#i swear im giving myself mild face blindness

[ssspringroll]

Omg it's them... Imaginary friends from my brain...

Updated slightly from how they would've looked when i last thought about them nearly 10 years ago. One of them grew out of his edgy phase. The other one... not so much.

[loveharlow]

SOMEBODY'S WATCHIN' ME

PAIRING‧₊˚ Ghostface!JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚  [1.4k] Waiting around for your boyfriend to show up for movie night, you get an unexpected call

WARNING(S)‧₊˚  swearing, mild violence, betrayal, mild sexual references, i've never written ghostface!jj and im not too well versed in the ghostface franchise myself so let me know what you think

*based on thriller (mj) and somebody's watching me (rockwell)

A/N‧₊˚ part of my angstober event!

˗ˏˋ jj masterlist ˎˊ˗

YOU WERE POURING THE LAST OF THE POPCORN INTO THE BOWL, KERNELS CLANKING AGAINST THE DISH. It was halloween, your favorite time of year, and also the night of your annual movie marathon with your boyfriend, JJ. He was running a little behind, per usual.

You had the first movie all queued up, your halloween themed blanket draped across the sofa while you poured up the drinks and dished the snacks in the kitchen. Your parents were gone for the night and the pogues had opted themselves out, wanting to give you and JJ space as a couple. 

You were walking carefully towards the living room, balancing the bowl and cans of soda in your hands when the house phone rang. You rolled your eyes, assuming it was your overbearing parents who wanted to make sure you were alright in the house alone. Carefully placing the items on the coffee table, you made your way over to the half-wall that separated the kitchen and living area, answering the ringing device.

“Hello?”

“Home all alone?” A robotic yet deep voice reverberated on the other end. You rolled your eyes, automatically assuming it was just your goof of a father who loved a cheesy halloween prank.

“Ha ha, dad. I’m not a kid anymore, y'know. You can’t trick me,” You stated nonchalantly, expecting to hear his defeated old-man laughter on the other side. “I will admit, your ghostface voice has gotten better.” You joked, trotting back into the living room, tossing a warm, popcorn kernel into your mouth.

“How’d you know I had a daddy kink?” You paused, face falling from its humorous demeanor in the slightest of motions. With the out-of-character and inappropriate joke, you quickly came to the realization that whoever was on the other end of the phone wasn’t your father.

“Who the hell is this?”

“What? You've never seen a scary movie before?”

“I've seen enough to know that this joke is overplayed. So, whoever you are, go back to jerking off in your mom’s basement-”

“What about your basement?” The unknown individual cut you off. Now your face was pulled tight, an expression of anger as you shifted from holding the phone between your cheek and shoulder to pressing into your ear with your hand, eyes fleeting to the open windows, which were closed but all the blinds were wide open.

The way your eyes scanned the open space made it seem like the room spun around you, eyes squinting as you tried to look through every window at once, only catching glances of children trick or treating.

Just then, you heard something clatter — like a broom hitting the floor. And you could’ve sworn it came from downstairs.

Fight-or-Flight kicking in, you didn’t bother to investigate and instead bolted up the stairs in hopes of reaching your room. When you made it to the top of the staircase, however, you saw a tall shadow pass by, silhouette plastered on the wall as light shone through the windows upstairs, stopping you in your tracks so fast you nearly stumbled backwards.

Your eyes went wide, a deep gasp leaving your lips as you made a sharp turn right back down the stairs, backing yourself into the closest corner.

“Show’s over, if this is Pope or John B, you know JJ's gonna kill you-” You breathed, voice trembling but anger still evident. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not holding this knife to make you laugh, sweetheart.”

You could feel your heartbeat just a little faster at his statement. “I’ll call the cops.”

“You can’t do that without hanging up and trust me, you don’t want to hang up.”

Your eyes were darting all over the first floor of your home, hands subconsciously grasping at the wall you had your back pressed against, undoubtedly leaving marks in your wake. You couldn’t help but wonder where the hell JJ was, praying for him to burst through the door at any moment.

The door. The damn door. You realized you were right next to the front door. So, why the hell were you still in the house? 

One last glance at the top of the staircase had you throwing all caution to the wind, hand gripping and twisting the knob only to find that the door wouldn’t budge. You'd unlocked it, the direction the keyhole assuring you of that. You tugged and pulled and yanked, all to no avail. How did you manage to get locked inside of your own house?

“It’s scary being alone with a killer, isn’t it?” A voice whispered right next to your unoccupied ear, your heart practically jumping out of your chest when you realized the voice was clear and less eerie and automated, and also...no longer coming from the phone.

Your head snapped to the side, coming face to face a beat up ghostface mask, the phone in your hand clattering to the floor as you just narrowly dodged his arm when he slung it towards your head, ducking under the attack and nearly tripping over your feet as you made a b-line for your kitchen.

You ruined the house in your trail — throwing chairs, stools, and end tables behind you in desperate attempts to slow him down. 

You didn’t even realize you were screaming as you ran. 

You yelped as you hit your foot on the leg of a display in the hall, slipping and sliding on the hardwood as you never slowed in your pace.

You spotted your fathers work study door open, feet carrying you faster, ignoring the aching pain in your foot, as you made the room your destination. Making it into the space, you turned around to slam and lock the door, not missing the glance you caught of the man running after you. You felt his body collide with the other side of the wood as soon as you had it shut and latched, presumably throwing himself against it and you held it shut even though it was locked.

Your breaths were shaky and quivering, tears flying down your cheeks. After a few seconds, the thudding on the other side stopped. But you weren’t dumb enough to open the door again. The only thing on your mind was getting out of this god forsaken house. 

Spotting the one window in your father’s office, you looked down at the doorknob to ensure it was still locked before bolting over to the opening, prying the glass up and climbing out. Stepping out, one foot at a time, you looked to your left and right once you were completely outside of the window. The night air was humid and chilly, leaving you feeling damp and cold in nothing but a tank-top and pajama pants.

If you could make it to your neighbor’s house, you could call your parents. You just prayed to whatever higher power there was that they were home, better yet awake, considering their old age. 

You wasted little time in pondering however, sock-clad feet running through your yard in the direction of your neighbor's house that was a straight-shot across the street. Your feet had just hit the curb when you felt an arm engulf your frame from behind, the person’s other hand covering your mouth, muffling your screams as they dragged you right back behind the house, out of sight of any passersby that may have seen you.

Even with the hand over your mouth, you continued to kick and flail within their grip, managing to headbutt them in the jaw and drop you to the grass. The unexpected drop left you face down on the damp grass, scrambling to stand up and get away only for your ankles to be grabbed as they pulled you back.

When the aggressor managed to flip your relentless figure on your back, you were met with the sight of the mask once again as the man stood over you. You were lying on your back between his legs before he kneeled, practically straddling you.

Only then did you realize your hands were free, eyes fleeting between your hands and the mask before you were reaching up, basically palming the object and tearing it off, revealing a head full of blonde hair and a crooked, sadistic smile.

You weren’t even sure what your expression looked like.

“JJ?” You mumbled, letting the mask fall to the grass beside you. You could feel your entire body shaking. You didn’t know how to feel — Should you be relieved? Was this just a joke he took too far? Should you be terrified?

You normally would never assume JJ would hurt you but considering the fact that he’d just chased you through your entire house burned that argument to ashes. It didn’t help that he had this look in his eyes as he stared down at you — one you could only describe as unhinged.

You barely registered his next movements, as swift as they were — the way he pulled a decent sized knife from his sleeve in the blink of an eye. He twirled the object as the moonlight bounced off of the surface of it, you could see little spots littered across it. Little spots that almost looked like dried blood. He examined it, licking his bottom lip.

“You like it?” He spoke admiringly, watching the weapon glisten as if it were just a sight to see while you were laid petrified underneath him. You felt like you had just met a whole new person.

You still laid frozen still when he brought the object down to press it lightly against your throat, just enough for you to feel the coolness of it and how sharp it was. His dark gaze left the object to meet your wide eyes.

“It’s almost as pretty as you.”

General taglist; @livlaughquinn 

JJ Maybank Taglist; @ronnieissupermegafoxyawesomehot @maybankslover 

Event Taglist; @timmytime17

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[cryingoverafictionalcharacter]

Request from @iwannagotospaceforever​: Could u do a Fred Weasley x reader maybe with prompt 12 and 13???

12: “I’m Fine!” “Y/n, there's blood coming out of your head!”

13: “You’re cute when you want to stab me”

A/N: I love this!!! I hope you guys enjoy, feel free to leave me any feedback or requests you might have <3

Prompt: You and Fred have been friends for a while, you’ll hang out together on school grounds, pull pranks with Fred, and just seem to get along well, unless its on the quidditch pitch, where your competitive natures can get a bit out of hand.

Warnings: Reader is not in the same house as Fred (Gryffindor), Swearing, mentions of blood, Frenemies type shit, Fluff, terrible quidditch writing

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You walked onto the quidditch pitch, resting your broom against your shoulder as you swung your other arm, excited for game day. You were determined to win this round, Gryffindor having won the last couple games, and you were not going to let your house fall into the same fate. You had been getting up early the past two weeks, trying out new flying techniques, working on your stamina, and practicing chaser moves with Fred. 

You and Fred have been friends since fourth year, having met in Snape's potions class when your concoction may have blown up in Snape’s face. After that you were constantly hanging out. Fred joined in of course, pulling pranks and just talking about random things in general, but for some reason, you and the older twin just had a connection. It might have had something to do with your competitive natures constantly keeping each other on your toes.

You spotted him on the other side of the field with George, each carrying their beaters gear and walking to the Gryffindor rest area. His eyes met yours and a smile spread across his face as he waved. 

“You’re going down” He mouthed, his hand that was once waving now having a thumb pointing downwards. You smiled back.

“Fuck off” You mouthed back, going to give him the bird before you suddenly remembered Dumbledore was watching, and he probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.

Fred made a fake sad face, making you laugh a bit before returning the gesture. Suddenly Lee Jordan's voice rang through the bleachers.

“Good afternoon everyone and welcome to the third game of the season, today we have Gryffindor against (Y/H). Lets have a good game, and may the best team win.

This signaled for you and the rest of your team to get on your brooms and fly up to the starting point, forming a circle with the other chasers on your team as well as the chasers on Gryffindor.

There was a bit of silence, before madam Hooch opened the trunk, releasing the bludgers and the golden snitch, before finally throwing the Quaffle into the air, officially starting the game.

After a few minutes you had finally gotten your hand on the quaffle, headed to the goal, and towards Fred and George. You saw George moving to block your left, and moved right, now having to face Fred. You had been practicing with him for the past few weeks, so you knew his weak spots, but he also knew yours. You faked going for the far right goal before quickly turning and going through the middle, scoring your team a point.

“That's ten points to (Y/H)!” Lee’s voice rang out, causing cheers and boos to ring through the crowd. You flew up beside Fred, having a moment before the next play started.

“You need to up your game Weasley” You said jokingly

“Please I saw you from a mile away” He joked back, suddenly making you think that he might have let you score.

“I swear to God Weasley, if you are going easy on me im going to kill you” You said, giving him a look, before starting to fly off, but not before Fred got in the last word.

“You look so cute when you want to stab me!” He said, causing you to look back at him and giving him a pose, causing the both of you to laugh, but secretly you had butterflies going insane in your stomach.

Did Fred Weasley just call you cute? You weren’t blind, you thought the twin were quite attractive, but every once in a while, you couldn’t help but think about Fred specifically, about how the sun caught his hair, or how his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or how he was able to laugh every day, but also made sure that you felt heard. 

You were quickly snapped out of your thoughts however when you made it back to the starting circle, putting your focus back into the game.

A few rounds later and you were 20-20 with Gryffindor. You had just gotten the ball again and was headed towards the goal, Fred facing you, a smirk on his face which only motivated you more. You were only a few seconds to scoring the goal, when Fred's face changed from irritating smugness, to worry. You didn’t have time to make out what he was saying before the right side of your head suddenly erupted with a sharp pain, and you were spiraling towards the ground.

The fact that you were still on your broom didn’t make the fall to bad, but before you knew what had happened, you were laying on your back looking at the sky.

“Looks like one of (Y/H) chasers got a good knock by one of the bludgers, that gotta hurt” Lee Jordan said

Madam Hooch was knelt beside you, asking you about the pain when Fred suddenly landed next you, running over and kneeling by your side.

“I know you said to not go easy on you but I swear it wasn’t me” He said, quickly, causing you to laugh a little.

“Fucking coward” You mumbled suddenly realizing that the game was still going on.

“Fred what are you doing go play I’m fine!” you said, finally sitting all the way up, your head spinning a bit.

“Y/n, there is blood coming out of your head!” Fred said, making you lift your hand to poke the side of your head, only to pull it back to see blood. Before you could say anything else to get Fred back to the game, Lee Jordan's voice rang through the crowd.

“Harry Potter has captured the Golden snitch! Gryffindor wins!” Lee said, causing the crowd to cheer.

“Well that sucks” You groaned. All the practice, only for the golden boy to catch the snitch AGAIN. You reached out your hand to Fred, motioning for him to help you up, which he took. However as soon as you were on your feet your head started to spin, but Fred saw you sway and caught you.

“I want you to go straight to the medical wing to make sure you don't have a concussion, Weasley can you take them?” Madam hooch said, making you roll your eyes.

“I don’t need to-” You started, not thinking your injury was such a big deal

“I would be happy to” Fred said before smiling at you, you glaring at him in return.

A few minutes later and you were sitting cross legged on on of the bed in the hospital wing, Fred making it his job to annoy you while  Madam Pomfry to checked on you.

“Be honest doc, how long do they have” Fred said, causing you to roll your eyes and swat his arm, which caused him to laugh.

“Y/N will be living for a long while, but you do have a very mild concussion, so I don’t want you to do anything labor intensive for the next week.

“What? But quidditch!” you practically yelled, horrified at the news.

“I don’t want to hear it, now at the end of the week, I want you to come back in so we can see how you’re healing, as for the rest of the day I want you to relax” Madam Pomfry said, giving you a sympathetic look before leaving to check up on someone who had a bad encounter with the wrong Polyjuice potion.

“It could be worse” Fred said, trying to lighten the mood, causing you to glare at him.

“How could it be worse?” You asked

“Well you could not have me to keep you company!” Fred said, causing you to groan.

“Death would have been a kinder fate” You said, before quickly laughing at Fred’s shocked expression. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding” You said, moving to get up, which Fred helped you do without fully realizing it.

“Are you sure you want to stick around? I can’t do any strenuous activities so I’m basically the most boring person in the world right now” You said, causing Fred to shake his head.

“Impossible, you could never be boring, but I have an idea if you’re up to it?” Fred asked, quirking a brow which made you suspicious, but you agreed non the less, nodding your head.

“Excellent, adventure awaits!” He said, before walking off while still having his arm around you.

A while later and you were sitting outside by the black lake, underneath a tree. You had been spending the last few minutes throwing rocks in the water, just watching the ripples.

“You think the squid is mad that we keep throwing rocks in his house?” You asked, causing Fred to laugh a bit.

“Why do you think I brought you along? If he suddenly wants to kill us I know you're going to be way slower than me.” Fred laughed, laughing even louder when you shoved his shoulder.

“Typical, you only bring me places to benefit your secret agenda” You joked, leaning your back against the tree.

“Nah, you're to pretty to sacrifice” He said, suddenly tensing up realizing he just said that.

You were feeling something similar, your face heating up as you shook your head, trying to dismiss the comment as something platonic. He just felt bad because you got hit.

“Fred, I am in dirty quidditch clothes, with crazy hair and a bruise on the side of my head, I wouldn’t describe myself as pretty right now” You said, thinking he would make a joke and that would be the end of it.

“Well I disagree” He said, the sincerity in his voice surprising you, you turned to look at him to see he was already looking at you, before looking down at his hands.

“You really scared me today” He started “When I saw you get hit, and saw you falling, I was so scared. I kept thinking of how it happened, how I could have stopped it, how you were probably out cold, but then I got down there, and you were the same you always were, calling me lame for not intentionally trying to kill my friend at quidditch” He finished, his joking tone returning a bit.

“I think the term I used was coward” You said, smiling a bit.

“Yeah, that I am, not because of quidditch though” Fred said, smiling a bit, but you weren’t, stuck trying to think about what he could be talking about.

“Fred, you pull pranks on professors for fun. You stole your parents car, for fun. I don’t need to say all the crazy things you’ve done to know you’re not a coward. Why do you think that?” You asked.

“Because I never told you about how I really felt” Fred said. Suddenly the butterflies in your stomach returned, causing your face to heat up.

“What?” You asked, not quite believing what you were hearing.

“I like you Y/n, I have for a while, but I haven't said anything because I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same way, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship” He said, still not looking in your eye and instead looking out on the lake.

“Well then I guess where both cowards” You said, causing Fred’s head to suddenly snap to look at you, which made you laugh a bit.

“What?” It was now Fred’s turn to look shocked. Instead of answering, you just shake your head and put a hand on his cheek, closing the space between you two and connecting your lips. Fred took no time to respond, moving his hand to gently cup the side of your face that wasn’t bruised. We stayed like that for a moment, before finally pulling away for air.

“Well, that was unexpected” Fred said, making you laugh.

“What that I like you back or that I’m such an amazing kisser even with a head injury” You said, making him laugh in return.

“Speaking of which, maybe we should stop, Pomfry said no strenuous activity and I wouldn’t want to-” Fred started but you knew he was joking.

“Just shut it and kiss me dumb ass” You said, smiling as he reconnected your lips again, this time the kiss going a bit further, his tongue sweeping your bottom lip. You opened your mouth, your hands moving to his hair and-

“Oi no snogging with a concussion!” George suddenly yelled from a bit a ways, Oliver and some of your team mates following.

“Mind your own business” Fred said, making you laugh.

“And here we are, trying to be good friends and make sure you haven't died or something” George said, shaking his head in feign disappointment. “This couldn’t have waited a week?”

“No!” You and Fred said in unison, causing the group to laugh before making their way back to the school, wanting to give you two some privacy, but not before George gave Fred a quick thumbs up, glad that he finally made his move.

“Well I’m glad you didn’t wait to tell me” You said once everyone was out of earshot.

“Me neither, except we still have to wait a week to-” Fred started, a suggestive smirk on his face.

“Fred Weasley I swear to God!” You yelled swatting his chest, causing him to fall into a fit of laughter which you quickly followed. Maybe getting hit by a bludger isn’t the worst thing that could happen.

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Ah, to be hit in the head by a giant ball and be comforted by Fred Weasley. The Dream. TBH I know this ending is trash! But still I hope you enjoyed it, let me know if you have any recommendations or feedback! Also @iwannagotospaceforever​ I hope you liked it!

[dunmerofskyrim]

28

There’s breathing when I wake and I fear that it’s my own. A labour-taken rask, groping thin air into lungs gone flat and ragged as a ship’s sails tattered by storm, battle, blaze. A helpless hopeless ruin of breath, braving the pain of keeping on for abject fear of stopping.  I hold my breath til it hurts. The sound carries on, sucking parched at the air. Not my breath, I tell myself. Not my broken body.

But even when I breathe again, and breathe again, and allow myself time to breathe deep again, my lungs ache tight, half-starved. The air is hot and fuggy, close and humid near my lips, but my limbs all ache with cold. And when I open my eyes I see only a dark, almost as whole as the red-black inside of my skull. A grid of hazy gold hangs in my vision. Firelight through sackcloth. They have hooded me like a hawk.

I shuffle as best I can, trying blind with hands and legs and a writhing body to feel out my situation. A rope burns round my wrists. Another cord about my throat keeps the hood tight over my head. I’m on my side, a map of bruises and lacerations, too detailed by far. Wrists bound behind my back, my shoulders are an agony of gristle, gamy knots all through the muscle. A pleading warning in the joints of my arms. But my feet scuffle against dust, against grit, against boards and some thin layer of give. Rushes, rug, canvas, I think. My feet and legs are free.

“Sturn.”

“What?”

“Said he’s sturn. Starn to stir.”

“Oh. Looks it.”

“Looks that way an all.”

The voices native-coarse with smoke, and dust, and storms of ash. Not the subtle grit of my mother’s voice, half-faded with time. Not the mild-grained catch and drag of the mainland. The voices have Vvardenfell in them, harsher than I’ve heard on any but the oldest Dunmer of the Quarter. One’s sexless, mid-toned, with a clumsy sibilance to it: an awkwardness between teeth and tongue. Argonian maybe. The other’s female — the one whose accent runs like oil, too flat for half the syllables to hold.

“I’m questioning.”

“Yiz, is you?”

“Your reasons why. That’s what I’m questioning.”

“Got an ast, Tepa, you best ast it, aint you.”

“Him there. You left him live, Drosi. Why’s that? I wonder. I wonder…”

“Nchow. Best ast Guls than me.”

“He’s in no mood to talk.”

“Now see there you’ve catched it. Him there, he goes to kill Guls. Our Guls. And he aint do it quick. See?”

“He might live. Guls might yet live. A little fire? By my tail, Drosi, it takes more than a little fire to…” The sexless voice turns pleading, like someone telling a joke, begging anyone to laugh. “Drosi, he’s Dunmer!”

“Tccht! Stop that mouth. Stop that mouth an lissen.”

My breath is loud and thick inside the sack. The other breathing carries on, loud in the silence. A scab-dry sound, red raw.

“I know that sound, Tepa, an I’ll swear you: that’s the sound of a body dine. Slow, true, but Guls is killed all a same. Him there — if he’d of killed im quick an I’d of killed him quick as well, but things been how they is? I aint like to gie him there no more mercy’n he’s shown our Guls. Circumstances’re different. See?”

“You could’ve said. You could’ve just said it’s about revenge.”

“Proportion!” The female voice barks, hacking the words into hard flints of syllable to give them sense. A sound like her surging up to her feet. “Principle! Example… Yunstand, Tepa?”

“Yes. Guls dies slow, he does slow. Fair.”

“What else we got here? Tell me that. What else kine fairness we got but what we aint done with arn own hands?”

I’m trapped between their voices. I’m trapped between struggle and going slack. Like a landed fish can writhe and fight the air itself that drowns it, or else can wait limp for the blow to the head, the knife — feel fear, or just the hook. I tell myself: If I could see… If they would only let me see, I’d know what to do…

But footsteps come, rounding me, and a hand grips the rope that ties the sack in place. Picks me up by it, like the scruff on a cat’s thin neck. I fight, but only like a hooked fish does, useless as it tries in vain to swim the air around it. I hear the rope slither, spooling over some rafter above me. They draw me up with a heave and whetstone rasp of breath. My feet scrabble to find the floor and stand my weight before the rope chokes me. Even ground and an ache in my ankle, I stand for only a moment. And I think I know what’s coming.

“Really, Drosi? There are worse ways to go.”

“An kyner ways to wait the while it takes me to fine them.”

“Oh.”

“Juss hol the fuckin rope, Tepa.”

More footsteps over the boards, the reeds, the rug. A lighter tread. Blind, but I can smell them. A dry and dust-road smell, and something rancid, cloth gone half to rot, grease smeared over sour weeks of sweat. All that, but it’s fear that makes me gag. The brushfire boundless roaring of my mind as it speeds and smokes in vain.

“Up?”

“Uh-huh.”

They raise me. Heave by hand by heave they jerk me peristaltic upward. My feet scrabble at the ground again, hoping to somehow cling on. All that’s left is the tips of my toes, a stricken dance against the floor. They support a sliver of me in their scrabbling. The rest of my weight ropes round my neck, impending tight. If not for the sackcloth, the ropegrain would by now be stamped on my skin. A livid red cord; memory made visible, as scars are.

“No meat on him. Wouldn’t think he’d be so heavy.”

“That’d be his strugglin. Now see…”

A fist bulls into my gut. Again, I retch. Convulse. Feet slipping, I slump. A narrow pressure as my throat takes the weight of my fall. And already the air is gone from me, knocked by the punch, and my flat lungs strain for breath. The world’s turned half purple and stars show like bruises through the hot and heavy sackcloth.

The rope heaves, pulling on my head til the bones all down my back begin to grind. They are hanging me, I think. This is all, I think. Another punch, this time sharp against my ribs and jarring bone to bone.

“Blight..!”

“Carry on that way, Drosi, you’ll break your hand before you break him.”

A snarl. Drosi strikes me again. A knee. The blow cracks wet over my face and my throat convulses round the taste of blood. Then the rope goes slack and caves me down to kneel like someone at prayer. I rasp in breath as deep and heavy as the crush of my neck will let me. Breath like crying, and wrought with the tang of iron.

“Gain.”

They dredge me up til I’m dancing again. They must hit me again but it’s hard to say in surety. Afraid, my fear recoils from itself and wraps me in its warmth. I remember the temple-ruin, the nix-hounds. Fire, watching Balambal, watching the knife that emptied him. In the darkness that came then, I called fire once more. But I was hollow, quenched and cold. The fire didn’t answer. It left me to them and to this.

Pleading in the blue-black blindness, I ask it back while I still have breath. There have been stars out tonight. I’ve seen none, but they saw me; gave light out and over me, like a haze-thin fall of rain. Time has passed. A sliver skinny as a parched man’s spit, but I have back a little of my power, and a blazing will to live.

Between my bound hands a new pain begins to bloom. It’s nothing compared with the rest. A blistering burnt-hair heat. I bear it as the ropes begin to smoke.

But a singing whistling cry sounds through the night. The rope round my neck goes full slack and I collapse baggage-heavy and limp to the ground. I let the fire go from my mind, ecstatic again with air. So cold it aches on my teeth. So sweet it tastes like good water through the clotting mask of my bleeding nose.

“The nix.”

“Spooked.”

The sound of fear in their voices is sweet to me as well.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Got a mine to go see what’s spooked em you best go see, aint you?”

“Be alright with him?”

“Nchow…”

“Fine, fine… But I swear, Drosi, if I go down there and it turns out to be shamblers again…”

The sigh of stairs, ladder-rungs, some scaffold of wood taking weight. The sound rises and fades into the distance, off towards the crying nix.

The rope round my wrists is cheap, ill-made and singed now. I feel it fray open against my heat-blistered hands. But the hood still has me blind.

Drosi’s footsteps on the floorboards. My ears ring sharp for listening, trying to place her between the nightsounds, the upset of nix outside, Guls’ death-deep breathing.

“You an me now. No help for neither one of us.” She croons, stepping closer. “Reckon I’ll have to just keep things simple.”

With a loose groan I try to rise. Make a show of it, hoping to coax some new kick from her. The nix are all but wailing now in whistling chorus, seething bright as steam. I keep my hands behind my back. Try to elbow halfway to upright. Some last spark of fight for her to stamp from me.

The kick comes. A searing blue knot of pain, sudden in my gut. No warning but that I asked for it. Clenched jaw and grit teeth, I bite to pieces the grinding whimper that tries to leave my mouth. That sound’s the last of my breath, making to bolt from my belly in terror. Like a browsing buck hears the woodbreak boot of a hunter give themself away, and runs the thicket, the danger, fast as only thoughtlessness can be. But I’m less a fleeing buck, and more a wounded stag now. And I wrench free my hands, and I pounce to cling round the kick as it comes, listing hard into the pain.

If ever you’ve feared for your life and been shown some last glimmering chance at escape you’ll know it’s a strength that comes over you, almost from outside yourself. When all’s lost and some small voice says through the towering silence about to fall, ‘no, not all’. Then it comes, willing and perhaps even able to pay any cost if only it’ll carry you on. Kill what wants to kill you, and leave you still alive, howevermuch you might be broken by the attempt. As the wounded stag, so too the army surrounded. So too your storyteller, coiled blind round a leg and crawling, clawing, groping the body attached down to his own animal level.

We share the floor now, both writhing against the other like two flags in a gale. An elbow rains blows on my back. I trap an arm with a knee. Feel fingers scrabble at my face as I fight to get on top. Only the sackcloth saves my eyes from the scraping nails. Only the pain that covers me and soaks through all my flesh saves each new blow from registering as anything more than more of the same. I bear it.

I’m snarling through the hood, nose bleeding again, throat hot with blood. And under me I begin to feel it: of us two, she’s the one more afraid now. Knows she opened herself to this. Knows she had too much faith that the scales were weighed in her favour, and that now that faith has failed her. She fights for breath to scream with.

Pawing til my left hand finds jawline, collarbones, and the soft convulse of throat between them, I let one hand see for the other. I bring the heel of my right palm down crushing-hard towards it, against her throat to choke out the sound as it comes. Then like a blind man I feel up for her face, her features. Feel her muted mouth open, gnawing, trying to bite at me. Feel the rage of all her limbs as the same fear and force comes over her as has me in its hold now.

But I don’t need strength in my limbs any longer. Only focus. And to place my hands. The blade of a hard cheek under my palm. The hollow of a temple, a hairline, beneath my fingers. One last agony bursts in on my left side. I gasp the calling and feel it froth past my lips. A blaze beneath my fingertips; hot fat against my palms. I killed her quicker than she would have done for me. Still, it doesn’t feel like mercy.

In a surge almost of disgust, I push clumsy to my feet, off the body as it stops jerking. Shake and scrabble, my hands search around my neck, seeking out some knot. Still in the grips of my battle-blood, they make slow and awkward work of it. And then the hood tears from my head, and the night opens out all round me like some new dark dawn.

The room is a round attic and its roof the tall-ribbed taper of a spire, cross-raftered. Slipshod, the caulking fails here and there, and scraps of night-blue sky show through the missing tiles of it. The topmost storey of some old towerhouse, I think, boarded and with dry kreshweave dustcloths for a floor. A stone-lined hearth sits cold against one grey-plastered wall. Across from it, a wide window from floor almost to ceiling, glazed from dozens of circles and diamonds: a fit of mismatched shapes, afloat in a seamwork of black lead. The glass is murky and so old that the panes have run, distorting the world beyond them. One section of glass is hinged and open but draped over with a coarse cloth curtain, worried at the corners by a cold and seldom breeze.

Drosi lies twisted against the floorcloths. A Dunmer woman, face blistered anonymous, head scorched and smoking. The whole room reeks with burnt hair and searing fat. Poor boots on her motionless feet; just leather, loose, strapped in with strips of hide. But in a flash of jealousy, I see what else she’s wearing.

“That’s my jacket!” My voice is a choked out rasp. I crouch down by her to tug her arms from its sleeves before she starts to stiffen. “My sister’s fucking jacket!”

But as I bend that same pain bursts through me again. A wet loose wrongness of feeling, lending a hiss up out from my snarling mouth. I clap a hand to the feeling and see it come away wet and paint-bright with blood. My stomach sinks as I see the little use-knife in Drosi’s limp hand. I look down before I can stop myself.

Through both my shirts – Riftfolk, embroidered, and simple Grey Quarter kurta – a patch of blood has grown, like rust on the blade of an ill-kept sword. A tiny nick beneath my fingertips leads through the cloth and shows where the knife went in. Another hiss, almost dismay this time.

“Fuck… Fuck…”

She’s stabbed me. A shallow dip against my flank, not deep but deep enough. It aches empty, like a bruise driven straight into my side. A weak-headed feeling comes over me and I blink hard, bite the inside of my cheek so as not to swoon into it.

The night is cold, and I’m cold, and the battle-blood ebbs from out of me, like the wound itself has let it off. Emptying me out.

“It’s nothing,” I hiss with all the plea and fervour of prayer, hoping it’ll prove true. “Ghosts and bones and all the fucking gods, it’s nothing…”

But I remember Tepa now, and find that I forgot them. The nix are silent outside. No way Tepa could have left, I think, except the wind-twitched curtain. I shamble over to the wide window and move the cloth. A nail and leather-lashed ladder clings to the towerside and climbs up to this room’s window. It spans down to a balcony below, narrow, skirting round the tower. In the night-black it’s hard to say how high this towerhouse climbs.

And yet I can tell I’m in no fit state to fight or fly now. Only to hole up and hope to see morning.

I finish stripping the jacket off Drosi’s back and the knife from her hand. Trying not to look at her face, I pat down the rags she wears beneath and yank an amulet from round her neck, and for good measure the leather and strapping from her feet and calves. Then I drag her to the window. Send the body sailing doll-like out, down, into the black. And I unlash the ladder from the window, then pull it up after me. Every movement is pain, and each flash of pain brings a newer more creeping fear.