#i gotta update my character sheets oof

[hard-boiled-criminal]

Brimstone from the Throat

Chapter 4 - I May Be Stupid

< Ch 3 | Ch 5 >

>Ch 1<

Masterlist

Ao3 Mirror

From now on, the successfulness of your actions will be based on real dice rolling, brought to you by my dice collection, indicated by this: {Dice Result}

Also, every time you level up, I will link a pdf to the reader’s new character sheet (mostly to keep track of stats and spells), if you’re interested in looking at it. Instead of charisma, Astaroth’s warlock is dex based because you gotta be at least a little dexterous to play an instrument. There’s also other extraneous information and sources in the folder below if you’re interested in some lore diving.

Character sheet + ex info: brimstone from the throat

Your sleep isn’t very restful, to say the least. You’re not used to sleeping on such hard, uneven ground with rocks poking into you through the bedroll. You wake up with your body sore and aching, understandably so considering your latest experiences. You blink groggily, staring up at your tent’s ceiling.

‘Yep. Still here. On an alien planet I didn’t even think was real.’ You groan when you sit up, your back complaining at the movement. ‘Oof, fuck, and definitely not a dream.’

« Good morning. »

“Ah–!” You yelp, but quickly cut yourself off.

“(Y/n)?” You hear Tav outside your tent. “Are you alright?”

“Yep! I’m fineee–you can’t understand me… right.” you answer her, your ‘fine’ slurring into ‘you,’ remembering your communication problems. You stick your hand outside your tent flap and give her a thumbs up. [S’all good]! {Persuasion = 13, Success}.

“Well, when you’re ready, would you help out with breakfast?

[Okay]. You pull your hand back inside and sigh, ‘I’m still gonna have to get used to hearing your voice in my head.’

« Of course. Might I suggest preparing some charaded excuses for why you’re so jumpy in the meantime? »

‘...You just wanna laugh at my own expense, don’t you.’

« Guilty as charged. » You feel fondness through your shared mental bond. « On another note, I should let you know that I won’t be able to be as constant a presence in your mind for a while. »

‘What? Why?’

« I siphoned most of my power towards contacting you, the rest now towards channeling into you to provide you with powers and abilities– which reminds me, since you’ve become a bit more acclimated to magic, I’ve deemed it safe enough to grant you with some new spells. » 

New information seeps into your brain– more powerful spells, though limited in their uses.

« Having a constant presence across planes drains a fair bit of what little energy I have left, and my reserves have now almost been depleted. I’ll still be watching over you, but I must preserve my strength for now. In the meantime, I shall be working on more translation spellcraft for you. »

You pout.

He huffs amusedly. « Don’t worry, I will be able to consistently speak with you like this again in due time. You’ll know when my powers have sufficiently recharged. »

‘Yeah, because you’ll pop into my head out of nowhere and scare the living shit out of me.’

He laughs– a genuine, full-bodied laugh. « Can you blame me when your reactions are so entertaining? »

Your pout depends, playfully this time instead of with sadness. ‘You sound like my friends when they convince me to play a horror game.’

« You will be alright, young one. Besides, you now have quite the company around you. Some ‘snacks,’ I believe you’d call them, if my updated lexicon is to be believed? »

You blush furiously. ‘Astaroth! You can’t just hit me with that out of nowhere! God, that’s so embarrassing,’ you bury your face in your hands.

He chuckles in mirth. « I jest, I jest. Though, truly, it would not hurt to gain the trust of some capable companions. »

‘I know, I know, but talking –well, interacting, since I can’t actually talk to them –with people is scary,’ you “say” as you lift your face from your palms.

« I know, my dear. I know. I must go now, but I promise that should you call for me, I will answer. »

‘Okay… see– or uh, talk to you later, then?’

Even though you can’t see him, you can still sense his warm smile. « Yes, I’ll talk to you later. »

His presence fades, the comforting warmth you’ve already gotten used to leaving along with him. The void left by him is instead filled with the feeling of the tadpole churning in your head, more prominent now than ever. Astaroth’s presence either overrided the tadpole’s, or he was actively preventing you from feeling it. It’s uncomfortable, like the barest beginnings of a headache that won’t go away, but you can deal with it. You’ve dealt with worse pains.

Yawning, you stretch out your sore limbs before crawling out of your tent. The only ones who seem to be awake, or are outside of their tents at the very least, are Tav, Lae’zel, and Astarion. 

“Good morning, (y/n)!” Tav smiles her customer service smile at you as soon as you leave your tent.

[Morning], you wave back with your own tired customer smile on your face. Your stomach growls loudly, clearly audible as Tav giggles a bit.

“Ah, the food is in the pack next to my tent. If you want to get started on breakfast, feel free! I’ll join you after I wake and check up on the others.” She walks off in the direction of Shadowheart’s tent.

You walk over to Tav’s tent, going straight for the pack sitting outside. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’ Kneeling down in front of the beige pack, you first pull out a very fragrant purple pouch; you would get a headache if you tried to distinguish all the different smells. ‘Okay, herb and spice pouch. I’ll look inside that later.’ You rifle through what little variety of provisions you have. ‘Cheese, bread, meat, more cheese, apples, mint? I think? Smells like it. I’ll move that to the herb bag. Mushrooms, carrots, alcohol, more bread, more apples… wow, we are really lacking variety. I guess I’ll look through the herbs and spices. Hopefully I’ll find something that’ll go well with something we have. I’m thinking rosemary could be good.

You move your attention back towards the smaller pouch and rifle through it. You pull out a stalk of something with spiky leaves. ‘Oh hey, I know this! It’s mugwort! I think? Or a mugwort look-alike? One way to find out.’ Staying true to the stereotypical tired mind who just woke up, you don’t think before acting. You pluck a leaf off the stem and place it on your tongue…and immediately remove it, sticking out your tongue in disgust and shaking your head. ‘Blegh, ew, yuck. Yep. That’s mugwort. Bitter and gross. Not using that. Maybe I’ll put it in some tea if I feel like dreaming.’

You hear a muffled snicker come from behind you. Turning around, you see Astarion, hand over his mouth, looking very amused. Ignoring him, you turn back to the spice bag and pull out the next thing. You pause. It’s a leafy plant with drooping purple flowers. You recognize this one –how could you not? 

“...Who the fuck put belladonna in the spice bag?!” You whisper to yourself, incredulously. ‘I can’t use any of this stuff! It could all be contaminated! Shit, I gotta go wash out my mouth,’ you stand and speed walk over to the water’s edge, trying not to draw too much attention.

You kneel at the edge and scoop up some water in your hands. You bring it to your lips and fill your mouth, swishing it around before spitting it out. You repeat this a few times for good measure, rubbing at your tongue to make sure there’s no trace of anything left over.

When you walk back over, you see Tav back at her tent, looking confused at the mugwort and belladonna you pulled out. You make your way over and poke Tav in the arm. She looks at you. You pick up the belladonna and gesture to it, [why in the nine hells was there poison in the spice bag]?

“Belladonna? Were you the one who… Please don’t tell me you were planning on cooking with that,” Tav’s tone went from confused to scared and concerned.

[What? No]! You look at her weird. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ You gesture between the dangerous plant and the spice bag. [I’m asking why it was in the spice bag].

“Yeah, it belongs in the alchemy pouch,” Tav states what she knows to be obvious. “Was it mixed in with the food?” She begins to look more frightened.

[No! No]. You shake your head. ‘Wait…Alchemy pouch?’ You look at her blankly, feeling like an idiot. “...Oh.”

You hear more laughter, louder this time. Astarion wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“I believe they thought there was food in the pouch,” Astarion inputs, slightly clearing up the confusion. “You should have seen their face when they put mugwort in their mouth.”

Tav looks at you in disbelief, “Why would you look for ingredients in the alchemy pouch?”

[I thought there were spices in there]! You rub your fingers together, as if sprinkling salt on something. {Performance = 4, Failure}.

“Gods, I really wish I could understand you; I really haven’t a clue what you’re trying to say.”

You sigh. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Let’s just say I’m stupid and call it a day.’ You tap at your skull then shake your head, [I wasn’t thinking because I’m an idiot]. {Performance = natural 1, critical failure}.

Tav suddenly becomes guarded. “Are you saying your mind and thoughts are fading? That the tadpole is already influencing you?”

At the mention of the tadpole, Lae’zel’s gaze halts her sword maintenance in favor of wielding it and turns to you with a glare.

You rapidly shake your head, [No! No, that’s not it either]! You flail around with your arms a bit, trying to figure out how to better explain. You give up. You groan and drag your hand down your face. You wave her off, [Just…forget it. Doesn’t matter anymore].

Tav’s stance relaxes, “Well, I’m glad to hear you aren’t transforming already.” She turns to rifle through the provisions pack. “Hmm, we don’t have much, do we? Guess we’ll have to settle for meat and cheese sandwiches.”

You and tav work on slicing the baguettes, cheeses, and meats, assembling a sandwich for each party member. Luckily, breakfast was uneventful after your embarrassing performance. The only bad part was that the bread was tough and the sandwich was just bland in general.

‘We need to buy some spices and seasonings, especially salt, as soon as we get the chance.’

Shortly after everything gets cleaned up, courtesy of Gale’s prestidigitation, everyone begins to pack up their tents and belongings, getting ready to head out. You feel like your eyes bulge out of your head as you see things that definitely should not all fit in their packs go in one by one. Are they all bags of holding? How big are they on the inside? Could you fit a coat rack in them? Like Mary Poppins? That would be fun. Then you’d just need an umbrella enchanted with featherfall. Or fly? Would that even be possible? Probably? Maybe? Did umbrellas even exist here? As in ones for rain, not parasols for sunlight. Umbrellas don’t really scream ‘high fantasy’ so who knows if they have them here.

“Everyone ready to head out?” Tav, the de facto leader, asks everyone. 

Nods and affirmations are shared among the group, all ready to leave the campsite. With no objections, Tav leads the group back the way you came from the day before, intent on continuing up the path near where Gale and Lae’zel were found.

“It’s quite unfortunate the tadpole has robbed us of our abilities,” Gale began, breaking the silence after a few minutes since leaving camp. He turned to you, “If it hadn’t, I’d have been able to cast ‘comprehend languages.’ Then we would be able to have a proper conversation together.”

[Yes, unfortunate indeed], you nodded. ‘Except not really because having an excuse to not talk to people is amazing.’

“I take it you’re from overseas, then?” Shadowheart asked, gesturing to your entirety.

You nod. [Sure, let’s go with that].

“Seeing as there’s not much else to do, so how about we continue our guessing game?” Tav suggested. “I don’t know much about lands outside of Faerûn, so I am quite curious about yours.” 

You internally groan. ‘I thought we could finally forget about that, because I can’t-slash-won’t tell any of you the truth.’ You look at Tav, blankly. [How? We already know charades aren’t gonna get us anywhere]. ‘Nevermind the fact that this is a different planet and gestures that are familiar to me can mean something entirely different to all of you.’

“Hmm…” Tav holds her chin in thought, “Since it’ll be hard to guess a specific name, we can try the cultural route, as in objects, gestures, customs and the like from your home. Based on those, one of us might be able to pinpoint where you’re from.”

[Be my guest]. ‘Good fucking luck guessing outer space, not like I was even gonna tell you that. Though, I don’t know anything about the overseas culture on Toril so oh fucking well. Guess I’ll do what I do best: bullshit my way through this. Maybe if I just confuse them they’ll drop it.’

You place your hands in front of you and mime typing on a keyboard. [Typing is an essential skill where I’m from].

“Piano?”

[Well, not what I was going for, but yes, we have pianos].

“Well, it seems our friend here is of some social importance afterall,” Astarion chimed in.

“Huh?” You tilt your head, a bit puzzled.

“Darling, everyone knows that only the rich can afford pianos.”

‘Oh shit this is like medieval time stuff. I forgot about that.’

“Oh!” Tav’s eyes light up like she just came to a realization. “Were you trying to say that you could play us something from your hometown?”

You go to refute but she doesn’t give you a chance

“You have your viol, yes? I’m sure you can use that instead of a piano.”

You deadpan. [I don’t know if you’re aware, but there’s a reason marching orchestra isn’t a thing. Also I’m clumsy and this terrain is very uneven and my music could alert any beings nearby that there’s a group of idiots dumb enough to give away their location wandering about. Also, if I was going to play a piano piece on my violin we’d be left without the entire bass section of the song, so it’ll sound sad and disappointing]. You had given up on accurately gesturing anything halfway through, settling for frustrated and exasperated hand movements. ‘Also no thanks, I hate giving solo performances in front of other people. I’m either in an orchestra or playing to myself alone in my room.’

It seems nobody understood you besides the fact that you really didn’t want to play for them.

Tav sighs, disappointed. “Fine, I’ll leave it be for now. Next time we make camp though, I’d really like to hear you play.”

You relax a bit at that. ‘Thank fuck. How the hell am I supposed to give a personal solo performance to a group of strangers I’m gonna be stuck with for who knows how long? I’ll tell you how: by not giving them one. Let’s see how long I can put it off until they completely forget about it.’

Not interested in having to converse anymore, you instead turn to admiring your surroundings. Despite the less than ideal situation you’re in, it's actually quite beautiful here. The embers from the crash have died down over the past day, the air now clear of smoke and smog. It’s refreshing. You’re not sure if you’ve ever smelled such clean air before. The flora around you is vibrant, sharing many characteristics with the greenery you’re familiar with on Earth. And then there’s the foreign fauna. Different colors and patterns, shapes and structures. 

‘It’s probably best to be cautious around these plants,’ you surmise. ‘Who knows which ones are dangerous, especially towards an alien human… Oh shit, am I gonna have to worry about illnesses and diseases? …Fuck it, whatever. They got magic and I have Astaroth so I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

Your group approaches some familiar scenery: it's the same area where you found Lae’zel suspended in a cage. Walking past it, you notice some stonework through the natural rock archway. The remains of some type of abandoned stone building lies past, and you can see more crumbling walls behind it, hinting at an even larger structure awaiting to be explored. 

You poke at Tav’s arm to get her attention, [Look, there’s some ruins over there].

“Hmm, interesting… I would like to check it out, but I doubt there’s a cure for the tadpoles in there. Probably best to avoid it for now, just in case.”

[Fair point].

Ignoring the ruins that your curiosity is just begging to explore, you all continue uphill, entering unexplored territory. Cresting above the top of the hill, the land flattens out, your muscles thankful for the reprieve from the uphill climbing. 

Tav halts in her tracks, all of you following suit. “I hear shouting up ahead.”

Not one to waste time, she quickly moves ahead, skirting around a large rock formation, not dissimilar to the small rocky outcrop you woke up on. She soon stops in her tracks, and as you round the edge of the formation, you see why: There are three humans standing in front of a vine-covered wooden wall built into the cliff face further ahead, shouting at a tiefling standing atop the cliff.

“Open the bloody gate!” One of the human men shouts.

“Nobody gets in. Zevlor’s orders,” the tiefling replies.

“That pack of goblins will be on us any second!”

Another tiefling, older than the other, judging by his looks, comes up next to the tiefling who shouted before, “What’s going on?”

The same human man continues to shout, getting angrier each time, “Goblins are on our tail. Open the gate, Zevlor. Now.”

“You led goblins here? Where is the Druid?”

“Please! There’s no time!”

You hear some commotion from your left and see a horde of short creatures, all with olive-green skin tones, accompanied by semi-hairless beasts. They looked almost like wolves but their faces were too… wrong. There was no distinction between the skull and the snout: It was all just one piece, rectangular in shape, almost like a bull terrier’s facial structure.

“By the Nine Hells,” the older Tiefling, Zevlor, if you heard correctly, exclaims as he sees the horde approach. “Open the gate!”

You watch the other tiefling that had first responded to the humans turn towards a contraption which had what seemed to be a ship’s wheel attached. He grabbed said wheel and began turning it, the gate, which you had just assumed to be a wall at first, started to lift from the ground. It doesn’t last long as an arrow from the creatures, goblins, flies through the air, striking the tiefling in the chest. As he falls to the ground, the gate begins to close as well.

“Kanon! No!” Zevlor cries out.

As the gate starts to fall shut, the three humans rush to grab it and keep it from closing, but it’s weight is too much, and they have no choice but to release it and watch it fall, leaving no space between it and the ground.

“Shit,” the angry human curses. “Form a line!”

The goblins rush forward to begin melee combat with the three humans. It doesn’t take long for Tav to rush forward, intent to enter the fray, the other tieflings upon the cliff also begin to ready their crossbows. A human man, not part of the three by the gate, jumps down from the cliff, landing in front of a goblin.

“Dambable roach. Provoke the blade–” he stabs the goblin through the chest with a rapier, killing it instantly, then practically flicks the now corpse off his blade “–and suffer its sting.”

Now in the throes of battle, the melee attackers in your party rush forward, following Tav’s lead. Lae’zel, the most enthusiastic, immediately swings her greatsword down on the nearest goblin as Tav runs forward to another one, delivering a series of staff strikes and unarmed blows to it. You lose sight of Astarion, but Shadowheart also moves forward, shield and healing spells at the ready. Gale stays back with you, preparing to fire spells himself.

You hold your hands out and summon your fiddle and bow, “Bamf!” They appear in your hands, and you immediately bring them to your shoulder and strings respectively. 

Stress.

So much stress.

This is your first battle where you’ll actually have to fight. 

No time to think, only do. 

So you cope the only way you know how to in high-stress situations: you make it a joke.

You whip out that song you learned years ago as a meme that will forever be ingrained into you in both regular and muscle memory. 

‘My friends would be so disappointed in me, if they could see me now, but I know they’d do the same thing. I miss those dumb fucks.’

D0, D0, A3, A0.

The years it has lived as a meme have, despite its intensity, altered your brain to find the song quite amusing.

Megalo-fucking-vania.

Along with the first note flew an eldritch blast from your instrument, hitting the goblin archer that had clambered up to the top of the rock formation next to you. {Attack Roll = 20, Critical Hit}, {Force Damage = 12}.

The goblin staggers back a few steps, looking quite hurt, but still standing. Their attention now on you, they ready their bow, aiming to fire at you. You keep playing, hoping for another eldritch blast to come out, but to no avail.

‘Fuck, fucK, fuCK FUCK– quick, gazelle maneuvers, go!’ 

You try your best to zigzag about, but it is much more difficult to do while playing an instrument. Just as you take a step to the left, the goblin releases the arrow, lodging itself into the ground behind you after grazing your leg, leaving a sizable gash. You hiss at the sting, but don’t stop playing. 

‘National Geographic, you fucking liars! This doesn’t help at all! I know I’m not a gazelle but I’m just as terrified as one right now!’

Your perseverance is rewarded when but a second later you feel the familiar gathering of energy as you fling another eldritch blast at the archer, though your forced spiccato, courtesy of your graceful movements, makes your notes come out a bit wonky. This one, perhaps due to your dodgy performance, goes high, arcing over the goblin’s head. {Attack Roll = 9, Miss}.

‘Shit.’

As the goblin reaches to ready another arrow, you skirt back around the outcrop, losing sight of the archer, hoping they’ll also lose sight of you. You don’t bother trying to hide, afterall, your music would immediately give away your location. You instead switch targets to another goblin in combat with the human who had jumped down. This time, when your attack goes off, it hits the far goblin and knocks them to the ground. They don’t get back up. {Attack Roll = 17, Hit}, {Force Damage = 8}. 

The man looks at you and gives a short nod of appreciation before setting his sights on another enemy to go after. An arrow shoots into the ground in front of you from above, the shock making your bowing stutter. You look up and see the goblin archer you were aiming at before now standing on the outcrop directly above you, eyes glaring into your own. You leap away and bow harshly, ignoring any mistakes you make. Now’s not the time to worry about intonation. This time, your attack hits them right between the eyes. They’re flung backwards and don’t reappear. Another dead. {Attack Roll = 15, Hit}, (Force Damage = 5}.

The battlefield is a cacophony of steel meeting steel, battle cries, screams of anguish, and your frantic melody.

“Guaaagh!” 

You jump and spin around when you hear a gurgling cry behind you. You aim the scroll of your violin towards them, but quickly halt your bow when you’re met with Astarion pulling a dagger out of the neck of a goblin that had snuck up behind you.

“Careful now,” he playfully chides. “I’d hate to see you lose that darling neck of yours so soon.”

You purse your lips, but don’t say or do anything. ‘Says the man who was planning on holding a knife to said neck when we first met.’ 

The sounds of the battle around you begin to die out, the fight finally over. Muttering a small poof under your breath once you made sure all the enemies were dead, you let your violin vanish back into whatever storage dimension it now called home. 

“That was the last of them,” you hear Zevlor from atop the cliff, reaffirming the fact that the battle was over. “Inside–all of you. More may follow. Open the gate!”

This time, the gate is able to fully open. The three humans who were yelling before, all dressed in matching green outfits, are quick to get inside, followed by the darker skinned man who had nodded at you during the fight. 

Thoroughly drained, you trail after Astarion and rejoin the rest of your party in front of the gate.

“Everyone all right?” Tav checks up on everyone, handing out healing potions to everyone in your group who needs one, yourself included.

Uncorking the bottle, you take a quick whiff. It’s a sweet smell, almost fruity, but not quite. You shrug and down it. That sweet aroma is also seen in its flavor, along with an earthy bitter undertone that lingered in your mouth afterwards.

Tav starts speaking to Shadowheart about something, but you don’t hear it, busy with your own thoughts.

‘Why the fuck did I play megalovania? Why am I such a disappointment?’

Still wallowing in your own shame and despair, Tav turns and heads into the fort, the rest of your group following her.

Gale falls into step beside you, “Are you all right? You’re looking quite a bit more dour than before. Are you not used to combat? If this is about your performance in the fight, I can assure you, you did quite well and pulled your own weight; no need to worry.”

His words don’t do much to reassure you.

“Oh, I also noticed that song you were playing. I don’t believe I’ve heard any melodies like that before; is it a style unique to your hometown?”

“…Is there a good place to kill myself around here?”

Gale squints and tilts his head, “pardon?”

You wave him off. [Nevermind, it’s nothing].

‘C’mon me, it’s okay. Nobody here knows. You don’t have to wallow in shame,’ you think to yourself before another thought pops into your head. ‘But, If I focus on my own shame I won’t have to unpack all these distressing emotions I got from my newly found trauma of committing murder! …Both options are pretty bad, aren’t they…’

“There are children here, you fool!” A very angry voice distracts you from your thoughts.

‘Oooh, drama~ Looks like I don’t need to worry about introspection anymore! If only I had some popcorn…’

“We was running for our lives.” 

Tav leads your entourage up to the heated argument happening between a tiefling you remember shouting from atop the gate and one of the humans who was stranded outside with all of you.

“You led them straight to us, and you let them take the druid, too. Unbelievable!” The tiefling continues to yell, paying your party no mind.

“One fight just ended, and now you’re picking another? Relax,” Tav tries to diffuse the argument.

‘Oh yeah, Tav was definitely in customer service. Looks like they also get de-escalation training here.’

“Tell that to the dead at the gate,” the tiefling responds to Tav, no longer yelling but just as upset.

“Shut it, horns,” the human leans forward, face slightly scrunched in a pseudo-snarl. “I’d be lying dead next to the goblins if you’d stalled any longer.”

“My duty is to this camp.”

“God forbid you risk your precious tail. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Foulbloods ain’t known for courage.”

You flinch away, taken aback. ‘Yo, I don’t have to be from here to recognize that was a slur. Uncloseted racists, huh…yeesh.’ 

You see the tiefling’s eyes narrow, expression going dark. He raises a fist and slugs him, hitting him directly in the temple. The human falls to the ground, unconscious.

‘Nice,’ You nod in approval at his actions. ‘Fuck racists. Or would it be specist? Speciecist? Ah, who cares. Same difference. Still, sad to know that it seems humans are much the same here as they are back home: Hating those who are different.’ 

The tiefling sighs and shakes out his fist. “Enough. The goblins have found us. No doubt, the beasts will be back. We need to pack up and leave. Immediately,” these words he spoke out, more so towards the other tieflings in the camp. He crosses his arms and gives the unconscious human another look of disdain. “Seems his skull isn’t as thick as I thought,” he says to himself.

“Now that’s settled,” he looks up, locking eyes with Tav, “I wouldn’t have looked to a drow for help, but I’m grateful all the same. I’m Zevlor.”

‘Aw, come on, man! You’ve got discrimination in you too? I know that in D&D lore, drows aren’t looked upon favorably, but I was hoping for better since nobody in our party seemed to mind.’

“I’m Tav,” she replies, unfazed. You feel a bit sad, thinking that maybe Tav has had no choice but to get used to it.`

“Well met. I should warn you– visitors are no longer welcome in this grove,” Zevlor cautions. “Whatever your business, I’d see to it quickly– the druids are forcing everyone out. This attack will only strengthen their resolve.”

“Why are they forcing you out?”

“There have been several attacks by different monsters. The druids blame us ‘outsiders’ for drawing them here. Nobody’s welcome anymore. They’ve started a ritual to cut the grove off from the world outside. We can’t stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave- we’re no fighters.”

“So, what even brought you all here in the first place?”

“We’re refugees from Elturel– we took shelter here after gnolls attacked us on the road. We were bound for Baldur’s Gate, and it was too late to turn back. Elturel had no place for tieflings after the Descent.”

‘I have no idea what they’re talking about now.’

“Hmm, if your people survived that, they’ll survive anything.”

‘That? What’s that? This is starting to sound like it’s about to get dark, and I already have enough shit to worry about right now. I wanna know so bad because I’m too curious for my own good, but I know that I’ve got a raging guilt complex that’ll make me worry about them way too much if I find out what happened… Step away, (y/n), just step away. You’re in a land of monsters and magic, you can’t afford to worry about others.’ 

Steeling your resolve, you step away, the group not noticing your departure as you were already lingering towards the back. Behind you and to your right, you spot a comfortable-looking shaded area across a log bridge. Devoid of any people, it looks like the perfect place for you to take a break, because now that your adrenaline rush is over, you can feel the exhaustion setting in. You quietly walk over, your years of practice of silencing your footsteps coming in handy to stay out of anyone’s notice. The large lone tree that stood near the cliff’s edge looked quite inviting, something you could lean your back against.

You approach, fully ready to take a moment to rest and breathe. What you were not expecting was for a squirrel to lunge at you and bite at your toes. At least, it was biting at where it thought your toes were. Since your newly acquired boots were too big, your feet didn’t reach that far. You squeak and try to shake the creature off your foot while maintaining your balance. Thankfully, it quickly let go, so you took a step back, watching as it stanced up.

“Are even the squirrels out to kill me? Why are you like this, Faerûn?”

“I was so interested to see what our little bard-who’s-not-a-bard was up to, sneaking away like that, but I wasn’t expecting to see you in a fight with a squirrel of all things.”

You whip your head around to see Astarion. ‘I don’t think I like being the one who is getting snuck up on.’

“Oh, don’t mind me–I’d much rather see how this plays out, especially since it seems the squirrel is winning,” he crosses his arms, smirking at you.

You pout and deadpan. ‘I’m too tired to put up with this.’

“Oh, fine, fine– you’re no fun. There’s an apprentice healer in the grove and our fearless leader thinks we should go see them,” he says as he begins inspecting his nails. “Not that they’ll actually be able to do anything about these worms, but I suppose any information could be useful.” 

He turns around, a silent gesture to follow him. You do so, fully turning your back to the squirrel who thankfully doesn’t give chase. You find Tav and the rest waiting for your return, making you feel a bit bad for being the reason for the delay.

“There you are, (y/n),” Tav says with that same smile on her face, “Let’s all go meet that healer, shall we?”

You passed by a group of three tieflings arguing over whether they should leave or stay. Using her expert de-escalation skills, Tav said naught but one sentence to them: “To leave is a heavy choice– it will weigh on whatever path you walk next.” And just like that, they were convinced to stay and ceased arguing. You can’t help but wonder why she stepped in– was it perhaps just an automatic response, as if out of habit? ‘Well, doesn’t matter, I guess.’

A few meters ahead was a small training ground with children wielding swords against dummies made of wood and cloth. Instructing them was the man who had jumped down from the wall during the fight with the goblins. As he notices you all approaching, he gives the child he’s currently helping a bit of encouragement before turning to face Tav.

“Well met. The Blade of Frontiers at your–” his introduction is cut short as you’re connected to his tadpole, much like how it was when you met Astarion.

You see a wasteland, ravaged by countless battles, and then you see her: She’s tall and muscular–red skin, one curled horn, and lit ablaze, though the flames do not hurt her. Her black hair with streaks of red– whether they’re dyed or just an illusion from the fire, you can’t tell– are styled in a mohawk, her hair falling over the side of her head without any gel to hold it up. She turns to the side and you catch a glimpse of her face.

‘Hello, 911 emergency? There’s a handsome girl in my brain.’

And then it’s over. The connection is severed and the woman's visage is gone.

‘Wait, no, come back, I wasn’t done staring!’

“Hells’ great fires– you were on the ship,” he looked at you all in realization after the memory sharing ended.

“Yes– and we both carry parasites,” Tav replies, voice carrying a slight grim undertone.

“Mm, doomed to shed our skin and become iliithid, or so the stories go, but we haven’t sprouted any tentacles– not yet, anyway. Could just be good luck. I’m not so…”

He’s cut off again as the mind link resurfaces and you see her again. ‘Whoohoo! Pretty lady! She’s back!’ This time however, it’s not as pleasant as you feel the man’s emotions towards her: she’s evil incarnate. This connection is shorter than the last, and she’s gone once more. ‘Yep, that checks out… another villain who’s super hot– literally this time.’

“Shit,” he blurts out, “you saw her: advocatus diaboli.

‘...why did that translate into latin?’

“Her name is Karlach. An archdevil’s soldier I swore on my good eye to kill. I tracked her through the Hells to the mind flayer ship, but the damned illithids infected me before I could end her. She’s out there now, preying on the innocent. I don't kill her, she’ll leave behind nothing but a trail of corpses.”

“Well, we’re looking for a cure to this infection. I’d imagine you’d also be interested in getting cured, so I suggest we partner up,” Tav offers.

“Chk! A worthy ally, perhaps, but I’ll waste no time chasing devils while a tadpole feasts on our skulls,” Lae’zel inputs, unclear if she’s on board with the idea of him joining the party or not.

“I’ve seen your people in battle,” the man follows up. “I reckon you are no mere warrior, but a godsdamned army. I’d be a fool to let you turn your back. Pledge me your talents, and I’ll pledge you mine.”

Lae’zel responds with another “chk.”

“I’ll presume that’s githyanki for ‘yes.’ Now let’s move.”

“Shadowheart huffs amusedly, “The famous Blade of Frontiers, in the flesh. Clever, this hero act you’ve got going.”

“Hero, blade– names strangers gave me. My friends call me Wyll.”

“Excellent. If we ever become friends, I’ll know what to call you.”

You can feel your eyes open comically wide. ‘Holy shit, Shadowheart, that was brutal.’

“I’m Tav. These are Lae’zel, Shadowheart, (y/n), Gale, and Astarion.”

You nod your head in greeting.

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Wyll smiles. Unlike Tav, his smile is genuine.

‘Holy shit, a genuine nice person. First one of those I’ve met in a while.’

“I hope you don’t mind accompanying us to see the healer first,” Tav comments. “We are already here after all.”

“By all means,” Wyll acquiesces. “I’m also not too keen on the idea of becoming a mind flayer.”

The party is led down some stone steps, Tav and Wyll at the lead: Tav for being the de facto leader and Wyll for already knowing the layout of the grove. At the bottom of the stairs is a crowd of tieflings facing off against a few steadfast druids.

“Let my daughter go right now!” One of the tieflings yells. She’s enraged and worried to the point that she sounds as if she might begin to cry.

“She’s a thief, hellspawn, and you will wait for Kagha’s judgement. Now get back.” The druid is unyielding in her reply.

‘What is up with these people and being racist towards tieflings? Typical time period racism I guess?’

“Argh, let me through, mragreshem, or I’ll rip your damned throat out!” The same tiefling as before takes a few steps closer towards the druids.

One of said druids lets out a guttural roar as they shapeshift into a bear, effectively forcing the tieflings back.

‘...I completely forgot that it’s normal for people to shapeshift here… well, turning into a bear is definitely an effective intimidation tactic. I would take notes except for the fact that I’m not a shapeshifter.

With the tieflings no longer blocking the stairs, Tav steps down. The now-bear growls in attempts to discourage your approach.

“You! Step back,” the druid who was warning the tiefling before had now turned her attention to Tav. “We’ll not tolerate drow in here.”

Tav smiles that wide smile of concealed irritation. “We were told we could find a healer here. We’ll be brief, so please allow us through.”

“Keep back. Force my hand, and I’ll show you its claws.”

“A moment, Jeorna,” the last of the three druids speaks up, gesturing for Jeorna to lean down and listen as he whispers in her ear.

“What…? Why would she allow one of them? I… I suppose so, yes.” She leans back up and glares at Tav. “You– apparently Kagha wants to see you. Go ahead.” As Tav starts to walk past, Jeorna speaks again, “A word of warning.One wrong move and every single animal here will tear you apart.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing you any wrong, don’t worry,” she replies, never losing her wide smile.

You follow Tav past the druids, looking at the strange sight of what was obviously a ritual going on in the center of the area: druids chanting and channeling their magic into a small statue on a pedestal. ‘ This feels very cultish… I don’t know if I want any part in this.’ You all walk towards a patterned stone wall, which automatically lowers as you approach. ‘Huh… how uncharacteristically modern of them.’

The first thing you notice as you enter is just how much cooler it is inside, pleasantly so at that. Cool and dark, but not humid: a perfect place to relax, especially if you can find a small nook to be alone in. The peace of this place is suddenly shattered by the cries of a terrified child.

“Please, I’m sorry!”

As you go down the stairs, you come across the sight of a woman and a man on either side of a frightened tiefling child. And on the stone table behind her is–

‘It’s a baby!’ A snake, a viper judging by its head's structure, slithers up behind the girl, silently threatening her. ‘Dangerous, yes, but gods do I want to pet it, but I know I can’t, oh, this is torture.’

“This is madness Kagha. She’s just a…” The man standing next to the child protests.

“A what, Rath? A thief? A poison? A  threat?” The woman,  Kagha, you presume, stands firm, unaffected by his words. “I will imprison the devil, and I will cast out every stranger.

“Thief? Poison? What’s this girl’s actual crime?” Tav steps forward and asks, warily eyeing the viper.

“Girl? You mean parasite,” Kagha spits out. “She eats our food, drinks our water, then steals our most holy idol in thanks!”

‘...I mean, it’s more of a competitive symbiotic relationship rather than a parasitic one, unless they need to idol to survive; if that’s the case, then yes it’d be parasitic, but seeing as they’re all still alive after the kid stole it, I doubt that’s the case.’

“Rath, lock her up,” Kagha commands. “She remains here until the rite is complete.” She leans down to eye level with the tiefling child, “And keep still, devil. Teela is restless.”

The snake hisses in response, baring its fangs.

‘Oh my god, Teela is such a cute name… I know, not the time, not the place, but come on, it’s a relatively tame venomous snake, who knows if I’ll ever get a chance to safely pet a venomous reptile other than now?’

“Come, Kagha,” Rath tries to dissuade her, “We took back the idol. Surely–”

“Do it,” she cuts him off, leaving no room for negotiation.

There’s a brief second of silence before Tav speaks again, “You’ve proven your authority. Now prove your mercy.”

Kagha looks at Tav, a thoughtful expression coating her features, considering Tav’s words. “Fair words.” She turns back to the tiefling, “Child, take to the others word of my grace.” She then glances back to Teela, “Ssifisv– Teela, to me.”

The snake obeys, slithering away from the child and towards Kagha. As soon as the snake is far enough away, the child makes a break for it, rushing past your party and out the door you had just entered. 

Shadowheart takes a step to the side as the child passes, then winces and looks at her hand. “Ngh… it hurts…” she mutters under her breath.

“Thank you , Kagha,” Rath says, thoroughly relieved. “Master Halsin would–”

“Halsin isn’t here. Keep his name off your tongue, lest Teela pierce it.”

Rath backs off, moving to sit down instead as Kagha approaches you all, her gaze fixed on Tav. “A deep elf in our grove, on this day. A sign, or rather, a gift.”

‘...I’m sorry, what?’ You were expecting a much harsher welcome from Kagha, considering the druid guard who was so hostile to Tav for being a drow.

“Who better to understand a watchful broodmother than a beloved child of Lolth?”

Tav’s eyes narrow in distaste, her smile faltering. “I have no love for the Queen of Spiders.”

“Indeed?” Kagha takes it in stride, not bothered by the fact she may have just severely offended Tav, if you believe your own observations. “But you do exhibit a talent for self-preservation. A viper bares her fangs defending her brood. Is it not her nature to strike at invaders?” Tav doesn’t give her a response. “No matter. I took back the Idol of Silvanus and the rite has resumed. We will seal the grove. Free from harm. Free of intruders.”

“This rite must be born of powerful magic.”

“The Rite of Thorns. It is the Treefather’s gift, that none come to harm. When we speak the final prayer, the Great Vine will sprout forth. The grove will be cloaked in bramble and thorn. No one enters, no one leaves. Sanctuary. None of this can happen while outlanders inject us. Silvanus demands that we choke them out.”

‘Um, I may not know much about druidcraft, but choking people out doesn’t sound very druid-y. Aren’t they supposed to be all “one with nature” and stuff?’

Tav just gives a nod to Kagha, whether it was one of agreement or just acknowledgement, well, that’s up to interpretation… you really hope it’s the latter.

With a small but satisfied grin, Kagha walks off to one of the inner chambers, Teela in tow. Your eyes watch Teela, a bit disappointed you didn’t get a chance to pet it.

Once she’s out of earshot, Gale can no longer hold back his distaste, “That woman has more venom in her heart than a snake in its fangs, but at least the child is sage. What is youth if not a time to be forgiven for one’s transgressions?”

Tav nods, “I’m glad we intervened.”

“Couldn’t agree more. The girl wasn’t innocent, but that doesn’t mean she was guilty.”

She then looks at Shadowheart, concerned– no doubt she also heard her hiss of pain earlier.

“I know that look– you’re wondering why I was in pain before. Let’s just clear the air about that now,” Shadowheart says with a sigh. “It’s just an old wound that hurts me from time to time. Nothing to be concerned about. It’s nothing to do with the tadpoles at least, in case your imagination is in danger of getting away from you. It’s just…something I have to live with. It always passes quickly though, so I can manage.” 

“All right. Just make sure to tell us if it’s bothering you too much,” Tav says, still mildly concerned. “Nothing good comes from ignoring pain for too long.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

With no one else besides Rath around to ask for directions to the healer, Tav approaches him.

“You did well to speak up for the girl,” Rath thanks as he notices your party approaching him. “Tht snake is fickle. A tragedy prevented.”

“That Kagha seems dangerous,” Tav comments.

‘Oh, thank goodness. Looks like I don’t need to worry about her agreeing with what Kagha said.’

“Well seen. Well spotted. We’ve let a snake replace our leader.”

“Kagha seems happy to rule the roast. Your real leader is Halsin, I’m guessing?”

“Aye. Perhaps goblin-caught, perhaps dead now. He’d set… Mistress Kagha back in line,” his face scrunches in disdain when he used Kagha’s new title. “Hold her to task. Stop this damned ritual. More will die if the rite is finished. So many more, sent into a world gone mad…” He ends with a solemn tone and expression.

“If no one’s looking for Halsin, I could do it,” Tav offers.

‘Wait, what? I mean, yeah that’s probably what I would have done, but can’t you, oh, I don’t know, ask for our input first since your “I” definitely means “we”?’

“Would you? I would give anything to see Halsin return  home.”

“No need to fret. I’ll find him.”

“Silvanus’ blessings upon you, and my gratitude as well. Halsin is an elf with the presence of a bear. He left west, with the adventurers. You won’t mistake the First Druid for anyone else.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, I heard there was a healer here, Nettie, I believe. Could we meet her?”

“Ah, I see. You will find her deeper in the caves,” Rath points towards a nearby stone archway.

“Thank you,” she says, receiving a nod in response from Rath.

The archway gives way to a round chamber, where you can see a dwarf fussing over an injured bluejay. Tav walks up and pauses in front of the dwarf.

“I see you. Just give me a moment,” the dwarven woman says. Tav remains silent, waiting. “Vis medicatrix…” The dwarf chants, white strands of magic leaving her hands and surrounding the bird, which stands up. “There. It’s up to her now. Life or death. Now, what–” she cuts herself off as she sees Tav for the first time. “Drow. Last time I saw one of you folk, he tried to slit me open. I hope you’re more agreeable.”

“Where did you see another drow?” Tav asks, curious.

“That’s neither here nor there,” she brushes off the question. “Look, you obviously want something. What is it?”

“Healing. Looks like I came to the right person.”

“I do what I can. For most folks, that’s enough. Come here. Let’s have a look at you.” Tav leans down so that she’s eye-level with who you presume to be Nettie. “You seem healthy enough. A bit tired ‘round the eyes, maybe.

“More than tired. Something crawled into my eye.”

“Crawled in? Some sort of bug or–wait…” she takes a step back. “Did it look like a tadpole? But from your worst nightmare? All slime, teeth, and tentacles?”

“You know of them? Can you help me?”

“I–I’ll do what I can. Follow me. I might be able to help.” She turns around, gesturing for your party to follow. “We need to be quick. This way.”

She leads you to another stone door, which you did not realize was such until it too lowered like the one at the entrance. This chamber is smaller, with statues of wolves decorated with glowing blue markings. There are two stone tables to the left: one holds candles and what looks to be medicinal plants and substances, and the other is being used as a final resting place for a dead drow.

“Don’t worry about him on the table. I’m not in the habit of killing drow,” Nettie explains. “He attacked Master Halsin and I in the woods, leading a pack of goblins. Tadpole crawled out of his head soon after.”

“He and I have the same kind of parasite?” Tav asks, seemingly unbothered by her dead kin.

“Seems so. Gave Master Halsin a right start. It’s why he joined the adventurers on their expedition. To find out what was happening. A pity you got me instead of him. He understands these things– studied them. Still, we have two options.” She pulls out a thorny stick, holding it in her hand. Her arm is lax but her grip is tight.

“What’s that plant? Will it help?”

Nettie shifts her weight. “It might, but first things first. Tell me about your symptoms– have you noticed anything strange happening?” 

Tav’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “It ‘might’? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m telling you everything you need to know. Believe me on that.”

‘“Everything we need to know,” huh? That’s a red flag if I’ve ever heard one.’ You glance around you, making sure there’s nobody hiding nearby and that the stone door is still open. You go to lean against the wall, trying to stay casual. You don’t trust this, and having your back facing an open doorway is a bad idea.

“I want to help you,” Nettie continues, “but I can’t unless you work with me. So, has anything unusual happened to you?”

“I can merge my mind with anyone else that’s infected,” Tav says, ending on a downwards intonation, implying that that’s all, not about to offer up any other information.

“Victims can identify each other? Not that the others know they’re victims, of course. How’d you pick up the parasite? Halsin was desperate to find where all this was happening.”

“Look, are you going to cure me or not?”

“I’m trying to help you, but I need to be sure. So tell me, where'd you get that thing?”

“I don’t know, I just woke up with it.”

“All right. I suppose that makes things easier. Give me your arm, please.”

Tav hesitates, then slowly holds out her arm. Nettie grabs Tav’s arm and quickly pierces her with the stick’s thorns.

“There. Be careful. Your legs’ll probably give out first.”

With narrowed eyes, Tav reaches to grab the branch from her, but Nettie steps out of her immediate reach.

“It’s too late. It’s already in your system. I’m truly, truly sorry. For what it’s worth, the poison is painless. It’ll be like going to sleep.”

“You poisoned me huh? Heh, should’ve known…” Tav scoffed, not sounding all too surprised.

“Please, try to relax. This doesn’t have to be hard.”

“Is there an antidote?”

“You can’t have it. I can’t risk you turning– you’d kill us all.”

“Give. Me. The. Antidote.”

“I won’t. I can’t.”

“But I don’t have symptoms– I’m not changing.”

Nettie fidgets, her face squinched in reluctance. A few seconds of what you assume is a mental debate later, she relents. “Gods above. It’s a risk, but maybe you deserve a chance…” She sighs, “All right. Master Halsin did say the drow’s tadpole was dormant. Maybe yours is too.” She places the branch down and instead pulls out a bottle filled with a radioactive-green liquid. “Now, this is a vial of wyvern poison. It’s quick and painless. Swear to me you’ll swallow it if you feel any symptoms.”

“All right. Hand it over.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that but… thank you. Here,” she hands Tav the poison. “And here’s the antidote. Do not mix those two up.” Tav takes it and pops the cork off, wasting no time before she starts drinking. “I’ve spent my life treating folk and never once saw a mind flayer infection. Then suddenly there’s dozens of you– maybe more. Master Halsin and I were tracking them, studying them, trying to figure out what the hells was going on, because you should all be changing; there should be a small army of mind flayers out there! But you’re not. Weird powers aside, you seem perfectly normal.”

Tav wipes her mouth with her arm once she finishes off the antidote. “Cure aside, you must’ve learned something from studying them, at least.”

“For one, that thing in your head is like nothing we’ve ever seen from mind flayers. It’s one of their worms, for sure, but this one gives you powers– telepathic connections– and it doesn’t turn you into one of them. Not yet, anyhow.”

“You said you were tracking other victims. Did they change?”

“Hard to say, but there’s a lot we don’t know. Infected– folks like you– have been converging on an old temple of Selûne, and I’ve no idea why. When Master Halsin heard the adventurers were heading that way, he saw a chance to get answers. Joined on the spot. Whatever he found there, he didn’t  make it back.”

“You think he’s still alive?

“I think so. I hope so. I’ve sent birds to find him, but they can’t get close without goblins trying to shoot them down. You though? You’re one of them–technically speaking I mean; they won’t kill someone carrying their parasite. If you can find Halsin and get him out of there, we can discover what he learned, and perhaps he can save your life. How’s that sound?”

“You’re sure he can cure me?”

“I can’t make any promises. This is like nothing we’ve seen before, but I know this for sure: master Halsin is the only one close to understanding these things. He’s your best bet to survive. Otherwise, that vial’s your only option.”

“All right, I’ll find Halsin.”

“Thank you. It would mean everything to the grove. To me. I wish I could tell you what happened out there, but those adventurers were the only witnesses, and they’re long gone. All I can say for sure is they all went to the old temple of Selûne and Master Halsin didn’t make it back. Good luck out there, and if things start to go bad, remember the vial. Remember your oath.” With that, Nettie leaves the room, going back to tending to the now-healed bird.

“I can’t believe she poisoned you, tried to put you down like a dying dog without as much as a whisper of consent!” Gale exclaims after the stone door rises shut behind Nettie.

“It was one hell of a surprise, but Nettie came around.”

“Yes– against her will, without rhyme or reason! How dare she snuff out life with as much thought as snuffing out a bloody candle?”

You look at Gale, concerned. You might not have known him for long, but you’d have never expected just how livid he sounded. 

“Are you all right, Gale?” Tav asked him. Looks like she feels the same way as you.

“Yes…Yes, I am,” he tries to calm himself down, and it works for the most part, but you can still hear that underlying anger when he continues, “It’s just that– had it been me…had it been…” He trails off, and you can see a faint trace of fear in his eyes that vanishes as quickly as it appeared. “But you handled it, and you handled it well! As for myself, I could quite do with a tumbler full of Waterdeep Whiskey. Anyway, we live. For the moment. How about we go find that chap Halsin little miss Poison Ivy mentioned? With a bit of luck, he has the means to offer us a cure rather than a coffin.” And just like that, he’s back to his upbeat self. 

‘I know trauma when I see it, and that man definitely has trauma.’

“Chk, I knew this would lead to nowhere,” Lae’zel speaks up, fed up. “The only to cure is to have the tadpoles removed by my people. We must find this ‘Zorru’ those ‘teef-lings’ spoke of and get answers.”

You quickly cover your mouth and stifled yourself after you realized you let out an involuntary chuckle at hearing Lae’zel say ‘teef-ling.’ You see Lae’zel cross her arms and roll her eyes after Tav corrects her mispronunciation.

“They saw one of my people. That means a crèche is nearby.”

“How about we split up?” Tav offers. “Three groups: one to find Zorru, one to ask around for information on Karlach, and the last for any other information on the area.”

Nobody felt any need to object so you sorted yourselves into groups: Lae’zel’s group, consisting of her and Tav, Wyll’s group consisting of him and Shadowheart, and your group of you, Astarion, and Gale. Tav would have the best chance of convincing Lae’zel if something went wrong, Shadowheart would be able to be more harsh when Wyll could not, and Gale and Astarion would probably have the best chance at communicating with you at the moment, so the groups were decided on those premises. Also because Gale is less likely to rub people the wrong way than Astarion. 

‘I’ve only known this man for one day and I can already tell he’s a bastard, in a likable sense,’ you think to yourself, grateful that you won’t have to manage Astarion by yourself, since you’re essentially mute. 

The groups split off after you get back to the surface, out in the sun. Your group stays behind in this area of the grove while the other two groups head back towards the tiefling camp.

“Ugh, this is going to be so boring,” Astarion whines.

You mime patting him on the back, not wanting to touch without permission. [There, there, I’m sure it won’t be all that bad].

“Hmm, perhaps it’ll be more entertaining if you do the talking,” he smirks at you. “Yes, I’d say that sounds quite amusing.”

“Wow, very funny– come up with that idea yourself? “ you deadpan. Hopefully they’ll at least understand your unamused tone. “Sure, let’s have the basically mute one do the conversing when we have to others perfectly capable of speech; I’m sure that’ll go perfectly.”

“I think I’m with them on this one, Astarion, assuming they’re saying that we should probably do the talking,” Gale says, looking to you for confirmation, smiling when you nod at him.

“Neither of you are any fun at all,” Astarion pouts.

‘Sorry man, but my social anxiety is back now that the adrenaline is gone, so I’m back to being way too scared of people.’ [Oh well].

“Fine, fine. I guess we’ll just have to be boring for now.”

“Wonderful. Let’s get started, shall we?” Gale says, looking around for someone who isn’t busy chanting.

There were really only three or so druids who were free, so you all started with them. Unfortunately, none of them had much to say besides their distaste for either outsiders or the ritual underway. Your next target was a rather eccentric man dressed in blue and talking with a bear. Normally, this wouldn’t be so odd in a druid grove, except for the fact that he looked extremely out of place.

“Oh! Why hello,” the boisterous man clad in blue exclaimed as soon as Gale walked up, not giving Gale a chance to even greet him. “You were the ones with the drow, weren’t you? I must say, I was quite surprised when I first saw them here, of all places. It’s rare to come across one of them above ground, you know. Rare and intriguing on a day already packed with intrigue!”

Gale opened his mouth to speak but the man kept talking, leaving no room for interruption. “You were at the gates just now, no? When the goblins came? You saw them up close? A few questions, if you please. There’s no overstating my interest.” 

“Would you answer some of ours in return?” Gale extends an offer.

“But of course! Now, then: How would you describe that particular batch of goblins? Size? Nature? Distinguishing qualities?”

You start to check out of the conversation as Gale begins to give an exact and detailed description of the goblins. ‘Not really much for me to do here.’ Out of habit, you reach for your phone, but catch yourself before you bring it out. ‘Ah. Right. I can’t do that here.’

“I do believe it’s our turn to ask some questions of you now, yes?” Gale asks, his answering time finished.

“Go right ahead,” Volo says, tucking away his journal and quill.

“I was hoping you could tell us a bit about the area, what to expect, places of interest, unusual occurrences, and the like.”

“Of course there’s that ship that just crashed, but I doubt you need me to tell you about that; it was practically impossible to miss. There’s also some old ruins south of here– I’m almost positive I heard a bit of a commotion coming from it when I passed by. I’m afraid I’ve not seen much else besides that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must be on my way to the goblin camp. Until we meet again!” And just like that he left, not allowing any follow up questions to be asked.

“Well, he was certainly a character,” Astarion mutters. 

You find yourself absentmindedly nodding in agreement– music. You freeze. You can faintly hear some singing and the plucking of a stringed instrument. Your head snaps to the side towards the direction it's coming from.

“(Y/n)? Is something the matter?” Gale looks at you with a mix of intrigue and concern.

You point in the direction of the music and hum the melody you’ve heard repeat a few times.

Astarion grumbles, “We are not going over there. That singing is downright awful.”

You shrug. [Up to you guys]. ‘Not like I’ll ever suggest we talk to people; my anxiety isn’t called a disorder for nothing.’

“Oh, I’m sure you’re just exaggerating,” Gale says. “The more information we have, the better, so why not at least ask?”

You follow behind Gale as he begins to head in the direction you pointed to. Astarion huffs in annoyance, but ultimately doesn’t stray from the group; he still pouts the entire way, though. Soon, you’re close enough to actually clearly make out the singing of a woman. Her singing is… admittedly not the best to your ears, but definitely not as awful as Astarion was making it out to be. Who knows, maybe it’s a stylistic thing that you’re just not used to since you’re an alien. For all you know, she could be an expert singer and that’s just how it’s supposed to sound. Plus, considering your taste in music sometimes, you’re really not in a place to judge others.

“Dance upon the stars tonight. Smile and pain will fade away. Words of mine will change–no. Become–ugh.” A blue-purple tiefling– it was hard to tell exactly what color her skin was in the spotty shade she sat beneath– was singing alongside her lute on top of a small rocky hill overlooking the grove, performing for a couple of critters. Her singing was warbly at points, as if she were trying to hold back tears.

‘Is she trying to come up with lyrics after she made the melody? No wonder it sounds like she’s struggling.’

“Change? No. Damn it!”

“Are you all right?” Gale asked her as your group of three strode up to her, understandably worried as she both looked and sounded frustrated enough to throw her lute to the ground.

“No. I’m moments away from a grisly death…at the hands of this bloody song. I can’t… nothing fits, you know?”

“Well, luckily for you, we happen to have a bard in our party. Perhaps they’ll be able to be of some help?” Gale nods towards you.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure our bard would love to help,” Astarion gives you a smirk, knowing fully well that you are, in fact, not a bard.

Your eyes dart between the two of them who oh-so-kindly just threw you under the bus. ‘...You fucking assholes.’ [Fuck you guys].

“Hm. It can’t hurt. I have her… I have an extra lute, if you want?”

You make no move to help, but Astarion oh-so-kindly nudges (Read: pushes) you forward. You give him a glare over your shoulder, to which he only smiles smugly at, his face reminding you of a satisfied cat who just pushed something off of a ledge.

She holds out the lute for you to grab, “I’m Alfira.”

“(y/n).” You awkwardly pick up the lute and hold it like a guitar. ‘I don’t know how to play the lute.’ You look over the lute you were handed. ‘Four strings, early medieval-style, huh? I wonder if–’ You pluck each open string. “G-D-A-G? Well, I suppose it’s close enough to a violin, even if some of the strings are an octave off. Guess I can shoddily transpose.’

Taking your little note test as you ready to begin, Alfira brings her own lute into ready position, “I’ll start from the beginning. We’ll take it slow.”

Dance upon the stars tonight. 

Smile and pain will fade away. 

‘Abwpfft–ah shit we’re already goin’! Well, I don’t know chords so you’re gettin’ some pizzicato!’ 

You start plucking at the strings, sticking to open notes since you don’t know how fretboards are set up for lutes. Despite your anxiety, you pluck them confidently, because if you don’t play with confidence, it’ll sound like shit no matter what.*

Alfira smiles, encouraged by your playing. She continues.

Word of mine will turn to ash. 

When you call the last light down. 

‘Why am I the only one playing? Why aren’t you playing your lute with me?!’ You continue to play, though Alfira just holds her lute while she sings, not bothering to play it. ‘I can’t just play the same four notes forever! I was planning on watching where you placed your fingers so I can mimic it but nooooo you only want to sing. Well don’t blame me if this doesn’t work,’ you place your fingers down onto the second fret of the A string and thank god it was in key.’

Moon reminds me of your grace. 

All the love I can’t repay. 

Rest and know that I will pray. 

Farewell, my dear old friend.

As Alfira trails off, so does your playing. ‘I’m free! Finally!’

Alfira places her lute to the side as she starts to cry. “Sorry.”

You see Gale begin to fret with a slight panic as she starts to cry. You flash him a grin with a hint of smugness. ‘You gotta do damage control now because I can’t talk. Serves you right for throwing me under the bus.’

“Don’t worry. Cry as much as you need,” Gale placates her, giving no sign of having noticed your self-satisfied expression.

“Heh. She’d have said the same thing,” she sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That’s the first time I’ve played since Lihala died. My teacher. She was playing her lute. We…didn’t hear the gnolls coming. There was so much blood. I–I can still smell it.”

“Well, you’ve come up with a fine tribute to her.”

“Lihala said that’s why eulogies were important. They were for the living as well as the dead. I’d forgotten what it was like: that itch to perfect a song. Keep the lute. Please. You’ve earned it. The Weeping Dawn will be my gift to Lihala. I’ve a long way to go, but thank you. I…I needed this.”

‘...Guess I’ve got a lute now… where am I supposed to put this?’

“If you don’t mind my asking, where did your group run into the gnolls?” Gale asks.

“Northeast of here. If you’re going that way, be careful,” Alfira warns.

Gale thanked her for the information and turned around, nodding at Astarion to follow him back towards the way we came, leaving Alfira to her own devices.

‘I feel like we watched her go through the five stages of grief all within the span of five minutes.’

“See? Now we know there are gnolls about,” Gale says, looking satisfied that we got useful information despite Astarion’s initial reluctance to approach Alfira.

Astarion crosses his arms and looks to the side, away from Gale. “Fine, I suppose this wasn’t too useless of an endeavor.”

“And, our bard received a gift as well!” Gale looks at you with a smile.

Your face remains cold as you place your fingers at the sixth fret of the first G, the fifth fret of the D string, and fifth fret of the A string, but leave the last string open: C#-G-C#-G. You lift your right hand and strike down across all the strings. Astarion and Gale both cringe at the awful tritone you chord you made.

“Good gods, what is wrong with you?” Astarion asks incredulously, covering his ears.

You cross your arms as best you can while holding the lute and puff out your cheeks. [You made me do an impromptu duet! With an instrument I don’t even know how to play!] {Performance = 11, Success}

‘That was an awful experience, forcing me to do a public performance! The two of them deserve to be at the mercy of the diabolus in musica at the very least.’

“My apologies,” Gale sheepishly apologizes, “all the bards I’ve ever come across usually jump at the chance to perform, so I assumed you’d be the same.”

[No, I hate public performances.]{Performance = 15, Success} [Also, not a bard.] {Performance = 7, Failure}

Gale scratches his head in confusion, “Forgive me for being confused, but why go down the path of a bard if you don’t enjoy performing?”

You throw your head back with a dramatic groan. ‘How many more times am I going to have to explain this?’ Bringing your head back down, you take a breath to calm yourself before trying again. [I am not a bard.] {Performance = 5, Failure}

Gale just looks at you in confusion, not understanding.

You turn to Astarion with wide, urging eyes and jerk your head towards Gale. [Can you just tell him? I’m sick of this game.] {Persuasion = 9, Success}

“Well, it was starting to lose its amusement, so, all right,” Astarion accepts and explains to Gale, “We had a little conversation yesterday and, turns out, they’re not a bard.”

“Truly?” Gale looks at you, intrigued. “But you use an instrument as an arcane focus, do you not?”

[Well, yes, but… I don’t know. Not a bard, though. Remember that.]

“Hmm, that’s quite interesting, isn’t it? Would you mind if I asked some questions? I’m very curious,” Gale looks at you with intrigue sparkling in his eyes.

[Um, maybe later.] ‘Really don’t want to discuss it though. I need to keep Astaroth a secret.’

“Perhaps we’ll have a chance when we next make camp.”

[Yeah, sure, sounds great.] ‘Please forget by the time we set up camp.'

“There doesn’t seem to be many other people to talk to, so shall we meet up with the others and see if they’ve had any luck?”

You didn’t have any reason to object and Astarion seemed glad to get as far away from Alfira’s music as possible, readily agreeing. And so, your group of three started heading back towards the stairs leading up into the tiefling camp half of the grove.

‘…Okay, for real though, where am I gonna put this lute?’

*Best advice I’ve ever gotten from my conductor. Play with confidence. Even if you’re not, play as if you are. Someone who’s playing confidently but hitting the wrong notes will always sound better than somebody who is hitting all the correct notes but playing meekly. 

Whether it’s true confidence or false bravado, it doesn’t matter. The end result will almost always be better if you embody it. Same thing goes for art. Strong confident lines tend to look better, especially for line art.

Fun fact, when I first started writing this chapter all the way back in…*checks notes*...January… the name of this chapter was “Is this foreshadowing or a red herring?” but now, 7 months later, I cannot remember why.

[finiteframe3]

i cant wait until artifight crashes the first few days again lmao

[capnjay21]

The Wind Blows White 1/6

It’s been two years since Killian Jones and Emma Swan managed to escape the clutches of Brooke House, two years of waiting for it all to catch up to them and two years of pretending the cracks in their happy ending don’t show. But when the vision appears to Killian of a young boy unearthing the dagger and the darkness they had long since buried, it’s a race against time to try and stop another innocent from befalling the same fate. If they have the strength to face it.

Sequel to ‘A House is Never Still’.

A/N: Here it is, happy (slightly early) Halloween everyone! :D Confession time, I’ve actually been kinda nervous about posting this for a little while? Fretting over whether this one won’t be as good or scary as the original - but I am officially making a concerted effort not to care about any of that, because this is how the next part of the story goes and I’m excited to tell it! I hope you guys like it <3

***Editing to include the AMAZING art done by the lovely @hollyethecurious​ - I love it so much and I’m so excited by it. And for those that don’t know, she created the art that inspired the original fic so this is EXTRA cool!

Updates will probs be every other week to allow me to stay ahead. If it’s any consolation, they’re usually over 10k words, oof! Enjoy! 

AO3

Rating: T Warnings: Mentions of canonical character death and some certified Spooky Business™.

Taglist: @carpedzem @optomisticgirl @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda @phiralovesloki @hollyethecurious @stahlop @peglegsjones @mariakov81 @seasailia @courtorderedcake​ @jonesfandomfanatic @wyntereyez @mrtinski @thisonesatellite @klynn-stormz @teamhook​ 

If anyone would like on, or off, the taglist, just let me know! 

-/-

1.  i won’t die in my sleep.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

The whispers woke her, as the whispers always did.

It took her a few dizzying moments to emerge completely from sleep, the vivid and fraught images of her restless dreaming spilling out into the darkness of the room. As usual, she could not move. Her muscles had seized, curled tightly around her stomach like a clenched fist, trembling with strain while her eyes blinked out into the dark. She could see the forest. The broad, sweeping trunks of old red oaks sprawled from the ground upward, their leaves stained crimson by blood while their bark wept tears the colour of potted ink. Only once observed did she really consider that there was so little in nature truly black, as pus the same shade as crows dribbled and oozed down the spines of every oak she could see.

Slowly, the numbness receded from her aching limbs, the reckless smears of her wakeless mind gave way to the shapes her eyes could make out, could confirm as being there, and like a prayer she whispered aloud every object she could see and smell and know was real.

“Chair,” she croaked, “desk. Lamp. Computer. Window. Gold –”

No. No gold. The basket of spun gold twine was the final little spill, tempting her to return to a nightmare it could kiss back into a dream.

She refused.

It disappeared.

The whispers had woken her, but once she rose she was alone in the dark.

Emma patted the bed beside her, and found the sheets bare and cool. He had been gone for some time already, then. Trying to suppress the growing tide of unease that always came from waking alone, she stood slowly, then stretched out her sore muscles. Sore from being clenched so tightly for what felt like hours. Usually Killian woke her before it reached this point, but clearly he hadn’t even been there for its beginning.

She sighed. Thought about calling him. The clock on her nightstand winked in and out. 2:17am.

There was no point, anyway. She knew where he’d be.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

As usual, it was raining.

Beyond the stretch of porch in front of him, sheets of water fell in a relentless assault on the sodden ground, and Killian mopped at his already sweaty brow. The air was thick and moist, even this early in the morning, the height of an unusually punishing June. He let the downpour carry on for another few moments before ducking out into it, bending to lift the wide bowl he had left sitting on the grass a couple of minutes earlier. Now filled to the brim with rainwater, he brought it back underneath the shelter of the porch and laid it down on the ground.

He'd had that dream again. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

There was a noise from not too far away, the screech of metal on concrete in the dark and the answering leap of a car horn out into the night air, but he tried to push it from his mind. This would never work if he couldn’t clear his thoughts. Folding his legs underneath him, Killian leant forward until he could see his reflection staring back at him from the bowl.

The surface of the water was inky black, the faint caresses of a breeze brushing ripples across the surface and making his reflection appear distorted, but he tried to see beyond that. Beyond his tired eyes and the hurt and the heat, to something more. Silently, he willed the dark pool to show him something else.

Show me the boy, he asked out into the dark. Show me the boy at the creek with the dagger.

Even just the thought of the dagger, the curling blade they had sent hurling into the ravine, brought forth a rush of unwelcome and jarring memories. The dagger, floating in the middle of their circle, summoning a storm of black lightning and hurt and that nothing, that awful nothing, and Killian could feel something tugging at the centre of his chest, beckoning him forward.

He couldn’t see his reflection anymore. The surface of the water was blank.

Not like this, he thought furiously, wrestling for control.

It wasn’t interested in his control. If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall. This was the bargain.

But –

He thought of her at home, in their bed, resting fitfully.

This was the bargain.

Emma.

Killian gasped for air, which was when he realised the tightness in his chest was because he hadn’t taken a breath in a long time. He almost fell forward, and his right hand shot out to the deck of the porch to stop his face from crashing into the bowl – which was when he realised it was just a bowl of water again. His reflection stared back at him, breathing heavily, eyes wild and afraid.

If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall.

In his mind’s eye, he could see it perfectly. The sparkling summer day. The boy, knelt with his right arm in the creek before he pulled it out, and the dagger with it.

Dragging his eyes away from the bowl, he reached into his pocket for his phone. The clock on the display ticked onto 2:17am.

Still? He thought, bewildered.

“You should be used to this sort of shit by now,” he muttered, before emptying the bowl onto the grass.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

Henry only knew this because it had been 2:17am for a really long time already, but every time he checked the clock it was the same.

“Gotta be broken,” he mumbled, letting it drop back onto his nightstand. He told himself to roll over, to go back to sleep, Mom was making pancakes tomorrow and he didn’t want to be too tired to enjoy them, but something kept lingering at the edge of his awareness. Like a movement that was too quick to spot, or a sound too quiet to take shape, or that sensation after someone had taken a deep breath and they were waiting to speak, but wouldn’t utter a word until he looked at them.

Something was different, and it niggled at him like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

Somehow, he didn’t feel alone in his bedroom anymore.

He rolled over again, and this time his eyes instantly locked onto the shoebox he had stuffed under his dresser. He didn’t know how he knew, but he just did. Whatever he was feeling – it was coming from there, and the object he had hidden inside.

The dagger he had found at the creek.

It was… whispering to him.

Come, it hissed out into the dark. Listen.

Henry’s hand tightened on the covers. Then he gently pushed them back and sat up.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

Robert should have been home hours ago, and Belle couldn’t sleep for worry.

Her heart stuttered into hopefulness with every shadow that passed in front of the pawn shop window, but each one merely reached the other side with barely a glance back at her. She thought about calling the police, but surely they would dismiss her concerns so early into the morning. It’s normal, ma’am, they would say, and laugh about wives wondering after their wandering husbands. But this was different.

There was something about the way he had looked tonight, something wild and dangerous and careless in his eye, that had made her want to take three steps back every time he opened his mouth to speak. His tongue had lingered over softer sounds, tickled by a secret that only it knew. Like an animal, his sharp eyes had followed her around the shop as they closed, and when he kissed her it had sent a shiver down her spine.

It had frightened her. He had frightened her.

You’ll see, he had said, when she asked where he was going. You’ll see.

Belle didn’t want to see. She just wanted him to come home. Her mind railed against the truth that had already started to creep into the corner of her heart.

Tonight, he had gone to Brooke House.

And Brooke House did not want to give him back.

-/-

Liam Jones didn’t care what fucking time it was.

Aching and exhausted, he kicked open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. The air was dank and cold, and smelled faintly of mildew, and he wrapped his coat tighter around him. Killian had needed three blankets before he could get to sleep earlier, the act of being inside the house only slightly warmer than the harsh early spring outside, but still sweat pooled at the base of Liam’s neck. His hands felt clammy with a layer of grit that he could never wipe away, and the moisture on his skin froze the moment he walked out into the night.

But under his skin, he burned with cold fury.   

He’d have to pretend to be Brennan and call the school again tomorrow, there was no way he could go in if he needed to be up for the rest of the night. He could send Killian over to Smee’s, that was one problem dealt with. The older man would take him into elementary school; but even that solution summoned the familiar rush of dread that came to Liam whenever he thought of his little brother moving into middle school next year. That would make everything so much more difficult to hide from concerned and nosy neighbours alike. 

How had he let this happen? Again? They had been making so much progress.

Liam rubbed his eyes tiredly. He should just hurry up and drop out. He was good with his hands, he could make a living doing carpentry jobs, move to some quiet town upstate maybe –

I’m just trying to prepare you for life’s big question, Liam.

What kind of man are you going to be?

A quiet town upstate? He was really setting the bar low for pipe dreams these days.

Then there was always the chance Brennan might be himself again by morning; maybe he could call the school. Could drive Killian in. Maybe he’d be up before the sun rose like he used to, whistling a sea shanty and cooking them eggs over easy.

 Now there was a pipe dream.

What time was it? A distracted pat of his jacket let him know his phone was still inside, but he wasn’t quite ready to go back in yet. It had to be late. Or early. Wednesday. The recycling went out on Wednesday. Which mean they were two days closer to Friday, which was the eighteenth. Water bill went out on the eighteenth.

Brennan hadn’t worked in weeks. They’d be short.

No heat and no water. The only things he could rely on in this house were the bricks and the mortar.

Why him? Why did it have to be him?

Liam resisted the urge to scream. At the night, at the cold, at whatever curse had captured his family and refused to let them go.

It was 2:17am.

And Liam wasn’t alone on the porch.

Once alerted to the intruder he stumbled backward, fumbling around for anything he could use as a weapon.

“Liam?”

Liam froze, his fist having clenched around the shard of a shattered flowerpot Brennan had destroyed last week.

The stranger hadn’t moved, stood silhouetted against the porch light.

He blinked. Willed his racing heart to slow.

“Who are you?”

-/-

It was 2:17am.

Except, no, it wasn’t.

Emma frowned and looked at her phone again, and the correct time stared back at her; 10:41am. How had she thought it said anything different?

She shook her head. Shit, she really needed to get more sleep. Her foot resumed tapping its restless beat on the floor of the almost empty corridor.

The entire hall was almost completely deserted, only the low murmur of conversation ricocheting against thin walls and tall ceilings, and everything was beige. Beige walls, beige floors, beige murals; she fucking hated beige, it was such a non-colour. Just pick something a bit more appealing and stick to it. But in her not-all-that-limited experience, most government buildings seemed to default to beige, and it was no different in the Seattle equivalent of the DMV. They had been led up to the customer service desk almost half an hour ago, but nobody seemed to care about how goddamn important this was, and her anxiety was climbing with every unattended second that ticked past.

Somewhere down the corridor a door opened, and Emma immediately whipped around to look at it. A broad, cheerful man offered her a bemused smile at the sudden sharp attention he was being given, before disappearing out through another door.

“You need to calm down,” Killian mused.

A glance at him confirmed his eyes were still closed, head tilted to lean back against the wall with his hands folded over his stomach, but her impatience had to have been obvious even without looking at her. She huffed in a way which she knew made her sound puerile, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. From the moment they had been seated there he had stayed silent, and it was only fuelling her irritation that she couldn’t settle on whether that was because he was bored, tired or just giving her room to complain and agitate to her heart’s content. She preferred to know exactly what Killian was thinking.

The memory of waking alone the night before still smarted, and she had to keep reminding herself that it wasn’t Killian’s job to always be at her side on the off chance she didn’t sleep through the night. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and she knew whatever had caught his attention this time had kept him up at least an hour or so after she had summoned the courage to climb back into bed. She had still been awake when he slid back in beside her, but she had pretended to be asleep.

He had probably known she was doing it, which was why he had kissed an apology into her shoulder and held her a little tighter than usual.

It was hard to stay mad at him when he hadn’t technically done anything to make her mad – and he was already sorry about the thing he shouldn’t have to be sorry for.

Which just made her feel even worse.

“I hate beige,” she grumbled.

Killian let out a breath of warm, ticklish laughter, something that growled pleasantly in his throat. Some of her temper ebbed away. “I know,” he said. “I’ll take you somewhere pink after.”

“There’s that big hotel in Hawaii that’s totally pink, right? What do they call that?”

He opened his eyes and arched an eyebrow. “And maybe when our next skip is the Queen of England, we’ll be able to afford to go there.” Even less than thirty seconds of talking to him, properly, she could feel her mood lifting. He reached one of his hands into her lap, seeking hers, and she let him thread their fingers together. “I was actually thinking donuts. The strawberry glazed kind?”

Emma sighed happily. “Make it chocolate and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He smiled warmly and squeezed her hand. “Whatever you want.”

His mood seemed light, but she wasn’t fooled. The way she would catch his eyes flickering carefully between her and the customer service desk in front of them told her all she really needed to know about the direction of his thoughts – they probably shared the same sinking feeling that had washed over her since they had arrived.

That this almost definitely wasn’t going to go her way.

“Ms. Swan?”

Immediately Emma was on her feet, bolting over to the desk as quickly as polite company would allow, Killian close behind, all traces of mirth evaporated from his expression. The man who had come to meet them wasn’t the same one who had led them up to the desk earlier, and a quick glance at his nametag told Emma they were speaking to a Mr. Heller. He resembled every bureaucrat that had ever taken residence in her imagination, thin in a sickly way and sort-of feeble-looking, but with a snide tug at the corner of his mouth which suggested he was not going to tell her what she wanted to hear, and he was enjoying the prospect immensely.

The sick feeling in her gut deepened.

“Thank you for waiting,” he said, in a bored tone, skimming the file he was holding. Emma tried to lift herself a little taller to take a look at it, but it was angled slightly away from her. “We were able to track down the license plate you requested in your application, but it was recalled eleven years ago. The vehicle it was registered to is no longer in use.”

It was easy to push back the first wave of disappointment – a setback, but not the most important thing. “But you know who it belonged to?”

Heller sighed heavily, and let the folder close. “I’m afraid the Washington State Licensing Department has denied your public records request regarding the owners of the plate.”

It was like a punch to the stomach. She could feel the warmth of Killian’s palm splayed against the small of her back, gently reassuring.

This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be another dead end.

“On what grounds?” he was asking, and she felt a rush of gratitude for him as she hadn’t quite been able to form her mouth around the words.

“Not enough evidence,” Heller continued, in that same flat tone that was beginning to grate. “We reviewed the article you sent, about the circumstances of the abandoned child at the edge of the road. There isn’t a lot of information available regarding the incident, even at the county level.”

“Well, it happened,” Emma replied hotly. “It’s me. I was the kid.”

Another banner year, right?

What?

We’ve all got ghosts here.

Heller quirked an eyebrow. “Then the department offers their sympathies. But there is no reason to suggest the plate you requested belonged to the vehicle involved.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Maine is a long way from Seattle.”

But she had seen it.

She had experienced the moment that changed the course of her life hundreds, thousands of times at the behest of a malevolent demon, while to the rest of the world she had been missing for five years. Even before that, the very fact of her being abandoned on the side of the road as a baby had cast its shadow over her entire life. Achieving any measure of answers about it had been unobtainable. She had made her peace with that a long time ago.

But then she became trapped in Brooke House.

And Brooke House had given her a few more pieces of the puzzle.

It felt like a dream, now. Like the scatter of smoke, or déjà vu. Something she couldn’t really be sure had happened. She had spent five years of her life suspended in a place that showed only her regrets, her fears, her desperate desires; anything that would make her pray for deliverance. In the two years she had spent free of it all, her ability to conjure up and consult those visions waxed and waned. The images it had shown her sometimes dribbled back like the trickle of a raindrop down glass to her waiting, thirsty mouth, but nothing was ever enough. While that feeling, that sensation of being left again, and again, and again remained seared onto her mind forever, the actual, physical details of the day her parents abandoned her were scarce. The vision was difficult to bring into focus.

Two months ago, a nightmare had caught her so tightly that Killian hadn’t been able to wake her for six minutes. Just when he had been reaching for his phone in a panic to dial 911, she had burst free; gasping, aching – awake and alive. The details had been so vivid. Before her eyes, her parents abandoned her at the side of the freeway; only this time she had spotted and could recall the plate of the car that had left her.

They had packed everything they owned into Killian’s Chevelle and made for Seattle in a matter of days.

This couldn’t be the end of the road. Not after everything she had been through to get here. She deserved answers, damn it.

“That’s the thing about cars,” Emma replied coolly, “they drive. And if you’re abandoning a kid, you’re not likely to do it on your own doorstep, are you?”

Heller looked bored. “You’re welcome to make an appeal against the department’s decision, so long as you do so within four to six weeks.”

“But I saw – we have a witness!”

“A witness?” His tone was disbelieving, and he fixed her with a hard stare. “Why didn’t you say so before?” Emma opened her mouth, but Killian pinched the side of her waist sharply and she hesitated. When she didn’t immediately confirm her declaration, Heller’s eyebrows rose victoriously. “Would they be prepared to come down here and make a statement?”

“We can ask,” Killian replied smoothly, before she could say anything. He whipped a notepad and a pen from his pocket. “Is it the same address we submit the appeal to, or –?”

Emma fumed quietly at his side. She knew why he had cut her off, before she could dig herself into a hole that would ensure state officials labelled her as halfway to crazy town, but it was infuriating. She couldn’t very well say their witness was her and the visions a haunted house halfway across the country had given her – a house which they had no physical evidence even existed, as it had since disappeared.

Silently, she smouldered.

Killian reached absently for her hand. She tugged it out of his grip.

Heller and Killian confirmed the logistics of an appeal process, but before long they were being thanked dully for their time and invited to leave. Emma stayed quiet for their entire walk out of the building, and she could sense Killian intentionally kept some space between them to allow her to adequately process what had happened in there.

Nothing. Nothing was what had happened in there.

Emma could feel the tide of something tight at the top of her stomach, like her insides were cramping. It was how she felt when she woke, uncertain, in the middle of the night.

“We’ll find another way, Emma,” Killian spoke gently as they stepped out into the morning sunlight.

Emma waved a dismissive hand and tried to focus her gaze on the particulars of the street. The chequered red, blue and silver line of cars parked along the sidewalk, the scent of wet asphalt and the hum of traffic whizzing by. They were far from a forest here – but she could feel the quiet whisper of the trees against her skin.

“I know, I know, I just –” She curled her toes in her boots, felt the stiff concrete beneath her feet. “I’m – tired of hitting brick walls.”

“We’ve got a little cash in the bank,” Killian pointed out, “maybe for the appeal we could hire a solicitor, just see if there’s anything else we can do to help our case.”

He was frowning at the note he had scribbled down during their conversation with Heller, his mind already four or five steps further ahead, and Emma felt a rush of affection for him. For his solidness and his patience. His tenacity was well documented, he had spent five years searching for answers about Brooke House and had never once given up on the idea that he would find them, and her along with them – even now he refused to let any speedbumps hamper their progress. It was so easy for her to get struck down by the first sign of resistance, but Killian persisted in a way she could only ever hope of emulating.

Nothing in the street felt tangible beside the resilience and vibrance of Killian Jones. Sometimes it felt like he was the only real thing she had found outside of Brooke House.

Like dust, the cars and the concrete and the chorus of the Seattle summer drifted away.

She reached for his hand and squeezed it tightly, praying for an anchor.

“How are you always so optimistic?”

“Because I know what you’re capable of,” he replied easily, although it felt like he was speaking to her from a great distance. Emma fought to inhabit this moment. “And I’ve yet to see you fail.”

Killian was smiling, which had always done its best to keep monsters at bay.

In a blur the noises returned, like a radio slowly tuning into focus.

“Emma?” he queried softly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Are you still with me?”

The wet splatters of rain against the yearning canopy receded as it stretched for the sky.

Down the street a car horn blared, and she let it shake her firmly back into the present.

In Seattle, the sun was shining, and Killian was here. Standing so close to his warmth made her feel like a thief, but she couldn’t stop herself from reaching for him.

“Donuts,” she managed, nodding firmly. “I need a whole lot of donuts.”

He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “You read my mind.”

-/-

Killian railed against the idea of calling Elsa’s home a house.

It was a huge, sprawling behemoth of a structure, with vast corridors that led nowhere and innumerable superfluous rooms that all looked identical, with walls scaled by books and furniture shrouded in neat, ivory sheeting to protect them from dust and age. More than once he had found himself completely and utterly lost while attempting to find the bathroom, which he was convinced changed locations every time he visited it, and that wasn’t even mentioning the size of the grounds which circled the outside of the house.

Embedded deep within the winding roads of West Bellevue, he was grateful for the opportunity to interact with something a little less urban than the busy street he and Emma had rented their flat on, and Elsa had opened up her home to all assortments of waifs and strays long before he had ever come on the scene. Truthfully, it was sheer coincidence that they had even met, crossing paths in downtown Seattle late one night – but then, he didn’t believe in coincidences anymore. He had been searching for something more, and she had been offering something for him to find. The rest was inevitable.

Clear night, isn’t it?

The room in which he spent the most time was the large dining room – the long table that would ordinarily occupy its centre was, as ever, pushed to the side against one wall and loaded with edible treats already half depleted, clearing the way for Elsa’s guests to arrange themselves on the floor in any number of styles depending on what the evening requested of them. The windows always remained open, so the room was immersed in the earthy scent of the outside, of wet moss and woodsmoke and pine, and the rain from the night before somehow made everything so much more pervasive.

Aurora stood in the centre of the room with her eyes closed, her hands held palm up with a pinecone resting atop them, while the rest of Elsa’s guests sat spread out across the room with their palms turned to the ceiling, mimicking the same position.

Killian sat at the edge of the room, notebook resting open in his lap, and observed.

Elsa stood, made her way over to Aurora, and placed her hands over the other woman’s.

“Child of earth, wind, fire and sea,” she spoke clearly out into the silent room. “We welcome you into our lives, into our homes, and into the waiting embrace of this powerful, caring woman. Think fondly on her, and choose her, as we have, to be part of your family.”

As Aurora opened her eyes, Anna stepped forward holding a candle in one hand and a ceramic bowl scattered with herbs in the other.

“Light it,” Elsa encouraged her, and Aurora held the pinecone over the candle until it caught.

The flame grew rapidly, Killian remembered reading somewhere that it had to do with the natural resins so near to the surface in pinecones, and soon Aurora dropped it into the bowl. Once there, the contents of the bowl started to gently smoulder and the scent of sweetgrass and sage began to float out into the air.

Killian took a deep breath. Let it wash over him for a few quiet, tender moments.

He wasn’t sure why, but he always felt closest to Liam here.

Aurora was smiling, and Elsa grinned back.

“Blessed be,” she said warmly. “And good luck!”

The group echoed a fractured but delighted blessed be, in response, before breaking out into a smattering of claps and spirited cheers. A few jumped to their feet to envelope Aurora in a loving, haphazard embrace.

No, house didn’t really cover the breadth of what Elsa’s home had become to this community, or the reality of what Killian had found there.  

This was a covenstead.

It wasn’t the first coven Killian had ever encountered – his first had been in Pennsylvania a number of years ago, but they had been intensely private and suspicious of strangers, and their association had not extended more than a few weeks. Long before now it had become his habit to deliberately seek out suggestions of the world that existed beyond what they could see. It had started because of Brooke House, because of the mistakes they had made when they were seventeen and naïve and frightened; after Emma had disappeared, Killian had searched for answers anywhere he could. He had five years to cross the globe, to pursue every lead and overturn every stone that might hint at something more, with varying levels of success.

Now, Killian had spent so long searching that he wasn’t sure he remembered how to be anything else. Getting Emma back, rather than being the end of his fascination with the otherworldly, had only fuelled it. There were still so many questions he didn’t have answers to, with Liam being chief among them. His brother had been involved in all this, had known about this barely perceivable double life that some among them were living, but Killian still had no idea about the how, or the why.

Emma was his life now. Everything he had ever wanted. For so long, his sole focus had been in making this world as right for her as possible, in giving her the tools with which she could build her new reality and hoping desperately that she still wanted him in it; while privately wrestling with that disquieting sensation that accompanied stepping away from the bizarre and the unexplained for the first time in a long while.

It was difficult, he had realised, to come to terms with the fact that everything you wanted wouldn’t stay everything you needed for the rest of your life.

And Killian needed something.

On their third night in Seattle, he had met Elsa. The very same night he had first had the dream about the boy and the creek and the dagger.

He didn’t believe in coincidences anymore.

Soon after Elsa wrapped up the ceremony, the group began to disperse, some aiming for a few treats to take for the road while others went to collect coats and bags from the hall. For his part, Killian took more care than necessary slipping his notebook back into his already overpacked bag and began shrugging on his jacket. The ending of these meetings always left him feeling oddly bereft, like although every week he walked in with no idea what he would find, somehow his expectations were never met. Or perhaps it was the realisation that always came when he watched the members of the coven at its conclusion, mingling and trading smiles and stories about the week that had just passed.

He wasn’t one of them. They were all kind enough, and they liked him, but he wasn’t part of them. They wondered why he was there as much as he did.

Watching them, his heart throbbed for the one place that had always been home; for that warm, golden light, for Regina’s lasagne and David’s terrible jokes and Mary Margaret’s helpful reminders to enjoy happily ever after. His chest hurt for the wanting of it.

The clerk at the DMV the day before had been right: Maine was a long way from Seattle.

He turned to leave.

“Killian, hi there.” It was Elsa, calling him back, and he fixed on a cheerful smile as he pivoted on the spot to face her. “I hope today wasn’t too women-centric for you.”

Aurora was trying for a baby with her husband; as a result, they had focused the evening on fertility. The lighting of the pinecone was a ritual from Elsa’s book of shadows, and had followed a relaxing evening spent sharing poetry and prayers and best wishes about family.

(At the very least, that probably explained why he was feeling so homesick.)

“Not at all,” he assured her, not least because he didn’t feel fertility was an exclusively female pursuit. There were plenty of men there tonight. “It’s a pleasure to observe. Thank you again for inviting me into your home.”

“Anyone is welcome here, there’s no need to thank me.”

He was reminded, again, of how different Elsa’s coven were to the one in Pennsylvania; Elsa made a point of opening up the covenstead to anyone at any time, not just during their meetings. It was Elsa’s home, but it was also effectively a refuge or meeting place for any of its members whenever they needed it. The grounds in particular were always accessible, and something Killian himself had taken advantage of more than once.

Especially when he wanted to – well. Dip his toe into something Emma would never approve of. The covenstead felt like a safer place to explore those private desires.

If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall.

“You know,” Elsa was saying “if you would like to participate rather than just observe, we’d be happy to invite you to join us.”

For a moment he could see it; himself, sat on cushions with the rest of the group, palms up and eyes closed and waiting for wonders to begin again.

The image immediately fell apart as visions began to swim of a pentagram penned in black marker, scattered salt and a dagger rising above the swell of a storm.

This was the bargain.

“Oh,” Killian let out uneasily, trying to find the best way to refuse without sounding impolite. “No, that’s alright. Really.” Elsa looked a little disappointed, and he hurried to reassure her. “I’ve… had some experience with the miraculous. It didn’t exactly go well.”

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

“I wouldn’t say what we do here is miraculous,” Elsa replied, but he could see she was quietly pleased by the comparison. Awkwardness settled like dust between them, neither considering the conversation finished, but before they could continue a few people cut between them on their way out of the dining room and into the hall. They called out their goodbyes to Elsa as they passed, and she returned them warmly. Killian lingered until they were finished, fiddling with the strap on his bag.

Once they were gone, she took a step towards him.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Killian shrugged. “By all means.”

“Why is it that you come to our meetings?” she clasped her hands in front of her, in a gesture Killian couldn’t help but interpret as deliberately nonthreatening. “And if you say Anna’s fruit loaf I might believe you, but I don’t really think that’s what it is.”

The question felt like it should be impolite, loaded with a query that went beyond their unspoken arrangement; that he could come, and he could watch, and she, like the rest of the group, would leave him be – but he was uninjured by her curiosity. Curiosity was, after all, what had brought him there.

So he surprised himself by being honest.

“For… proof, I guess?” he lifted his shoulders in an uncertain shrug. “That the world is still – strange?” The way Elsa watched him, almost waiting for him to continue, made that answer feel inadequate. He cleared his throat and searched for more to offer. “I actually lost my brother, a long time ago, now – and I still don’t fully understand why. And my partner, she…”

So good of you to finally come and see me.

“She went through something I can’t even begin to comprehend. But she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Elsa nodded slowly. “Sometimes what we don’t say speaks more for what troubles us.”

“Yeah,” Killian agreed, feeling oddly liberated by the opportunity to confide in someone. All he could think of was Emma in the dead of night, clenched tightly in their bed, her arms and knees curled against her chest as she fought darkness only she could see. “Yeah, it does.”

“Perhaps she’d like to come along to a meeting?” Elsa suggested. “There’s no obligation to partake. She could observe, as you do.”

“Oh, no. No. She hates all this stuff.”

Emma had already made clear her opinion on the covenstead in Bellevue, she was not interested; and he felt compelled to apologise on her behalf, seeing as they were all perfectly good people who had done nothing to offend her.

“It’s just — that something, I mentioned,” he offered. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”

“Well,” Elsa spread her hands. It was neither here nor there to her, he was sure. She couldn’t offer help to someone who didn’t want to receive it. “Have a good week, Killian. Will we be seeing you at our Litha celebration?”

Litha, Killian had learnt, was the wicca celebration of Midsummer, which took place on the summer solstice at the end of June. It traditionally heralded the beginning of summer, with its focus on fertility and the championing of light over darkness manifesting in the longest day of the year. The coven had planned an evening full of festivities including a large bonfire, an almost drastic amount of food and a lot of promised general merriment. Elsa had said last year two among their number had decided to spontaneously marry during the festival; in their eyes, the perfect way to celebrate new life and regeneration.

It sounded like a lot of fun. In the bleak, uninspiring, greyscape that Seattle had become to him in the last two months, it was a breath of life and the outdoors that he would be grateful for.

But he wasn’t really sure if he should. Especially with – well. With Emma.

“Sure,” he said, just to be polite. “If I can get away. That would be nice.”

He meant it. Elsa smiled understandingly, as if she knew he had no clear intention of attending but would let him maintain the charade for the sake of pleasant company – she was kind, and she didn’t really know him, but she had still invited him into her home without a single caveat. The coven respected her. Killian would like nothing more than to introduce her to Emma; he was sure whatever she refused to talk to him about she could bring before the other woman without fear of shame or regret, or whatever else she must think would come from Killian that prevented her from being honest.

Not that he was being entirely honest with her, either; she knew he came to the covenstead more often than their weekly meetings, but she didn’t know what he had been trying to do there. She couldn’t know. It was better she focused on the future, on the path ahead, on the fact that she was free, now, from the nightmare behind them.

It was lonely, he had come to realise, being the only one with unfinished business.

Clear night, isn’t it?

“Elsa, wait,” he said, before he could think better of it. A jolt of nervous energy ran through him, his feet squaring imperceptibly on the laminate floor beneath him as if they were ready to run, but he forced himself to stay where he was. “Actually, I’ve… for the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to scry.”

Elsa’s eyebrows shot upwards.

He could understand her surprise, given he had shown no interest in participating in any of the wicca crafts since he had started coming to the Bellevue covenstead. Scrying was something he had only really read about, but never seen performed; it was the practice of, at its core, looking into a suitable medium in the hope of detecting significant messages of visions. While the most notorious method of which remained fortunes told over crystal balls, the history of the craft extended far beyond recent iterations of neopaganism. Cultures as far back as ancient Egyptians and Babylonians had practiced scrying by gazing into stone dishes filled with palm oil.

Killian had never really bought into it – but its existence as a medium through which he might gain some insight had been too tempting not to at least attempt, and the results were, well. Inconclusive.  

He stumbled over himself to continue. “I usually try at night, and mostly with rainwater, as I’ve heard that’s more potent? But I’ve also tried with tap water, and mirrors, too. But I’m finding it difficult to find direction.” He shrugged helplessly; his mouth felt bone dry. “It’s like staring out into silt.”

“Scrying is a challenging craft,” Elsa confirmed. “What is it you’re trying to see?”

He hesitated. Not just because he was reluctant to confirm the details for fear of sounding – well. Halfway to crazy town, as Emma would put it, but it was also this: he didn’t want Elsa to be part of it. Any of it. If he could protect one more person from the demons in his past, he would prefer to do so.

“I’ve… been having this dream,” he answered carefully. “A nightmare, really. It makes me worry someone might be in trouble because of something I didn’t finish.”

Come. Listen.

The quiet truth knocked gently. They had been naïve to assume it was over.

Elsa hummed thoughtfully. “Often, dreams are just manifestations of our anxieties –”

“This is different,” he said firmly. “I can feel it.”

Killian didn’t sleep the way Emma slept, treading that breathless line between the waking world and the rest, fumbling in those in-between spaces, sometimes needing help discerning where the truest threads of herself should lie. They had developed a number of strategies for her, routines to perform while waking to know she was no longer asleep; listing the objects she could see and smell and taste as chief among them. Anything to help her cling to the world above and pull her out.

Killian did not sleep that way. The delineation for him was clear.

Which was how he knew this was more than just a nightmare.

Elsa seemed to take his confidence at his word, and instead turned her attention back to the wider room.

“Tink, would you come over here?”

Tink was not her name, but nobody ever called her anything else, so Tink was what Killian had come to know her by. Her features were sharp, her wit just as cutting, and she had made a point of behaving as indifferently to him as possible in a way he found both frustrating and a little refreshing – somebody else acting like he didn’t belong there helped remind him he was separate, he was apart from all this. Currently, she stood looking exceptionally guilty by the dining table, three small cupcakes placed precariously on top of each other and clearly about to be tucked away in some tupperware for her return journey. Killian didn’t blame her. The lemon cakes were always especially divine.

“Tink is our resident expert on divining arts,” Elsa informed him after spotting his rather put out expression. In a few moments, Tink had joined them. “Killian has been trying to scry but hasn’t had a lot of luck.”

Tink wrinkled her nose. “Nasty business, scrying. Wouldn’t bother.”

“I’ve been having this dream I’m trying to –”

“Oh, boy. It’s amateur hour. Trouble with dreams, go see an oneiromancer. Or a therapist.”

Killian bit back a retort; he was somewhat regretting the decision to come clean already.

“Killian believes this is more than a dream,” Elsa spoke quietly, but firmly, “and it’s not our business to interpret another’s instincts. We were hoping you could provide some insight.”

When Tink turned her shrewd eyes onto him, he merely lifted a shoulder in a helpless gesture. “You said it,” he pointed at himself, “amateur hour.”

Tink looked immensely reluctant, but as her gaze flickered between Elsa’s imploring request and Killian’s discomfort, she finally heaved a defeated sigh.

“Agh, shit.”

She took a bite out of a lemon cake.

Through chews, she carried on.

“Catch me up. What’ve you tried so far?”

-/-

The quiet blip of a notification turned Emma’s attention away from the window and back to her laptop. She smirked triumphantly – finally some good news.

“There you are,” she muttered, “sneaky bastard.”

She and Killian had been tracking down the same skip for a few days – so far none of their usual tactics could draw him out, but his credit card had just been used at a convenience store around the corner from his previous place of employment. The first time she had gone to that office she’d had a feeling everybody was behaving just a little shady. Now she knew she was right to be suspicious and resolved to pay them another visit in the morning, provided Killian was alright with it.

Well, she corrected, only if she decided to give Killian a say. Emma’s gaze skimmed the empty flat. If he wanted to spend the night messing around with delusional, self-proclaimed witches, then she got to make the work decisions by herself.

She gritted her teeth at the thought of the house in Bellevue Killian liked to retreat to these days; why couldn’t he have joined a local rec team or found some obnoxious new drinking buddies like a normal guy? The group at Bellevue were all just a bunch of tree-huggers, even worse than Regina. Emma knew what real magic was. And it wasn’t dancing around a field wearing flower crowns or mumbling limericks over a cauldron.

Emma quickly jotted down the address and the details regarding the skip’s purchase. It usually helped to be able to throw everything in her arsenal at getting past the front desk of any office. Bail bonds was a career she and Killian had fallen into almost accidentally – it suited the nomadic lifestyle they preferred, and blended Emma’s instincts for catching someone in a lie and Killian’s propensity towards investigation quite well. It just worked. And they needed some way to get food on the table.

David had offered them work at the veterinary shelter more times than she could count, but she was sure that had a lot more to do with wanting them to stay back home in Storybrooke than anything else. But Storybrooke couldn’t be for them what it was to him and Mary Margaret, and Regina; not anymore. There were too many splintered memories. Not to mention half the town still thought Killian had kidnapped her and kept her in a cave somewhere for five years. The lines had to be carefully drawn.

The notes for their appeal were sat in a haphazard clump behind the laptop, and the stack looked exactly how Emma felt about it; worn, sad, and a little flustered. It had only been a few days, but something about the disappointment at the DMV left her feeling wrecked and restless all it once. It didn’t feel over, but whenever she thought about burying herself back in the endless bureaucratic process all she wanted to do was hit the pavement and not stop running until she fell off the corner of the map. She wanted to be outside. Balmy air drifted in through the open window, coloured by the frustrated yelps and the gentle roar of cars in the busy evening.

She paused, listening for the familiar growl of Killian’s Chevelle. Nothing.

With a jolt, she realised her pen was still in her hand and had been working idly against the paper. She peered over at the notepad, hoping she hadn’t doodled over her notes about the credit card – and nearly knocked over the laptop as she jerked backwards.

Scribbled over every inch of the page, completely obscuring anything underneath it, she had written her name. Over and over.

In a twisted, medieval cursive she had only ever seen in one other place.

Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma

The dagger swam into focus, and Emma resisted the urge to retch, clutching tightly at the desk in front of her with her left hand. Her right lay motionless across its surface, a foreign object to her now, a traitor which had scrawled out the pall that nestled around her shoulders and given it physical form. It was disquieting enough to see it there, a restless dream broken out, but only more disturbing to not remember having put it there.

She stood abruptly. Tore the page free, scrunched it up with that now untrustworthy hand, and dropped it down onto the floor.

Leaving the laptop open, she stalked out of the bedroom and across the hall to their tiny kitchen, determined to regain some control over the course of the evening, constantly clenching and unclenching her hand into a fist at her side. The kitchen was little more than two counters facing each other atop a strip of gaudy orange tiles with barely enough space for one person to pass by another, but they managed. They had never needed a lot of space, and their budget hadn’t been able to stretch particularly far. If they hadn’t needed a permanent address in order to submit the public records request, she probably would have made a case for sleeping in the Chevelle somewhere once they made it to the city.

Still, Killian had pointed out there was something nice about having a home base that wasn’t just the backseat of a car, and his suggestive glances at the bed when the realtor had taken them round had not gone unnoticed. Or unappreciated.

It was just – right then, especially without him in it, she didn’t want it. The lack of furniture, of personal affects, the rumpled sheets and the cracked plaster walls made it a gaping hole of something desolate and harsh. The jaws of something wanting in the shape of four walls and a door with a barely functional lock. She longed for the Chevelle and the torn leather seats, for something wild and alive.

At night Seattle burnt, and Emma yearned for home.

Not to mention it rained all the fucking time.

The door to the flat opened and closed, and Emma called out a greeting as she poured herself a glass of water. Killian didn’t reply. Assuming he had his headphones on, Emma allowed herself a few moments to breathe. She’d tell him about the credit card alert, let him know she was going by the skip’s office again in the morning and he could come along if he wanted, but she probably wouldn’t need the backup. Cornering a skip somewhere surrounded by friends and colleagues usually made them more amenable to coming quietly. Then she would ask as politely as she could manage about his evening and try not look too sour if he used the word covenstead again, instead of big fucking house.

Emma emerged from the kitchen, but he wasn’t setting his bag down in the sitting room like she was expecting him to be. Frowning, Emma re-entered the bedroom, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Her right hand twitched.

It felt numb, like she had been holding it in cold water for a few minutes. She could barely feel her other hand when she brushed her palms together, just the whisper of a touch instead of skin.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from Killian.

Leaving now – should be 30mins. Stopping for snacks. Want anything?

Behind her, the door into the kitchen creaked, and the tap started to run.

Her mind rang with the dull truth slowly, like a bell tolling at dusk.

Someone had turned the tap on.

Killian wasn’t home.

Someone had turned the tap on.

Killian wasn’t home.

Her heart stuttered against her ribcage.

Immediately searching for anything she could use as a weapon, Emma darted back over to her desk to reach for one of the hardback file folders they used for work, but as she leant across to reach for it she froze.

Her laptop had been closed, and on top of it placed a clumsily straightened, crumpled bit of paper.

Her mouth went dry at its familiar script.

Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma

Still through the doorway came the splurge from the rapidly filling kitchen sink, and Emma began to panic. She couldn’t go out there. Not now. Not now she couldn’t know, couldn’t be sure if there was anyone there to find or if she had unknowingly slipped back into sleep and this was just another spill. Her feet were frozen, dug in like anxious roots into earth, while her attention remained fixed on the hallway for every single sound or breath of movement.  

As quietly as she could, Emma closed the door to the bedroom. For good measure, she grabbed the desk chair and hooked it under the handle so it couldn’t turn, the noise masked by the water as it began to sluice over the side of the sink and splatter onto the floor of the kitchen.

Then she waited.

Was she dreaming?

It didn’t feel like a dream – but then, they never did. Her pulse raced, her skin felt cold even though her senses were telling her the flat was warm, hot, but she daren’t start mumbling aloud the objects she could discern as being real just in case it heard her. It. Already something had taken shape in her mind.

It liked to stop by, every now and then, just so she didn’t forget.

It wasn’t long before the noises grew louder. With the steady stream of water came the slap of footsteps through the puddle, of the flat soles of smart shoes pacing restlessly back and forth across her kitchen, the smack of cupboards being flung open and slammed shut again.

Not here, she thought, desperately, not when I’m alone.

Then Killian called her.

The sudden loud buzzing surprised her, and the phone slipped out of her grasp and onto the carpet below. Dropping to her knees and scrambling to reject the call, she split her attention between her frantic efforts and the blocked door, hoping against hope that it hadn’t heard, that it wouldn’t –

The door handle squeaked, stopping short when it was met with resistance from the chair.

When she was seven, there had been a month or so she had avoided being alone in her bedroom as often as possible. Not, she had insisted to Archie, because she was scared, but of course, really she had been terrified. It was a new room, colder, bigger, and the first one she hadn’t shared for as long as she could remember. For so long, all she could imagine was that one day the door would lock with her inside it, and nobody would ever come back for her or care at all that she was alone in there.

After weeks of creative avoidance strategies, Archie had finally wheedled the truth out of her, and had removed the lock the very next day. Then they had spent time drawing maps of the group home together, doodling creative means for her escape from that room until she was convinced that even if the door locked, it would be pretty easy to build a hang glider out of a kite and make a break for it through the window.

Nobody can control this door except you, Emma.

Only these days, she had built the lock herself. She checked a hundred times a day that it was still secure. She buried herself behind it and when the cracks had started to form, she had piled up bricks instead.

The handle creaked again.

A desperate, fearful sound ripped itself from somewhere deep inside her chest and she stumbled backwards, reaching for anything, wanting the maps, the exit strategies, everything she had burnt the day she decided it was more important to keep things out than avoid leaving herself trapped in.

The door to the bedroom rattled against its hinges.

Thump. Again. Thump.

Her fumbling hands fell on the door to the closet, and she hauled it open and ducked inside before she could think twice. She was breathing hard, her chest ached with the force of it. It smelt of black leather and mildew inside, and once she pushed through coats and her back hit the wall, she slid down onto the floor.

Once inside, the noises stopped.

Just, stopped. Like she had stepped out of an airlock, and all she could hear now was the hard, accelerated huff of her own breathing.  

Was it still out there?

Like she was seven again, she pulled her knees up to her chest. She told herself it was just like when she and Killian used to play sardines with the other kids at the group home; exploring dark, gaping crevices until they could melt into its very walls. She had been older, then. Escape was all rationalisation, she didn’t need the maps. Keeping herself hidden meant just shutting her eyes and forcing it all out of her mind until she made herself unreachable.

As long as she couldn’t be seen, she couldn’t be caught.

Something in her twinged, something that ached for wide, open streets and a crumbling clocktower, for long conversations over steaming coffee and the vermillion kiss of the New England fall. Seattle was just unrelenting, torrid heat. Noise and noise and noise and more ceaseless, callous noise. And Killian’s coats smelt like midsummer rain and spluttering exhaust fumes in heavy traffic.  

She couldn’t remember calling David, but she was glad when he answered.

“My new assistant is pteronophobic,” he sighed heavily, by way of greeting.

The words sounded like nonsense to her, but she couldn’t discern if that was because they were, or because she didn’t feel like she could trust her senses anymore.

“Terr— what?”

“Pteronophobic. She’s pteronophobic.”

Emma pressed herself as far back into the wall as she could go, curling tightly away from the door.  

She tried to focus on the call. “So… she’s a dinosaur?”

David snorted. “It’s a phobia of being tickled by feathers. Isn’t that ridiculous?” He clicked his tongue. “Actually, what’s ridiculous is that she knew this about herself, yet she applied for a job at a veterinary shelter.”

“Is this your way of telling me you’re the idiot that hired an assistant who’s scared of birds?”

“Feathers. And their proclivity for tickling.” She could hear him smiling down the phone, and already the pressure in her chest began to lessen. “Anyway, what’s up?”

Emma bit her lip. “Nothing, I just…” With a start, she realised the time and was amazed he had picked up at all. “Isn’t it nearly midnight over there?”

“You don’t call enough,” he reproached, but she could hear the tease in his voice. “This is like positive reinforcement.”

“How’s Ruth?”

There was a pause, a barely audible sigh. Gently, he repeated: “You don’t call enough.”

She could feel herself becoming more aware of herself, of her limbs tangled tightly at the bottom of the closet, of her hair sticking to the back of her neck, in a way that let her know that if she had drifted, she was returning now. It was nearly over.

“She misses you,” David added, “that’s all. So do we.”

“Me too,” Emma frowned, trying to remember the last time she had called anybody from Storybrooke. She had called after they got to Seattle, hadn’t she? How – how long ago was that? “Sorry.”

David made a dismissive noise, and as he always did, he forgave her.

“Everything good with Killian?”

Something in her chest squeezed as she remembered the call she had rejected.

“It’s fine,” she said, and tried to sound convincing, “I’m fine.” He didn’t have to know she was talking to him from the floor of a closet. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

For a little while, David said nothing. It was nice to just hear him breathe.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Emma smiled weakly, even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah.”

“Y’know, if it’s just that you’re afraid you’ll miss Seattle, I could set up the hose at the end of Mom’s porch and you’re welcome to stand under it whenever.”

“Wow, how generous,” she snorted. “It’s really more of a near constant moistness than always rain, though.”

“Or we could buy you a Subaru? You could sit in it and vape a Starbucks, or whatever it is you do there.”

“I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”

For a few moments they just laughed, until they petered back out into quiet. Emma thought about Killian returning home soon, and the fact that she really didn’t want him to find her in the closet.

“Listen, um… I have to go. I’ll call more,” she promised.

David hummed on the other end of the line. “I hope you do.”

She felt calmer now as she disconnected the call, her heartbeat still clear in her ears but a steady pound, almost reassuring, not racing away without her. With fresher eyes, she nudged open the door to the closet and edged her way out slowly. The bedroom door was still closed, the desk chair propped up against it, but the only sound she could hear was the humming of her laptop on standby and the noise drifting up from the street through the open window.

Carefully, she removed the chair and shut the window. Then she sunk down into bed, into the quiet, and buried herself beneath the covers. She felt like she had run a marathon, her muscles ached in the aftermath of pumped adrenaline, and all her body wanted to do was rest.

She didn’t realise until Killian got home, but she had forgotten about the flooded kitchen. She heard him pause in the hallway, then the patter of his boots on the sodden tiles. Once realisation struck, her entire body burned when she wondered what he must be thinking, thinking of her, her skin hot with humiliation. But he didn’t comment on it, at least not that she could hear. Instead she heard him pulling out the mop and bucket and cleaning it up.

She wanted to join him, she just couldn’t muster the willpower.

A passing thought occurred to her then, the meekest of suggestions, now that rational thought had crept back in.

Had she just left the tap on?

After a few minutes she heard Killian enter the bedroom, but he didn’t switch on the light. Instead he slid into bed beside her, still clothed, and curled himself around her as tightly as he could manage. Something in her relaxed, as it always did, a muscle coming unclenched as she sank into the safety of his arms.

This, she knew. This was always real.

He kissed her shoulder, and he didn’t say a single word.

She loved him for it, and she hated him a little for it, too.