a part of me, and I of her. The culmination of love is grief, and yet…we still open our hearts to it. I did not understand what she meant until recently.” He only wished he could have understood sooner. “The pain…no longer feels like pain. Or it feels less so. Instead I feel her. What she taught me, what she gave me. It takes time to accept, but it is possible.”

Now more than ever, he was sure she was with them. That she had called them down to those waters. And even if he couldn’t feel it as clearly elsewhere, she was still with him.

She always had been.

“I mean,” Sindri, “Faye hasn’t been wrong yet.” Despite himself, Kratos chuckled. “She was right about something else. He who walks his own path walks alone.” Sindri met his eyes. They were still red from tears, tired and pained, but clear. “It wasn’t your fault, and…I’m sorry for what I said.”

Kratos had not realized how heavy the weight truly had been until it was lifted. This was not about him, he knew, but he was still…grateful. “You were grieving. I understand. It is behind us.” In the past where it belonged. Now, he could look to a future, one perhaps with Sindri in it. Except… “I do not know if you heard…”

“About Atreus or about Tyr?”

“Both.”

From the look on Sindri’s face, he had. Kratos was not entirely surprised. Atreus’s departure had been quieter, but not unnoticed; Týr’s reappearance, meanwhile, had certainly created a stir. Both would be hard for Sindri, Kratos knew, each in their own way. The only question was how hard, and how he would bear those weights as well.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Sindri asked.

There was no anger in his voice, no blame. Instead, Kratos heard regret. He missed his son desperately then, and wished he could be there to mend things. But it could wait. Perhaps it was better if it did. “He will,” Kratos said. “I know he will.”

He accepted it as a certainty. His son would return. This could be mended. Both thoughts gave him some comfort.

He hoped they gave Sindri some comfort as well.

They sat in silence for a time. Kratos was grateful for the quiet, and equally unnerved that it was so quiet. Alfheim was never this quiet for him. Elskan, if this is you somehow, I am grateful…but why only this once? He could picture her laughing at the question, clearly as if she were there. I mean it.

“I don’t know if…if I can go back to the house,” Sindri said suddenly.

Kratos did not blame him. He wasn’t sure he wanted Sindri back in that place anyway. There was still too much pain there. Too many memories. “There is room in my home, if you wish,” Kratos said. There was never a doubt in his mind about that. “I cannot promise the wolves will leave you alone, but there is always a place for you.”

It was only right. Sindri was family, some of the first they’d found there. Kratos would have made the same offer to any of the others, but it felt especially important here. It’s what Faye would have wanted. That was reason enough.

Sindri considered it before nodding. “Okay. Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Hmm.” Kratos stood and offered Sindri a hand. “I’m sure.” Sindri hesitated, but took the help getting up. “Home, then.”

“Yeah. Home.”

They gathered their things and rowed back to the gate. Kratos only lingered a moment once the boat secure, pausing to close his eyes and let the sun warm his face.

He thought he felt that touch on his cheek again.

Thank you.

Kratos opened his eyes again, turned to the gate, and brought Sindri back home.

.

“You look tired.”

Sunset had turned Freya’s quarters golden. It was a space Kratos had only seen once, and briefly. It seemed more lived-in now, which was good. Freya hadn’t mentioned any resistance against her return to Vanaheim, but Kratos still worried. “I was going to say the same to you,” he retorted.

Freya rolled her eyes as she poured him a cup of mead. “It’s almost like being queen is exhausting,” she said. “Who would have thought?”

“Hmm.” Kratos took the cup with a grateful nod. “Anything I can help with?”

“Not really. We’ve just spent so much time under Asgard’s thumb. It’s…difficult, starting over.” She stared into her own cup, as if the answers were floating inside somewhere. “I think some people aren’t convinced Odin is gone.”

Kratos understood. There were times when he felt the same way about Olympus.

“What about you?” Freya added. “Those kids giving you trouble?”

“No. They listen well. They’re eager to learn.” They might have been the easiest thing he was handling lately, had it not been for one detail. “One of the parents…tried to give me an offering yesterday.”

“...oh?”

Kratos nodded. “I told her to keep it. Use it for her family. But they want to know what they should call me.” The admission made him feel ill. For a moment, he remembered the smell of burnt offerings, a statue in chains, the taste of blood and unsweetened wine. Nothing like the small bundle of food held in shaking hands, and yet everything like it at the same time.

“Are you really surprised?” Freya asked. “Most of their gods were just using them. You gut their fish and train their children to protect themselves with no expectation of repayment. If you didn’t want attention, you should have stayed in those woods.”

“I know, I know.” She was right, of course. Kratos took a long drag from his cup and sighed heavily. “It is not only that.”

“Your past?”

That as well, but not entirely. “My present. Sindri is still struggling. It is difficult to feel godlike when I can’t even help him.”

Sindri had more or less settled since that day in Alfheim, but grief still hounded him like a predator. Some days he would sweep the same patch of floor over and over, or move around the house carefully adjusting items so they were exactly in their place. He’d even insisted on tending to Kratos’s armor, as much as Kratos had tried to talk him out of it. I have to do something, he’d said. It’s like I’ve got this swarm of nightmares in my head, and doing stuff like this is the only thing that keeps them at bay. Do you know what I mean?

Kratos did, in a way. He was not sure he experienced it the same way Sindri did, but he understood the basic sentiment.

“You’re doing everything you can for him,” Freya said. “He’s not alone now. That’s what matters.”

Kratos wasn’t sure he felt that way, but he tried to believe it.

“I came here to see how you were doing,” Kratos noted suddenly. How had they gotten to talking about him?

“Well, in that case, please, let’s keep talking about your life,” Freya said dryly. Kratos laughed. “Have you been sleeping enough? Remembering to eat?”

“You can’t hide from your problems by fixing mine.”

“Oh, really?” Freya made a show of looking around her room. “Hold on, I think I have a mirror you can look at…”

“All right, all right. I yield.” Kratos sighed, for once in amusement and not in exasperation, and leaned back in his chair. “I propose an armistice. Neither of us discusses our problems. We are simply two friends having dinner.”

“That’s fine with me.” Freya took the opportunity to start drizzling honey over a thick slice of bread. “That said, there is…one thing you might be able to help with.”

He would, of course, without question, but… “Is it urgent?” he said.

“It will keep.”

He topped off his cup with more mead. “Then ask me when I’m done with this.” They could rest that long, he thought. Perhaps it would do them some good.

Freya smiled gently. “Okay.”

He drank slowly. They talked about the summer heat and returning plant life. Their problems kept for a little while longer.

They didn’t seem so insurmountable by the time he reached the bottom of his cup.

.

He returned to Midgard three days later thinking that he had spoken too soon. He did have some dragon scales for Lúnda to use and no one had died. That was about his only consolation.

And at least it’s not Aesir interference, he reminded himself. He had faced worse. And more annoying. But he was glad to be home.

Sindri hadn’t gone mad during Kratos’s absence. He supposed that was another victory. He was tense, but the dwarf was often tense, so Kratos assumed he would live through it. Neither spoke about how their days had gone. They only settled down around the fire pit to eat.

“I am this close to just replacing the fucking floors,” Sindri suddenly. “I don’t want to look at them anymore.”

Kratos nodded, more out of support than because he had truly registered the words. He had to run them over a few more times in his mind. He thought about the damp wood smell, that dark stain in the center of the floor. He hadn’t seen them since, but he doubted the time away had made things any better.

“We could do it,” Kratos replied.

“Do what?”

“Replace the floors.”

Sindri looked taken aback that Kratos had agreed with him.But after some consideration, he straightened up. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We could. Uhm, I mean, if you’re okay with helping.”

“I am.” He didn’t like to think of the house in that state, and it might do Sindri some good.

It might do both of them some good.