#its already post on ao3 so might as well post it here on my blot

[thedemises]

fuck it, im gonna post that one draft thats been sitting in my notes for too long but i havent finished it but whatever

[drowningbydegrees]

Once Written in the Stars Pt. 1

I think this might be the first fandom I’ve been in that really reads fic here, so I’m trying to be better about posting it. It’s also on AO3 It’s only when Geralt sheaths his sword that he realizes his medallion is still humming, perhaps even more than it was before. He squints through the trees, and sees nothing beyond the blanket of buttercups carpeting the forest floor. There’s a lark somewhere in the distance, but nothing near him moves.  Buttercups. He circles back to that, to the bright spring flowers that stretch out into the forest as far as he can see. It’s the end of summer though, where the world goes brown and dry as it waits for relief from the heat to tumble into fall. There’s not something in the woods making the medallion vibrate against his skin Geralt realizes too late. It’s the woods themselves, and perhaps the keepers of it.  “Fuck,” he mutters to himself, hoping he hasn’t gone so far astray that there isn’t a way back. 

So, Geralt walks back in the direction he’s certain he came from, searching for where the flowers fade back into the dirt and twigs he should be finding under his feet. The medallion only thrums more urgently, for so long that it’s eventually just a background sensation as Geralt tries to find his way.

He passes an old, moss covered tree for what he’s certain is the fourth time and makes himself stop, as if pausing will help him regain his bearings. It doesn’t of course, but somewhere nearby, someone is singing.

Somewhere in between the moss and the stone

The wind and the wood became my home

I layed myself down upon the green

when the ivy overgrew I could never leave

Something in the darkness pulled me deeper

Something in the madness eased my mind

Was I awake or was I dreaming

Cut the strings that bind me to mankind

Geralt bristles, starting to reach for his sword, but it’s a stuttered, aborted motion as the melody sinks in. The song is beautiful, he realizes, subtly easing the wariness with which he regards the woods. Perhaps he’ll just listen for a moment, because it’s ever so soothing. When his feet begin to carry him closer, Geralt doesn’t notice. Nothing good lives in a fae forest, something far away in him whispers. He grasps for the truth of that, because it might be important, but it’s so very far away from him now. The sentiment slips uselessly through his fingers like the pleasant spring breeze that ruffles his hair as it blows through the trees. Caution flits somewhere at the periphery, but he can’t pin it down and it’s… unnecessary. There’s no need for caution here, not when the calm sinks right down to his bones. It lulls him until the witcher wants nothing more than to wrap himself up in the music, the world beyond the woods be damned.

The trees pass by as Geralt ventures deeper into the woods, never catching sight of the mist that swathes him. If anything, it is a caress, an embrace, something that softens the sharp edges of him and blots out the things that keep him up at night. There is a peace here he never knew he wanted, but he yearns for it, to be allowed to keep this thing as he steps into a glade where the sunlight comes through in soft, slanted bars.

It is there that he sees it, though the creature is tangled up in the shadows where the trees begin again. The claws are the first thing to catch Geralt’s eye, razor sharp and curved like scythes. They’re lost as they fade into sinewy arms, rough and ashen like tree bark on something long since dead. Its limbs come together like twisted vines and branches, framing around its dessicated belly where the thin flesh that stretches across is sunken in.

This is the thing singing him lullabies, he realizes. The sense of danger claws its way closer to the forefront of his mind, but every inch is a struggle as he tries to remember why this should frighten anyone. Shaking something loose, he slowly cobbles together the sense to draw his sword.

“Silver? You can’t hurt me with that.” The music has stopped, but the voice is lyrical all the same, pulling Geralt’s gaze upward where the creature looms a bit over him. He hadn’t seen its face before, but it’s no more pleasant than the rest of it. Teeth like long daggers fill up its mouth, pulling it into a sort of rictus grin. Geralt can see patches of ashen skin underneath, crowded in by branches that fan out at grotesque angles, a mockery of antlers. A short ways beneath them, a pair of blue, blue eyes zero in on Geralt, unnaturally luminous. He’s never seen a damned thing like it.

“I don’t think it’ll tickle,” he grouses, adjusting his stance. It spoke to him though, clearly more than the beast it appears to be, so he doesn’t attack right away.

“You were lost.” It’s not a question, and Geralt isn’t sure if it’s that or the creature’s utter lack of concern about his weapon that puts him on edge.

“I wasn’t until you lured me here,” Geralt growls, because if this is going to end up in a fight, he’d just as soon get on with it.

The creature regards him with a wider smile, probably meant to convey mirth, but mostly only pulling it’s mouth into something more grotesque. It shakes its head, horns catching in the leaves overhead. Worse, the creature laughs. “I watched you all afternoon.”

Had it been so long? There is rumor that time moves differently in places like this, but surely it can’t have been hours he’s been here. For the first time, Geralt notices the sunlight has taken on the drippy gold sheen it wears just before dusk begins to settle in, and he curses under his breath.

“What do you want?” Geralt braces himself, sure he’s not going to like the answer.

At first, the creature is quiet, it’s expression so twisted that it’s impossible to glean any sense of intention. “No one is meant to survive this place, but....”

The response covers the obvious, Geralt thinks but does not say. “If you’re waiting for me to beg for my life, you’re going to be very disappointed.”

“What? No, no, of course not. I want to help you.” Geralt had expected some sort of formality in conversation with the kinds of things that live in a forest like this, not unlike the way conversations go with nobles. The cadence this one keeps to is like an old friend though, casual, friendly even, and it’s all Geralt can do not to be swayed again despite what’s looking at him. Almost too late, Geralt realizes it’s making eye contact, but he cannot look away.

“Don’t do that,” he grits out, and perhaps he’s caught the creature in a good mood because the tug at his emotions and sense of reason dissipates until it has faded to nothing. All at once, Geralt is entirely his own again.

“Of course,” it agrees, stepping through the glade, strangely graceful. Where Geralt expects a lumbering gait, the creature moves like a dancer, eerie in the way it glides to where the witcher stands and then right on past him. “Come along then.”

“Just like that?” Geralt arches an eyebrow, recognizing following the creature through the woods for the terrible idea it is now that his mind is no longer clouded. Granted, there aren’t a great many options. Besides, it could have forced him or killed him or just left him in the woods, and it had done none of those things. Heaving a sigh and cursing under his breath, Geralt follows.

The creature leads the way, absently dragging its fingers along bark and branches. Geralt isn’t sure if it’s his imagination, but he swears everywhere it touches brightens, as if this monstrous thing is luring the foliage to flourish the way it lured Geralt to stand before it. It must be a fairy, he realizes, its distorted visage the truth that lurks beneath the pretty picture fae paint for men.

“Do you always hunt monsters? Is it exciting? Do you travel?” the questions come rapidfire, and for something dredged up from someone’s nightmare, it’s shockingly amiable. Chatty too, much to Geralt’s chagrin. The fairy doesn’t actually wait for an answer to any of the things it asks though, before sort of interrupting itself. “I’m being rude. I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”

Fairies aren’t really monsters, and they mostly keep to themselves, so Geralt isn’t as well versed in their ways as might be useful, but this part he knows. There’s power in a name, and it’s not something he’s keen on handing over to any sort of fae, no matter how friendly it seems. There’s… something about being very careful not to be rude though, he thinks, so Geralt gives it something, a useless moniker as a standup. “You can call me witcher.”

“You really are a monster hunter, then.” If the fairy is put off by Geralt’s answer, it doesn’t show. Quite the contrary. Its mouth pulls wide into the unnatural, sharp edged smile that Geralt is starting to realize is just the fairy’s face and not some kind of threat. And then, perhaps because the name thing doesn’t work in reverse, or because Geralt has misremembered the lore entirely, it replies, “Well, hello then, witcher. I’m Dandelion.”

“Dandelion.” Geralt dubiously repeats, drawing the word out as his gaze sweeps over the fairy from head to toe. If said fairy recognizes that Dandelion is terribly incongruous with his nightmarish countenance, he gives no indication, instead chattering on about something else entirely. He pays little mind when Geralt mostly doesn’t answer, as if the witcher were just an accessory to the fairy’s one sided conversation.

Geralt feels the change before he sees it, when the muggy summer air begins crowding into the woods’ perpetual spring. By the time the treeline comes into view, the sun has nearly sunk below the horizon, the first stars peeking out where the sky has already gone dark. A tension Geralt hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally eases, as he reaches safety once more.

“Thank-” Geralt begins, but the look on Dandelion’s face stops him. His face is always somewhat twisted, but even still, there’s no mistaking the anger in the way the fairy’s eyes narrow at him.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” It comes out far more forcefully than Geralt can imagine there being any call for, and Dandelion punctuates each word with a sharp poke of one clawed finger against the armor in the center of his chest. “Have you no manners at all?”

Belatedly, Geralt thinks he might remember some such thing about thanking fae being rude. Maybe? He can’t really recall because it had never been important, but he holds up his hands placatingly. “I only wanted to convey that I appreciate your help.”

Dandelion lets out an affronted little hmph, but the fairy’s eyes soften around the edges. Geralt can’t help but think he’s narrowly sidestepped something awful. He’s never met another fairy, but he’s heard stories, and never got the impression they were easy to mollify.

“Why wouldn’t I help? Okay, maybe the others wouldn’t have, but that’s hardly the point. It’s not like you deserved to be stuck there,” Dandelion mutters, clawed hand falling loosely back to his side, leaving Geralt to wonder what metric the fairy was judging that by.

Eager to put some distance between himself and those cursed woods, Geralt chooses not to give the fairy an opportunity to drag him into further conversation. He offers up a hasty goodbye and turns on his heel to leave. He doesn’t wait for a response, and Dandelion moves so quietly, it’s only the continued thrum of his medallion that gives the fairy away. Bracing himself for what he assumes are going to be far too many words, he looks at Dandelion, “You’re following me. Why?”

“Oh! I can’t go back,” Dandelion says a little too brightly, waving a spindly arm at the meadow stretched out in front of them. “Seems like as good a direction as any.”

“Why can’t you go back?” Geralt hears himself ask, even though he really doesn’t want to know, even though he’s very aware that he’s going to feel obligated to do something once he does know.

Dandelion’s shoulders lift and fall in what Geralt can only assume is an approximation of a shrug. “You break the rules. You leave. Or you die. Really, it happens so rarely I don’t think anyone remembers one way or another, so probably best to decide for them and be on my way.”

Geralt stops then, because Dandelion appears pretty determined to follow and given how difficult a time he has with humans already, the fairy’s appearance would only make it worse. Dandelion's earlier assertion that no one was meant to survive the woods takes on an entirely different connotation now. It had never been the threat he’d assumed it to be at all. “Why did you help me, then?”

“You were lost.” Under other circumstances, the naive simplicity of that might be endearing. No qualifiers. No caveats. Either Dandelion is terribly manipulative or terribly kind-hearted, and Geralt has an incredibly irritating suspicion that it’s the latter.

“I’d have found my way.”

Dandelion’s features don’t change much, but the glow of his eyes shifts, taking on a softer cast. “You really wouldn’t have. No one does. That’s the point.”

Geralt wants to argue, but they probably both know better when it comes down to it. Resigning himself to having company at least for the trip into town, Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you ever even been out here?”

“Nope.” Dandelion’s tone is far too untroubled for someone who’s just tossed aside their entire life, but the fairy glances away, and for just a moment, Geralt spots the sorrow underneath, no more than one last longing look at the trees behind them.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters to himself, already knowing he’s not going to abandon Dandelion out here. Resigned, Geralt gestures at Dandelion’s looming form. “Well, you can’t walk into town like that.”

“Like what?” Dandelion’s head cocks to the side like a curious puppy. A very large, very nightmarish puppy.

“I’m not sure if you’ve if you’ve seen yourself, but-” That’s as far as Geralt gets before it becomes clear that Dandelion has grasped the issue. Geralt had been looking up at the fairy’s face, so the abrupt disappearance as Dandelion shifts into some hopefully less imposing form throws him off.

Geralt’s gaze drags downward until he catches the top of a mop of brown hair framing the high cheekbones and soft curves of a startlingly human face. Only Dandelion’s eyes give him away, and even then, only because Geralt knows the blue of them is a touch too vibrant to be normal. Dandelion’s newly human looking mouth turns up pleasantly, a far cry from the jagged teeth from before. Even his clothes are convincing in that they’re bright and eye catching and recognizably human. “Better?”

“...Better,” Geralt is forced to concede. Pretty, even, if he’s being honest. At least Dandelion hadn’t decided to model this new form after him. Where any of this came from is a revelation Geralt is very, very sure he doesn’t want to partake in.

“Wonderful!” Dandelion claps his very human looking hands together once and sets off in the direction Geralt had been walking.

And it’s fine, really. He’ll get Dandelion to civilization, where he’s sure the curious fairy will find something other than Geralt to occupy his time. That’ll be the end of it, Geralt decides. It has to be because there’s no place for a fairy at the side of a witcher.

While he might prod Dandelion for his thoughts on the matter, the fairy is already incessantly chattering about practically everything else. The stars are so bright without the trees in the way. The grass is scratchier out here. Do you ever wear anything other than black? It’s so warm. How does anyone stand it? What’s that, anyway?

The last in the barrage of commentary and questions is punctuated by slender fingers reaching out to brush over the medallion around Geralt’s neck. Instinctively, his hand shoots up to curl around Dandelion’s wrist and pull it away. “Do not.”

“Touchy,” Dandelion complains, rubbing at his wrist when Geralt releases it. The witcher might feel bad if he wasn’t quite certain that the only thing he could possibly have injured is Dandelion’s pride.

There are a few moments of blessed silence where Dandelion is either sufficiently chastised or maybe just grumpy enough not to keep talking. They’re almost to the road when Geralt realizes another issue and very, very reluctantly speaks up. “What are you going to call yourself?”

“I have a name.” Apparently all is forgiven, because Dandelion’s frown dissipates in favor of open curiosity.

“You can not go around calling yourself Dandelion if you’re trying to pass yourself off as human.” Before Dandelion can argue, Geralt adds, “And you are passing yourself off as human.”

“Fine.” A frown creases Dandelion’s lips again as he shuffles along beside Geralt. The fairy is blessedly quiet as they reach the road. The village is too far away to see in dark, even for Geralt, but it’s close enough to promise an end to all this nonsense. Geralt doesn’t see the way Dandelion abruptly brightens up, but he hears it. “Buttercup?”

Why did he think this was going to be anything other than thoroughly exasperating? Geralt glances over at Dandelion who, oddly enough, seems very invested in his approval. “That’s not better.”

“Daffodil? Oh, I don’t like that one. Maybe Peony?” And Dandelion is off again, prattling on about crocuses and tulips and bluebells and…

“Not a flower.” Geralt finally cuts in when he can’t tune Dandelion out any longer.

That quiets Dandelion for the space of a single breath before he’s pressing, “Why not?”

“Because humans would never name someone after most of those,” Geralt forces himself to explain very slowly and very calmly and very much not beginning to lose his temper. It’s only as he realizes Dandelion probably doesn’t have enough context that something like sympathy creeps in around the edges of his irritable mood. “Just pick something else.”

The fairy protests that if he’s giving up the last thing tying him to his old life, he should at least replace it with something good, and Geralt supposes there’s not much to argue with on that front. They go back and forth a great deal before Dandelion finally suggests something that isn’t a flower. “Jaskier?”

“Fine.” Geralt agrees with an exasperated sigh. He’s so grateful that the fairy has finally suggested something that isn’t completely ridiculous that he almost misses the toothy little smile Dandelion… Jaskier gives him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier sing songs, looking very much like he’s won some game Geralt didn’t even know they were playing. “Nothing at all.”

****

The further they get from the forest, the more aware Dandelion (Jaskier, he reminds himself) is of how horribly uncomfortable it is. The air is too warm and too thick, like tree sap where it sticks to his skin. How does anyone live out here?

He supposes he’s going to find out if he’s meant to make a life beyond the woods, which is fine, really. It’s… fine. It has to be. The only home he’s ever known is no great loss, with the promise of endless adventure stretched out in front of him. It’s what Jaskier tells himself, at least, and he refuses to look back lest the fragile belief crumble.

After all, if he’s going to follow the witcher, there’s a whole world out there to explore. The man doesn’t appear all that interested in having Jaskier’s company, but that’s not exactly a new experience for the fairy, odd by even fae standards. That will all change, he thinks, when the witcher sees how useful it is to have someone around with magic at their fingertips. Surely, there must be something the witcher wants, if Jaskier can just learn what it is.

So, he follows at the witcher’s heels, unsure he particularly likes the wide dirt path humans have cut through the wilderness around them. Grass and flowers sprawl as far as the eye can see to either side, but the ground underneath them is hard, even through the soles of his boots. There’s a reason for it, probably, but the sentiment remains all the same.

Losing interest in the road, Jaskier watches the witcher, silently walking just a bit ahead. He isn’t much of a conversationalist, Jaskier quickly discovers. The fairy tries valiantly, but it’s not until he asks about why the man carries two swords that Jaskier gets more than a vague grunt in response.

“Silver for monsters. Steel for men.” It’s abrupt and to the point, and then the witcher is silent.

That seems… extreme. Jaskier has never actually met a human, mind you, but he’s seen a couple from afar. They looked quite fragile in the grand scheme of things, but if someone like the witcher has a weapon dedicated to them, perhaps he’s miscalculated. “Are humans really so dangerous?”

“You can decide that for yourself.” The witcher gestures ahead as they top a hill. Beyond the crest of it lays what must be a human community of some sort. It’s a collection of buildings silhouetted in the dark, yellow light glowing from within some of them.

Jaskier had somehow expected something more grand. He thinks to ask if all the places humans live are like this, but there’s the slightest dip to the way the witcher carries himself. From everything else he’s seen, it strikes Jaskier that even this very slight show of vulnerability is more than the witcher has allowed, as if there’s just too much exhaustion at this point to hold it all in. So, Jaskier tries to keep his questions to a minimum after that, humming softly as they make their way towards the buildings.

It’s louder here, though not by much. Somewhere off to Jaskier’s right, there’s the din of a number of conversations happening at the same time, but the witcher keeps walking and so the fairy does too. The road is mostly empty, but there are a couple of people out and about. Jaskier does his best not to stare too openly, but he sees enough to decide none of them are individually that interesting. They’re quiet and plain. Even their clothes are muted.

By the time Jaskier stops trying to make sense of their surroundings and thinks to break his attempt at silence to ask where they’re going, the witcher has stopped in front of a door. It’s the grandest building Jaskier has seen yet, which really isn’t saying much. All that sets it apart from the rest is some pretty filigree carved around the doors and windows.

“Don’t say a word,” the witcher insists as he raps his knuckles against the door. Of course, that just brings more questions. Don’t talk to the witcher or to whoever is on the other side of that door? Is this knocking thing some tradition before you walk into a building? Before he can ask anything, the door swings open.

The man that greets them is nothing at all like the witcher. He’s unpleasant to look at with his beady eyes and beaked nose, and even before he speaks, Jaskier knows his voice will be equally unpleasant. It’s the way he looks at the witcher though, that gets the fairy’s hackles up. He doesn’t know humans, not really, but he knows disdain when he sees it, and that won’t do at all.

“Witcher,” the man greets, and the tone of it has sealed his fate as far as Jaskier is concerned. Oh sure, the witcher is gruff and not very friendly, but he’s good. Jaskier knows that much, even if it’s hard to explain why in words. He’s done nothing to deserve this man speaking to him like they’re less than equals, and yet the witcher wordlessly bears it.

Is it always like this? Jaskier wonders only briefly before deciding that if it is, it won’t be anymore. Maybe that is the thing he can do to sway the witcher into allowing him to keep following.

The door opens more widely, and the man hardly spares Jaskier a glance, clearly taking him at face value. That, or he’s too busy watching the witcher’s every move. As if he hasn’t even noticed, the witcher steps past the threshold into the building, Jaskier close behind him.

[crystalrequiem]

The Voice that Urged Orpheus

[Part 1/6(?)] [TRC] Summary: Kurogane tries to grapple with how attractive Fai is, fails to propose marriage, and is generally a gay disaster. 

Tags: Kuro/Fai, Canon Universe, Post-Canon,

Warnings:  suggestive thoughts (nothing graphic), overly sappy feelings, Kurogane’s unique combination of emotional intelligence and social incapability. [Part 1] - [Part 2]

Hello friends. It’s been a while since I posted Fic here. I will probably try to get this up on AO3 all in one piece? but I’m a creature that craves validation so it’s up here first piecemeal i guess.  As a hint of this thing’s intended trajectory, its joke title is “5 times Kurogane sat consumed with lust for the evening and 1 time he got to do something about it” So-- maybe eventually some citrusy content of whichever flavor... >_>

Tomoyo did this to torment him, he thinks.

Gliding through the room easy as a fish in water, the Mage makes himself at home as the life of the party. However stilted the his usual attempts at Japanese, with Mokona here to translate he runs circles around the courtiers and their linguistic games. He acts every bit the part of the charming prince he should have been in a kinder life—darting from conversation to conversation, quick with an easy smile and a cutting joke, still managing to keep a careful eye on Syaoran.

Watching Fai smile honest and free of the weight of worry still seems to Kurogane like a miracle, but it doesn’t ruin him. On its own, it doesn’t drive him to hide away on the sidelines, hand clenched tight around his artificial wrist as he struggles to keep his own thoughts in check. No. The real torture derives from the indecent spill of Fai’s hair—a delicately ornamented, flowing stream of gold that traces his pale neck down to a blue silk collar worn just a little too loose. It’s the way he moves in that thing—ridiculous sleeves so long they nearly brush the floor, but somehow he hasn’t lost an ounce of grace. It’s—

The sight of Fai in nearly any garment of Nihon would still have struck him—his traitorous, possessive mind all too willing to catch on thoughts of the mage in his clothes and in his land—but Tomoyo had gone to lengths to make it worse. The cut and drape of what she made for Fai would advertise their relationship on its own, but she’d once again seen fit to embroider the black moon at his chest. Standard for any shinobi under her command, but Fai is not, and with Kurogane’s status as it is… It’s safe to assume every single person here knows what kind of item they are. Just thinking about it is enough to drive a man to distraction.

As if on cue, the mage catches his eye across the crowd and grants him a quiet smile. For an instant, he forgets how to breathe. Fai’s stupid grin can send his heart stuttering in his chest on a good day, but looking like that—

Kurogane growls and turns away. He hopes to whatever god still listens that his face doesn’t reflect the sorts of things running through his head. The fingers wrapped around his metal wrist grip tight enough to hurt, if he’d had any nerves.

“Blue really is his color.”

He has long believed that Tomoyo possesses an extra special sense for his embarrassment.

“Did you need something, your highness?” He grits. Her bell-like peals of laughter fill the shadowed alcove at his expense.

“Who can say? Maybe I just wanted to visit with my favorite subject.” He doesn’t bother granting her a response. He’s almost glad for her distraction, however ill-intentioned it may be. At least it gives him a chance to collect himself. “How much longer do you think you can stay this time?”  Kurogane shrugs in answer.

“Same as usual. Just until the Manjuu says we need to move again. Maybe another day or two I’d guess.” He starts to relax, the heat in his veins cooling ever so slowly, until Tomoyo adds with a pout,

“Not enough time for a wedding then.”

“Princess,” he chokes, mortally affronted as she laughs harder. He tries to tune her out, but keeping his cool presents a serious challenge while he can’t help imagining…

He doesn’t know what exact moment he’d decided he needed Fai at his side always. Maybe as early as Yama? Maybe something in him knew even before that. Either way, his vision of the future rings empty without Fai there to meet it with him, whatever form that might take. Co-caretakers for the kids, battle companions, friends or paramours—whatever Fai deigns to give him, he wants. It’s only somehow in all of that… he’s never really thought about something like a wedding. He really could ask, couldn’t he? Would Fai want that?

He tunes back in to reality and finds Tomoyo staring, all quiet acceptance and expectation. She likes to tease, but in this he senses no joke. She means it—wants him to know that she does. The court in Nihon accepts male lovers easily enough, but he has never heard of a marriage between them. She means to offer him that: the possibility of tradition shattered beneath the weight of the imperial throne.

“You are my dearest and oldest friend. When your sojourn ends for good, I will make sure this is a land you want to return to.” Tomoyo flashes a gentle smile, fleeting between the narrow gap of fan and hair. “The court could use some new ways of thinking.” She murmurs as she looks away, back towards the party and the majority of the court. As usual, her political shrewdness surpasses him. He should have realized she had more reason to parade Fai about than to tease her favorite former protector.

“Princess Tomoyo, I—” He doesn’t know how to answer her, but he doesn’t get the chance to try. She only shakes her head and stares past him, her eyes locked to something over his shoulder.

“Fai! How are you finding the party?” She chirrups, holding her fan a little higher to hide her expression, which is far too self-satisfied. Kurogane freezes like a child caught sneaking sweets.

“Perfectly well, thank you, your highness.” With his thoughts running rampant, Fai’s presence burns like a brand in his awareness. He shuts his eyes and tries not to think too hard about the crescent moons embroidered starkly on that damnable outfit, or exactly what he wants them to mean.

Unfortunately Fai doesn’t understand what ails him and mistakes his attempt at control for annoyance. “Alright there, Kuro-Grumpy?” He teases, voice colored by a fleck of genuine concern as he brushes his fingers against the base of Kurogane’s neck. Tomoyo laughs at the way he stiffens. She knows exactly what she’s done and isn’t at all sorry.

“I’m sure he is,” she teases, coquettish as she gathers her train in one hand. “I’d best leave you two be. Doubtless you have much to talk about.”

Doubtless, his thoughts echo, indignant. He marks her for a traitor as she leaves him be with only Fai and his racing mind for company. He tries to use his feelings of annoyance to strip this buzzing hyper-awareness away… to little effect.

“…Kuro?” He lets the silence linger too long, and the mage grows worried. Kurogane huffs and his gaze falls back on Fai at last.

He’s standing far too close, he thinks as his vision floods with the man he loves most. Too close and too beautiful and waiting too long for him to respond. He tries to find an answer to Fai’s concern and forgets how to use words. Struck stupid by the sight of his magician all he can manage is a hoarse,

“Hello.”

“Hello,” Fai echoes warily, expression warring between amusement and apprehension. “Is everything okay?”

Kurogane catches Fai’s gaze and the rest of the world seems to fade from view, drowned by perfect blue. Blue now—not the stubborn amber of blood-lust or the jarring blot of onyx in an uncertain world—just blue. Bright and alive and still here with him after everything and damn it… he wants Fai by his side for all the hues that might follow.

“What’s wrong?” the mage grows more anxious with each second of silence and starts to draw his hand away, already turning to try to determine what threat has Kurogane unsettled. This won’t do. He catches the hand before it can retreat and keeps Fai’s attention, even as his feelings dam his throat closed. He closes his eyes and tries to find a way to explain what he wants, but the words just don’t come.

You look nice, is banal and, hey, marry me? Seems like a bad thing to spring on someone unexpected at a party. I love you so much, it hurts, is true, but sounds like an accusation and not one he means to levy. He doesn’t regret any part of this. Not for a single instant.

He takes his usual route and settles for action when words fail him—cradles Fai’s captured hand with his own and presses his lips to the center of Fai’s palm.

He looks the way he does every time Kurogane manages to demonstrate some degree of the depths of his feelings: as though the floor has fallen beneath his feet and he has no ground to stand on.

“Oh,” the mage murmurs, backlit by a low light that bounces subtly off the silk of his clothes and the shining gold of his hair. Kurogane wants little more than to pull him deeper into shadow and kiss him until everything he struggles to say coalesces without words.

He doesn’t look away as he shifts their positions to let Fai’s shaking fingers linger over the shape of his jaw. He keeps his hold on Fai’s wrist gentle—tries to provide an anchor to reality as the blonde’s thoughts race behind his eyes. “…Kuro? I’m not…sure this is the time or place for—whatever this is.”

He’s not wrong, but he also makes no move to pull away. Kurogane sighs and closes his eyes, tries to block out the vision that captivates him even as he leans into Fai’s touch. He can’t do more than that with the party still buzzing, barely concealed behind the thin veneer of privacy the alcove affords. He has to say something. He can’t leave it be—not now with his mind so locked on the idea of forever.

“I—Fai. When all this is over, do you, maybe—”

He almost says it then. He doesn’t’ even know the words on the tip of his tongue—they spill forth organically, easily for once in his life and he’s going to say something, even if he doesn’t quite know what. So of course that’s when the kids find them.

“Aha! Mokona’s super secret technique, Finding Mommy and Daddy!” the blasted bun’s cheery announcement treads roughshod over his every nerve. Probably Fai’s too if he had to guess; the mage jerks back as if he’s been burned, his awful fake smile plastered back into place. “Oh no! Did we interrupt?”

…we…?

Kurogane takes a deep breath and dares to turn around. Sure enough, there stand both Syaoran and Mokona. The Manjuu is perfectly chipper but Syaoran at least has the good grace to look embarrassed.

“S-sorry!” he stutters, face a burning red. “I didn’t know you were—uh…. We’ll just go over here, and—”

Fai comes to their rescue as usual. All too used to acting despite his feelings, he casts off embarrassment like a shroud and bustles forth to reassure the kid.

“Nothing to worry about!” he crows, “We were just about to head back in to the fray.” He glides closer to Syaoran and blocks the lingering electricity in the air with distance. Every motion still so damnably graceful—Kurogane feels further doomed with every breath. He crosses his empty arms and leans into the wall, watching his love retreat.  

“Ask me later?” Fai mouths as he rushes away, the corners of his eyes soft with apology. Kurogane huffs and musters something like a smile to reassure him.

“Sure,” he mouths back, though he still doesn’t really know what he wants to say.

…this is going to be a thing, isn’t it? He can just feel it.

[forkanna]

[AO3 LINK] [EF LINK]

NOTES: Sorry for that delay! Holidays got a bit crazy, and I've been sorting out my life since then. Will try to get this posted a bit more regularly from now on!

Also, the theme song for this chapter is "Feeling Of Falling" by Cheat Codes and Kim Petras.

                                             CHAPTER ELEVEN

The corners of my mouth lifted up the tiniest bit. "So… this counts as a date?"

"UGH!" Miss Kawakami got up from the table and crossed to lean against the kitchen bar. Seeing her framed there, between the mini water cooler and the espresso machine, her dress revealing just enough of her back to make my fingertips tingle and my mouth run dry…

'No, Makoto,' I thought to myself. 'Focus. Don't let your weird new gay feelings distract you from helping her.'

"Look. It doesn't have to be a date. This was just the kind of dinner you deserve from a date. Not specifically from me. Not me being your date, I mean, um… if that makes sense."

"Well, why not? I'm already a maid for two of my students. Gave you a bath and let you massage me, put on this dress for you. Why shouldn't I just say 'fuck it all' and throw myself into your arms? Huh?"

There was anger and frustration bleeding through now, and it made me duck my head in fear. "I'm sorry. Y-you can leave, I won't tell anybody you left early. I d-don't want to keep you here if you-"

"No, that's exactly what you want. Right?" Finally, she turned, and she was shaking with anger. "I told you already that this can't happen, and here it is. Happening. What gives you the right to just ignore my wishes? Like I'm not the grown up here!"

"O-oh," I breathed softly, shutting down. Like a puppet with its strings cut. "You're right. I apologise."

"Makoto, what…?" Then she sighed in exasperation, throwing up both hands. "See? You act like a little kid getting yelled at! Why aren't you yelling right back at me? This is not how it would work if we were equals in this relationship! What the hell am I saying? We're not even in one! Oh my GOD…"

"Hey, it's alright," I said, finally rising from the table as I kept my voice low. "Listen. I'm… I'll go to my bedroom for a few minutes. Please enjoy your meal, and… if you're gone when I come back out, I'll underst- understand."

My voice had broken on the last word but I tried to recover quickly as I strode away from the table, the room spinning. Sadayo didn't do anything, but she did watch me go, trembling as she stood there trying to weather the blunt force of a million different emotions buffeting her all at once.

Something I could relate to.

I had only been laying on my bed for a minute or two, tears rolling down into the pillow silently as I stared at the wall, when I heard a soft knock at the door. "Come in," I said as I hastily blotted at my eyes with the tissue in my hands.

"Hey," she breathed. My lights were off, so all I could see was the halo of her slightly messy hair from the backlighting. "I, um… I seem to have lost my appetite."

"That's fine. I'll clean it up later, and… Sae and I can have the leftovers. She'll just wonder why I made duck. I'll get your money in a m-"

"I'm not leaving yet," she reassured me. "Can I sit?" I nodded, so she sat on the very edge of my bed, not quite far enough back so that we were touching. "So… now it's my turn to apologise."

"For what? You didn't do anything wrong."

"No, I did. I really overreacted out there, I… don't know why I did that. Well, I do, but it doesn't make it okay."

Eyes still blurry, I glanced up at her face that I could see a tiny bit better now. She looked pale, and scared, but not nearly as two-steps-from-crazy as she did before. Her eyes closed for a moment as she contemplated the situation, chose her next words carefully.

"You aren't… the only one."

"Hm?"

"You aren't the only one who feels this… pull toward each other." Another breath to steel herself. "I couldn't tell you when it started, or why, or how I could actually feel anything this strong for a girl in my class. But it's real and it's there."

Now I sat up a little more on my elbows. "What are you saying? Do you-"

"Wait," she bade me with a hand raised. "The thing is, that doesn't change the situation. You're a kid! And my student - and my boss when you request me through the agency. It's so messy… and I'm straight, so even if we did anything with these crazy feelings, it's probably not going to work out in a 'happily ever after' way. When I sit there and picture my ideal future, it's married to a husband who's providing for me, whose big, strong arms can comfort me when I'm sad or stressed out." Then she snorted. "Not that I'm gonna meet one at the rate I'm going, as my mom would say."

"Oh."

Her lips pulled into a little sad smile. "But I will admit you got to me way more than I thought. Just something really special about you, Niijima-san."

"And there's something special about you, too, Kawakami-san." At the term of address, she did raise an eyebrow and laugh a tiny bit, but let me continue instead of interrupting. "I've done a lot of thinking, about… what you said. Your bath and all that."

"Don't remind me," she sighed. "And how much thinking could you have done in five minutes?"

"No, not just now. The whole week." I sat up a little more as I continued, "You're my first in a lot of ways. But honestly? I don't think it matters that much. Because I know how I feel about you even without those things. Maybe I already did, because…"

When I didn't continue right away, she prompted, "Because?"

"You were the teacher I looked forward to seeing the most every day," I confided. "Probably because you were attractive to me, even though I didn't understand that until the hotel room. But it must have already been there, because… you flirting with me shocked me, but not enough. I should have been a lot more scared - I should have wanted to run screaming from the room. Instead, it almost felt… natural. And that scared me the most."

Miss Kawakami frowned. "But that flirting was just part of the job. You know that, right? I didn't… I thought you were a young man who paid to have me flirt with him. That isn't disgusting to you?"

"Like you said, it's your job. I think it would be pretty stupid and narrow-minded of me to judge you for that. Really, the way you're working so hard to pay that student back only makes me admire you more."

"Oh," she breathed, staring down at where her hands lay in her lap. As she watched, one of mine came to rest atop them, and she looked over to see my face was a lot closer. "M-Makoto, wait…"

"For what?" I whispered - and I could barely believe I was doing any of this. But it was too late to turn back; that ship had sailed. "I think you need to know right now how serious I am. Sadayo…"

Her eyes closed. "Shit. You say my name like that, and I can't…"

"Can't what? Sadayo?" That time, I was teasing a little.

"Can't resist you. Can't fight back against this huge mistake."

The last word gave me pause. Enough so that I changed my tactic; my lips pushed into her cheek instead of her mouth. But it was still a kiss. I had never kissed anyone before, and now I had, and it was my Japanese teacher. Life really is crazy. For that moment, however, we were just two women who didn't know how to handle their feelings, and it was more powerful than I ever dreamed.

"Oooooh, okay," she let out in a shaky sigh a few seconds later, when I had drawn back to rest my chin on her soft, warm shoulder. "Wow. That was nicer than a little peck on the cheek has any right to be. God…"

"Yeah?" I breathed cautiously. "I figured I should start small. Not push too much."

"So you're all in now, huh?" she asked with a bitter chuckle, despite the warmth in her eyes as she gazed down at the floor. "Totally gay, and totally gay for your teacher?"

I shrugged as I pet along her back, and she melted. It was almost comical except it was too inflaming to be laughed at. "Guess so. I'm as confused as you, but it just seems silly to pretend I'm not interested."

"Makoto… your moves are like… A+ level moves. How are you only eighteen? How are you a girl?!"

"Do you want me to put the mustache back on?" I laughed.

"No!" We both chuckled for a moment, even though halfway through she shivered and arched her back. "Oh my GOD, you are barely doing anything and I'm ready to go."

"Ready to go?"

Fearful eyes turned on me. "Wait - forget I said that. Shit, why did I say that?!"

"Do you mean…" My eyes widened, and I felt heat explode within my cheeks. "Oh."

"I said forget I said it, so stop thinking about it! Wow, I really am a mess - I need to see a therapist or something!"

My teacher was turned on. Was this really happening? Despite the fact that, as she said, I was barely doing anything to her, apparently it was getting her aroused and ready for me to explore further. Only question was…

Was I as ready to explore as she was to be explored?

"It's okay," I reassured her, petting a little more firmly and hoping it would help. "I, um, I don't remember you saying anything. Just that I have some good moves. Did you say something after that?"

Her embarrassed laugh spoke volumes. "Nice try, kid. Ugh, I'm such a loser."

"Why? Because having someone focused on you feels good? Because this…" I pet a single finger down the middle of her back - not even sure how I knew to do that, running purely on instinct - and she shook and shivered. "…feels good?"

"Stop, please…"

"Really?" My hand came to rest in the middle of her back, staying totally still. "I will if you want me to."

"Yes. I do." So I took the hand away. Her eyes were sad, but what she said was, "Thank you."

Swallowing hard, trying to ignore the pinprick of fear in my stomach, I whispered, "Of course. I'm sorry, I just… I thought I could make you feel nice, and you might feel less… mad at yourself? Scared?"

"You did, in a way. But you also made it way worse." She turned to gaze at me. "Because it worked. You got me all revved up by barely doing anything - and I only felt that with the best of the dates I've been on. Even then, most of the guys had to work harder to get me there."

"Except… you don't want it from me. I'm a student, and a girl." She nodded, and I sighed. "I understand."

"Well, I don't," she blustered, folding her arms over her chest. My hand was resting on her thighs now, but I tried to keep it still so as not to draw attention to that. "This is nuts! I feel like I'm being pranked, except it's way too real to be a prank, so…"

"How do you think I feel? You're my teacher, and so beautiful. And a woman - which I think I'm somehow more comfortable with that than you are. But it doesn't mean I'm not panicking."

"You're panicking?" she asked, and I could tell she was almost grateful to think about me instead of her own feelings. "But you seem so cool with it all. Like, other than when I scream at you like an idiot."

My lips split in a smile. "Not an idiot. You just weren't expecting any of this. We're both trying to figure it out." I pet her thigh a little now, and she shivered. "Is this alright?"

"N-no." I stopped. "God… I can't believe how different it is with girls."

"Hm?"

"I ask you to stop, and you actually do it. No 'Aww, c'mon' first, no telling me I'm some big tease if I get less comfortable."

"Oh," I chuckled softly. "Do you want me to do that instead? I probably could learn."

"GOD NO!" Then we both laughed. "It's one of the only clear advantages. But, um… anyway, yeah. How do you keep from blowing your stack while I'm over here, sweating enough to fill a bucket?"

"You are not sweating," I snorted as I thought the question over. Finally, I sat up completely, my legs out and to the side behind her as my face rested against her shoulder. She didn't seem to mind me there, even if my touches were too much for her to handle at the present.

"Miss Kawakami, I wish I knew what to tell you. But I've always been like this under pressure. I'm still freaking out and trying to figure out what to do, but it's like… there isn't any point in letting the panic turn me into a mess, so I just… don't. And I can't explain to you why I'm like that, either."

"Lucky," she pouted.

"I feel lucky. You're not yelling at me for all this, and… I do keep worrying about what you said."

"Which thing I said?"

"That I'll go too far and you won't tell me to stop, and I'll hurt you. That's why I keep taking such… small chances." I kissed her shoulder again, and she sighed. "Like that one."

Humming her pleasure at the next kiss, she finally whispered, "They're small but they aren't small. My brain is telling me 'no', but my body…"

After the next kiss, when she still hadn't finished her thought, I whispered, "Tell me."

"My body wants this. Needs it - and that's all I'm going to say, because it's already really terrible that I told that to any student. I deserve everything that's happened to me in the past few years. Scummy old woman."

"Hey." I reached up and gently moved her chin so she was facing me, and her eyes grew wide and fearful. "Don't talk about yourself like that. It's not fair. Those two are wrong."

"How are they wrong? I got a student killed, and now I'm feeling way too much for another. I'm a monster, Makoto-chan."

Smiling, I leaned a little closer. "Don't you mean 'Niijima-san'?"

"Right. That thing."

"You aren't a monster. And you aren't scummy. You're a beautiful, smart-"

"I can't take any more compliments," she laughed shakily as my face got closer. "I can't take any more of this, no matter how much I…"

"What? No matter how much… you want it?" I guessed.

All she could do was nod before our lips made contact.

Kissing Sadayo was both everything I had ever dreamed it could be, and nothing like I expected. Which didn't seem to fit together very neatly, since those feelings were such different shapes. It was warmth, and softness, and openness… passion and comfort mixing like fire and water. And now that I had tried it…

I could no longer imagine kissing a man. That easily. As much as I still couldn't believe I was with a woman, it felt so right that I didn't want to question it anymore; didn't think it was necessary. Her mouth was sweet and warm and open to me, and as our lips kneaded each other, I craved more, I leaned up harder against her, my arm wrapping around her back to keep her close.

"Shit," she breathed when we finally broke apart. Only then did I realise her hand had come to rest on my upper arm, another around my waist.

"Huh? I mean… hey."

"Hey." Swallowing hard, eyes swimming with the threat of tears, she went on, "I'm… just… it's not fair."

"What isn't fair?"

"That a little girl just gave me the best kiss of my life."

Blushing though I was, I managed to protest, "I'm not a little girl. I'm a grown woman; I just so happen to be in school, that's all."

"You'll be 'grown' when you can order that wine at a restaurant," she muttered, and I couldn't help smiling. "This is still a really… terrible idea, but…"

"It's good, though?" I insisted on knowing. "You're not just flattering me? I've never kissed anyone before."

"Stop reminding me how young you are," she whined. But when she saw me biting my lip, she closed her eyes and whispered, "The best. You just barely beat out Katsuya from my high school; he was really good, too. Like, legendary."

"Wow, high school must have been a really long time ago. How do you even remember?" When her eyes flew open, I dipped my head. "Teasing. O-or trying to. You really shouldn't shame yourself so much for this happening; it was… fate."

Her hand began to caress up and down my arm, and I felt the goosebumps dimpling and shifting under the light touch. "You believe in that stuff? Like fate? Oh - right, you still owe me a reading."

"Reading?" Her heeled foot raised up and waggled just in the corner of my vision, and I smiled bashfully. "Oh yeah… I don't know why I thought that would work."

"Honestly, I wasn't sure why you were asking about my shoe size until I saw the heels in the bathroom. So it did work; it just was very suspicious. Like, what is solestry, anyway?!"

"It's a real practice!" When she squinted at me, I shrugged and admitted, "So maybe it's not very widespread…"

"If you wanna play with my feet again, just ask. You don't have to make up fortune-telling excuses; I don't even believe in tarot cards or any of that."

Sure I was beet red by now, I whispered, "Wh-why are you so sure I'm some pervert? I just liked giving you a massage!"

"You did kiss them," she laughed. "And I'm teasing. But you keep getting all flustered, so if you want me to stop my teasing and let you play with them… just say the word and I will. I mean it."

"But you freaked out when we kissed. Why would that be any different? Because they're only feet?"

"In a word… yeah?" We both laughed. "Okay, okay, so you're not into it. I just… I don't know, I'm trying to think outside the box. Things that won't be as dangerous as that kiss was a few seconds ago. Do you want to take another bath?"

"Only if we're both naked."

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Sadayo was still gulping and gaping at me when I hastily averted my gaze to stare at the wall, my fingers flexing where they rested against her shoulderblade. Seconds ticked by in silence as we tried to figure out how to recover from that line.

"So…"

"Maybe we should go back to eating," Sadayo whispered.

"I thought you lost your appetite."

"I did. But um… that kiss kind of… woke it back up. So either I satisfy it that way, or…"

My eyes lifted to meet hers, and I was aware of how close our mouths still were. "Or we could do it in a fun way?"

"No. We really shouldn't do that. I want to, I… guess there's no point pretending I don't, but it's still a bad idea."

"I'm sorry I said such a stupid thing," I suddenly blurted. "I thought it would be funny, or flirty, but instead it sounded… kind of… scary."

"Yeah," she agreed with a hard swallow as she pulled me tighter against her side. "But I know you weren't doing that on purpose; I'm… this is why you don't date somebody nine years younger than you, right? They don't have the same experiences you do. I've been around the block a few times; you just got to the neighbourhood."

"Then show me. You're already my teacher at Shujin; teach me this, too. How to do it right instead of… of messing up and making you feel bad."

"This is not what 'sex education' is supposed to mean, you know," she chuckled. I smiled a little along with her.

"Let's finish dinner. I feel like you don't want to try more because you're worried about too many things, so maybe it's smarter if… we don't keep sitting on my bed."

A long whine issued from her mouth. "I kissed a teenager. On her goddamn bed, I must be out of my mind!"

"Yeah, but… think of it this way." I couldn't help smiling up at her as I whispered playfully, "You're hot enough to get a teenager to kiss you. On her goddamn bed. Has to count for something."

That did at least earn a giddy laugh from her as she facepalmed. "Sure. It means I'm a real vixen for a predator, right?"

"Hey, don't call yourself that," I scolded her, eyes darkening a little. I saw her blink in surprise at how insistent I was. "Not ever again. I'm the one who's been chasing you, not the other way around; that makes you an herbivore, I think."

"Well… I… sure, yeah," she admitted with a weary nod. "You're right, let's go eat. That duck was really good and I feel terrible that we kind of flirted our way out of finishing it."

"You really like my cooking?" I asked as we stood up, arms still loosely around each other. Now I was a lot shorter than her again - only because she was still wearing the heels. Which was at my insistence, so I had no one to blame but myself.

"Makoto, it was amazing. Where did you get that recipe?! Not that I can cook anything besides curry and instant ramen, anyway… what a failure of an adult I am."

"I think you're perfect," I breathed as we left the room. That only made her groan.

                                                    To Be Continued…

[redinkofshame]

Ink Blot, coming soon

Some of you know by now, of course, but I wanted to let my followers know that 

Red Ink is expecting a baby ink blot in March!

The pregnancy has really been affecting my ability to get any writing done, but Blot and I are doing just fine.

To celebrate I wanted to write a papae!Solas fic :D I also wanted to get it done like 3-4 months ago, but... Well anyway, this is one of the first scenes that came to my mind when I moved to Solavellan Hell, before I started devouring fic and lore. 

This is a post-Inquisition, pre-Trespasser fix-it fic! But, like, a sad fix-it fic, so I’m going to spoil it at the same time I give you the content warnings: Everyone will be okay, but if you’ve had/been close to someone who’s had a miscarriage or stillbirth, or any other child death really, this is likely not for you. But everyone will be okay.

I’ll also be posted it on AO3... When I think of a title. Edit: Here you go!

Okay, papae!Solas, under the cut!

Fen’Harel shone in resplendent armor atop a long forgotten battlement in Tevinter’s late afternoon sun. His feet were planted wide as he surveyed a small troop of infiltrators preparing for their mission on the ground below. Once comprised of hungry refugees, his forces were now fully equipped and approaching semblance of organization, however inexperienced. Then again, they were mortals all, and none held the lifespan to gain mastery in his eyes.

They would do for his purposes. They would have to.

They would leave in shifts with the sun, covertly entering Par Vollen in groups of two or three, depending on the task he’d assigned them. He, of course, would not be joining them—the Dread Wolf had more important matters to attend.

His first lieutenant, Arel, approached him—elven, feminine, and spirited enough to occasionally cause him grief, they were nonetheless devoted entirely to his cause.

“Report.”

“All operations are on schedule, My Lord. No complications are expected, though we are well prepared for many contingencies.”

He clasped his hands neatly behind him. “And the Inquisition?” he asked, face carefully neutral. Despite his best efforts to act detached, many of his agents had inevitably learned caution when broaching the subject of Inquisitor Keria Lavellan, or the Inquisition at large. Distasteful, that he had failed to conceal such complications from his own people; unavoidable, perhaps, that his enemies might learn of his weakness. He could hardly fault his spies—he had chosen them for their skills of observation, after all.

“No changes. Their forces will not be a problem, My Lord.”

“Do not lose caution. They’ve been known to change targets upon only her whim.”

“Yes…” they drawled, sounding confused. “But given the circumstances we can discount that factor. It is excellent timing indeed that we do this now. If I may say so, I believe with her passing we will have ample time to move forward on many fronts.”

His mind felt foggy in its attempt to understand them. Had he missed a written report? The passing of what?

“What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

They sighed. “It has been four days, and still no changes. She is surrounded by the finest healers they could send for, but I’ve never known a woman to survive after enduring this long.”

Solas’ eyebrows knit and he snapped his attention to his lieutenant. Keria was…Ill? Dying? That could not be.

Eyes cast to the parties below, Arel did not notice his reaction and continued. “With the Inquisition in mourning and without leadership they will be unlikely to take any new measures for some time. Our spies suggest that the advisors are already prepared for this eventuality, however, so we still need to act quickly. It is expected that they will announce Lady Pentaghast as the new Inquisitor, but of course delays will be expected as the sword changes hands.”

He felt disoriented, as if lost in a new section of the Fade that refused to listen to reason—nothing they were telling him made sense. Panic rose like a storm. “What do you mean? Why-why was I not told about this!” he demanded.

They raised an eyebrow as if he were an impetuous child—they were the only member of his army brave enough to do so. “We always knew this was a possibility, Lord Fen’Harel. Any woman, no matter how powerful, can fall victim to the birthing bed.”

The birthing… His eyes were wide and unseeing as his mind whirled. Keria could not die—It was not yet her time! She had a few years left to find happiness; how could something so mundane take a spirit such as hers? Why had he not been told, when had this…?

His hands clenched behind him as he forced himself to think. Time had never been his ally. It would have been forty weeks, more or less, if she was in labor now. Just over nine months, assuming she had not come early. He was still with the Inquisition at that time, three months before the final battle—

He was still with her at that time, he realized. Travelling, on their way to Crestwood…

Lost in a haze made equal parts of bliss and denial. She had imbibed of the Well, and though for now the truths it whispered in her ear would propose more questions than answers, he knew that with her focus it was only a matter of time until she mastered enough to understand.

He’d been furious with himself for allowing it to happen, and further disappointed in himself still that he in some small part felt relieved—he knew this meant it was time to tell her his own truth, their own truth. She needed to know, to harness her high-priced knowledge, and he could finally come clean as if himself submerged.

He’d come to his senses before his cleansing could come to pass, fortunately. He had broken off what never should have been.

He pictured six months ago, twenty-four weeks, holding the shattered remnant of his foci in his hands and the dread of knowing what sacrifices came next weighing like stone in his chest. He remembered leaving his heart behind, unable to even bid the bare-faced Dalish girl farewell before disappearing from her life.

Not a week later, one of his new recruits—still wearing an Inquisitor’s scouting uniform—was nervously reporting to him.

“You’re familiar with the, ah, rumors going on around Skyhold about the condition the Inquisitor is in?”

“I am well aware of the state of both the Inquisitor and the Inquisition when I left. Your job is to update me on any changes,” he’d snapped.

“Right, well… You know how she was pretty severely injured at the battle with Corypheus?”

“I was there,” he repeated, irate. He needed no reminder of watching her small body flying through the air like lightning and striking broken stones crossing over from the Fade. It had been only a few days, a blink of the eye, since he held his shattered orb in his hands and walked away from his heart.

“She-she is expected to make a full recovery. It seems that, miraculously, the baby survived the injuries.”

Any relief he’d felt was washed away as fury flooded him. While true that some of her inner circle affectionately referred to her as a ‘baby’ due to her intolerance of pain, this miscellaneous recruit had no right to the demeaning nickname. “Watch your tongue,” he warned, seething through bared teeth.

“Wh-what? I, um, yes, Fen’Harel. My Lord. Nothing else to report.”

After that he no longer took scout reports directly.

That couldn’t be it, surely. They would have mentioned it again. What else had he missed? Then he remembered four months ago when his newly appointed second in command had glossed over something he hadn’t quite caught.

He’d been examining a relic recovered by his agents, trying to determine if it still held value, held power. It would prove useful, could he get it working anew, but he did not think that would be the case. Arel found him and gave him what could be described as a report only if one was generous; it much more closely resembled idle gossip regarding the going-ons of his men. He should have balked at their informality, but the company was tolerable and it never hurt to know more about those who served him.

“Jonan’s wife is pregnant. Their first. He’s not asking for time away yet, but he seems rather anxious about it. We should avoid asking him to do anything overtly dangerous for the time being--no point in forcing him into refusing to follow orders. We’ll have to be careful not to appear to be giving him special treatment, of course, or else all kinds of pregnant wives or sick relatives will come out of the woodwork.

“Speaking of, the Inquisitor is starting to show, too, it seems. Winter comes early to Skyhold though, so only her inner circle will have noticed so far. Not that there aren’t rumors in Orlais, but there always have been. Unsurprisingly, she is not allowing it to slow her down. I imagine it will be easy to continue to hide until spring.” He hadn’t understood what they meant by ‘show’--making a show of force, or manipulating trade under the noses of the Orlesians perhaps? For all that she hated it, Keria had a keen mind for politics. He did not get the chance to ask before they continued, though. “Which reminds me, I left supply reports on your desk. Nothing interesting; the winters are mild this far north, and we are well stocked.

He remembered two months ago. He had just finished communing with a guiding spirit in the Fade when Arel found him.

He had been agitated, and in a hurry. What he’d learned from the spirit was concerning: there was an untrustworthy agent in his midst. They would need to be swiftly taken care of. Arel did not get in his way, but he recognized the way they bowed as he passed—a way reserved for when they had something of some urgency to tell him… Or something regarding Keria.

“Be quick.”

“Yes, Fen’Harel. The Lady Inquisitor has finally confirmed her condition publicly. Nothing else to report.”

“Condition?”

“Physical condition, my lord.”

“Fine, thank you,” he had said, brushing them off. He did not have the time to wonder over the significance of confirming something they already knew, however curious it was to announce publicly that the Anchor was growing. Keria did not often admit to weakness.

He thought back to four days ago.

He’d been in his war room, large detailed maps of different countries on intricate stone tables. Arel strolled from the map of Tevinter to that of Orlais and Ferelden, covered as it was with pieces indicating the Inquisition’s movements.

“The Inquisitor was investigating rumor of a lingering rift in the Arbor Wilds and came upon a ruin near that of Mythal’s temple and the former Well of Sorrows. Reports say it appears to be untouched, though of course centuries of neglect have not been kind. It appears to be a temple dedicated to Elgar’nan.”

They paused, then, looking at Solas pointedly. They were waiting for him to confirm that he’d been aware of the temple’s existence. In truth, he had not—it had not existed in his time. Long ago Mythal’s temple had been much larger, so it was likely she’d only discovered an annex that was dedicated to her husband. He wondered if Keria would find the annex dedicated to him.

He said nothing. Posturing was necessary—it would not inspire his ranks to see him guessing, to suspect that he only partially knew how to accomplish his goals. Better to seem as if he already had all the answers, and only shared them with his followers when the time came. As an added benefit, it also discouraged unwanted questions.

Faced with silence, Arel continued. “Any excavation has been suspended due to the Inquisitor going into labor, however. A presence will remain to protect the area, but she wants to be there when it is opened for the first time. I don’t know what she’s hoping to find, but if you have any reason to suspect we should investigate ourselves first, now would be the time to do so.”

He didn’t understand what new labor they spoke of, or why Keria would wish to oversee it herself—physical labor was never her forte and the Inquisition had many labor forces across Thedas bringing in various resources—but it mattered little. “No. There is nothing to be found in the Wilds.”

Atop his wall in Tevinter, Fen’Harel stared unseeing as the pieces slowly fell into place.

He strode away without a word, long legs quickly crossing over the stones beneath his feet to a nearby hall. A flick of his wrist and an eluvian hummed to life, scarcely in time for him to walk through it. Once he was through he closed the portal behind him. Out of view of his soldiers his pace quickened further. Sprinting now, panic chased him through the labyrinth and broken steps of shattered memories. He thought only of Keria, his heart, her pulse slowing as she lay in her deathbed due to a condition he had inflicted upon her.

It should not have been—his seed should not have been able to take root in her. He’d taken measures against it; as had she, as unreliable as mortal means were.

He nearly considered that the blame might belong to another and not him, then, but no—despite the relief the idea brought, it was only an attempt to assuage his guilt. It made no matter, in any case. This could not be allowed to happen.

He knew he had concealed men watching the eluvian that led to Skyhold, but he was beyond caring about being seen running to her. He was panting hard, unwilling to waste even the small amount of mana needed to keep his body comfortable; he did not know just what he was walking in to.

He jumped in the portal, landing in the small misused room off Skyhold’s gardens. He burst out the door, hardly noticing the startled guards standing to either side of it. They called out confused alarms but he did not slow, darting to the main hall.

Other guards, standing before the door that led to the Inquisitor’s suite, saw him coming. They heard the shouts, saw the expression he wore. They snapped to attention and one made as if to block the door, but the other grabbed their shoulder and muttered something. They each looked at a loss at what to do.

The Inquisitor had once given an open-ended order to allow her apostate consort into her bedchamber at any time, day or night; by the guards’ confusion, she had never officially rescinded the order, but they expected he was no longer welcome.

He did not care what they decided—he did not need their permission to pass.

With a gauntlet he harmlessly knocked aside a spear as it crossed over the door, not allowing it to slow this progress. Past the door he took the stairs two or three at a time and flung upon the door to her room—once his, once theirs—and made quick work of those stairs as well. He took in the somber environment as his head rose above the banister.

Despite the balcony doors open wide to the bitter mountain air the room was warm, humid, the air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Keria laid abed, twisted in damp sheets, and it was small wonder why she suffered so; too petite by half even in her condition. Especially in her condition. Her storm-black hair, normally full of static and wind, clung damp to her forehead. It had grown longer since he’d last seen her.

Surrounding her were several women; midwives and healers. The room was too quiet for a birthing. There were neither screams nor soothing assurances, no instructions to push or breath measured breaths. Hardly a sound at all. There was only a dying legend, surrounded by those attempting to keep her alive for as long as possible. Across from him, sitting limply in a stiff chair was a weary Dorian.

Why would a necromancer…?

His heart seized as he remembered overhearing a report given to Leliana in the rookery from his position at his desk, soon after the incident in Crestwood and her replacing him with Dorian in her missions. She had fallen in battle without him there to shield her, and Dorian had to take hold of her very spirit and force it to return to her lifeless body.

And here he was, looking utterly spent, empty lyrium bottles crowding a small table beside him.

All this he took in within a single heartbeat before rushing to Keria’s side, paying no heed to Dorian climbing to his feet accusatorily, or to the boots stomping up the stairs behind him. He reached a hand to Keria’s abdomen, a quick seeping of magic allowing him to analyze her condition.

A confirmation of his fears. Drastic blood loss and muscles too weak to move, her body was giving up the fight. Her breast hardly rose or fell with her breath as she drifted in and out of the Fade.

“What are you doing to her?” demanded a Tevinter accent, but he scarcely heard it. Through the hand resting on his vhenan he sent a flood of healing magic, spreading through her exhausted muscles to revive them, washing into her marrow until fresh blood ran through her veins.

The Anchor flared green and she gasped as if she’d been drowning, electric eyes flying open in surprise.

And then she screamed in pain.

The midwives rushed forward, finding their voices as they propped up her legs and folding up the blanket once more.

“Can you push?”

“Is that the father?”

“She’s still losing blood.”

“He shouldn’t be in here.”

“Just one more big one, Lady Inquisitor, just one more push…”

“Are you going to kick him out?”

He turned his attention to dulling her pain, removing his gauntlets to take her unmarked hand. Dorian gripped his staff, but glanced uncertainly between him and Keria. That is, until the feet crested the stairs, steel clearing scabbards.

“Seize h—Solas?” The Lady Seeker’s voice was incredulous over the sound of screams.

For her he spared a glance over his shoulder, saw her men on alert and waiting dutifully for her command.

“He helped her, Cassandra,” Dorian explained helplessly.

“You did it!” joyfully cried the woman standing at the foot of Keria’s bed, turning the heads of Cassandra and both mages. “You’re done, you did it, Lady Inquisitor.”

He turned his attention to his heart, her hand still in his. Tears fell from her eyes like rain, her face twisted, and he knew it was not from the pain.

“Why are they quiet? Are they still? I failed, didn’t I?” she asked, choking on her sobs. “I’m sorry, I tried, I’m so sorry ma da’len, I…”

Aside from her plaintive apologies a hush fell over the room, a loss of words for her loss. And then, a new cry shattered it.

Solas’ attention snapped to the squirming bundle in the midwife’s hand, small and red and shrieking as a second pair of hands attempted to clean it with a rag. Joyfully, tears in her eyes, the woman said, “You see? You hear your son’s cries, Lady Inquisitor? You did it. You did wonderfully.”

The air left his chest.

Somehow…

Somehow in his rush to save Keria he had all but forgotten that children were often a consequence of labor.

He stared, unmoving, unbreathing, only his eyes following as the neonate was walked to Keria’s side and passed to her arms. She was laughing, she was crying, and she was holding…

“A son?” Solas whispered, unbelieving.  

“Yes…” slowly answered a healer, eyeing him hesitantly.

“He’s so beautiful,” Keria murmured.

“Is that the father?” whispered another healer again.

“Yes,” Keria answered this time, speaking clearly. “He is.”

“And he shouldn’t be in here,” Dorian said, irritated.

Solas supposed he had right to be.

“If he helped her…” Cassandra replied, uncertain.

“He’s staying,” Keria commanded, voice regal despite her rough throat. “If he wishes. He may come and go as he pleases.”

That stopped Cassandra and Dorian both, though they looked unconvinced. The healers continued their routine checks, and explained to her that the newborn was undersized, but healthy.

An unsure moment passed, mother gleefully quieting child, before she begged the nurses to take him back. “I’m sorry, I’m too tired, I’ll drop him. Take him. No, wait—his father. He should see his father.”

Cassandra made as if to move forward. “Inquisitor…”

“Just for a moment. I just need to shut my eyes.”

Her eyes were indeed blinking slow and sleepily as the nurses tried to take the infant, but she passed him to Solas instead. Not knowing what else to do, he took his son before she could drift off into a natural slumber. He was glad he’d divested of his gauntlets, afraid to hold the infant against the cold of his dragon bone armor or the hair of the pelt slung over his shoulder. Knees weak he sat for stability at an angle upon the bed in which his heart slept.

He could not take his eyes off the miracle before him; not when the healers filed out and the midwife warned that she’d be back soon to rouse Keria into feeding the baby, not when Cassandra relieved Dorian of his post and dismissed the soldiers, nor as she stood guard before the only exit and scowled at Solas with her hand on her hilt and a few inches of the silverite blade exposed.

Instead he saw only plush pink skin, small gripping fists, and impossibly small, delicately pointed ears.

He choked on a sob.

He thought of his transgressions, his role, his guilt. He thought of those he’d trapped when he spun the Veil, their spirits caught in a limbo that he’d planned to free when the veil was no more. He thought of the knowledge, the history, the connection with magic and spirits that was now lost on his people, never to be regained. He thought of the millennia of years the elves had spent enslaved despite his efforts to stop exactly that, and tried to imagine the pain each and every one of them had gone through.

His tears fell upon the small blanket swaddling his son. He noticed for the first time that it must have been embroidered by his mother’s hand. Cassandra released her grip upon her hilt and moved out to the balcony and watched the sun setting.

He wept for his people because, looking at his son, he knew he would no longer save them.

He alone could walk the din’anshiral. He alone could undo what he’d wrought and restore them to what they were meant to be. But he would not.

For this was not the first time he’d held his child.

He’d been a father before. He’d lived a long life, and had been graced with many loves and with several children. He’d loved each of his children with his whole heart, had been so proud of who they became… And he was, ultimately, responsible for each of their deaths.

Some had died in the war he’d started, his rebellion. Two slain fighting right beside him, others casualties of politics in effort to stay his hands. He rose the Veil in an effort to save them all, to protect the family that remained to him, to save his people from themselves…

He did not know how long it took him, trapped and wandering in the Fade, to learn of their fates. For countless years he hunted and traded secret memories, searching for answers. One by one, he learned of what happened to each of his beautiful children. There was not one demise met that could not be laid at his feet, either directly or as a consequence of the chaos he’d caused.

It was too late to save any of them, but it was not too late for this one small son that should not have been. He entertained only briefly the thought of waiting before giving up his journey; perhaps the boy was mortal, perhaps his mission could wait until after their lifetime. But no--there could be grandchildren, could be generations more. He could not treat his son’s life, Keria’s life, as if it were merely an inconvenient delay. He must commit to a single decision, and he knew in his heart he was more powerless now than the wriggling infant exhausted from the burden of being born.

And so he wept; for all these centuries his efforts and his name had been twisted into something vile, now he would become Betrayer in truth.

He felt a warm, weak grip on his wrist. “It’s okay. It’s okay, it’ll be okay.” Astonished, he turned and looked at Keria, her large eyes as wet as his own. That she could still treat him with kindness after he’d abandoned her… Would she still, once she knew the truth? Voice a hoarse whisper, she asked him, “Are you back?”

He shifted so that he could cover her hand with his without disturbing his son. “Yes. For good, this time.”

[helplesslyfictional]

Loki Fanfiction - Remember the Old Ways, Chapter 10 - “Light”

Author’s Note: Whew, this chapter was long (9477 words, friends)! It was so nice to write some more light-hearted stuff in this chapter. It didn’t feel like it was that long when I was writing it - right now everything’s clicking into place for the plot, and I’m so excited to write what’s coming up next!

Chapter Summary: Thor grapples with new revelations. Loki plans a trip to Vanaheim before deciding on a new task with his siblings. Pairings: None! These stories are focused on family relationships.

What characters, then?   Loki, Thor, Odin, Frigga, OCs [Sophia] [Forsetti], Heimdall

When? Pre-Thor 2011: From Asgard to Earth, will go through Thor 2011 Chapter Warnings: Mature themes, emotional trauma, anxiety

Taglist: @loki-the-fox; @i-am-loki-and-now-i-speak-up; @trickster-grrrl; @deviantredhead; @mylokabrennauniverse; @leanmeanand-green; @juliabohemian; @latent-thoughts; @lucianalight; @nox-th-lk-sf; @be-a-snake-stab-your-brother; @myart-reviews Please let me know if you would like to be added/removed from tags and I’m more than happy to do so!

AO3 story link; Wattpad; Promo/Master Post (please share if you like the fic!)

tumblr: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9

Thor closed his eyes, relaxing as the wind, ever familiar, ruffled his hair. He was in the last remaining private spot he’d found without Loki discovering it. Here he knew he could be alone. The drop from his perch was the tallest in Asgard with the exception of the zenith of the palace; this little ledge was sheltered by great golden wings rising on both sides. The warm sun of the sky-shroud banished the chill of winter, comforting Thor like a warm blanket.

In some ways he felt like a child now, in need of the familiar and the safe, like this spot. But, for him, things in the palace no longer felt stable. Though he’d understood Loki’s suspicions all along, Thor had dismissed them at some level as speculation. Loki was prone to flights of fantasy and conjecture, preferring to focus on ideas rather than reality.

With Heimdall’s confirmation, however, all the theories had become set in stone. His parents had been concealing the truth, potentially hiding more than what had been found by Loki. And why?

Why would they have done this to him? Hide not just a sister, but his own twin? What possible reason could be good enough? Loki’s vision suggested the invasion was linked to her disappearance, but it seemed to him it was no excuse. Asgard would fight to the end for him, why wouldn’t they for his sister in kind?

And his parents had not just hidden her, they had denigrated her by making her mortal. Stripped of identity, of status, of strength, and anything connecting her to Asgard. No wonder she was so frightened all the time, her fear pulsing its way through his heart. Anything that would give her the ability to defend herself was gone. In many ways, he was everything she wasn’t.

He ought to go to Midgard immediately and bring her here, back home. He might be able to persuade Heimdall to let him use the Bifrost, he’d seemed amenable thus far. His father had instituted a ban on going there, but why should it matter if he had done this to his family?

Wait - was the ban in place to keep them apart?

By the Norns! Thor leaned back against the wall behind him, clenching his fists. Everything. Everything tied to this. His life had been all illusion but no substance. Now that she was around him, he felt whole for the first time in his life, something he had been missing all this time. It was intoxicatingly wonderful, and to think, he could have had it all along. He could have felt complete this whole time.

A passing cloud blotted out the sun, the cold chill of winter creeping in once more through Thor’s armor. Though Loki had always been there, they’d never had a true connection, not like this. The emotions, the memories, the dreams - though the amount of sway she had was powerful against him, he felt, deep down, that being close to her was true and right. What had she said? Right, like the thrum of a bow? As though this was meant to be. That, as Loki had mentioned, the universe willed it.

If that was the case, then the designs of his parents mattered little in the scheme of things. Forces seemed to be drawing them together into one another’s orbits despite all obstacles.

Nonetheless, the idea that he could no longer trust his father disturbed Thor on a fundamental level. He’d always worked hard to be the best son and heir to his parents. To be an exceptional example. In many ways, he was doing well on that front; Father trusted him enough to be crowning him King. But this betrayal of trust made Thor doubt their faith in him. Was he bearing the burden of two children instead of one? Trying to fill a role far too large?

Would they have told him about Sophia after he had been made King, or would he have been kept in the dark had Loki not made this discovery?

Slowly it dawned on Thor that bringing Sophia back to Asgard would compromise the Crown. He needed to be seen as the trusted heir of a strong, long-standing King. Fitting into the image he’d worked hard to forge - that of a lauded prince. The people loved Odin. Bringing forward a threat to that idea would turn public opinion, and his father, against him. Was this woman worth that?

Thor began to feel slightly dizzy with the fear, anger, and sadness fighting within him. He wanted to punch something or cry like a child, but he felt paralyzed, unable to do anything but feel it churning within.

A warmth slowly spread through him, but it wasn’t from the sun. Opening his eyes, Thor saw Sophia sitting next to him. This wasn’t a good time, it just wasn’t.

“It is unwise to be in my presence right now,” Thor said deeply, trying to will her away.

Sophia looked at him, brushing a hair out of her face and leaning against a golden wing. He felt her deep sadness and confusion, but tried to push it out. He was already feeling far too much on his own, he didn’t need to deal with her emotions as well.

“Sophia, you need to go,” Thor reiterated forcefully, “I can’t deal with you right now.”

“When are you going to deal with me?” Sophia asked, crossing her legs.

“Later.”

“Well, I don’t want to deal with this later. We’re both hurting, and there’s no sense in hurting alone.”

Thor turned his head to glare at her. “Hurting alone is just fine. It’s a better way to deal with things than talking.”

“Deal with it how, exactly? It doesn’t work the problem through. If you’re at all like me, you’re making everything palatable enough to shove down your feelings and try to make them go away.”

That was it. “I don’t do that,” he snarled, “Stop reading into me. You don’t know me!”

Sophia shrank back a little, and Thor felt her fear in reaction. He didn’t mean to scare her, simply to make her stop. “You’re right,” she said more softly. “I don’t. Sometimes I just feel like I do. I’m sorry.”

Thor felt his heart go out to her. Damn it, he thought, I’m going to feel bad if she leaves now. “Don’t take things the wrong way. It’s just...a lot to think about.”

Sophia leaned over her legs, stretching her back a little. “This is certainly a good place to think. If I was here physically, I’d be pretty scared, but it’s a great view.”

Thor gave a little smile. “Well, don’t tell Loki. This is the only spot he hasn’t discovered me in.”

“Don’t worry,” Sophia said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Thor looked at her carefully. He didn’t know why that made him feel just a little bit better. “Thank you.”

A brief moment passed before Sophia spoke again. “Trying to understand how this is possible is probably the hardest thing for me. I mean, I was so sure my mother was my mother, you know? And that I’m...human. It seemed like those were...unchangeable facts.”

Thor snorted. “Facts no longer exist,” he said in a derisive tone. “I thought I could trust my parents. That I was the elder of two sons. And yet those basic things - they’re no longer true.” Thor pulled up his legs and crossed them. “As to how it happened - I’m sure Loki will find the answer. Undoubtedly it’s magical. Mother is perhaps the most skilled sorceress Asgard has known.” That left a sour taste in his mouth. He should feel proud of that, but now it had been used against him.

Sophia leaned closer to him, looking concerned. “I felt that,” she said, her eyes searching his. “It’s okay to have mixed feelings about one’s parents. I certainly learned that the hard way.”

Thor frowned, struggling to hold back the tears that sprang forward. Damn, she shouldn’t have to see this. Hold yourself together. Kings don’t cry.“It shouldn’t be this way. I should be able to trust them, I have - all my life - I mean, they’re my parents. They’ve always been people I’ve looked up to. I just - “ He struggled to put things into words.

“I think,” she said slowly, “there’s always a point in life when children realize their parents were never perfect, that they weren’t all-powerful gods. I’m not saying you haven’t realized that before, but there’s a point when it really rings true. And you realize that your parents are full people with flaws and problems of their own.”

Thor shook his head. “I know that, I did know that, but - they were always better than their faults. They’re...the king and queen.” He gave a disbelieving smile. “The ones we’re supposed to emulate, to aspire to be. An example to the people, for the children to want to be and the generals to point to as leaders.”

“It sounds like you’re mixing their position with their roles as your parents. A family is still a family, no matter what positions they hold in society.”

Thor shook his head. “They can’t be...divorced from that role, though. My father is both my king - and my father. I have to hold a duty to him in both roles - as a son and his heir. When I was growing up, it was a fact ever-present in my life.” He looked down at his hands. “When we would misbehave, Father used to threaten to put Loki and I in prison. As though we were committing treason.” Glancing up, he scrutinized her. “I suppose it’s a mercy you never had to experience that.”

Sophia screwed up her face. “I don’t know, growing up with my parents wasn’t a walk in the park either.”

“Oh please, tell me how your life was worse,” Thor said teasingly, but realization dawned on him that his sister had grown up with the family that, likely, his parents had chosen. Whatever it was she’d experienced, it was their fault as well.

“My parents - well, I used to think they were great parents, even for years. It wasn’t until some...terrible things happened and I began talking about it that I realized something was wrong.”

“Was that the memory I saw?” Thor asked. “I do hope you don’t remember it, your feelings were...awful.”

“Sometimes that’s hard,” Sophia said, shifting uncomfortably. “There’s more than just that memory. But that’s not the point. The point is that I slowly began to realize that there were problems with my upbringing - problems that affected me throughout my life.

“I grew up schooled at home, unlike most people in my country. That meant that my parents had complete control over me - from how I spent my time to what I could read. It also meant I spent all of my time in the presence of my family - mother, father, and a younger brother.”

Thor’s eyes widened. She had a sibling with this other family? He quickly tried to imagine what it would be like to find out Loki wasn’t his brother. It was incomprehensible. Nonetheless, her experience sounded no different than his and Loki’s - they too spent their time together.

She continued. “Any small thing could make an impact in the family - the smallest thing would make my parents angry. It felt like anything I did would make them upset at me. So I worked to please them, to make everyone love me. It worked for a while, but…” Her voice drifted off, as did her eyes. Then she blinked and focused. “When it stopped working, I didn’t know a different way to try and get my parents to love me.” She pursed her lips. “It took me a long time to realize that I shouldn’t be the one making them love me, they should do it on their own.” Locking eyes with him, she gave a weak smile. “And they haven’t. So I just have to accept that they don’t, or pine after something I’ll never receive.”

“But do you still love them? That’s the question.”

“Of course I do. I love them because they are...were...my family. But you can hate and love them at the same time, it’s just not easy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Thor said, reaching out and rubbing her back. “Don’t worry, once you come here, you will be loved. My parents are…” His voice trailed off as his mind caught up to his instinctive desire to comfort her. His parents couldn’t have loved her if they did this to her. But they’d loved him, hadn’t they? “I suppose - Loki and I, we will love you.” He gave her a half-hearted smile.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Sophia said softly. “But even though I want to be loved, it’s not - it’s not something I worry about. I worry more about being alone.”

Thor thought for a moment, squinting as he scanned the skyline. “I suppose I don’t worry about love myself. But being alone? Yes.” He paused. “Aside from what I’ve already mentioned about loneliness throughout my life, my position isolates me from others. It always has. Everyone always wants something, to influence me, or to catch me doing something wrong. That, or they expect me to punish or reward them. It’s exhausting to try and catch it before it affects me. And it’s never truly conducive to friendship.”

She frowned. “What about your friends, Lady Sif and the others?”

“Even with them there is a boundary that cannot be crossed.”

“Is it not within your ability to change that?”

Thor sighed. “I tried, honestly. But between the necessity of giving orders and my duties, the line still remains.”

Sophia smiled, saying jokingly, “Have you tried just getting out and meeting new people?”

“I can’t just do that.” Thor didn’t want to join in the jest. “I’m recognizable everywhere I go. Loki has the ability to disguise himself and blend into a crowd, but I’ve always been noticed. I’ve always been jealous of him for that - the freedom to go where he wills. To disappear.”

“I understand,” Sophia said, cocking her head as she scrutinized his face, “When I was a diplomat abroad, I was in a country where it was easy to tell where I came from. Even when I was walking around the neighborhood, people would, on sight, try to get something from me. It was hard because I was representing my country, so I had to be polite, even when I just wanted them to leave me alone. In other respects, I always wanted to help them and...couldn’t.”

Impressive, she did understand. He thought he’d been alone in that feeling. “I do as well. I do want to help everyone. To take away their cares, or to be the person they want me to be. I love seeing the joy in their eyes; I love when they love me. But sometimes I think it makes it hard to be...just myself.”

Sophia stared at him for a few moments, then nodded. “That’s how I felt, especially when I was with my parents. Like I didn’t exist - I always felt like a mirror.”

“Yes!” Thor’s head snapped. Her analogy was perfect. “Yes, that’s exactly it. Like a mirror. Always what other people want to see, never yourself.”

Sophia suddenly reached over, trying, and failing, to reach around him for a hug. Thor softened, touched by the gesture. “I was worried we didn’t have much in common,” she said quietly. “That the universe was throwing us together and we were just two random people.”

“We’re not two random people,” Thor said, bringing her closer. “We’re not just blood, either, we’re two halves of a whole. We were meant to find one another - I know it in my bones. I just grieve that we were separated at all.”

Thor couldn’t see Sophia’s face, but he felt her anxiety. “I know that I want this,” Sophia said. “But I worry I should feel more than that, that I should be sad for a life I never had. Instead I just look to it as a developing future of possibilities. Is that - is that wrong?”

Thor frowned. It was a little odd she thought that way. “How old are you, Sophia? It seems like you are...young.”

“That’s what’s so strange to me. I’m thirty years old.” Thor’s blood froze. Thirty years. How was such a thing possible? “Why, how old are you?” she asked. “For us to have myths it must be...a bit.”

Thor mumbled out “1046” without thinking, his mind still on the age gap. Sophia sucked in her breath. “Jesus. I suppose that makes sense, but...wow.”

“But we were born at the same time,” Thor said, turning things over in his mind, his breath coming more quickly. He felt the sky answer his emotion, the clouds beginning to churn. He didn’t try to stop it.

Sophia looked up at him with a smile. “That is what being a twin means,” she said teasingly.

Thor extracted himself from the embrace, standing up, anger flaring within him. “One thousand years,” he forced out. “A millenia without you! A thousand years together, stolen!” A storm began to coalesce, the thunder cracking as much as his heart.

“Do you not see, Sophia? You will outlive me. A thousand years was stolen from me, and a thousand from you, all told. Though worse for you, I think, because if I do die of old age, then you’ll have known me and have me no longer.” He laughed wryly as the wind began to whip past them. “To think, they - “ the tears threatened to come forward again. “They committed the worst crime.”

Sophia slowly stood, back against the golden wing flanking their ledge. She was scared, though of what he was unsure. “They must’ve had a reason,” she raised her voice over the wind, “It’s not the worst thing. They didn’t do it just to hurt us!”

“What?” Thor said, shaking his head and walking toward her. “How can you defend this? Your own parents hurt you, would you defend them as well?”

“Yes, because they did the best they could! That’s all we can ask for.”

He wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt. That there was some sort of grandiose plan. But he couldn’t see it.

Sophia flinched at a flash of lightning, but she stood tall. It was so strange to feel her emotions on top of his, to feel instead of guess that she was both concerned and filled with sadness.  “Thor,” she said, “Thor, we can’t focus on the past. It’s gone, it can’t be changed.”

Thor continued to fight back tears. As she wrapped her arms around him once more, they came forth, and Thor couldn’t help but sob like a child, all the emotions flooding out. The sky answered, rain pouring down and helping mask his tears.

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

After Sophia insisted on finding Thor, Loki decided to chase down information lurking on Vanaheim. His - sister, now, he should call her - ignored his warnings about Thor’s temper to go comfort him. Likely a futile endeavor; any moment he expected her back in tears.

Vanaheim promised to hold further information. Speaking with another practicing Seer might help to shed light on seidr, a topic Loki still desperately wished to know more about. It seemed odd to him that such a magic would have been hidden.

Heimdall’s possession of the Sight was also interesting to Loki, particularly since it was associated with women. He wondered, briefly, if Heimdall kept to himself because of the outcast nature of men who had the Sight. He’d never heard any whispers to indicate that, but, by keeping to himself, Heimdall might have quelled such rumors.

Forsetti’s interest in the Vidfavne situation made Loki think he’d be a good resource, one that could also be cultivated in his favor, per Sophia’s suggestion. If Forsetti was correct and there was a problem with basic resources in the region, then it needed to be dealt with accordingly. If that coincided with a visit to the Seers, then all ends could be tied up neatly and he might come out looking competent in his father’s eyes. All in all, not a bad result.

Tendrils of feelings kept creeping into Loki’s mind, both his and Sophia’s. The confirmations by Heimdall were both exhilarating and devastating. He’d suspected all along there were things being hidden by his parents, but to hear them so clearly confirmed was still difficult. Harder for Thor, to be certain, but it didn’t change the fact he could clearly no longer take for granted what he’d been told his entire life. Patterns were beginning to emerge as to why his parents hid such things, but he hadn’t quite put together the pieces.

Visiting Forsetti’s office took little to no time at all; the noble was more than amenable to the idea of accompanying Loki to Vanaheim. Though it had been some time since Forsetti had served on Vanaheim, he knew the right contacts to pull strings and facilitate the trip. They’d depart on the morrow - there was no sense wasting time.

By the time Loki got back outside, it was raining. Thunder boomed overhead, and Loki looked up, squinting as raindrops started to get in his eyes. Yes, this was definitely his brother’s doing. Quickly, he self-examined his emotions to find Sophia’s current state. She was sad, but not overwhelmingly so, and concerned. Hardly the level of upset he’d expect if his brother’s temper flared.

Loki pursed his lips as he walked, wondering what they were talking about. It was strange to know she was here on Asgard without being in his presence. How were they going to bring her to Asgard? With the depth of secrecy given to Sophia’s existence, his parents would certainly be unhappy if she were to return.

Yet, she belonged here on Asgard, that much was for certain. And the prophecy seemed to indicate that their duties as Children of Time necessitated their reunion. If that were to happen, whatever binding was placed on her needed to be removed.

Loki considered this as he re-entered the palace, ignoring the servants wiping the rain off their gilded floors. He could probably remove the binding, depending on the complexity. He wondered why had Sophia been bound in the first place, particularly as a child. It seemed like hiding her existence was too simple a reason, especially given his vision. In his vision, It seemed as though it was critically important for Frigga to finish the binding.

Perhaps Forsetti might have some answers. The cover-up around the Elven invasion was comprehensive, so Loki had no doubt that speaking about what happened would be a treasonous crime. He hadn’t asked about this during his visit for that precise reason. Forsetti needed some grooming before he could be asked to do something so grave.

As Loki entered his room, he halted as he saw someone waiting, then realized it was Sophia. Her eyes were red and her body language was meek, which was unusual for her. Glancing around the room, he didn’t see Thor. “Is everything alright, Sophia?”

She nodded. “Just a little emotional, that’s all. Thor’s on his way. He said something about the binding spell?”

Ah. Thor was probably thinking along the same lines as he was. “I was hoping to have a better look at it myself. I’m guessing things went alright with my - our - brother.” He headed to the largest section of his room, where he practiced spellwork, indicating for Sophia to follow.

She frowned. “Yes. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to the idea that we’re family,” she said, coming up alongside him. “Thor’s quite upset, but he’s calmed down. I think the initial surprise has worn off, and he’s...processing.”

“Not unlike when I found out about my demise, I’m sure,” Loki said wryly, then regretted it. He didn’t mean to make this about him.

Sophia shot him an annoyed glance. “It’s a little different, I think. Not to diminish how significant that was, but this changes his worldview.”

Loki gave a tight smile. “Mm. He hasn’t had something like that.” Leave it to Thor to take the center stage. “Can you stand here?”

Sophia stood in the center of the square space, looking at him expectantly. Loki carefully cast a familiar spell, generating a blue dodecahedron of light and moving it to shine on Sophia.

He didn’t quite know why he was jealous of Thor over this. Perhaps it was that, instead of being their sibling, Sophia was Thor’s twin. It somehow tied her more closely with Thor and, most likely, was the source of their natural mental connection. It was something he didn’t have, now. Even though he had a connection with Sophia, it still stung that it needed to be purposeful rather than natural.

“Nothing up front. I’m going to move it around to your back,” Loki said, not wanting Sophia to be surprised. With that, he slowly brought the orb around, examining her side while moving.

He shouldn’t be thinking this way. They were family now, becoming more whole. Why drag this down with such hurtful feelings? He shook his head - then, as the orb lit Sophia’s back, he saw something.

There was the rune Elhaz, sitting on the back of Sophia’s neck, glimmering silver under the spell’s light. The spell, fortunately, shone through clothing and skin, otherwise he might have missed it under her hair. Loki drew closer to get a better look.

Thor entered without knocking, closing the door behind him. His eyes widened when he noticed them. “Oh! Good, you went ahead and started.”

“Thank you for using the door, at least,” Loki said wryly. “Yes, I’ve found it, I think. It’s a bind-rune. Not unlike a rune of protection, but this is…” He squinted at it. “Complicated.”

“If Mother was involved, I’ve no doubt it is,” Thor said, dragging a chair into the space and plopping down. “Can you undo it?”

“Probably.” Loki dissipated the light, taking Sophia’s shoulders and moving her into the perfect center of the space, delineated by dark blue tiles. “It’s on the back of your neck, Sophia, so I’m going to access it now. You can move, but please do so slowly, and let me know before doing it. I’m going to be working with its energy back here, so I need to be able to anticipate any changes.”

“I understood about half of that,” Sophia said, “but I’ll do what I can.”

Loki brushed aside Sophia’s hair. Now that he knew to look for it, he could feel the magical field of the rune. With a tiny pulse of energy from his fingers, the rune shimmered forth on her skin, shining brightly. He stood back, casting a magical circle of green light, then tried a few methods of accessing the rune before trying a more complicated one. It worked but, as he’d expected, this wasn’t going to be easy.

As soon as he was able to access it, energy blossomed forth from the rune, spiralling forward before branching out into a network of tightly woven enchantments. Loki’s eyes widened as he stepped back in awe. Thor rose from his seat, slowly moving around the circle. “It’s...beautiful,” Loki said under his breath.

“By the Norns…” Thor said, his jaw dropping. “I haven’t seen anything like that before.”

“This isn’t just a spell,” Loki said, laughing in disbelief. “This - this is art . Frigga, you...you are...magnificent. I haven’t seen this many spells in a binding - ever. I mean, theoretically you could put this many in, but - “ his voice trailed off as he worked to comprehend what he was seeing.

“I’m trying not to freak out over here,” said Sophia. “I’m assuming you’re not talking about my beautiful back end.”

“No,” Thor said, smiling, “but that in no way denigrates your back end.”

“Thank you,” Sophia said with a smile and a sniff.

Loki gently manipulated the energies to visualize the web in a more accessible interface. “There are a wide variety of enchantments here.” He scrolled through some, carefully reading the runic script. “Some are holding you to human developmental markers...ah, here’s some to hold your genetic code...oh.” He stopped on one, making sure he read it correctly. “Well, that confirms you’re Asgardian. This one severs your connection to Asgard’s energies.”

Thor moved closer, reading over Loki’s shoulder. “Unbelievable,” he said. “That would’ve confirmed she was our sister, right there. We should’ve done this before going to Heimdall.”

“What does that mean?” Sophia asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Thor glanced up, then moved over to her line of sight. “Since the days of the first king of Asgard - King Buri - the fate of Asgard has been tied to the monarchy. As his descendents, and as heirs to the throne, we are given great gifts to protect our people.”

Sophia narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” both Loki and Thor said in unison.

Thor grinned at Loki. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it, brother.” Loki shook his head and smiled, continuing his work.

“What makes you both say that?”

Thor reached out, then stopped, realizing he shouldn’t cross the magical circle. “First, you don’t need to apologize for something as simple as not understanding. And secondly, you’re - you’re royalty. As Father says, apologies show weakness.”

“Not all apologies, mind you,” Loki said, giving him an annoyed glance, “just the unnecessary ones.”

“Ah,” Sophia said quietly, “that makes better sense.”

“To better explain the energy, erm…” Thor leaned back against the wall, thinking. “Well, I’m the god of thunder. You haven’t seen me use it, but I can call lightning, among other things - many other things. That storm earlier? That was me. I’m not using magic for something like that; I’m not casting spells. An average Asgardian doesn’t have such abilities, either.” He gestured around him. “All of it comes from Asgard.”

Sophia clasped her hands, showing annoyance at her constrained movement. “Your abilities are what makes you both gods, then?”

“Yes,” Loki answered, still focused on his work. “Asgard has given me strong magical abilities and a keen mind.”

Thor nodded. “We draw our power from Asgard, and in turn, we protect it. By severing that connection, this enchantment kept you from developing any ability in that regard.”

Sophia flashed him a confused smile. “That means…”

“What it means will depend on if I can get this off you,” Loki said, slightly annoyed. The number of enchantments here meant he was going to need to be slow and methodical about removing it. It was going to take more time than he’d thought. “Thor, there’s a number of enchantments here that are meant to deter various methods of detection. Primarily magical, but a few inhibitors as well.”

Thor crossed his arms. “That would cancel out tracking devices on her?”

“Yes. It’s a...diverse array of protections, far more in-depth than I would have done in Mother’s position.” Loki tapped a finger against his leg. “There’s almost as much devoted to that as there is to Sophia’s physical form.”

“Oh!” Sophia exclaimed. “That would explain why my stupid GPS never works on my phone.”

Thor laughed. “I have no idea what that means, but probably.” He turned to Loki. “It makes sense that if they were trying to hide Sophia away, they’d want to make sure she wasn’t found,” Thor said, his mouth quirking. Clearly he didn’t like what he was saying.

Loki nodded, finishing up his analysis. With a few gestures, he dispelled the display, its energies shrinking back to Sophia’s neck. The magical circle faded, as it was no longer needed. “There,” he said, “You can move for a bit, Sophia.”

She relaxed with a sigh, moving over to the sitting area and flopping into a chair. “Ugh. Why is it when you’re told you can’t do something, that’s when you want to do it?”

Thor smiled as he moved to sit. “I feel like that all the time. Particularly in ceremonies, I want to start doing anything but stand still.”

Loki walked into the sitting area slowly, taking his time to sit as he contemplated what to say. “Well, I can dispel the enchantment,” he said. “I’ll have to be slow and careful, but I can do it.”

Sophia frowned. “What happens if you make a mistake?”

Thor gave a nervous laugh, and Loki shifted uncomfortably. “If the enchantment is cut too quickly, it can cascade,” he said, knitting his fingers together. “The energy that would be released would be...significant. Akin to an explosion. It wouldn’t hurt us, since we’re Asgardian, but you…” He broke eye contact, his eyes drifting down to his fingers. “Well, it wouldn’t be an acceptable result.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, could I get killed? Why would that be built into something that’s meant to protect me?”

The two brothers looked at one another before Loki spoke. “The danger is inherent to the spell, so Mother clearly felt it was worth the risk. Anyone less skilled than I who attempted to remove the spell would risk destroying both themselves and you in the process. Most likely someone who’d be motivated to remove it probably wouldn’t be willing to do that.”

Thor rubbed his neck, glancing up at Loki. “It seems worth the risk.”

Loki glanced over at Sophia, who seemed a little shocked at Thor’s assumption. “Well, let’s look at the benefits,” he said, leaning back. “Sophia regains her Asgardian form and any hindrances inherent to the rune are removed. We can probably track her on Midgard as a result.”

Sophia held out her hands. “Wait, would I look different?”

Loki frowned. “Possibly, I’m unsure. You’re quite short for a daughter of Odin.” Thor snorted, smirking.

Sophia narrowed her eyes, giving Thor an aggravated look. “Something that changes so significantly would freak out my parents, probably. If they couldn’t recognize me, they’d see me as a stranger in their own house.”

“Is that a problem?” Thor asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d be homeless if they kick me out.”

Loki held out a hand. “It’s alright, Sophia, I can bind an illusion to you with your current appearance that will hold on Midgard.”

Sophia visibly relaxed. “That would take care of that problem. The only concern, then, is...failure.”

“I’d trust Loki if I were in the same situation. With my life,” Thor said with no hesitation.

Loki looked at his brother with renewed respect, touched. Thor didn’t usually speak about him that way. “I don’t like to boast about my skill, Sophia, but I’d put the likelihood of failure quite low. Even if something happens, I know of ways to stop it. I just wanted to make sure we considered the risks.”

Sophia looked back and forth between them, clearly considering the situation. A grin slowly crept across her face. “Let’s do it.”

“Yes!” Thor leapt to his feet. “I’ll get us some food!” With that, he vaulted over a sofa and breezed through the door.

Loki blinked, then laughed. “He wants you to eat before we start,” he said, “because it’s going to take a while.”

Thor came back, his arms laden with foodstuffs. Loki poured them some wine and they worked to devour it all. Loki noted Sophia didn’t eat much, probably because of the nervous edge he was sensing from her. It wasn’t long before they were back in the work space, with Thor arranging pillows on the floor for Sophia.

“It’d be best for you to lay down so that you don’t get stiff,” Loki said as he walked around the space, visualizing the layout he would use.

“Plus it’ll be more comfortable,” Thor said, patting a cushion. “There! All ready for you.”

Sophia lay down, giggling a little bit. She was a little flushed and tipsy from the wine, which, Loki reasoned, was just fine. Let her have a little fun after the stresses of today.

Loki motioned for Thor to move; he got up and got a goblet before taking a seat. Loki tensed his fingers as he began to cast a circle for disenchantment, lighting up the room with green energy. As quickly as he could, he accessed the rune and got to work.

Thor and Sophia chatted about a variety of subjects, but Loki didn’t listen at first, instead making sure he was focused on his work. However, it was nice to hear their conversation in the background. It made for a lovely change from his typically solitary evenings.

“You said you had a brother in your family. What’s he like?” Thor asked, leaning back and taking a sip of his wine.

Sophia sighed. “He’s handsome, polite, smart, hard-working, considerate. In a few ways, a lot like you. Any woman would be lucky to have him; his wife was the one who won the prize.”

“So, he’s married. I thought he was your younger brother, though.”

“Yes, well, he got married at 18, quite young. They love one another, though, so I can’t say it’s a bad thing.”

Thor coughed. “18? 18 years. Eighteen.”

Sophia laughed, putting her hand on her stomach. “I know it doesn’t seem like long to you, but that’s when we consider people coming of age.”

“Norns, it’s hard to understand mortals.”

“Hey, it’s the same in the other direction. You’re just as strange, I just don’t talk about it.”

“Does he live with you still?”

“No, no, he’s off living on his own. He’s got a career, good money, a wife, foster kids...pretty much everything my parents wanted for a child.”

“I thought you worked to be the perfect one,” Thor said.

“Yes, well. My parents were inclined to think he could do no wrong, so I had to work all the harder to please them.” Sophia’s voice turned a little bitter. “I can’t blame him, it’s not his fault, it just, uh - it’s hard.”

Loki glanced up from his work. He’d have to follow up on that, that was surprisingly close to how he felt.

Thor seemed to be a little confused, but didn’t say anything to that effect. “It seems like you don’t particularly care for your family.”

Sophia’s eyes widened. “Um…” She blinked. “I have mixed feelings, like I mentioned before. They’re the family I had, the one I grew up with. I’m bitter and angry, but - I still love them. I’m just...ready to leave, I suppose. They have their own lives now.”

Thor looked worried. “I hope you won’t feel that way about us.”

Sophia looked sideways at him, mixed emotions crossing her face. “I can’t make promises,” she said. “I give people the benefit of the doubt, against my better judgment. It’s a part of who I am. I don’t judge if I can help it.”

Loki paused his work. “Thor, in my experience, she is quite kind and loving, despite her feelings toward her family. She’s had her whole life with them to form her opinions, we’re relatively new to her in comparison.”

Thor set down his goblet, clasping his hands in front of him. “Just make sure not to apply those feelings to us.”

“I’ll try,” Sophia said with a small smile.

Loki’s work was laborious. Thor quickly ran out of ways to pass the time with Sophia, and as they eventually lapsed into silence, Thor, refusing to leave, fell asleep in his chair.

Sophia lay there quietly, lost in her own thoughts. The sky-shroud had disappeared to let in the light of the stars, and nothing but the crackle of the braziers and Loki’s footsteps made a sound. “Sophia,” Loki finally said, “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m too nervous to fall asleep.”

“Don’t worry, I’m nearly done. I just wanted to check since you’re so quiet.”

“Yep, just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Well, this is a lot. All of this. Like a wish or a story coming true. I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d admit myself to the hospital for having delusions. Because this doesn’t happen to a lot of people, you know?”

“I suppose.” Loki hesitated. “I always considered myself lucky to be born into my position. Some of us are just born into the right circumstances.”

“But this...this is a lot of circumstances.”

Loki smiled. “Yes, certainly. But we’re unravelling what all of this means. It’s not a wish coming true, if such a thing were to exist, but, rather, it’s the righting of a wrong. Something that shouldn’t have happened.”

“I suppose it’s just my perspective. Thor said I was young when I mentioned it; I think he thought I was being naive.”

“Well, naivety is, in itself, a matter of perspective. In comparison to us you’re young, but that doesn’t change how you view this, and that’s what matters to you.”

“How do you view all of this, then?” Sophia asked, turning her head to follow him.

“I have a lot of feelings, but in the end, I think the truth is the most important. Strange for a god of tricks, I know, but that’s what I think.”

“It’s not so strange,” Sophia said quietly. “At the core of every trick there’s a truth, a pointed truth. I think people often hate tricksters and comedians because they’re the truth-tellers of society - hated as much as they are loved - because they point out the hypocrisies as well as exposing the truths that we want to hide. Sometimes you go too far, and then...well, some societies don’t take kindly to the idea of truth.”

Loki stopped, then forced himself to continue. “That’s a very astute perspective,” he said softly. “I think deep down we know that, but we’re just not confronted with the idea. It’s easier to laugh or deride rather than think about the point behind the joke.”

“Do you feel like that’s the case with your tricks?”

“Yes, certainly. For example, when we were younger, Thor had a favorite shirt of his that he wore all the time. It was too tight - it cut into his arms - but he liked to wear it because he thought it made him look stronger. So I snuck into his room and ruined the shirt. Not really a trick, but still, I had a reason. Naturally, he thought it was because I was jealous, but that wasn’t the point. The point was his vanity.”

“Did it work?” Sophia asked.

“No,” Thor said, “It didn’t. I’m not the fastest learner, though.”

Sophia laughed loudly as Loki blushed. “That’ll teach me to assume you’re out,” Loki said. “How much did you hear?”

“Oh,” Thor said teasingly, “Enough.”

“Oh, fine then. Be that way,” Loki said, grinning. “Nearly done, Sophia. I’ll let you know when to expect...change.”

He felt the flickers of her anxiety. Thor must have as well, since he leaned forward out of his reclined position, putting his elbows on his knees. “You’ll be fine, Sophia,” he said comfortingly.

“You don’t know,” Sophia said tightly, “You haven’t seen anything like this before, right?”

“Well, no,” Thor said, “But Loki knows what he’s doing. So I know you’ll be fine.”

She hesitated. “Just keep telling me that,” she said. “I have a feeling I’m going to forget it in a few seconds.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.” Thor started repeating, with a grin.

“Oh my god, that’s not what I meant,” Sophia said, laughing, and chucked a pillow at him.

There, it was done. Prepped for removal. “All set, Sophia,” Loki said. “Expect it in a few moments.”

Sophia screwed her eyes closed and Loki twisted his fingers, activating the spell and extracting the rune. He congratulated himself on his success, watching as the silver magic traced over Sophia’s form, looping around her body until it was obscured by light. It subtly changed to golden light, warmth emanating like the sun, then died down.

Thor was the first to reach her, with Loki just behind. “She’s alright,” Thor said, eyes moving quickly to assess her. “Sophia?”

Her eyes were closed. She put her hand on her forehead and was simply breathing. “Different lungs,” she said. “Oh, this is weird. Oh god, I sound different, too. Different vocal cords.” She took a deep breath.

“Don’t panic,” Loki said, putting a hand on Thor’s back and leaning over to better see. “Just take your time and get used to it.”

She was certainly taller, significantly taller. Her hair was now a light blonde, a striking contrast to the brown she had sported. The structure of her face was different as well. She might not be happy about that, Loki thought.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, hoping that she wasn’t holding her head for that reason.

Thor glanced up at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion, then looked back to Sophia, who took her hand off her head. “No, no pain,” she said, finally opening her eyes. She pulled off her glasses, blinking. “Not going to miss those.”

Well, those eyes he knew. She had Thor’s eyes.

“Um, Sophia,” Loki said, recognizing an issue, “I’m going to shift your clothes to fit you.”

She nodded, and he reached down quickly, rearranging the matter of her clothes to better suit her. One of his favorite spells, perfect for the occasion.

Thor held out his hand to help her up, which she took and got up slowly, eyes widening as she reached full height and looked Thor straight in the eye. “Jesus fucking Christ!” she exclaimed, putting her hand over her mouth. “Fuck, am I that tall?”

Thor laughed, bringing her into a hug. “Of course you are! Loki was right, you were a little short.” Sophia looked at Loki over Thor’s shoulder, eyes still round as she was taking in everything. Loki gave her a grin, gleefully happy at his work.

She pulled back, putting her hands on Thor’s shoulders, looking down and assessing herself. Loki brought himself around Thor to better see her reactions. She looked over at him, dazed. “Well, that worked,” she said, “I have no idea of what to make of all this.” She laughed, shaking her head, then let go of Thor. “I think the hardest part is getting used to the altitude. How do I even walk like this?”

“One step at a time,” Loki said, stepping back and holding out his arms. Sophia carefully walked over, nearly tripping over a cushion. Thor snorted with laughter, and Sophia giggled as she met Loki and pulled him into a hug. “Your first steps as an Asgardian,” Loki said softly, and she squeezed him more tightly. Surprisingly tightly. Loki looked at Thor over Sophia’s shoulder, eyes widening as she kept squeezing. “She’s uh - she’s strong,” he said, trying to extricate himself before things got too uncomfortable.

She let go, shaking her head. “Wow, this is so unbelievable. But should we put up the illusion so that my parents don’t see...this?”

“You don’t even know your face!” Thor said. “Loki, could you…”

Loki blinked. “Of course, but it could be a lot. Sophia, would you like me to show you an illusion of yourself?”

She ran her fingers over her face, looking a little lost. “I suppose,” she said.

Loki looked her in the eye. Norns, it was strange to see her similarities to Thor. “I’d really like you to be sure.”

She stood up straighter, stroking the newly fitted clothes nervously. “I’m sure.”

A slight hand gesture was all that was needed to summon a simple, faintly shimmering version of Sophia. One hand over her stomach, she reached up to touch her own hair, then walked over, standing an arm’s length away. Her face slowly became more stern as she examined herself. Finally, she spoke. “I mean, it’s not like I have a say in how I really look. I don’t see myself there, but I guess - I guess it’s me.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Thor said cheerfully.

Loki felt a flicker of irritation that his brother wasn’t paying more attention. He knew it wasn’t just that easy. “Sophia, I’m a shapeshifter,” he said, hoping to lessen her discomfort, “and I’ve occupied a lot of forms over the years, some for long periods of time. I know from experience how strange it can feel to be in a body you’re not used to. You’ll find yourself in that reflection eventually, it just takes time.”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Thor asked teasingly.

Sophia turned, her arms wrapped around herself. “Just a different way, Thor. Thank you both. It’s still strange to consider you’re my brothers, but this is just another confirmation.” She gave a sad smile. “And I realized I didn’t say this before, but, I’m honored to be a part of your family.”

Loki looked at his brother, who was also smiling. “We’re honored to have you,” Thor said, “Now come over here and give me another hug.” Sophia grinned, then tripped and hit the floor, a pillow going flying. Laughter filled the room, Thor doubling over and gasping for breath before helping Sophia up.

After a brief hug, she shook her head. “That hurt way less than it should’ve.”

“Good old Asgardian genes,” Thor said, patting her on the back. “Don’t hurt yourself doing stupid stuff to see how much pain you can take.”

Loki snorted. “That sounds like something you’d do, Thor, not her.” Sophia smiled at him over Thor’s shoulder. “Sophia, shall I put that illusion on you?” Loki asked.

“Yes, please,” she said. “Do you need me to lie down again?”

“No, just hold out your hand,” Loki said. She did so, and he spun a quick binding rune over her wrist. No need to be fancy, it wasn’t going to be tested magically. Her form shimmered and changed as the illusion was applied, and with a quick flick of his fingers, the rune settled and faded into her skin. “There.”

She turned her wrist over, examining the illusion. “It’s strange, it’s like the outside doesn’t match the inside.”

“That’s entirely the point,” Loki said with a smile. “There’s different kinds of shapeshifting. This covers over a form, but doesn’t entirely have substance. A skin has substance, but still goes outside your form. When I shapeshift, it physically changes my form temporarily, but isn’t intended to last forever. A binding enchantment such as the one you had, however, that can be a permanent change, but in your case it was able to come off.”

“Ugh, she didn’t need a magic lesson,” Thor said, stretching.

Sophia shrugged. “It’s interesting. Magic is such a foreign concept, I like knowing more.”

Loki jumped with realization. “We should check your magical abilities! You might be able to do magic - oh, that would be fun.”

“God, it’s far too late at night for that,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Something seemed off. Looking up, Loki saw Thor standing perfectly still. “Thor?” His heart stopped when he saw Thor’s eyes.

They were the color of Heimdall’s eyes, a startling shade of orange.

Loki came closer, snapping his fingers in front of Thor’s face. He didn’t react. Loki put a hand on him and shook him briefly, but once more, he didn’t react.

Sophia and Loki exchanged glances. “Could he be seeing the future?” Sophia asked, her worry evident.

“I don’t know. When the Seer Osk answered our questions, her eyes were white. But that’s not the same as our visions,” Loki answered, walking around his brother.

Thor took a deep breath, blinking rapidly and shaking his head. Loki stepped back. “Was that a vision?”

“Yes,” Thor said, “I haven’t had one around other people before.” He rubbed his eyes, then looked around at the others. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Your eyes were like Heimdall’s,” Loki said. “Different than Osk’s. You weren’t responding to your surroundings.”

“Interesting,” Thor said, crossing his arms. “But my vision - Loki, are you going to Vanaheim?”

Loki raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I was going to tell you after Sophia left. Did you see something about it?”

Thor nodded. “I saw you and Forsetti riding in Vanaheim. You were ambushed - you were able to get away, Loki, but Lord Forsetti was killed.”

“Ambushed? Were they Vidfavne warriors?” Loki asked, concerned. This was real and immediate - was this a warning?

“I believe so, but I don’t know their clan colors. I can’t be certain,” Thor said. “Nevertheless, perhaps you should refrain from going.”

Sophia glanced at Loki, who was thinking. “Do we know the future’s certain?” she asked. “If you were to take a different precaution, maybe you could still go.”

“We don’t know if it’s a certainty,” Loki said, “but my suspicion is that it can be changed. That vision Thor had of a calamity - we couldn’t have been prophesied to exist if that type of future couldn’t be undone.”

“This isn’t theory,” Thor said sternly. “This is a man’s life.”

Loki nodded. “I understand that, but we don’t know the outcome of any change. If I were to go down alone, I might not be able to make it out alive. If we went a week from now, Forsetti still might be killed. Your coronation is soon - I’d like a few answers before then, and right now I have the time. Once you’re crowned, there will be a lot of business to deal with.”

Thor stroked his beard, staring at Loki. “What if you had an escort? The warriors and I could go with you. That way we can keep you both safe.” He paused. “If there’s ambush activity, that means the Einharjar aren’t doing their jobs properly, and I’d need to deal with that anyways.”

“I’m not keen on having a group of six - we were going to be asking some sensitive questions, and the more we have, the more...official we’ll seem. I need Forsetti, he understands the Vidfavne situation better than any of us.”

“We’ll split up in the villages,” Thor said authoritatively. “There’s no need to stick together. We’ll watch you on the roads and leave you to do your business in town. I’m sure Sif would love to sample the local ales, she hasn’t been to that region yet.”

Loki sighed. He really had been hoping to make his way around quietly, but there was no sense putting Forsetti’s life at risk. Plus the time with his brother before the upcoming coronation would be a nice change. “Very well.”

Thor glanced over at Sophia. “You’re exhausted,” he said, “Sophia, do you need to sleep?”

She nodded, yawned, and came over for another hug before she disappeared.

The brothers briefly discussed the minutiae of details for their morning departure before Thor started preparing to leave. “Hard to believe all this, isn’t it,” he said.

Loki looked his brother up and down. “Well, not really on my end. But you’ve...you’ve seemed to take to her quite quickly, especially after being so careful.”

Thor shrugged. “I don’t know, after talking with her today, she seems...trustworthy.”

“Trustworthy. Is that all. I don’t see you joking like that with people you find trustworthy.”

Thor shrugged as he moved his goblet to an empty platter, ready to be cleaned by a servant. “I feel comfortable with her, for some reason. Like I don’t need to put on a show for her. The same way I feel when I’m with you.”

Loki looked down with a small smile. “Thanks for the faith in me, by the way. I appreciated it.”

“It’s just how I feel, it’s nothing special, Loki.” His brother seemed distracted as he put cushions back on the couches in a rare display of assistance. “She seems to like you, you know. I might be comfortable with her, but you two - you’ve got something different.”

Loki considered this. “I’m unsure why. Sometimes I think we just understand one another more easily.”

“Exactly! That’s it. She was responding better when you spoke with her about her body. I don’t really get why she didn’t...understand what I was saying.”

It was probably the empathy, Loki thought, but he wasn’t going to bring that up with Thor. It’d been a good night overall, no sense wasting that. “Yes, brother. We’ll have to see how things go.” He clapped Thor on the back. “Now go get some sleep.”

Thor smiled and headed for the door, stopping before he made it. “Well done tonight, Loki. Your spellwork was just as masterful as mother’s.”

Loki gave a small smile, pleased at his brother’s praise. “Thank you, Thor.”

[kwa-mii]

AU / Free Day

The end of a week! The end of an era!

This one was 100% the most fun to write and I miiiight have gotten a bit carried away so it ended up a LOT longer than the rest. For that reason, I’ve decided only to post about half of it here - if you want the full experience, check it out on ao3.

I love AUs more than life itself and since today’s my birthday (wow) it worked out pretty well that I get to post it today! Tho I’ve got exams in two weeks so I probably won’t be writing ever again rip

It was defo a fun experience, and I’m really glad that @miraculous-weeks​ exists to provide me with my inspiration. I also enjoyed seeing all the other fan works!! a good run!!!

Some select words of this fic are in Serbian so I’ve glossed them at the very end of this part of the fic

Killing Hands - an AU Adrinette angst fic (3529 words, up to the cut)

Warnings: mentions of illness and themes of death, plus a bit of nudity

This natural phenomenon, the strange bulbous mountain, puzzled those  who could see it from their villages below. Nature had been  experimenting when it made this mountain, the young ones said in wonder.  The old ones replied that they could have sworn it had looked normal  once; in their youth, the mountain had been straight as the back of a  military general. It was some evil, they hissed, some curse that pushed  at the rock and made it swell like that: stay away. You will die if you go up there.

The warnings of old ones were not enough to keep the curious from venturing up the cliffs, but the physical toil needed provided that barrier. One could set off at sunrise and only pass the first foothill by midday - to get to the rounded stone near the peak would take another  day's labour, and few cared enough to go that far to prove a few old  spinsters wrong.

Those that did make it to the summit believed in the stories of the  devil that lived in the mountain, and became a part of that story  themselves. Most didn't come back, but the one or two that did would  talk about the reaper with his dread hands and dark eyes. How he spoke  in a voice of thunder and spread darkness underfoot as he moved. His  claws. His snarl. The stench of death and hell.

The secret of the mountain was more simple, yet more complicated than  that. Those boulders that protruded from the stone face, gems pressed  into the base of a coronet, marked grave after grave after grave. The  mountain was crowned with death, and its king was the one they called Crna Mačka.

Crna Mačka, killer and servant of the devil (if not the Prince  of Darkness himself), would always come out of his cave at sunset to  watch the night creep into the burning sky. If you looked hard enough,  and if the moon was shining bright enough, you might see his shape;  inhuman almost, with an animal's head and long claws. He would linger  there for a moment, a singular glint in the gloom, and retreat back into  the dark. A trick of the light, sceptics maintained, but the truth was Crna Mačka was no more an illusion than anyone on the ground below.

As the sun staggered from the sky, the figure on the rocks slid down  so that he sat on the edge of one of the high cliffs, his feet meeting a cluster of roots. This mountain, barren as it looked within the green forest it presided over, was full of life in unspoken corners, and it pulsed like a secret at its core. Only where he walked was there an absence of life's essence, only where he lingered did the world's heartbeat still. Crna Mačka, though he was a living man himself,  carried the burden of death and balled it up into his fists. Human, by  biological definition, but the ability to snatch life with a touch of his hand made him the monster that people believed in.

He looked down at his hands, unfamiliar yet repulsively his own. He  didn't recognise his own hands, could not view the pale skin beneath and trace his pasts and his futures, for the simple fact that he always had  them covered. For disgust and caution, he never took off his gloves. On  top, he wore a pair of long, grooved, golden claws with savage points.  Monster's claws, and claws that provided the ceremony people expected of  their Crna Mačka.

People came up that mountain to die, and he let them have their wish.  Ungodly thing that he was, some people needed a villain when failed by  humankind, and he was glad that somehow, in his great and  incomprehensible evil, he could provide some use. His power was ugly,  but there was mercy in it. When he saw an animal in pain, or a desperate  invalid, he could at least provide an exit, and a gentle hand to soothe  their fevered brow. Maybe in this way he could find redemption for that  beast that cried and snarled in his depths.

Sometimes he did wonder if that which he called compassion was only  quicksilver cruelty. He had been taught of God, and of Lucifer, and how  the devil was a flatterer. Maybe he was this country's new devil, maybe  his alternatives only seemed good because that was what the devil did:  he made evil seem delicious. Crna Mačka knew life was pure, and  there was nothing more so, for he could feel its wonder whenever he  snapped its frail chains, and its sanctity was not to be questioned,  especially not by one such as he.

Still, he continued dispensing his small kindnesses, never minding  the lurch of revulsion in his throat. Heretic. Sinner. Monster. Mortal  evil for those below to invoke in their curses.

Crna Mačka still hungered for his humanity, but the distance  between them and he was too great - here, in the mountains, far off and  up high, it was at its most evident. With a sigh, he turned back into  his cave for the night. The end of a day. All he knew was endings.

The darkness he returned to was lit by clusters of flickering  candles, balanced on the nooks of stone or grouped at the base of the  walls - another form of ambience for his great show. A single skull, a  big stone seat, and a rug in the centre. He himself slept in an alcove  just beyond his makeshift devil's throne, so small and narrow it was as  though he lay in a grave. Apt, perhaps. He had built a firepit as well,  on which he had set a great black pot for his meals, which were modest  and came twice a day. He chose not to spend much time in the cave if he  could help it, and so it was bare and simple and hellishly cold in the winters.

A shadow distubed his darkness, and he whirled around, claws out, "What do you want from Crna Mačka?"

There stood, just in the entrance and blotting out the stars, a robed figure. They were dressed in red, with a girdle around the waist and a hood obscuring their face. Faceless and shrouded in flickering flame, they looked like an apparition from hell, but the voice, when it came, was sweet and feminine, "Isn't that obvious? I've come to die."

The voice, amongst its other tender qualities, was young. Crna Mačka narrowed his eyes. He'd seen young people before, begging for release. Naïvely, he had taken them by their word, feeling it was impious to deign to bear judgment on the breadth and depth of their sorrow. But he  had once overseen a teenage suicide, just a boy who'd given up, and it  hadn't become clear to him until afterwards that life for this one was  not ending, but only beginning. The look on his face, the scars he later  found, the lovingly packed bag from a mother who assumed her son was  travelling to an aunt... the body weighed on him like a sin. He had  sworn never again to deprive these people of life - mere melancholy was  not enough to justify the evil - and from that point he had decided  never to take a story by its words. He needed to see both soul and flesh  in anguish. He needed truly forsaken souls with no other way out.

"Come in," he said, and crouched down by his fire, "There should be enough for two. Sit down."

The stranger sat down on the rug, keeping her distance, "I can't say I expected such warm hospitality here."

In spite of himself, he found himself adopting the same gently joking  tone,

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'd just put too much water on the boil."

He took a ladle and filled a small wooden cup for her. The liquid was pale, and leaves floated on its surface; she sniffed at it as he passed  it to her. He watched her bring it to her mouth, as the brim of the cup  slipped under the shadow of her hood, "Careful, it's still hot. I stewed some local plants in there, so it should be a bit more filling than tea."

"It still tastes like tea. Aren't you going to have any?"

"I thought I should look after you first. That's what I'm here for."

"You're here to kill me. Or, at least, I'm here to ask you to."

He looked at her coldly, "I'm here to show you mercy. If you need anything else, don't waste time."

She was silenced by this, and sipped tentatively at the broth. He  crossed over to the big, stark, stone seat and sat. He crossed his leg imperiously over the other, and rested his clawed hands on the slabs that provided his throne with arms. Sat above her, his cat's mask illuminated by the candles below that leant it a garish, infernal glow,  he hoped to cast that brief, treacherous moment of friendliness behind  him. If he was going to play the monster, he was going to commit.

"Who are you?"

"Some people call me Bubamara."

He remembered the voices of children: 'bubamara, bubamara!', how they used to chase the ladybugs until they landed, and squeal, 'It's on you! Make a wish!'. This bubamara he had heard of too. One dead man, rotting before his eyes, had confessed he had already been to see Bubamara,  but she had had nothing for him, other than a bag of coins heavier than  any he had ever seen or dreamed of; "This will provide for your family  when you're gone." Since she'd had no miracle cure, the man's only  remaining option had been to seek Crna Mačka of the mountains. The old man had died that day.

Crna Mačka thought it fitting that this wandering  miracle-maker should adopt the name of a ladybug, that symbol of good  fortune. Apparently, she carried with her a bag of lucky charms, into  which she would reach for anyone she chanced upon her way, and would  bring out that thing they most needed, without knowing their woes. A  beautiful gift for their lover, material to plug the leak their roof had  sprung, an heirloom once lost. Bubamara had a solution to every  problem, even those that were not yet known; one had received paints and  gone to make a living from selling their work, having never touched a canvas before.

Hearing her story, some part of him had romanticised this figure, set  her against himself as his foil. He was dark and she was light, and together they could shape the destinies of men. Some day, he had wished  to meet her, to judge if she was human or divine. Benevolent and unknowable, that same Bubamara now crouched at his feet, no longer weighed down by her bag of tricks but instead by some great mortal burden.

"Did you not have something in your bag for yourself?" "It's time for me to set down my bag, mače."

'Kitty', she'd called him. The gentle intimacy attempted to cover her  terror; yes, there was terror in the admission. What had struck such fear into Bubamara's soul? "What's your story?"

She twisted her hands in her lap, retracted them into the sleeves of her robe,

"The whole thing?"

"The parts that led you here."

"I'm sick," she confessed, "And that's why I've been travelling for  years. As soon as I knew, I had to leave. I couldn't stand around and  let my parents see me die, and I couldn't run the risk of passing my  disease on to them. So I left home, and I hoped I might get better,  except I only got worse and worse and I never got the chance to go back.  But I did get the chance to help others, and if I just kept moving, I couldn't hurt them, I couldn't doom them to the death that awaits me. I  could give them the hope I couldn't have for myself. And that was important to me - and still is important to me. But I'm reaching the point where there is no hope left in me; I have nothing to share. Because I'm sick, and I'm dying, and it hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe," he noticed now the slight rasp in her voice, how each vowel snagged on her tongue. She took in a breath, slowed down, "And I thought... you'd help me. You would let me go."

Though he could hear something was not right in her body, he had to make sure, "Is there no cure?"

"None. It's one of the most contagious and most deadly illnesses, and it's a miracle I've lived so long."

"I've heard of no such disease," he said, "How can I know you're really dying?"

Without any hesitation, she pulled the girdle from her waist, and her  robes fell open, revealing the flesh below. She wore nothing beneath,  and he did not have to imagine the extent of wastage to her body. Bubamara was pale and drained of colour, translucent around the ribs, which carved prominent ridges across her torso. She had lost most of the fat  around her chest, and that triangle between her legs was barren, while inflamed skin hung from her hips. More troubling than this, tracked across her body were hundreds of billious black marks, and these spots trailed up along her neck, presumably onto her face. Everywhere. Each speck a stab from sickness' knife.

It seemed it was her condition and not her fortune that gave Bubamara  her name. Indeed, those plague scars, like the spots on the wings of ladybugs, belied her very misfortune. The irony did not slip him by.

"What about you?" she asked.

The question took him aback, and so did the fact that she made no  move to cover up - giving her skin to the air as though it was the last  time her pores would breathe it. To die, after all, was her intention,  and she seemed determined to follow it through. Feeling he was invading  her privacy somehow, he now looked away, "What exactly about me?"

"Your story. I know that, though people call me things like an angel  or a good witch, I'm just a human at the end of the day, and I'm  furthermore a sceptic. I don't believe them when they say that you're a  devil. I think you must just be a very unlucky human, Mače. And  though you wear that great headress and all that black, I think it's  just show. Who are you really? Who is the one they call Crna Mačka?"

His face darkened, "No, anyone with this power must be a monster. I'm evil."

"You don't do any evil."

That same moral quandry richocheted through his head, burning at the  backs of his eyes. Killing was killing. The selfsame thing, repackaged.  He was undeniably, inarguably, a devil in human's clothes. The  headdress, the cloak, this was how he made it clear; trust not the  appearance of the man, for there is an insidious nature that lurks under  it.

When he didn't reply, she shrugged, "It doesn't matter, and I don't  care what you are. What's important is that you can end me. For what  it's worth, I don't consider it an evil. In fact," he could hear the wry smirk in her voice, "I believe I would be grateful."

Crna Mačka cleared his throat, leaned callously back into his  stone chair, "So you're sick. You're dying. You're useless. Why should I  end your life for such trivial things?"

"Trivial?" she splutters, "I can't talk to my family anymore and you  call it trivial? My mother and father mean the world to me, and living  in this one and posing a threat to their life is not something I want to  happen. My illness means I cannot connect with those around me anymore,  I must be transient and flit from place to place like a restless bug,  and that's no life. Life is not worth it when you're alone and have no  one to talk to, and every step hurts like a stone in your side, and you  can't eat or sleep. My vision is going, and so is my tongue, and I don't  want to reach that stage where I have no abilities other than beating  blood around my body. I'm turning into a shadow. I can see it happening,  every day, and it scares me and I want to beat it somehow, even if that  means just beating it to the end goal."

"Death."

"Death."

After this, there is silence. Crna Mačka looked at his hands,  thinking. Someone that had brought such joy to those in need should not  have to die, not so young. He shouldn't have to be faced with the job of  doing it. Life was unfair like that. These injustices were where the  devil really played.

Bubamara spoke again, softening, "Mače, if you're not  human, then neither am I. You, because your strength transcends mortal  barriers. Me, because my life no longer seems mortal. We are both worms,  but at least you're useful."

His voice, softer than hers, drew a sigh from the very depths of his chest: "Then are you sure?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

Crna Mačka alighted from his throne, and stepped towards his  victim. A candle blew out as he passed it, an omen of what was to come.  It was cold, but Bubamara did not tremble, and instead kept her  head down, watching his feet tap, tap, tap towards her, light as a cat's  prowl. He stopped some two feet before her, green eyes unblinking and  blackened by night.

Here came the bit he hated most, the bit that haunted his fears. He  always made it extravagant, for his own piece of mind and for the  other's - he needed to detach himself from the scene somehow, and they  needed their expectations fulfilled, to go down in a blaze of glory. He  had his own ritual for snuffing out lives. He would place one hand,  clawed, on their shoulder, and remove the other from its glove, press it  to their skin. That mere touch was enough to kill, but nevertheless, he  would intone the words with ceremonnial observance: kataklizma. And they would die. And all that would remain of them tomorrow would be the boulder rolled over their grave. And that was it.

He didn't want to kill her, he didn't want to, he didn't want -

"Thank you," she said.

The words stumped him for a moment. Why. When hell incarnate stood  above you, poised to draw out the final breath from your lungs, and  condemn you to sleep for eternity, you did not thank it. You did not  welcome it. It was not right that she should see him as a hero when he  had been long cast in the role of defiler. There was nothing else he  could be, or do. This was all he knew, and he did not want to be thanked  for it, for it was a torment to him. Stone him, hate him, but never  thank him.

He chose to ignore her, and he began the observance of his shallow spectacle, prepared his final questions, his blasphemous invocation of a  baptism or a mass, "Are you at peace?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Are you sure that this is your chosen fate?"

"Yes," she replied. He reached out to her, fingers outstretched, claws cupping the air  with their cruel glint, and he asked his final question, "Are you truly prepared to die?"

If they were not looking when they answered, he would tip their chin  with his claws and search their eyes, and he knew from the look in them  if that poor soul was truly honest, or if there was any hesitance that  broiled in their irises. The eyes of the truly doomed were still,  unflinching, unfathomably dark. Accepting eyes. Martyred eyes. Dead eyes  already, becoming deader. The look in their eyes had to be right.

Bubamara gazed down at that clawed hand for a long, long  moment. She did not speak. She did not move. She did not look. Her head  stayed bowed, her hands remained still. Then, with that voice softer  than silk or sin, she whispered, "Adrien?"

And she looked up at him for the first time, and beneath her hood the  eyes were right, but the face they were in was wrong, so very wrong,  and Crna Mačka felt his heart splinter, wrong, wrong, wrong, familiar and wrong.

His voice cracked. "Marinette?"

Read more at ao3

A Glossary for Clarity Crna Mačka - black cat Mače - kitty Bubamara - ladybug Kataklisma - catalysm