#it says kadi in faded paint

[vacantseance]

When your brother tells you to stop antagonizing the ghost from the basement. NO. She's a bitch and she knows it.

[jaggedwolf]

TSCOSI Ficlets #2

Not being from the US

"So, Jeeter, what'd you learn this week?" Arkady plopped into the seat opposite him, stealing one of his fries. "The horrors of Fahrenheit?"

"Man, that was day one of international student orientation. We're on to way more advanced terrors now." Brian considered a token protest at the fry-theft. Eh, he'd get her back when she got dessert.

Arkady shrugged off her backpack. "Why do you even bother still going?"

"It's mandatory."

"Like you give a crap about that."

"Gotta be up to date with all these cultural differences."

"You're Canadian."

"Hey man-"

"And you told me you spent every summer in the States, anyway," Arkady said, looking suspiciously at him. Well, she tended to look suspiciously at a lot of things, so it wasn't the worst sign. "There's no reason for you to subject yourself to-"

A wide grin crossed Arkady's face. Oh no. "Wait, they're also an international student, right?"

"Maybe," said Brian defensively.

"Now, remind me what you said about their cheekbones?" Arkady's voice sounded even more delighted.

Brian pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, and buried his head in his arms on the table. His voice muffled, he said "Drinking with you was a mistake."

"I for one, could not be happier that Tripathi took pity on a couple of freshmen and did us that favor."

Brian groaned. Three months into the school year and he still didn't understand how or when Arkady and him became friends.

"Should have guessed you'd be a poetic drunk." Arkady clapped him on the back. "Woah, speaking of-"

She tugged his sweatshirt. Brian reluctantly looked up, following her gaze to find the subject of their discussion striding towards them.

Yep, Krejjh looked about as handsome as they always did. That was fine. Their pace slowed as they approached the table. "Hey, it's Brian, right?"

"That's him," chimed in Arkady. "And I'm going to get some actual food now instead of skimming off Jeeter's"

She abruptly stood up and left. Krejjh seemed startled by her departure and asked "Is this a bad time?"

They sounded oddly hesitant, not at all like how Brian had heard them speak with their friends.

"Nope." Brian shoved back his hood. "Arkady's just like that. Do you want a fry?"

Holding your hand in mine

Arkady's always appreciated privacy. Couple of decades of sleeping in crowded rooms will do that to you. Being alone can be nice.

Being alone sucks a hell of a lot more when you're dying in one of Zone Z's dim-lit hallways.

Asshole shot her and her comms before she took care of him, and she supposes she'll only have his body for company as blood spurts out from under her collarbone. The instinctive pressured she applies slows it down. Not quick enough. He'd picked his shot well.

It's a waiting game now. She might as well distract herself. After all, hiding from the world in foolish dreams is a talent she's cultivated.

It's easy to paint a picture, as the world becomes fuzzy. No one could fault her for it. If someone wants to, she's not exactly going to be around to take their complaints. She squeezes her eyes shut. Folds herself smaller into the corner. Presses the heel of her right hand harder into the bleeding wound. Ignores how slick it feels. She's going to lose this fight, but like hell she's not clinging on all the way down, fingernails dug deep into life.

Back to the imagining.

What does she want, in these final moments?

What doesn't she want, is the better question. Her dreams had always been too stupidly big for reality. And yet. This is...this is a better death than she ever thought she'd get. Not much more to ask for. To her mind's rendering of the scene, she only adds a couple of selfish touches.

Long, soft fingers curl over the back of her right hand. They push insistently, added pressure to the wound, steadily, as if confident they can fix this. Fingers she's seen idly drum the table in the mess hall, fingers she's seen wrapped around a hypodermic syringe, fingers she felt trail through her hair just this morning. A presence that refuses to leave.

A rougher palm meets that of her left hand. The resulting grip is firm. Gentle. The calluses have a different contour from her own. Earned from building, where hers were made from breaking. They press against each other in a way that feels right anyway. Feels right, like twice-offered new beginnings. And even now, offering more.

It's good, Arkady thinks, that this is how it goes. Her alone.

Wouldn't be fair to them any other way.

Lesbian gaze

The ship turns out to be a monstrous patchwork, but Tripathi promises it'll fly, so she busies herself with staring at her new ID card. Arkady Patel. The card is new, nothing like the faded, scratched-up one in her back pocket. She'd gotten that one when she enlisted, been excited as hell about it, actually.

"Hey, Arkady?" asks Tripathi, sounding apologetic and swiveling the pilot's seat. "Could you check the local channels to see if they're tracking us?" Tripathi nods her head towards one of the panels.

She grunts in affirmative, shoves the ID card into a pocket and makes herself useful. She's mostly blocked out the pain. The channels are clear, takeoff goes without a hitch, and an hour later, they're as free as can be.

She could fish out that ID card again. There's a lot of people she's imagined being. Arkady Patel's the first one she actually will. If the IGR doesn't end up finding them first, that is. But that's not the name echoing in her head.

That would be Sana Tripathi.

Who's busy piloting, which means she can get away with looking her over. Tripathi's hair had been longer back on Cresswin, a single black braid that moved with her head through with every point made in those meetings snuck into. Now, Tripathi's hair isn't even shoulder-length. Nice and practical. Grey roots too. Tripathi seemed a little young for that. Not that she actually knew the woman's age, come to think of it.

There was a lot she didn't know about Tripathi. Maybe less if she counted Cresswin, and maybe she should, since Cresswin's what landed her here but - people changed. From time. From the war. From working a shitty job day-after-day. Easy enough to slip on an old skin if it got you a desperately needed crew member.

Not that it matters. She isn't looking for the noble, non-existent hero her teenage self had fantasized about. Now that she's on the IGR's bad side, she's pretty fucking good with settling for a place to sleep and food to eat. She can wait this out. See who Tripathi ends up being, and see if Tripathi figures out she isn't worth the trust.

Till then, she'll keep an eye on her new boss.

Low Expectations

It's ludicrous, he thinks, how exposed he feels without his eyepatch. Even more so when Violet's gloved fingers rest on his skin where the edges of the eyepatch would have. No matter. The feeling is a sign he has let himself become too comfortable. He's been far more exposed.

"Can you open the eyelid?" asks Violet.

There's that familiar half-second where he expects his range of vision to expand, and it grates on him, that his body has not yet adapted to its new reality. He opens his eyelid as wide as he can.

If Violet is perturbed by the sight of an empty eye socket, she doesn't show it. Her head comes closer to inspect it, fingers shifting slightly along his skin, and he tilts his face towards her to make it easier.

"Thanks," mutters Violet.

His hands start to tremble.

They're not in Violet's line of sight. He has the time to compensate, and the freedom to move his hands, so as carefully as he can manage, he grips his knees. He forces himself to start speaking, informing Violet of the current status of his eye socket and how the IGR had healed it.

It's no challenge to keep his face still. Whatever they do could only hurt more with unexpected head movements, they'd told him.

Eventually, Violet pulls back. Her fingers leave his face. Before he can even take a breath of relief, Violet pauses midway through turning to grab something, a concerned look on her face. "Park, you're shaking."

"I-" When Park looks down, he sees that his knees have joined his hands in trembling uncontrollably. His mind blanks. "My apologies," he acknowledges, "it shouldn't affect the checkup."

"What?"

He'd given an uninformative answer. Needed a better explanation. "My head. It shouldn't affect my head, so-"

"Park," interrupts Violet quietly, a slow frown taking over her face, "I think we're done for today."

Wooing with sharp-edged gifts

As soon as Arkady was unhorsed for the last time, and her opponent declared the victor, Sana appeared out of nowhere to act as her crutch.

"You should be escorting Rumor, not me," Arkady pointed out, her helmet weighing down her free hand. Her left foot throbbed when she put any weight on it. "Who knows what she'll get up to without your supervision?"

Sana huffed, her armor clanging against Arkady's. "I could say the same about you. Besides, Krejjh is handling her fine."

Sure enough, a glance behind revealed Krejjh eagerly chattering away to Sana's steed. They swung a leg over to ride even that short distance to the stables.

"Showoff," muttered Arkady. "Krejjh bribes your horse with too many sugar cubes."

"Be that as it may," continued Sana, "I'm afraid there'll be no escaping the medical tent today. It's tournament day! We're safe, you need to get your leg taken care of, and if something happens you'll have the simple pleasure of saying 'I told you so', won't you?"

"It's not a pleasure."

Sana ignored her, holding up a flap of the tent they'd arrived at for Arkady to hop under. She did so, making sure to look as annoyed as possibly, and Sana followed, supporting Arkady over to the nearest cot...where Violet stood expectantly.

Sana flashed a quick grin at Arkady. "You know what, Kady, you're right, I should go check on Rumor. Just remember you did your best out there." With that, Sana nodded at Violet and exited the tent so quickly it was as if she were never there.

Arkady frowned at Violet. "Liu. Wasn't your shift yesterday?"

Looking amused, Violet replied. "They're hardly going to complain about an extra hand. Let's get that armor off your leg."

They did. Arkady winced the whole time, cursing herself for her choices. Jousting, really? Arkady would have fared better in the melee, her own two feet and her weapon of choice to depend on.

They could hear cheering from the lists from even inside the tent. Another bout ended, then. Violet examined Arkady's foot, fingers pressing various spots around the swollen ankle.

As if reading her mind, Violet asked, "Why the joust?"

Embarrassed, Arkady shot back, "You mean, why'd I pick something I'm so piss-poor at?"

"You won your first two bouts," said Violet mildly.

Oh. She'd been watching.

Of course she'd been watching, how else would she have known to come to this very tent? Even Sana's encouragement didn't extend quite that far.

Violet continued, "You've never mentioned it when talking about other tournaments."

The simple, foolish answer was the smallest prize the winners received. A single rose, fresh from the royal garden, to be presented to whoever they chose.

The melee was an ugly, crowded thing. It was not the melee's rose lauded in those songs she'd loved as a child, snatches of music caught in taverns and lyrics sung in street games, and it was not the melee's rose she had wanted to give to Violet. It was not the melee she had wanted Violet to see her fight in.

It was not after the melee she had wanted to broach a topic she had thought unbroachable.

Yet it was the ugly things in life that Arkady was good for, and so she was left here with empty hands and another injury.

Arkady half-smiled at Violet. "Thought I'd try something new."

"I...don't think that's the whole answer," said Violet, but she didn't press as she normally would have. She turned to her satchel, retrieving a cloth bundle and unwrapping it to reveal a dagger, sheathed in dark leather. It was good work, deceptively simple. She wondered how much coin it had cost.

Violet took a deep breath and then spoke slowly. "You probably haven't been counting the days but, um, it's been a year since you saved me from that ambush. A little less than that since you cleared my name."

Had it been that long? Had it been that short?

Violet pulled the dagger out of the sheath. The dagger's edges gleamed in the snatches of sunlight filtering into the tent, but Arkady only had eyes for the sharpening of Violet's gaze.

"You told me, once, that I didn't know what you'd done. What you'd do." Violet sheathed the dagger. "I do now."

She offered out the dagger, pale fingers around the sheathed portion of it, her face tentative yet determined. "A gift. A thank-you. You don't"-A short laugh escaped Violet-"Refuse it if you will. I just thought I ought to say it."

"I-" For once, Arkady didn't have the words to respond.

Instead, she took the dagger, and let the slowly growing smile on Violet's face be answer enough for them both.

[quentinsquill]

Bereft: Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of my WIp, “Bereft. You can read it from the beginning here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10703295/chapters/23708127

Or read this new chapter at AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10703295/chapters/23929989

And now, Chapter 3. 

Quentin, Margo, and Eliot spent three more days with the centaurs. They repaired Quentin’s shoulder, replacing missing flesh with a dark, durable wood that they painted over with synthetic skin. Margo made weak jokes about Quentin being Fillory’s own answer to Luke Skywalker while her own injuries healed and her headaches faded. Kady and Penny came and went, searching for Julia or any sign of Reynard, but as the sun set on that third day, Winding Path came to see them all.

 “Your time here with us is at an end, children of earth.” He said without preamble, and Quentin glanced over at Eliot, who was sipping chicken broth from a ceramic mug, with Margo’s help.

 “But Eliot isn’t healed yet.”

 “There is nothing more I can do for him, Quentin Coldwater. The wounds go much deeper than my healing can reach.”

 “Wait—what? What are you saying? I thought you centaurs were the greatest healers in all of Fillory!” Quentin struggled to keep his voice down. “Look—Eliot may be the High King but I’m a king too, and—and I command you to heal him!”

 Winding Path gave Quentin a long, impassive look, and it was Quentin that finally broke the silence.

 “I’m just saying that there must be another way! Something you haven’t tried, a spell you haven’t thought of!”

 “We have reached the limits of our healing. We will supply you with horses, food, and some fresh gauze. I suggest that you return to Whitespire and wait for an absolution there.”

 “An abso—no!” Quentin shook his head so hard that the end of his hair struck his own cheeks. “You’re telling me to take Eliot back to Whitespire to die?”

 Winding Path stomped a foreleg. “I only tell you what I know, Quentin Coldwater, and that is nothing more can be done for the High King of Fillory here. You must move on.”

 “Can you at least let us wait for our friends? We’ll have to make a plan.”

 “Very well.” Winding Path turned and trotted off with his human nurse running alongside to keep up. Quentin pushed his hair back with both hands.

 “Margo.” He called, and Margo walked over to him briskly.

 “So what did Dr. Flicka say? Because Eliot can barely keep anything down and his fever keeps spiking.”

 “It’s Winding Path.” Quentin said out of grudging respect for the centaur. “He did heal us, Margo.”

 “Fine, whatever, so what did he say?”

 “He says that we have to go to Whitespire. That there’s nothing more they can do for Eliot here.”

 Thunderclouds brewed in Margo’s dark eyes.

 “That is some bullshit!” She snapped.

 “I understand how you feel but they wouldn’t have any reason to lie to us! They said they’d give us horses, food—”

 “And how is Eliot supposed to ride a fucking horse when he can barely sit up without bleeding?” She spat the words at Quentin, who glanced around like he was looking for something to shield himself with.

 “I don’t know, I . . . I was thinking maybe we could hire a carriage or something.”

 “God, this is asinine!” Margo snapped. “They rebuilt your shoulder and healed my fractured skull but they can’t help Eliot?”

 “The centaurs will let us stay until Penny and Kady come back, but then we’ll have to leave.”

 Margo began to reply when Eliot made a low, helpless noise and threw up the bit of broth he’d taken. A nurse went to his side to wipe his mouth and Margo looked up at him.

 “What happened to him, Quentin?” She asked. “He won’t tell me and the last thing I remember is Reynard grabbing his wrist.”

 Quentin looked away as flashes of the attack came back to him in details he’d been trying to forget—the crunch as Reynard had dislocated Eliot’s shoulder, the thud of their bodies hitting the ground together, Eliot’s gaze, wide and disbelieving, as the trickster took him without hesitation or mercy. Margo’s small hand cupped his chin then, and he was forced to look back at her.

 “Quentin.”

 Quentin took a shuddering breath, pierced by her gaze.

 “I saw it all, okay? I was right there, laying on the ground when Reynard attacked but I don’t know how to tell you, Margo, I—” He paused and pushed a lock of hair behind his left ear. “Because now it’s like I can’t unsee it and I can’t put it in your head too because you’ll see it every time you look at him, like I am now!” The last word cracked and Margo tightened her hold on his chin.

 “You need to tell me right now. Do you understand? It’s the only way I can try to help him!”

 Quentin tried to swallow the bitter ball of emotion that had collected in his throat.

 “Reynard, he . . . he didn’t just take Eliot’s abilities. He—he attacked Eliot first.” Quentin gestured, unable to get out a word that seemed appropriate. Assaulted him.” Quentin said at last.

 Margo’s dark eyes searched Quentin’s face for a moment, puzzled, as if she was trying to decipher a particularly difficult spell, and then understanding broke over her expression. Her mouth worked and Quentin nodded.

 “I wanted to stop it, Margo. I swear on my life if I could have, you have to know . . . but I was bleeding and I couldn’t get to him or cast any spells. To tell you the truth if Penny hadn’t come back I don’t think any of us would be alive right now, I mean, I don’t even know why Reynard left Eliot alive, it doesn’t really make a lot of—”

 Margo’s open palm connected sharply with Quentin’s cheek and he started, more surprised than hurt.

 “What the hell, Margo!”

 “You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be some kind of genius, you’re a fucking idiot sometimes.” She turned on her heel and stormed back over to where Eliot was being tended to. Quentin found his way to a nearby bench and sat down, his cheek still flushed. Penny and Kady appeared in front of him a moment later and he flinched back at the sudden movement. Penny frowned at him—or maybe that was his resting scowl, it was hard to know sometimes—and folded his arms across his chest.

 “So what the fuck happened to you?” He asked, and Quentin shook his head.

 “It’s not important. Did you find Julia?”

 Kady paled and groped for Penny’s hand, and he took it.

 “Yeah man. We found her. And it turns out Reynard didn’t come here right away when Julia and her friends freed him. He wreaked some pretty serious fucking havoc before then too.”

 “We didn’t know.” Kady said quietly. “We thought we’d found a goddess. But then he came. He—he killed everyone. He took over Richard’s body, killed the Free Traders . . . and then he went after Julia. Because she was trying to protect me. He attacked her. Raped her.” The last two words were almost a whisper, and Penny nodded.

 “He’s a fucked-up predator-god, Quentin, and we have to put as much space between him and us as possible!”

 “Julia’s gone off to hunt him down.” Kady says, and Margo joined them in time again to glare at her.

 “Then we have to find her, and stop her.”

 “Why should we stop her?” Penny asked. “Let her end him and good riddance! I would have thought you’d be all for that, considering what he did to Eliot!”

 “None of you understand how this kind of magic works, do you?” Tears glittered in Margo’s eyes but she looked furious at the same time. “If Julia kills Reynard, then Eliot’s magic and natural abilities die too! They’ll die before we can find a spell to trap that fucking fox and get back what he stole!” She glanced over at Penny. And if you think Reynard’s done with Fillory or with Eliot? Guess again because when Eliot’s weak enough, he’s going to come back and finish the job!”

 “And feed from the energy created by his death.” Quentin murmured, and Margo gave him a look that suggested she was vastly relieved that he’d finally caught up.

 “So what the fuck do we do now?” Penny asks, and Margo’s furious eyes swept what remained of their Brakebills group.

 “We capture a psychotic, predatory fox-God, for starters. Then we figure out a way to undo what he did before El gets too weak and Reynard comes back for seconds.”

 “It sounds impossible.” Quentin murmured, and Margo turned to look at him.

 “Quentin, if being a magician isn’t to try and make the impossible possible, then why fucking be a magician at all?” She turned smartly, her raspberry coat flaring out behind her. “Come on. We’ll start back at Brakebills.”

[hope-mikaelson]

“Do you ever think we should just stop this?” Marina/Julia

Alright so this probably needed to have a switch from Marina’s perspective to Julia’s but instead it’s mostly just Marina’s and probably feels super OOC because Marina is being so soft™. But I wanted to post it instead of going back through for a second draft. May pull the idea for later and write a follow up to it. (Eh what I mean to say is this could have been better, sorry).

Under the cut (warnings for some talk of Julia’s assault):

“Do you ever think we should just stop this?” It’s the first time Marina’s questioned their mission since they started. It’s also the first time Julia has ever heard Marina pose something to her as a suggestion, as though the choice were hers.

Julia doesn’t look up from the paper she’s scratching notes into, her other hand holding the book she’s copying from open firmly. Marina’s eyes are focused intently on trying to get a glimpse at Julia’s so much so that Julia can feel them. “No.”

Marina falls silent for a minute, nimble fingers leafing through a few more pages of a different text. They’d been at this for two weeks, since she’d found a fractured – no, broken – Julia on the bloody floor of her apartment. Julia had begged her to take her memories away and no matter how much Marina assured her that she wanted to help, she didn’t have the ability, not that much memory – not that much trauma. All she had been able to promise Julia in that moment was that they’d find him, they’d kill him, they’d make him pay for this.

She’d make him pay for it. It was the most convenient way Marina could deflect responsibility. It was the surest way she had to make Julia feel safe.

“Julia, I’m serious.” She lowers her voice, lets her fingers reached toward the page to interrupt the movement of Julia’s pen. This was the only thing that could have made Marina hesitate, the only thing that would make her want to slow their fight down, wait for revenge until they had a better option.

“So am I.” Julia looks up this time, her eyes dark and unblinking. Her voice hasn’t risen above that tone since she got out of the shower at Marina’s apartment that night.

When Marina speaks again her voice cracks. The sound is so unfamiliar it’s alien to them both. “This is sex magic. We can wait. We can find another way.”

Marina’s stomach has been turning since they found this spell. The only thing they had to make them strong enough to kill a god and it’s sex magic. Because of course it is. Because gods are so gross and so fucking archaic. And it has to be Julia because no matter how strong Marina is, Julia is the one of them that’s god touched. The word feels bitter when Marina thinks it. She recalls Richard from Julia’s explanation of what happened, a man who found a girl who had the faith to do it. It probably wasn’t his doing. It had probably been the god the whole time but Marina hates him anyway. She had known Julia was special. She had known all along. Before Richard. Before she was god touched.

She may be able to deflect responsibility but there’s no convenient way to deflect guilt.

Julia is still staring back at her. Dark eyes holding heavy bags like they struggle to keep carrying their weight. She’s small and freckled and something like an old tree weathered in the hurricane heavy woods of North Carolina where Marina grew up. Crumbling, strong, hollow. Unlike other people, whose eyes glow with love or passion or brilliance, Julia’s eyes hold the smallest, solitary fleck of light. It’s determination, unstoppable force, just as it was the day Marina met her. It’s one of the few things about her that has not changed even a little since Reynard.

“I don’t want to wait.” Julia answers. “We’re doing it.”

“Have you considered asking me if I’m okay with it first?” Marina tries a different approach, something less gentle. Julia drinks scotch, neat. She rarely takes advice from gentle things.

The thought hits Julia too hard and she stands up, knocking the chair into the table as she does and tightening her sweater over her shoulders. “If you’re not okay with it, I’ll find someone else who can do it.” She immediately begins to gather her pages of work from the table.

Marina reaches for her arm so fast she isn’t sure it was her own mind that told her body to do it. “No – jesus, Julia. I’ll do it. I mean I have no problem doing it.” Marina tries to paint on a smirk that makes the words taste different but it’s like putting chocolate syrup on steaming garbage. She can’t even believe she’s saying these words, having this conversation. And now. After everything the other girl has been through. “But you – fuck. Are you serious? You don’t have a single hesitation? You’ll just do it? You’ll take off your clothes and lie down and perform a sex magic ritual with me. Of course you would.”

It’s Marina that’s standing now and she paces away from Julia, afraid that the frustration she’s feeling will boil over the surface and reach too close to the girl she’s been tip toeing around for the last two weeks. Julia pales and when Marina looks back she feels bad for even speaking, for not just going with it from the beginning.

“I have to.” Julia whispers.

Marina clears the space between them in a few quick steps. “No, no you don’t.” She once again reaches out and tentatively takes one of Julia’s hands. She’s nearly certain the last time she’s made any kind of compassionate physical contact with someone she was at boarding school. “We can find another way.”

“What if he attacks someone else in the meantime? What if he… goes looking for Kady, wherever she is? We’re not safe here, Marina. He could – he could come back at any moment. We’re running on borrowed time in the hopes that he doesn’t decide he needs me for whatever he wanted me for in the first place. And the moment he shows up, you’re as good as dead. ”

The guilt in Julia’s words is almost thicker than the guilt Marina’s been feeling all this time and she knows that if helping Julia is what somehow settles hers, then she has to let to her do what it takes to be rid of her own. Marina swallows the dry lump in her throat. “Fine, okay. But you – you need to decide how this goes.” Marina can’t erase the image of Julia from her mind, bloody, in pieces, bruises that probably still haven’t faded all the way out of sight. The only way she’ll be able to do this spell is gently and on Julia’s terms and those are things that Marina doesn’t have a drop of experience with.