#i truly wanted to gut myself so here it iss

[tojisun]

real enough to touch

atwow!jake sully x fem avatar reader

!! angst; there are references to a1; hinted age gap between jake and reader; use of "kid" as platonic pet name // 2.1k words

: based of this prompt; hope you guys would luv it <33; title from blue banisters - lana

you watch as they gather their things, packing up whatever else they could hoist onto their ikrans without the beasts buckling underneath all the weight that they are not used to carrying. the sully’s are silent for a change, their lips pinched close, their eyes refusing to meet each other in an act of full avoidance, hoping that the silence would blanket their breaking hearts.

your hands twitch, muscle memory kicking in when jake stalked away and left the rest of his family for a short moment. neytiri finds your eyes, tipping her head to wherever jake headed and you send her a short nod before turning around to follow the trail that your friend left.

you find him standing before the opening of high camp, alone, his eyes looking far away and his mind lost in thought. not even your loud footfalls could coax him out so you wait, taking your space beside him, basking in the silence as you count down the minutes you have left with him.

“i’m sorry,” he says after a while, his voice thick and only then do you realize that he slipped into english – a pretence of privacy.

“you shouldn’t be,” you tell him, tipping your head up and smiling when you meet his already-waiting eyes. “i get it the most, you know?”

“i know,” he breathes. “i’d love nothin’ more than for you t’come… but the people, they need you more.”

“‘course. they’re still gon’ need the remaining warrior of the jarhead clan, now that y’r leavin’,” you tease, hoping to ease the tension.

he chuckles, shaking his head at your words. your heart stutters at the sound, the realization that this is the last you’ll ever hear from and see of jake has you biting the inside of your cheeks, willing yourself to not cry yet. not when he needs you – strong heart.

he licks his lips, parting them, hesitating, until he finally mutters, “thanks for always being with me: back in hell’s gate ‘till now.”

you roll your eyes at him this time, a huff of short laugh escaping your lips. “i promised, didn’t i?”

(“on me?” he asked, tall and blue and free. he stood beside neytiri, their eyes pleading, waiting, but hardened – if you were going to stand against them, then so be it.

but how could you ever? you would follow him to hell if he asked.

“always, corporal,” you replied, laughing as you shook your head, watching as your answer was rewarded with twin and fanged smiles.

yeah, you thought, i have no regrets.)

but that might have been the wrong thing to say; you watch as jake’s face falls, his body drooping along, making him look older than he is. he reaches out for you, patting your head the way you see him do with his kids – familial. platonic.

your heart bursts at seeing what you are to him. it is love, sure it is not in the way you want, but it is still love. jake’s love.

you shuffle to his side, patting him on the back. “i’m fine, jake.”

“i know y’are,” he says, his hand still resting on your head. “but i want you to live for y’rself, kid. y’ve always been here f’r me and now i want you to be here for y’rself.”

“and what exactly does living for myself mean?” your tone is jovial, light.

“…well, i see the way you are with my kids and i know you’ll be a great mother.”

his words strike you, your mind racing as you stare up at him with wide eyes. no.

“no,” you repeat out loud, chuckles spilling from your lips. “you- no. jake. i, uh, i don’t think i can.”

his brows crease, worry lining his face. “you can’t? why?”

“it’s not like i’ll like anyone else to the point of marriage and mating.” you shrug, hiding your wince with a cough, your tail coiling around your leg as you duck your head away, breaking eye contact.

he holds your arm, quiet, urging you to look at him again. you refuse, hoping he would not insist, not when it’s him.

“anyone else?” jake’s voice pierces through your silence and your lungs burn at hearing him repeat your slip up.

you clench your jaw, biting back anything that can clue him in because jake’s smart. no amount of augustine’s curt dismissal could say otherwise. hell, even spellman had begrudgingly admitted that there’s something good going on in jake’s head. ‘something’ that could easily bite your ass right now.

“oh,” he says. 

fuck.

“kid-”

you shrug out of his hold, jake easily letting go of your arm, and you shuffle away, your back turned to him. you rub the back of your neck, chuckling, not minding the fact that you and him could hear just how fake it sounds.

“it’s nothing, jake. don’t. don’t worry about it.” you do not meet his eyes, ashamed of having your feelings unearthed, laid down at his feet for him to see.

he is quiet, unmoving, but you can feel his stare pinning you, tracking the way you shuffle or how you fiddle with your fingers to keep your eyes busy.

you wonder what he thinks, but fear seizes your heart, squeezing, filling you with pinpricks. you are afraid. afraid that if he does give word to what you have always avoided – his rejection, his apologies, his pity – then there’s no turning back. no bridge to salvage. and you would be left with nothing of jake, not even his friendship.

then, amidst your silence, jake finally speaks.

“since when?” he asks. his curiosity is gentle, kind, and you turn to look at him, seeing the beginnings of apologies shadowing his weary eyes.

another dismissal sits on your tongue, ready for you to just move past this because what good would it do to talk about things that could never be?

but-

but how long have you been unkind to yourself? how long have you carried this love? before the war and even now at its return, was it not him who you fought for? was it not jake who gave you the strength to just be?

you feel him step close to you, close but not enough – it would never be enough. you study the contours of his face, every line and every freckle. eywa, he is so beautiful, your heart burns.

“that day before you were gon’ go scouting with augustine and spellman.” the words spill from your lips. “just after you caused so many issues by just running away once your first link was established.”

you laugh, heart easing up when you see jake’s lips tug up in a soft smile at the memory.

“i just finished unlinking from my own when you wheeled towards my open pod, grinning ear to ear, asking how it was. i told you it felt weird, in a good way, and you did this laugh. it was- it came from deep in your belly.” you lick your lips, ignoring the choked up feeling lodged in your throat.

“you were always so detached from everyone, keeping to yourself even on the days we were allowed to let loose and have fun, but it all changed that day. you looked so much happier, lighter. calmer, even. jake, you were – are – so beautiful. and i, well, you know.”

jake’s eyes gloss over like he can see the memory play out before his eyes. “that long?” his voice is vulnerable.

“yeah.”

you take a moment, a quiet breath, then, “it’s always been you, jake.”

tears trickle from the corners of your eyes, spilling onto flushed cheeks. your heart caves as the last of your secrets are laid bare for him to see. the pieces fall from your palms and you know jake could never pick them up for you. you don’t even expect him to.

because this love that you carry is not meant to be reciprocated, you know that at least. not when jake’s heart has finally found its home in the loving arms of neytiri. because while you are in love with jake, you love neytiri just as strongly. and just how you will do anything to make jake happy, you will do just as much to protect neytiri’s joy.

“i’m sorry,” jake whispers, the simple words loaded with so much emotion. you look into his eyes, see the storm raging, and you laugh.

the giggles spill from your lips like your trickling tears – soft, unexpected, and surprising.

jake looks up, astonished and confused at your reaction. you shake your head at him, moving close, reaching to hold his wrists with your smaller hands.

“jake, i know,” you say, smiling up at him. “i’m not hurt or lamenting. i’ve had years to make do, and many more years to realize that us being friends – that’s just as good. i don’t need anything more from you jake. i’m happy as we are.”

jake studies you, his eyes tracking your tears and the soft smile gracing your lips, memorizing the white freckles on your face and the patterns running along your cheeks. he gazes into you, seeing, not for the first time, how much you mean to him and his heart calms. because despite the tears and the heartbreaking confession, jake sees the serenity lining your face, and that is all that he could wish for.

he twists his hands so that he is holding onto yours, your fingers tangled with his. amber eyes gaze at you, heavy with sincere care directed at you. you giggle, a heartbreaking hiccupped sound, as he draws you close and pulls you into an embrace.

the last one, you think to yourself, burrowing your head onto his chest. and then he’ll be gone.

“thank you,” jake murmurs, his voice muted from where it’s pressed onto your forehead. “i- i’m sorry for not noticing. for not realizing, but thank you. thank you for still being with me. for choosing me and the clan. for fighting for us. i wouldn’t have gone far without you so thank you, kid.”

you nod, no longer trusting your voice, your lips wobbling as you stifle a sob. his fingers run along your braids, tickling the base of your ears, before pressing a kiss on the top of your head. then, he is pulling away, his warm embrace leaving you for the cool air to caress.

time has slipped past your fingers, it seems, and now it’s time for him to go.

“take care, jake.” you hold his eyes, willing yourself to be strong in front of him for the last time.

he nods, unable to leave with a pretence of a smile amidst his own teary eyes. but that’s alright. he’s given you enough of his kindness and love to last you a lifetime.

you both return to the edge of the cliff, the clan watching as the sullys prepare to mount their ikrans. neytiri offers you a tight hug, her sobs pressed on the side of your face and you hold her with weak arms, crying as your sister takes her leave.

the children squeeze you as they hug you goodbye. tuk promises to tell you the stories of her journey and you do not tell her that they might not return to the clan anymore, not when jake’s doing this to protect them from the humans, so you nod and tell her that you will wait.

because you will. you will wait for their return. for your friend’s return.

jake meets your eyes once more, raising his hand and waving goodbye, and then they’re all gone.

the clan members return to their tents, quiet and solemn, but you stay at the edge of the cliff, watching as they go smaller and smaller, until they’re engulfed by the colours of the vast sky.

mo’at stands beside you. waiting. silent. then, “come, child. you no longer need to hide.”

your knees buckle as you turn to her, unable to stop yourself from hugging her as you sob, not minding the fact that she is the tsahik as you seek comfort in her embrace. your lungs burn at the weight of your sorrow, and she holds you close, her aged arms holding you up as you weep.

because now, truly, jake is gone. he has left you behind, unable to follow him.

you had been fine not being his beloved as long as he was in your life. but now, you have nothing of him. just memories of him – his ghost.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XXII

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), trauma, violence, blood, some elements untagged.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: The reader’s past and present come to a head.

Note: I want to thank everyone for making this fic so special. Honestly, my intent was 4 chapters with just Bucky and Steve. It stretched on into... this and I had so much fun reading everyone’s reactions and thinking of what to do next and just hitting ‘post’ has been so much fun!

You guys really are special. You’ve not only taken this story this far but you’ve done so much more for a blog I started when my old fandom left me a little disillusioned and uninspired.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

MASTERLIST

Your existence stretched on from one torturous day to the next. The nights were hardest. Even as you cursed the mornings for rising. You counted them like the lashes across your flesh, like the violations of your body, like the aches that inhibited your body. You counted, you waited. You didn’t know when it would come but there had to be a chance. A single chance for it all to be over, one way or the other.

You woke after the first fortnight to the noise of shouting. Two weeks to see you once more bound to the prison of his body and mind. Two weeks to drag you back down to the pathetic maid without a hope. 

The guards inside the walls clamoured in the courtyard and those at the gate secured it as voices argued in bellowed shouts. You couldn’t make out what was going on beyond even as you crept over to the window and peered down at the flurry.

You saw only shadows beyond the wall but hadn’t the strength to think it was anyone who could save you. You heard Barnes sit up with a groan and looked back at him, shying away from the window as you balanced yourself against the wall.

“What is happening?” He stood and swept his long tangled hair away from his face. He drew back the curtains and looked down. He frowned and squinted. “Who is fool enough to stop at my gate?”

He brushed past you and checked his reflection in the glass hung against the wall. 

“Fetch me a tunic and some breeches,” he demanded as he combed his locks and tidied his beard. 

Your gaze lingered on him in the mirror; the lines around his eyes were deeper and the silver in his hair foretold of his most recent isolation. Two years had only caused his bitterness to boil over. He looked like a maddened woodsman, not some elegant duke.

He turned as you didn’t move. “Well, you only ever wanted to be my maid, eh?”

You limped over to the wardrobe and retrieved several pieces. You helped him dress and you tried not to think of years before when you’d done the same. 

Those last weeks you’d spent in the prison of this chamber, he hadn’t bothered to dress often and he had stripped you of all your layers that first day. He kept you bare and prone, your scars displayed to him as his eyes hung on the stretch marks at your thigh and stomach.

“I will send them away,” he assured, “these lords, they think hospice is offered at any keep.”

He left you and you sat on the bed for a moment as you stared at the door. You were sore all over, numb as you wondered if you were truly still alive. It all felt like a blur, like it could have been the afterlife, an endless purgatory.

You went to the window as you heard him below and the air stilled. You leaned on the stone sill and listened. Lord Barnes’ voice cut through the tension.

“...Parker, you’ve returned… what… else….” his words floated up disjointed as you strained to hear him clearly. His laughter reached you and sent a shiver down your spine. Then it died and the silence returned.

Then you heard another. You recognized Peter’s tones as he spoke sternly. You heard the anger even if you could not decipher his exact words. You watched as Barnes went to the gate and reached through them. He snatched the parchment and dropped it to the dirt. He spat on it and stomped it into the ground.

He waved away the lord outside his gate and spun as he barked orders to his men. You were confused by the unusual scene, more so as you saw the party of men who accompanied Peter retreat from the wall and sink into the cover of the tree line. They carried banners like an official party and kept formation until they were out of sight.

You slipped away from the window and to the bed. Barnes entered as you sat silently. He kicked a stool over and growled. “Wine,” he snarled, “now.”

He sat heavily and his feet splayed out before him as he sighed. You got up and went to the cabinet and uncorked a bottle. You filled a goblet and he took it from you just as roughly as he had the piece of parchment from the men at his gates.

“The boy has returned on some fool’s errand,” Barnes gulped loudly, “you fuck him to?”

You didn’t say anything as he drained the last of the wine and thrust the cup out again. You poured him more and he sniffed it and curled his lip.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve always been mine,” he drank again, “you remember that, don’t you? The way you’ve taken to your former place so easily. You really thought you could escape me?”

“No, my lord,” you said plainly, “I knew I could not. It iss why I threw myself before your horse.”

He stopped his sloppy sipping and whipped the cup across the room so that the wine splashed around you. He stood and neared you, bearing down on you like a wolf. You faced him unflinchingly and waited for him to strike you. He didn’t.

“You’re fortunate I even have the stomach to touch you still. Look at you, scarred and crippled. Used.” He said darkly.

You watched him evenly as he reached to your throat. He squeezed until your breath stopped and his blue eyes focused on his fingers. You did not resist as your head began to pulse. He let you go suddenly and shoved you back towards the bed.

“Well, didn’t damage anything of value, did you?” he sneered, “not those parts of you I require.”

You caught yourself on the bedpost and stared at the mattress. He approached you and you felt his warmth against your back, smelled the alcohol on him.

“That boy will get bored soon enough,” he smacked your ass, “and my sister will not let that warrant stand long enough to be enforced.”

🏰

Everyday Barnes rose and left you to parlay with the men outside his gates. Their interactions were nothing more than mocking laughter and venomous words on his part. But the men outside did not leave. At night, you saw their fires burning beyond the trees and sometimes even heard there voices from the distance.

That day, you watched through the window as Barnes went to the gate. You listened again, the voices quieter than usual and before he stepped back from the bars, he shook them violently. His heel dug into the dirt as he spun around and your heart raced as you watched him march across the cold ground.

You heard him even before he reached the chamber and he flew in a rage. The door hit the wall as he held your cane in his hand and thrust it before you. Naked, stunned, and confused, you blinked at him dumbly. He jabbed you with the silver head bluntly as he bared his teeth.

“Take it. Come with me,” he demanded.

“My l--”

“As you are. I don’t mind taking you to them naked or bloodied, so let us go,” he hissed.

You took the cane from him and leaned on it as he waited for you to precede him through the door. He followed and nudged you along to the winding stairway. You descended slowly as his impatient huffs clouded behind you. When you got to the bottom, he seized your elbow and dragged you across the front hall.

You shivered as you came out into the late autumn morning. Your shame was stifled only by the rising fear in your gut. The guards watched you brazenly as you were forced across the yard and as you neared the gate, you gasped.

Peter stood on the other side with several other men. Among them, you recognized a head of dark hair and they all grew silent as they sensed your movement. Zemo turned and his features hardened as he saw you beside the duke.

“You came all the way here for this wench?” Barnes taunted, “well, that does speak so much. Eh, I think, perhaps, to lose her would be akin to say, well, perhaps losing an arm.”

You stiffened and gripped your cane as you watched Zemo come to the gate. He tore his eyes from you and glared at Barnes.

“You won’t do that. You would have done it long ago if you had the nerve,” he said, “your own king has signed to have you seized. Would you add further dishonour to your name, sir?”

“Dishonour? I have none. I served my kingdom. I do not play at war over the cunt of a maid,” he spat, “I’d sooner have her dead as I thought her all those years.”

“There is no war,” Zemo replied tersely, “you killed a nobleman of your own land. We are not invaders,” he looked at the other men, “you are a traitor.”

“Oh, if you want me, you will have to fight for it,” Barnes scoffed as he pulled you close, “and you might get me in the end, but you won’t get her. I won’t let--”

You swung your cane up and hit Barnes in the ribs. He rasped and his hand fell from your arm. You stepped away from him and went to strike him again but he batted away the stick as he coughed. He ducked under another strike and tripped you with his foot so that you landed on your back.

As he came to stand over you, you flipped up the end of your can and hit him between his legs. He croaked and grasped his crotch as he stumbled back. You grunted and pushed yourself back up to your feet with your cane. You struck him again across the shoulder but he surprised you by latching onto the end of the stick and thrusting you off-kilter.

You heard a clatter at the gates and voices shouting. You were too enthralled with your fight for your life to look over and see why the guards were yelling and running all around. You only expected to be accosted by one of Barnes’ men before you could gain your foothold.

You struggled with him and clung to the silver head of the cane. He pulled you closer and closer as you tried to turn it and you felt the subtle shift. He stumbled back as the bottom came loose and he hit the dirt. He landed with a thump and a rattled breath as the air was knocked from him.

You didn’t think, only moved as you lunged onto him and brought down the pointed steel. The long blade sank into his right shoulder and he screamed in agony. You watched the pain contort his face and you twisted the dagger. His voice grew louder but he could not move his arm to get you off of him.

You pulled the dagger from his flesh but before you could bring it down again, he lifted his pelvis and forced you off of him. He rolled away from you as he groaned and grunted and you got to your knees as you gripped the knife tighter and prepared for your second attack.

You were shocked as Barnes was kicked onto his back once more and a foot planted itself in the middle of his chest. His tunic was stained with blood as he gritted his teeth and writhed and moaned. He did not resist as he was held down by Peter’s boot and a sword was pointed at his throat.

“We promised the king we’d bring you in alive,” Peter declared, “you’ve fared well enough without one arm. What’s another?”

You winced as a hand closed around yours and kept you from striking out at your accoster. You looked over as Zemo knelt beside you and wiggled the knife free. He handed it off to one of his men but never glanced away from you. He nodded and as he untied his cloak and draped it over your shoulders.

“Elina?” you whispered.

“Safe,” he assured as he covered you and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, “I never did have the chance to introduce you to my mother.”

“What--How--” you peered around as the armored guards handed over their weapons to the lords in their colours.

“Your countrymen do not take well to their nobles murdering each other so carelessly. The king could not but listen or risk a rebellion,” he explained as he sat back and drew you into his lap, “We bring your king his prisoner and he forgives our diplomatic oversight and our kingdoms will sign the long-awaited accord.”

“It can’t-- I--”

“Lord Rogers was also listed on the warrant,” he cradled your face, “but he was never one to face consequences. We have Astrens but its duke has conveniently made himself sparse.” He swallowed as his thumb caressed your cheek, “Nevertheless, we needn’t worry about him…” he pulled you closer to him and his breath skimmed along your lips, “You really are bold, you know? You kiss a man and just walk out on him.”

You closed your eyes as tears pricked along your lashes. You let yourself smile as you opened them again and you let him close the space between your lips. You kissed him down in the cold dirt, with blood on your hands, naked and bruised. You kissed him and forgot it all. You kissed him and thought of the future as your past laid sobbing in the mud.

🏰 🏰 🏰

So we leave reader to live her life with her daughter. To ride off into the proverbial sunlight but an end is never really an end, as even those characters who exist only in our minds, live on there. I hope that every now and then, you will revisit this MC, Barnes, Zemo, Peter, Sam, Rebecca, and yes, even Rogers.

🏰 🏰 🏰

End Note: I have not yet decided if I will add an epilogue to this series but for now, I am content. Thank you again. Be safe and take care of yourselves.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― I.iii. Divine Intervention

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Cynbel saves a seer.

[READ IT ON AO3]

By the time he arrives back to the estate Cynbel’s anger has given way to fright; one thought consuming him above all others.

They need to leave Rome. They should already be far, far from here. Far from Caesar and his notions of immortality.

“Valdas! Isseya!”

“Cynbel?”

Her voice draws him to her, standing just outside the doors of their shared chambers with the red of a fresh meal still dripping down her chin.

He sweeps Isseya up in his arms and kisses her fiercely. Half to remind himself that she is there, she is safe. Half because what else can he do, he’s powerless, has never been powerless, cannot fathom it without her, without them.

The lust is dashed from her eyes the moment she takes him in fully. “What is it? Cynbel, what has you so?”

“Where is Valdas?”

“I asked you —”

“Where is he?!”

She tears his grasp from her arms and forces him back — enough to return him to sanity if only for a moment. She’s never abided him like this and would not start now. And isn’t he fucking thankful for it.

“Bring yourself back to sense and I may feel inclined to answer,” his darling snaps through vicious teeth. Only when he sags against the now cracked wall with his hands spread out — vulnerable, they are all too vulnerable — does she make good on her words. Holds his upper arms in a deceptively strong grasp and skirts her nose along his jaw to bring a comfort only she can. In a way only she knows.

“You’re frightening me,” she admits, he can hear the waver in her voice even now, “I haven’t seen you like this in so long, so very very long.”

He can’t even remember the last time this mania consumed him. But she’s good at bringing up old wounds, at cutting in the same place time and time again.

“Iss’…” Cynbel loses the last of his fight, his body yields. But it isn’t enough to ease his mind. Nothing but the death of Caesar will do that.

“Was it the Godmaker’s whelp that made you so?”

“No.”

“Swear it. I know you’ve taken to her.”

He knocks their temples together. Bestial headbutting; primal acknowledgment that she’s talking utter fucking nonsense. “Do not insult me so.”

“Not taken her,” though her fondness comes through, “I would make you a eunuch if you even so much as entertained the thought. But she knows something you keep hidden from us. Call me a liar.”

He can’t, so he doesn’t.

Which is all the answer she needs. “I thought as such,” and moves to pull away from him but no, no not now. Now cannot be one of the times for her tantrums because there is so much at risk and they need to find their beloved and leave.

“Believe me now, my love, and I will never give you reason to do otherwise again. For as long as we live. I swear it to you.”

It’s an openness from him that Isseya is unfamiliar with. Enough so that the gravity of his behavior finally seems to come over her. A veil somehow lifted.

“Where. is. Valdas?”

Her eyes flicker towards the depths of the villa yet the relief he hopes for does not yet come. Because his gut knows what else lies within, perhaps.

“Rome is no longer safe for us. We need to leave.”

“What madness is this?

“Our Beloved plans to join the conspirators but they have already failed.”

“What are you rambling about?”

Before he can answer the sounds of the ostium opening catch the lovers’ ears. With them, a wrath he had hoped was lost among the winding pathways of the city.

Instinct has Isseya in his grasp, holding her close as Kamilah darkens the doorway. Eyes glowing red the moment they land upon him and fangs bared.

“I’ll kill you!”

She rushes forward but to them her speed is childish; fumbling. Easily dispatched with a wave of Isseya’s arm as she steps in front of Cynbel with a mirthless laugh.

“The day such is possible, whelp, will never come. Accept that and you may live to see tomorrow at the very least.”

But the defiant Kamilah stands, wipes away the powder of crumbled marble from her cheek and of everything to go afoul this night Cynbel finds this to be the strangest of them.

“I did not force you to leave at my side. Turn your anger inward.”

“You imbecile!”

“I’ll have your fucking tongue!”

“Isseya! Still yourself,” he looks between them and forces himself calm through sheer will; remembers now why they chose to live away from what few others of their kind roamed the hills in the wilderness — passionate creatures were the children of the night.

Kamilah speaks again through ragged breaths; physically healed but in her eyes churned a storm unchained.

“You named me Sayeed, you wretched thing! Did you think I would truly go to the Pharaoh and give her my true name even now when it was the Pharaoh herself who gave my brother word of my demise? That we may be revealed is on your head, brute.”

Beside him, Isseya swears under her breath. “Tell me you didn’t, beloved. Tell me you are not so craven for war so soon.”

“What I am craven for is survival.” He manages through gritted teeth.

“Is that in doubt?”

“It may very well be.”

Even with all of their years now, of all hours, time is not theirs to waste. Clutching for her again, Cynbel presses an open mouth to Isseya’s temple, pulls her with him away before it is too late.

“Cynbel? Isseya? What happened?”

Their god is upon them the moment they enter the exedra with Kamilah unwillingly in tow. From his bench the Godmaker makes no attempt to hide his distaste; curls his lip upwards in a silent snarl.

There is peace in seeing Valdas unharmed — in feeling his face held in the same hands that made him. Even temporary, it is enough. Straw-like strands stick to his brow as his Maker does everything in his silent power to bring about a calm.

But this is no mere fit of madness. It burns Cynbel from the inside out, makes him see the hollow clarity of the Godmaker’s eyes over his lover’s shoulder and want to act as sword and shield.

“Ease yourself, my Golden One,” his grip as rough as needed, words thick with a worry he refuses to let show in his eyes; always the stronger of them, always burdened so they may not be, “surely the theatrics have no place here.”

“Are you safe? Are you unharmed?”

Because he knows better, knows his lovers, Valdas steps back and gestures wide; allows them both to see him in all of his perfection and glory. Untouched, unblemished — for the moment.

“Of course I am.” And because, too, he has seen these fits of mania before, Valdas seeks answer from Isseya foremost. “Why would I be otherwise?”

Her venom spits at the dirt before the Godmaker’s feet.

“Ask him.”

Only the guilty who carry shame play in innocence. Gaius stands and holds out a hand; an offering. But the intended does not take it. Kamilah stands still with furrowed brow. An act minuscule in its defiance; but with purpose served.

“Kamilah, my Queen…”

“They know, Gaius.”

Slowly the hand falls back to his side. His fist clenches briefly, knuckles pop-popping in an echo around the curved room, then gone as if nothing had changed, as if nothing were the matter.

“I see,” with all the temperance of discussing the cloudy night, “and how did this come to light?”

Valdas senses the shift in tension, warily steps between his lovers and his Maker; “Have you care to enlighten those of us blind?”

Apparently he does not. Waits for Kamilah to answer him — she may reject his hand but he is still her King, her Maker, and he will not be denied.

“The victory at hand, it seems, has loosened Caesar’s tongue.”

“Brilliant tactician though he may be, that will need to be trained out of him.” The tsk tsk tsk of the Godmaker’s tongue, such a simple and universal act, sends throughout Cynbel an unease that coats him bodily; makes him feel unclean, despoiled.

“Caesar?” parrots the Made-God in confusion; rising suspicion, “what does Caesar have to do with this?”

Then, because the pieces aren’t fitting together in quite the right way, he rounds on Cynbel. “Why were you taking audience with Caesar?”

“I would quite like to know that myself.”

Even with the full weight of the Godmaker’s stare upon him, Cynbel refuses to give him the satisfaction. A silence not for her sake but that keeps Kamilah’s secret, too.

“Have you gone dumb, boy? Your precious deity has asked you a question!”

The same curl of the tongue as the night before; disgust not quite contained — not deserving of it in his mind. Though to think of what lurks in the Godmaker’s mind is a punishment he would kindly never suffer.

“Caesar knows what creatures wander Rome come nightfall. He knows of us… speaks as if to stand among us, beside us as an equal.”

Brow creased, Valdas shakes his head. “Impossible.”

“Would I lie to my beloved? He gazed upon me a mortal with knowledge beyond his means. Said not in words but intent; to become Dictator Inmortalis with the blood of our kind running the rivers of his veins.”

Would I lie to my beloved? Words overcast that hang in the depths of his lover’s eyes and the pain of them may be too much for Cynbel alone to bear.

And like she shares a home in his mind — and she very well may — Isseya reaffirms her presence beside him. Complete and utter faith; belief in him… in them.

He is never alone.

An understanding comes over Valdas, then. Across his face a hardness; something that does not suffer fools nor being made the fool. That finds him facing his Maker not as the cowed progeny of before but, perhaps, the firstborn who had created the distance between them so many centuries ago.

“Should Caesar find himself among our kind, no blade would fell him. None that mattered; none used by the likes of the conspirators of the Senate.” None used by the likes of me.

The accusation is clear, yet Gaius remains unperturbed.

“Such is the consequence of those who stand in the way of power.”

“What power does he not already covet?”

“How small-minded you’ve become, Valdemaras; fixated on your narrow existence. On these children of yours. Are you truly blinded to the potential laid out before us?”

“Us?”

“Our kind!” cries the Godmaker with a voice that might wake the heavens; “The future I created you for, the one we sought together! The very reason you continue to walk this earth no matter your defiance of me.”

“The world we stand in now is a vastly different one than when I last drew mortal breath, Augustine. The Empire of my birth is no more. Surely Rome, no matter her glory now, will see the same fate.”

“Not as my plans come to fruition.”

“Plans to—to what, to extend the power of Rome through the immortal hand of Julius Caesar?” He scoffs. “We both know him a madman lurking beneath a countryman’s smile. If you still begrudge me my betrayal of you, I would claim that nothing compared to what he might do when you pull on his strings.”

Haughty, defiant; Gaius gestures wide in a grin that bares all of his teeth. “You were the mistake from which I learned the greatest lesson. Caesar will be Turned and brought to heel. And when that is done, the great work of rebuilding the Kingdom She Promised will finally begin.

“You are right, my soldier. Your Empire fell; it began long before I walked your lands and despite my best efforts could not be saved. But with Caesar at my hand, how much of Rome will follow? How much of Egypt once the Pharaoh stands beside us?”

He stands proud, basks in his own glory and might. Looks to find the adoration of his Queen but finds only confusion; a dawning understanding.

“You mean to Turn Cleopatra.”

“I mean to see my promises kept. If that means bringing the rulers of even the smallest kingdoms under my thumb then so be it.” This time Kamilah takes his offered hand. Joins her King as the Queen by his side.

Why should he find himself surprised by it?

“Enough of this.” Gaius continues with a flippant wave of his free hand, “I’ve entertained your pilgrimage for long enough, Valdemaras. Tomorrow will come and your childish plotting will come to a head. When Caesar rises from the bloody hands of his conspirators he will be revered and given absolute power over Rome, the Senate, all of it.

“Where will you stand witness? At my side, or under my rule?”

The answer is an easy one for the likes of Isseya, the likes of Cynbel. Who look at one another with grave unease. All of the events circling around them overhead as vultures do the dying wanderer.

Their love and Light said so himself. To refuse him would be to lose you.

Do not ask it of me. I beg of you.

And what had they answered? Perhaps the only thing they could to ease his aching heart, to bring their god back to his former self because they could not bear the sight of him so broken, wounded… so mortal.

We will not. We will not.

They grasp at one another desperately. For him, too, but not quick enough. Valdas steps out of their reach and they want to scream for him, go back on their shared word. Anything to spare them this. To spare him.

“Valdas, please —”

“Do not do this —”

But words spoken in vain mean little now. Only serve to call them liars, to call them unfaithful in the eyes of their god.

But is it a god who falls on bended knee, takes his Maker’s touch in clasped hands and kisses the ring there? It certainly does not look so. It looks like a man losing his world in one simple act.

Or, perhaps, saving it.

The Godmaker’s pride is as venomous as it is stifling. Brings his chin raised high as he takes in the sight of Valdemaras’ beloveds. The things that he would do anything for — that much has been proven enough.

“And your progeny?” Who are not worth the address.

Who bite their tongues until they bleed, who swallow blood and bile and tears down because he has done the same for them, how could they do anything less than follow him even into this?

Their silence is their submission. Down the line, with an ego fat with supped blood and power taken from all corners of the world, he may demand of them a formal oath. And down the line, starved of one another, they may be too weak to do anything but swear it.

For now he takes his Queen and departs. Leaves Valdas low, sinking lower still.

Of one mind and two bodies, Cynbel and Isseya rush to his side, envelop him in them. Show him proof with trembling touch that his act was not in vain and they live. They live.

Fuck pleasantries. He wrenches the feeble door from its feeble hinges and sends it hurtling across the alley. It smashes against the stone front of the domus across like rotted driftwood.

There’s a hint of his true nature in his darkening of their doorway. Filling the space with broad stature and the hunt in his inhuman eyes. Staring up at eight terrified faces huddled around their meager meal.

Every visit before this he has been almost sickening in his placation of them, the mortal curs. No longer.

“The girl.”

Too weak to take part in the bonds of family. Trembling in her bed not out of fear of him but fear of herself and what she has seen, what she may see still. Cynbel scoops her up in his arms and feels nothing when she seeks a warmth in him that does not exist.

“Domine…” and were he capable of kinder words he may tell her to save her strength, for her sake—for his, but as it is every thought must be held back on the tip of his tongue lest he start screaming and never, never stop.

“This night will not be your last, not while I have use of you yet.” By any means necessary he will keep her alive.

Bringing Nona back to the villa is impossible. Were the Godmaker to come into possession of her, what little hope the lovers had left would be dashed. But to leave her under the same roof visited by his Queen was to leave her equally vulnerable.

Surrounded on all sides, there was only one place he could think of which would grant the girl sanctuary in her final days.

On the steps of the Temple, basins of flame barely aglow at the midnight hour, the priestess barely looks the pair of them over before turning them away. But all it takes is a foot to step with, to stop the stone door with a strength no human could muster.

He may only have his One God but the Romans had many, with many names and many faces among them. But what were the gods of mortals but powers beyond their understanding?

“Turn her away and you turn away the eyes of your Minerva herself.”

The pale woman bundles her palla up closer as if to best the wind that whistles through the open doorway. But her caution is her undoing — catches her glittering skin in the vestiges of the flames and eyes a little too wide, too aware.

That he does not pull back her veil to reveal the tips of her unnatural ears is only because now is a most desperate hour.

“The girl is an innocent, she is not of my blood.”

The etherie gives Cynbel the full weight of her glower. Eyes that have already seen a thousand years, maybe a thousand more still. That judge him unnatural and of the dead.

“The girl has chosen her fate, twining with those of the children of Phampira.”

“What fate is yet to come will reach far — even to your ‘tween realm. Whether you believe in my attempt to stop it or no, know that is my prophecy, and it will come true so long as Gaius Augustine wanders Rome.”

It is the name that churns the pot, that has the woman of unearthly magics giving cautionary looks about the abandoned temple steps before ushering him inside.

The smell of their foulness tickles at his nose and burrows like maggots beneath his skin. An itch he cannot scratch, the remnants of which he will feel for weeks to come. Such is the price of survival.

The eldest of them directs stragglers with an unfamiliar tongue. He can feel their glassy stares both direct and lurking afar as the two return with a thin bedroll and some meager excuse for a blanket. Somehow it still feels more substantial than what they had left at Nona’s home.

Their eyes at his back send gooseflesh racing down his arms; still his touch to her damp brow before he can collect himself — before he can work to block them out. This is a sanctuary and nothing more.

“I need you to gather your strength now,” he whispers vainly; knows those around catch his every word even as they skitter off like the fearful wild, “I have need of you yet.”

The first, the High Priestess, approaches on hesitant feet and leaves a clay bowl and cloth at their side. Looks Nona over wise and all-knowing.

“You have stretched this life beyond its means.”

“Save your judgment, etherie.”

“How many more lives will be lost in the storm that gathers at your heels?”

“However many it takes to keep my Beloved safe.”

As though summoned by his words the girl stirs beneath his hand. Clutches with a pale hand for him and she feels more than fragile, more than mortal. She feels as faint as smoke. The embers of her struggling to hold on in the downpour.

With glassy eyes Nona gazes up; looks at him without truly seeing. Moves her peeling lips in words unspoken; visions untold.

Yet no amount of his blood will heal her of this ill. As if he would not have tried it first? He knows the creature beside him could heal her easily. The effort of which would take no significant amount of its eternal years. Yet she watches idle; watches the girl while her life force fades still.

“Cyn…bel…”

Humans are warmth; filled with the heat of passion and life like he can no longer remember. Yet Nona beneath him is cold; grows colder. “I’m here, sweet girl. What do you see?”

He rests her silken touch on his temple, feels the sweat on his brow where gossamer strands stick to his skin.

Nona’s breathing grows ragged — stones in her lungs. The High Priestess can take no more and turns away, her veils lapping at her bare heels. So long as they give her rest it matters not.

“What do you see?”

“Blood. The river… the river runs of blood.”

“Through Rome?”

“Through the world. Spreading… spreading dark, dark out to the sea. Everything it touches; blood. In the lakes, the streams, ocean shores of salted froth and blooded rain falling in torrents. The Kingdom She Promised.”

There it is again.

The same words Gaius had said back in the exedra. A promised land — but for who? Where, and why? A promise to his Queen, Kamilah? Or was there a shadow unseen, behind the long tapestry of their kind made in the Godmaker’s wake, darker and beholding a creature even they could not fathom?

“She promised him peace,” says Nona; shakes Cynbel from his confusion because now was not the time to wonder of the future, the future that would matter not should he lose his love; “forged a blade of a broken shield. Yet now… now it has no master to wield it. The blade cannot wield itself. The blade cannot wield itself.”

Cynbel grits his teeth, resists the furrow in his brow. “That matters not. To me, seer, to me,” letting her tiny palm cradle his cheek, “I need you to see what he will do to my love. Will he be killed should the Godmaker succeed? Will Caesar if blooded of him?”

He would not call her petulant. Can see the toll taken on her even now. Any of a lesser faith would call her afflicted; possessed. Would stifle her gift but he needs it to flourish. If he is to save them it must.

“Answer me, seer. Should Caesar Turn, will my beloved die?”

A spectre passes over her. Nona convulses, then grows still. Lids heavy over eyes dull and near lifeless. Her blood slow, sluggish through her muddy veins.

“Nona — Nona—!”

If what she alone can see be not enough to stir her then so be it — he will be the monster of the abyss. Lets her hands fall limp to the stone floor and grasps her by the throat with a hand that betrays the true fear held back on threads of a barely-contained wrath.

Not long before what little breath she takes is a struggle; her heartbeat picking up in desperation. Eyes flying wide open as a flush overtakes her cheeks and Cynbel stares down unfeeling; no longer willing to be denied what he has been promised.

The world has always best responded to violence. Why should this be any different?

He allows himself — however briefly — to relish in the familiar sight of humanity ebbing from her expression as the animal instinct to survive takes over. Those same parchment-thin hands suddenly clawing at his stronger grip and this time when she tries to speak he knows he has the power to change it.

That’s why he uses her. For the power to change things beyond his knowledge. All of it; for them.

“Are you ready to answer me now?” He asks. Squeezes just… a little… tighter…

Nona continues to choke even when he releases her. Weakling lungs desperate to fill; to breathe — forcing her up through the pain of her affliction to choke and heave and grasp at her throat to remove even the memory of him from her flesh.

But that is a mercy Cynbel will no longer grant. His fingers tangle in her dark tresses — pulls her forward with a harsh tug to bring them intimately close.

He will not ask again. Nona’s life is in her own hands, now.

And fleeting though that life may be — she is desperate for it. “First the Empire, then the Pharaoh’s lands. Every Empire bathed in mortal blood — each crown dipped in his blood—by his hands. This world will fall, the New World will never rise. The dead cannot flourish — the shadow cannot grow. Caesar cannot Turn. It will be the end of everything.”

The end of everything.

The end of them. The end of him. The end of everything they have built.

Nona keens a strangled cry as he pulls her close — holds her aching, grieving. Her tears seep warm into his tunic and if she could she would no doubt wrench herself from him but the seer is weaker now than ever.

“‘For every pain there is purpose,’” Cynbel whispers into her skin; kisses there fond but not friendly — a gesture without love, “‘and every wound bore will bring wisdom.’”

What a comfort those words are. How they wrap around him like strong arms in the moments before the end.

He isn’t going to kill her now. He will; he has little choice in the matter. It has been seen… and cannot be undone.

“Thank you for all you have done for me, my sweet seer. For as long as I live I will be forever in your debt.”

Cruel though he is, it is not in his nature to be ungrateful. He waits until the sobs no longer wrack her body uncontrollable to lay her back upon her bedroll. He soaks the nearby cloth and wrings the water cool over his fingers before letting it rest on her weary eyes. Could the same thing be done for her inner eye he would offer a balm there, as well.

The vampire stands to take his leave; hesitates as he takes in from a distance just how small she is.

“You understand what you have done this night, child of Phampira.”

Cynbel schools his face in cool disinterest as he turns to face the High Priestess. Veils now fallen upon her shoulders, in the dark shimmers of their otherworldly etherie-fire she can be nothing other than what she is; with hair of snow that frames a face of youthful eternity and feline eyes that look upon him and name him behemoth.

“Ne’er again will you step within these halls. Lest even under the moon you feel the boiling of the sun’s light ignited in your veins.”

And he knows the threat is a real one — knows the dangers of those of his kind who have dared to tread over the toes of the etherie. Just as he knows the greed that lies beneath their radiance; greed of gold, of things deemed precious to the world of men.

She will be safe here.

At the base of the Temple of Minerva Cynbel stops and turns his face to what little he can stand of the paling sky. Tastes of the clouds on his tongue and allows himself the burden of memory.

“‘It is in the nature of us to covet, for we are because we could not choose between death and life.’” And as his first and only glimpse of divinity had whispered such gospel in his ear and cradled him in death-into-rebirth, he found them true.

Marcus Brutus changes everything.

When last Valdemaras met with the Senator Cassius it was to convince him to steal away their conspiracy in the night. Not only to secret their machinations to the shadows rather than risk arrest at the hands of Caesar’s loyal, but also to ensure his attendance; for the vengeful god Valdemaras was eager to see the Conqueror of Gaul and the Empire of Rome undone in the name of his beloveds.

But a vision comes to Brutus in the same dawn that reaches Cynbel’s hasty retreat from the temple.

“The Fates whisper to me,” he tells Cassius fearfully, “in such horrible voices. They whisper with the tongues of the dead by Caesar’s hand. They demand him slain at the feet of his Senate. They demand him seen by all, even those who would placate Caesar.”

Even men of little faith such as a Roman Senate do not ignore a righteous calling such as that. They use it to steady their trembling hands, to give justice in their traitorous steel.

So it is done. Caesar does not see sunset on the Ides of March.

He dies a mortal man; surrounded by enemies of his own making.

Godmaker, they call him. And the name rings true. His wrath—enough to stir the heavens and send the sun cowering early into the night.

Bone clutched in sheet-white fists and fangs grit to draw blood between his tongue; his demands not met by an intervention perhaps more sacred than divine. Even his Queen steps clear of his path of destruction — wide, unyielding, merciless.

“You,” snarls the Godmaker when he rounds on their god; turns his eyes with the fury of Titans where the blood god Valdemaras stands between him and his faithful because he could not be anywhere else, “if it comes to light you had anything to do with this—if you so much as whispered in an ear, or sent a blighted missive…”

When his hand raises a collective fear ripples through the three lovers; strong together, yes — but equally as vulnerable.

“I did not.”

“I will wring the truth from the marrow of your bones!”

“I did not!” Valdas screams. Gaius tortures him anyway.

Fire burns in his veins; a thousand deaths that didn’t quite take.

But it, too, passes. As the tempest of the Godmaker moves on from the spec of space they have become in the mere potential of his wrathful wake.

It had taken the lifetime of one influential man, several of lesser status, to bring them the wealth of their villa. Just as it takes the Godmaker one night to turn it all to rubble at their feet.

It is carnage for carnage’s sakes and yet they cannot find pleasure in it — when they look at the hollow, milk-white eyes of servants whose names they would never remember they know it could just as easily have been them in this burial mound of marble destruction.

The devoted of Valdemaras fall to their knees. Raise him up as they have done everything else: together.

And when the Golden Son raises his head he sees, through the cloud of dust and the ruins of their Roman lives, the Godmaker’s Queen does not look as sympathetic for her King’s loss as she should.

Why would she?

They are devoted to him utterly and completely. Yet that does not stop them from exchanging glances over the sweat on their god’s brow that they kiss with lips that taste of their tears.

“Did you do this?” they ask. Valdas did not.

“But I wish I had.”

In the nights that follow there are many times Cynbel feels confession on the tip of his tongue. That he looks upon them and knows in some far-gone and hidden part of him that events may not have unfolded the way they did had he not brought Nona to the etherie; had they not heard her prophecy of The End and somehow were the undoing of it.

But no matter the distance they put between themselves and Rome the darkness of the Godmaker lingers over them — a shroud. To tell them, he believes, would be to cast aside the curtain and burn them all alive.

Perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps this was simply the way things were meant to be.

Perhaps not.

I have proven you wrong, sweet seer. And I will again.