#its rough and its ugly with jagged broken edges

[bitchkay]

I need a love triangle story with Toa and Guy with MC in the middle but its actually a rivals to lovers where they fall in love instead with MC as a mediator and they have a big fight, throwing punches, headmasters rules be damned, where they actually rough each other up until someone pulls them apart from eachother and they end up having a talk (against their will) and realize MC really isn't their goal is it?

"Well, if you hate me that much, then fuck off! Let me be someone else’s problem!"

"I don’t want you being someone else’s problem is the fucking problem here! I want--! ..."

"..."

"..."

"You don't actually hate eachother... do you?"

[dvchvnde]

Your grogginess lingers in the days after. A side effect of the painkillers, he says, but when you check—tucking the pill against your inner cheek when he leaves to go fetch something from the kitchen—it's just Tylenol. Prescription, of course. Extra strength with codeine. It shouldn't make you feel this sluggish, this out of it. 

Exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. One that doesn't quite fit; tight, constricting—an artificial veneer that leaves you feeling itchy and uncomfortable where it rubs into your flesh. Sinking anchored hooks into your consciousness that tug you down into a permanent state of hypnagogia. Suspended in a constant fever dream. 

Threads of fatigue weave through each eyelash until keeping them open becomes an arduous task. It's easier when you just give in—

“Need tae rest,” Johnny says when you tell him about it. About how much it worries you. “Ye’ve been injured, doe. Need tae sleep an’ heal.” 

Adds: trauma, maybe, when your skepticism shows over dinner of caribou burgers, rice pilaf, and more bannock. The way he says the word—so nonchalant for all its ugliness, cruelty—nudges inside your chest, and you waver. Flickering toward the striped scar on his temple. He'd know, wouldn't he?

Still. 

The unsettled feeling in the pit of your stomach lingers, mouldering inside of you. Festering. Fed by the stretch of days that bleed into each other; of waking up to the same sequence, a new routine, over and over again without any escape. 

This new perspective hurts. Aches. But you adapt—change shape—until your days are spent languishing away in bed reading the books he gives to you, or listening to him putter around the house like a restive bird searching for an escape. 

This cabin is too small for his wings, it seems.

But despite having a stranger impede in his space, Johnny cares for you with an intensity that makes you feel smothered. Claustrophobic. He tends to everything, rarely letting you lift a finger. 

The embarrassment of that, of it all, fades at the end of the first week when he puts you in the tub, and slowly washes away the grime from your skin with a tender touch and eyes that bleed sin. 

(“Ah’ll take care’a ye,” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Donnae worry about a thing, doe.”)

It's fine, you think. It's fine in the daytime—

Your nights, however, are awash in seafoam. 

Clips, snippets; disjointed and broken. They flicker past like scenes of a movie you're unfamiliar with but never linger. Never stay long enough for you to find some form of comfort within the hazy silhouettes. 

Moments of waking up on a bed with a hand on your forehead, murmuring to you. Words eliding together in the slurry of your mind, incompressible. Unknowable. A warmth against your skin. A rough hand on your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek. 

The most jarring are the ones that come late at night when you remember the phantom weight of something slung over your waist, knotted tight between your breasts. Scorching heat glued to your spine. 

You think he's been crawling in bed with you. The thought alone makes you want to sob—

“Pretty wife ah go’ fer ma’self.”

Morning comes, and the worry from the night before is dissolved into an uneasy pinch in your guts. He’s normal—intense, dizzyingly so—but. Just a man. An odd one with a white, jagged grin. All teeth. Charming, you know. The sort of thing you'd fall for back home in a bar. Boyish. Simple. 

But he's—

Strange. 

Touches you a lot. Fingers tucked in the crease of your elbow, hand on your shoulder. Your knee. It moves higher up, planting itself on your thigh. Much too high to be appropriate. To be anything else outside of—

Well. 

No. 

You can't think about that. Not when your safety is tucked between those even, white teeth. With a broken ankle, negligible survival skills, and no sense of direction—

Thinking about that will crush you down to fine powder. 

You bury it around an unease smile. Polite and distant and edging slightly in hysteria when he leans down, eyes burning, burning, and murmurs something under his breath about his little doe. All his. 

(wife—)

It's a mistake. His accent is thick. You've misheard what he said. Don't panic. Don't scream. Don't offend him. He's nice. Nice, nice, nice. Just a nice man in the middle of nowhere who has a scar on his temple that looks like a shooting star, and madness in the back of his eyes that blooms when you catch him staring at you. Always. Like he can't bear to tear his gaze away. 

He's a puppy. A dog. A good fucking boy. Stop being so crazy—

He brings you bread with fresh, homemade jam. Blueberries that grow along his property line. Juice. Water. He sits in the chair beside the bed and eats with you, tells you stories of his life back home. Scotland. Where he played football (an’ no’ tha’ shite ye call soccer) with his friends when he was home from deployment. An avid runner. He'd pace the streets of Edinburgh until his belly ached too much to continue. 

Tells you of this place he'd go to after. Eat his body weight in eggs, hash. 

His life feels like an improbable adventure sometimes. Deepening into dangerous territory when he admits, at your gentle prodding, that he was in the military. Secret sect. A taskforce. 

(“Need’tae know,” he wags his finger at you, a toothy grin tugging on the corner of his mouth. “Or ah’d ‘ave tae kill ye.”

You convince yourself he's joking, and offer a weak chuckle. It tastes of madness in the back of your throat.)

In these moments, there are three elephants in the room with you. So smothered are you by their presence, that thoughts of loneliness dwindle down to nothing. A faded memory haunting the hollow of your throat. 

The most obvious one is the mangled scar on the side of his face, slashing across his skin like a shooting scar. He touches it sometimes. Fingers pressing tentatively to the lumpy, misshapen mess of pink flesh. 

It's soft most of the time. A tender pat, like he's reminding himself it's still there. 

But sometimes, sometimes, he digs his fingers in so hard, they turn white. Like he's trying to chisel through flesh to scoop out everything inside. These moments are usually accompanied by bad days. Ones where he disappears outside for hours on end, only slinking back inside when the sky turns black. Haggard, knuckles pulpy mess of red. 

Or when he stays inside, despondent. Solemn. He stares at the wall without blinking. It takes him a long time to respond, as if the words are stuck inside his throat. And when he does, they're stilted and hollow. Monosyllabic. A broken amalgamation of incomprehensible colloquialisms and shattered English. 

When you ask what he said, he gives you a strange look. Like you're the one speaking in tongues. 

“Ahm jus’—” he makes a vague motion, and says nothing else. 

The pity is intense. You ache for this odd, broken man. To suffer so much—

It draws your attention to the second elephant. The one who pushes back into the corners, trying to hide. This growing thing that crackles in the air between you. Unfathomable. Intense. You're not sure what it is, or why it's here. It feels intimidating. Infinite. 

It crawls into your lap in the dark, this twisted, hideous babe, seeking comfort from the person who viciously pushes it away. A dog coming back to lick the hand that hurts it because it knows no better. Bad dog. Good boy. The wires cross, spark. 

What else do you do when pain and comfort come from the same hand? It whimpers this question out as it cries itself to sleep curled up on the lap of a person who refuses to touch it back. Cold comfort. 

You think of baby chimps and mothers with cotton skin and metal bones. 

Loneliness, you find, makes you desperate. It aches, a pulsing wound, spread over the whole of your pericardium. What do you do when the armour that is meant to protect you breaks? Cracks.

You don’t like to think about it too much because this path, this looping trail, leads you right into everything else you refuse to acknowledge. Particularly, the third elephant. 

Or rather—

The fact that the other side of the bed is always warm when you wake up in the morning. 

Johnny tells you he sleeps on the couch. 

Sometimes, when you press your face into the pillow, you can catch the lingering scent of pine, cloudberry. 

(You fold it up into a square, and shove it between the metal bars of your mother's ribs.)

[autisticlenaluthor]

Sneak peek of little Lena and cat story? 💜

just a tiny peek

---

She finds a stray kitten in the flower pit outside the library. 

Standing on the cement steps, holding the straps to the backpack she’s filled with books, Lena tilts her head. It’s an ugly little thing. With a scratch across its left eye and fur so muddy she can hardly tell what color coat lies beneath. But even so, it’s small. Its eyes are scared and its body so frail.

It just needs to be picked up and reminded that it'll all be okay, Lena thinks.

She drums her fingers against the straps and inhales. Cool air brushes against her back, signaling people are walking down the stairs behind her. One of them knocks into her and she stumbles, regaining her footing a few steps below.

She doesn’t bother looking back to see if they’ve acknowledged her. Because as the rest of the world continues to move, Lena finds herself frozen. Staring at this little creature and the way its head lifts for just a second to lock its eyes with hers. The moment ends faster than it began and before Lena knows it, the kitten is back to licking the wound on its leg. 

She frowns. 

Broken, is the first word that comes to mind. One of the kitties' ears appears to be bitten off. The edges are jagged and rough, the inside scabbed and bruised. Like me. 

Without giving it a second thought, Lena runs down the rest of the steps and does her best to climb over the fence. It goes up past her waist so she has to swing one leg over and lay her belly on the metal– the weight of her backpack tipping her over and causing her to fall into the flowers. 

The kitten retreats backwards to hide behind a turned over stone. As quickly as she can, Lena removes her bag and shoves it against the fence with her shoe. She takes another moment to tuck her lower legs and sit on her heels before extending her hands and wiggling her fingers to try and bring the kiten back out. 

“Come here,” she signs. “I’ll help you.”

[polaroid15]

With Great Power

FINAL CHAPTER!! 🥳'With great power comes saving the world'

Summary: Endgame, but with a lil' Peter-weilding-mjollnir twist :)

Read on Ao3 HERE

---------

Peter is back.

Peter is alive.

Tony looks at him in detached amazement. Because it’s really him, enthusiastic and animated as the day he had lost him.

“Do you remember when we were in space...”

His kid. Peter. Everything is a blur.

“...and then he started doing that yellow sparkly thing that he does all the time-”

Unable to prevent it another second, he pulls Peter into a hug, pressing his cheek into the kid’s hair. Peter stills under his touch, his light breaths filling Tony’s ears. It feels like a miracle.

“What are you doing?”

His throat is too tight to respond.

“Oh. This is nice.” Peter returns the hug, completing the orbit. And just like that it’s all worth it. Every damn sacrifice.

Everything clicks into place.

“God kiddo. I sure missed you,” he croaks. Peter curls his fingers into Tony’s back.

The battle rages on around them. Destruction, fear. It’s not over. They’re a spark in a dark room, a single seed of victory.

“I missed you too.”

They separate and a physical pain rips through Tony’s chest. The world around him is blurry and he works quickly to blink the moisture out of his eyes.

“Thanos can’t win,” Peter says.

“He’s strong.”

“We’re stronger. Together.”

Struggling to swallow his emotion, Tony places his hands on either side of Peter’s face and wipes his thumbs across his cheekbones. Not dust. Solid. Real. “What’s your plan kiddo?”

Because now, more than ever, Tony has something to fight for.

-----

Tony tries hard to stay with Peter, but they're too outnumbered, too outgunned. He loses him to the chaos not even fifteen minutes after their reunion and tries to ignore the building panic in his chest.

“FRI. Keep me updated on the kid.”

“Yes sir.”

He fights alongside his family and prays that Peter is right- that they can win. That soon, it will all be over.

Across the field, through dozens of falling alien soldiers, he sees Peter and his heart catches in his throat.

Because he’s carrying the gauntlet. It’s in his arms, and Tony can’t breathe. He turns to blast to the boy’s aid and is intercepted by half a dozen opponents.

Peter is on his own.

-----

Peter can count on one hand how many times he’s been more afraid than the moment he’s living right now. Sprinting with all his might with all infinity stones tucked against his chest.

The stones that had stolen five years from his life.

The stones that he doesn’t fully comprehend the consequences of yet.

Holding the gauntlet makes him a priority target. He flips and dodges and shoots webs, but he still gets hit.

Hard.

One particularly rough attack has him slammed into the earth, creating a crater with the sheer force of his body. Karen lights up his screen in ugly alerts about his health as he blinks stars out of his eyes. The alien that had landed him there appears above him, snarling and raising the hand to finish him off.

Peter closes his eyes.

The blow never comes.

Slowly, with every muscle in his body shaking, he opens his eyes. A woman stands above him, practically glowing with strength. Captain Marvel.

“Hi,” he wheezes. “I’m- I’m Peter Parker.”

“Hey Peter Parker. You got something for me?”

Though his body begs him to stay down, Peter forces his limbs into cooperation until he’s on his feet, grunting when it makes him dizzy. “I don’t know how you’re going to get it through all that.”

But the smile on Captain Marvel’s face gives him renowned confidence. He hands over his burden and sags when its weight leaves his hands.

-----

FRIDAY pushes Peter’s vitals in front of Tony’s eyes and he curses, feeling acid crawl up his throat. “Connect me to his com.”

There’s an explosion somewhere to his right. He hits the tail end of the blast and rolls across the rock, the breath knocked out of his chest. An alien falls out of the sky towards him and he shoots it away before it can hit him.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter gasps through the line. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You on the other hand- what were you thinking? Grabbing the gauntlet like that-”

“I had to! There was no other choice!”

“There’s always a choice, Pete. And you always choose the dangerous one.”

Peter’s laugh fills his ears and it’s almost enough to ebb away the biting edges of his anxiety. But then it tapers away into a shout, followed closely by webbing and clanging metal.

“Kid?” Tony prompts urgently. “You okay? Where are you?”

“F-fine. Ow. I’m fine Mr. Stark. I got him.”

“Where’s the gauntlet?”

“Captain Marvel.”

Tony dips in relief, trying to navigate the kid’s location. “Good, that’s good. Try and find somewhere safe, okay?”

“What? No! I- I have to help.”

“Kid, tap out. You have fifteen broken bones!”

“But Mr. Stark- that means I still have 191 working ones!”

Tony gapes, lost for words as he dodges another attack. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

If Peter responds, it’s lost to his ears. Something hits him hard in his side, so hard that for a moment it whites out his vision. He lands ungracefully, skidding and moaning. Peter’s voice is distant static in his ears and he tries desperately to hang onto it.

When he opens his eyes, Thanos stands above him.

-----

“Mr. Stark? Oh man. Can you hear me?”

Peter’s pulse is threatening to shoot straight through his skin. Tony’s ragged breaths fill his ears, sending shivers down his back. “Mr. Stark! Crap- Karen. Plot me a route to Mr. Stark’s location.”

The LED display maps out the route and Peter wastes no time. He slips through the battle like an arrow through water, his worry dulling every other instinct. When he crests a hill he sees his mentor pressed into the ground, Thanos’s boot grinding down on his chest.

“MR. STARK!”

Peter swings faster than he ever has in his life, heartbeat in his ears and his adrenaline giving him the strength he doesn’t have. With another violent scream he swings straight into Thanos’s side, kicking him in the head and effectively knocking him away from Tony’s writhing body. Thanos hits the ground hard, scrambling for purchase before rising to his feet. He stares at Peter with a sadistic sense of admiration.

Trying to block out Tony’s fight for air, Peter stands in front of him, arms splayed out wide. “Don’t touch him.”

“A fighter. I can respect that.” Thanos takes a step forward and Peter tenses. Behind him, he sees Captain America and Thor fighting a ten-foot tall giant. He thinks he sees Thor catch his eye. “But I am afraid your efforts are useless.”

“I won’t stop. I’m not afraid of you.”

But he is. Terrified.

“You would give your life for that man?” Thanos drawls, eyes darkening. From behind Peter, he hears Tony trying to get up and failing.

“Yes.”

“P-Peter. Go-”

But Peter doesn’t move. He blocks Thanos’s first punch and spins away from the second. The third he isn’t so lucky. It hits him hard in the chest and he flies back, skidding towards where Thor and Steve are fighting. Tony cries out. It’s the only thing keeping him conscious.

Thanos looms over Tony’s body, a look of victory on his face. “This man is the reason for this fight. He deserves to die.”

Peter can’t breathe. Thanos picks up a broken spear off the ground.

He raises it above Tony’s head.

“I am inevitable.”

A tug in Peter’s gut gives him what he needs to do next. In a blur of emotion and panic, he shoots to his feet and instead of looking at Tony, he turns to look at Thor. Surprisingly, the man’s eyes are locked onto his own. A millisecond of silent communication is all they need.

Thor throws his hammer. Peter reaches out his hand.

He catches it, the weapon feather-light in his hand. Before he can process the success he leaps forward with all his strength, swinging mjollnir as if it were destined, in this very moment, to be wielded by his hand.

Thanos’s eyes light in surprise. He shifts the spear towards Peter in futile defense, something like real fear in his eyes. Mjollnir, sparking with lightning, cracks hard against his head and he falls to the earth as if in slow motion. Peter stands above his body, limbs numb, chest heaving, and mjollnir curled tightly in his hand. Thanos doesn’t get up.

“P-Peter-”

Spinning around, Peter finds Tony fighting for air against a slab of jagged rock, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He moves his eyes from Peter’s face to the hammer in his hand, looking just as disbelieving as Peter feels.

“Mr. Stark!” he drops to his knees beside his fallen mentor, hands shaking as they reach out to assess the damage. “Are you- oh god- are you okay?”

But Tony merely blinks, his eyes still trained on the hammer.

“Mr. Stark?”

The shock on Tony’s face morphs into a smile. It makes a split on his lip bleed. “I always knew you’d be worthy,” he says softly.

And then he passes out.

-----

Peter defends Tony with the rest of his energy, Thor and Steve by his side. They fight until the army dissolves.

“Someone snapped,” Steve says, looking in awe over the battlefield. “It’s over.”

Over.

Peter falls back to the ground by Tony and shakes his shoulders. “Wake up Mr. Stark. We won.”

We won.

After more prompting, Tony groans and opens his eyes into slits. They widen after connecting with Peter. “Kid?” he whispers.

“We won Tony,” he says.

Tony chokes on a sob. Though obviously painful, he sits up and pulls Peter into a hug, and Peter returns the gesture with equal force. The dying embers of the battle fall around them, cries of victory still ringing out over the field.

“You called me Tony.”

Peter laughs, though it ends in a relieved sob. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Nope,” Tony interjects. To Peter’s surprise, he presses his lips into his hair. “You broke the seal. It’s Tony now, kiddo.”

Peter relaxes more fully against Tony’s hold, his adrenaline fading, the aches and pains of the battle starting to hit him like a freight train. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” he says quietly, so only he can hear.

“Oh kiddo-”

They hug with the intent of never letting go.

-----

Later that night, safely back on earth, Tony finds Peter in medbay. Though bandaged head to toe himself, he’s running around busily by Bruce’s side, helping treat the rest of the team. Tony stands by the door, crossing his arms and admiring the sight with a warmth in his chest.

Thor comes to stand by his side. “Your son saved the world today.”

Your son. Tony doesn’t bother correcting him. “He did.”

“And by lifting Mjollner. That is no small feat.”

Tony smiles. He can’t help it. “I know.”

-----

When the chaos dies down, Tony tracks Peter to a vacant couch in the lab. He’s sprawled out on his back half asleep.

“Pete? What are you doing down here?”

Blinking sleepy at him, Peter shrugs. “S’quiet down here. Familiar. I missed it.”

His eyes sting again. God, Stark. Pull it together. “Mind if I sit?” he asks.

Peter shakes his head, moving to accommodate Tony with a smile. “I talked to May,” he tells him. “She’s safe. I’ll be able to see her tomorrow once the roads open back up.”

“That’s great news.”

“Yeah. Ned and MJ too. Everyone- everyone is safe.”

Tony smiles. It really is over. “I did it all for you, you know.”

A short silence. Peter shuffles to sit up further, his hair disheveled. “What did you say?”

“I did it all for you,” Tony repeats, looking stubbornly at the wall. “Time travel, I mean. I invented time travel to get you back.”

Peter chokes. Doesn’t speak.

“I wasn’t going to do it at first,” Tony continues, “when they first asked me. But then I saw this old picture of us and- and I knew I wouldn’t be able to live another day without at least trying.”

“Tony-”

“Five years was too long. I should have done it sooner and I’m sorry.”

“Tony!”

Finally, he looks. The kid’s eyes are glistening, his cheeks flushed red. Then, he smiles. “I can’t- I don’t- I don’t know what to say.”

Lips quirking, Tony pulls Peter into his side and ruffles his hair. “You don’t have to say anything, kiddo. You saved my bacon today more than once. By wielding a magic hammer, for the record.”

Peter makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. “That was pretty cool, wasn’t it?”

A phrase pops into his head, something that Peter had told him years ago. “With great power comes great responsibility,” he says. “Your Uncle would’ve been proud.”

Peter moves to look at him, brown eyes impossibly wide. “You remember.”

“Of course I do. Don’t insult my memory. I know it’s been five years but I’m not that much older-”

Peter chuckles. For a moment, they sit in perfect silence. Tony could live in it for a hundred lifetimes.

“Thanks for bringing me back,” Peter whispers, eyelids drooping.

“You’re family Pete. Family stays together.” He pauses, smiles. “Speaking of which… you have a little sister.”

“What?!”

[yandere-daydreams]

Another Yandere!Dabi/Reader piece for the very lovely @goretillery​, as a spiritual continuation of this commission. For the sake of clarification, assume this takes place after the manga’s current arc is over, when Dabi is left with a few more issues than friends. For the drama alone, really.

Word Count: 1.7k

TW: Minor Spoilers, Mention of Injury, Implied Death, Imprisonment, and Wing Clipping. 

It was all you could do to stay still.

The pain hadn’t faded, not in the slightest. Your fight with Dabi had been hours ago, days ago, maybe. You couldn’t be sure of time down here, splayed across a bare mattress in the basement of one of the League’s hideouts. True to his word, he’d found somewhere so deep and so desolate, even the air carried a lonely chill, your cell absent of window or clocks or much of anything, spare a few of your captor’s personal items, mundane and sentimental and meaningless to you. Entertainment wasn’t a problem, though, not right now. Two broken ribs ached in your chest, a dislocated ankle limiting your movement to short, stumbling steps. Minor scratches and bruises made it so you never had to search for a new source of petty irritation, but you could hardly summon the energy to care about any of that.

Your wings were all you could focus on.

Or, what was left of your wings, rather.

Dabi hadn’t been careful. He was angry, he was furious, and he wasn’t thinking. You could only be glad they hadn’t been completely incinerated, really, considering just how hot everything had felt in the moment. The roots of each were charred and blackened, stripes of burnt down and insulating-feathers drawn across the once perfect pair. He’d pulled out handfuls at a time, leaving sporadic, bare patches littered across your appendages, scarred over flesh currently struggling to heal itself. If your arches hadn’t been broken in the struggle, it would’ve been a miracle, considering the fractures that seemed to run through every other microscopic bone. You could hardly roll over without bringing yourself to tears, let alone moving your wings in any meaningful way. You’d tried to fold them, when Dabi first left you alone, tuck them into your back in order to wallow in your self-pity a little more comfortably. You thought it couldn’t be too bad. That even if they were hurt, the numbness should've set in, by then.

You’d started crying as soon as you made the first crease. You hadn’t really stopped, yet.

If Dabi felt any sort of sympathy, he didn’t make a show of it. You heard the solitary door close in the distance, but any greetings or footsteps were lost on you, your pulse still beating deafeningly in your ears. He clicked his tongue as he saw you were still curled into the same ball he’d left you in, and space your body could’ve taken up occupied instead by your outstretched wings, laid sloppily across any surface they could think to cover. He tapped your shoulder as he passed, watching as you recoiled and winced, before moving on seemingly unaffected, dropping whatever he was holding onto a splintering, decaying table, one that looked like it may collapse under more than a handful of pounds.

“Still pouting?” You didn’t answer, curling further into yourself, and he sighed, shaking his head. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that was his interpretation of an empathetic response. “Must really hurt, then.”

There was a rustling of plastic, the scratch of rough fabric against leathery skin. The room smelled like a bonfire, after a few seconds. How’d you ever get used to the burning smell? Did he even notice it, anymore? You felt the mattress dip under his weight, Dabi seating himself behind you, reaching over the small space and hooking his arms under yours, dragging your crumpled body onto his lap. You hissed as he did so, every bone under your skin rejecting even the smallest movement, but Dabi didn’t seem to take notice, only positioning you to sit facing him, left to lean against his chest and hide your face in his shoulder. He supported himself on the bare wall, in return, leaving your dependency mercifully unspoken.

“It doesn’t really stop. The pain, I mean,” He admitted, running an idle finger down the length of your spine. You reacted before you could think, operating off instinct and letting your wings tense at your sides, straightening despite the sharp, jagged needles that seemed to embed themselves in your skin. You didn’t dare let them drop, fearing the inevitable outcome, and he seemed satisfied with that, draping an arm over the crock of your neck and tracing meaningless shapes into whatever his hand landed on. “Everything heals over, or… scars, I guess. You learn not to whine about it, but it won’t go away. Not if it’s bad enough.” He paused, sighing. “It doesn’t hurt as much, though. You’ll start looking forward to it, eventually. Anticipating it.”

“I don’t want to enjoy it,” You mumbled, your voice muffled by a soot-stained shirt. “I want it to stop.”

He chuckled, softly, his fingers closing around one of the smooth, glossy feathers that covered the exterior of your wings. He gave it an experimental tug, and you whimpered, but Dabi acted before you could spit out protest. One harsh, steady pull was all it took to drag the feather out by its stem, the sting etching itself into your flesh, seeping downward with each passing second. He brought it to your side, letting you peek at it out of the corner of your eye. Bent and broken. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting. “Then you’ll have to tear it out,” He explained, finding his next target. A newer one - a blood feather. It barely put up a fight, when he plucked it. “The faster you get rid of whatever hurts, the faster everything else’ll get better.”

You groaned as his attention shifted, moving towards your left wing. With his free hand, he jabbed at the peak of your arch, and you screamed as the appendaged drew back, leaving the points of each within arm’s length. You grit your teeth, your eyes already beginning to tear up. “Someone should’ve flayed you, in that case,” You grunted, fighting to keep your voice even. “I’d be happy to do it now, if you’re up for it.”

“Aw, baby, you know how riled up I get when you talk like that.” Nails scraped against the base of a primary feather, sending a shudder up the length of your spine. You noticed you were trembling, then, shaking like a leaf in the wind, but steeling yourself wasn’t an option. Instead, you grit your teeth and told yourself Dabi hadn’t noticed, yet. “I used to do this kind of thing for a friend of mine. One of those real laid-back guys, the type to take worse care of himself than you do.” He paused, stopping to think. “You’ve heard of Hawks, yeah?”

“You know I have,” You said, your irritation making itself apparent. “Everyone has.”

He didn’t seem to care for your tone. Dabi chose that moment to reveal what he’d been hiding, and suddenly, you weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed it before. The shape in his pocket, long and pointed, a handle just the right to fit the shape of Dabi’s hand at the end. It didn’t take you long to identify the tool, already preparing to ask him why he’d brought a pair of scissors, but something was off. They were longer than an average pair, sharper. More similar to garden shears than anything. “He was a stand-up guy, wasn’t he? A hero, an idol…” He trailed off, slipping his fingers into the grip tentatively. As if he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them, yet. “I’m sure you looked up to him. Similar quirks and all.”

You did. You’d been convinced you were going to be just like him, when he was still a rising-star. Quirks like yours were so rare, and considering how fragile wings tended to be, only a handful of Flying Heroes had ever made it into the spotlight, even with the secondary abilities they tended to have. But, Hawks was gone, now, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you followed a similar fate, sooner or later. You shinked into yourself at the thought. “He was amazing.”

“He was,” Dabi confirmed, his touch ghosting over your waist. Remembering the minor weapon, you attempted to straighten your back, to move and get away from him, but your muscles were already growing sore at the thought alone, every cell in your body rebelling violently. Dabi only chuckled, taking hold of the thin root of your left wing, where the appendage attached itself to your back. You didn’t doubt that he could shatter the delicate bone with his bare hands, if he tried.

“And I’m sure you wanted to be just like him.”

You nodded. You couldn’t think of anything else to do. “I didn’t--”

“You’re nothing like him.” There was a new fire in his voice, passionate and firm, but he dragged you into him regardless, holding you tight as he made a grab for your wingtips. “He was a liar, and a spy and a bastard. The only person he ever cared about was himself and his little Hero Commission.” The words were spat with enough disdain to startle you, your struggle taking a turn towards a full-blown frenzy. Dabi only bared his teeth, his silent threat doing more than enough to pacify you. “You’re nothing like him. You’re not gonna fly away the moment something better comes along.”

The shears were raised, the clippers, and you stopped trying to hold yourself back, sobs racking through your chest and choking you, your terror as obvious as it was ugly. Luckily, that seemed to reach Dabi’s cold, shriveled heart, but all it earned you was a fleeting kiss to the top of your head and a soft hum, neither doing much to comfort you.

“Let’s call it a ‘safety measure’, alright?” You felt him choose his target, the closest feather to your wingtip, sharp edges soon entrapping it on either side. One of many that’d soon be cut short. “Just a little something to ease my mind. It can't hurt worse than what I tried last time.”

He was lying. You knew he was lying. All he ever did was lie.

But, all you could do was hold still and make sure the damage wouldn’t be permanent as the blades snapped together, a severed feather falling silently to the floor.

You wondered why you’d ever bothered trying to leave the ground in the first place.

[delicatelyherdreams]

Pragma(tic) 15: It’s Way Worse Than She Thought

Pairing: Persephone!Bucky Barnes x Hades!Reader

Summary: In a world where the old gods never truly died, you must learn to navigate your way through the ups and downs of immortality. And if living forever wasn’t hard enough, an ancient evil is now threatening to break free after centuries of silence. And as if that still wasn’t hard enough for you, now a pesky and infuriatingly handsome god is trying to wedge his way into your life. Gods, work, love, and conflict—what more could a goddess need? [Hades & Persephone AU]

Word Count: 6673

Warnings: Language, blood, assault.

Pragma(tic) Masterlist

Previous 14: Her World is Shaken, Not Stirred

The stone was cleaved open down the middle like it’d been cut by an ax. The jagged edges came to a peak about a hundred feet above the original top of the cave and shot downwards at steep declining angles so the opening was triangular instead of round. 

You stood at the base of the cave and stared at the tear in the stone, your heart sinking lower and lower in your chest as the crushing reality of the situation sank in.. “No…” you whispered, your voice cracking. “No, this isn’t possible! I was just here! I just got done with the spells!” Your chest rose and fell in rapid succession, your hands raked through your hair, and your legs quivered. “There’s no way! I was here less than two hours ago! It’s not—“

“My queen,” Pierce said cutting off your rambling, his voice filled with concern. “You need to calm down. Please sit.” He took your hand and led you over to one of the boulders that had fallen from the opening. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

You could only nod as you stared up at the crack, it’s length exceeding your line of sight as it soared up into the darkness of the Underworld’s ceiling.

Something had made the wall split. Something had broken Tartarus, making it stand agape. Something had breached the most dangerous part of your realm. 

Carol slunk towards the cave, coming to a stop right at the entrance. Slowly she reached forward and rested her hand against the stone. Her hand had barely touched the surface when she yanked it away. The color drained from her face as she stared at it aghast. “It’s coated with him,” she spat, glaring at the stone with venom in her eyes. “And not just him… There’s something indiscernible here. He’s not working alone.”

Natasha took a step forward. “You mean…?”

No! you wanted to cry out. You wanted to tell her that it couldn’t be possible. No one was allowed near the cave. No one had been put under his influence; you’d made sure of that. And yet there you were, staring at the ugly face of your reality. Kronos had done significant damage to the outermost layer of his cage—the entrance of Tartarus—and, if Carol was right, he hadn’t done it alone. 

“I don’t know what I mean,” Carol admitted.

You did. There was a traitor in your midst.

Pierce reappeared at your side moments later, holding the promised glass of water. He helped your trembling hand grasp it and bring it up to your lips. 

You drank the whole thing. On a normal day, it would’ve been refreshing, but now it did nothing but leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

Satisfied that you’d drunk the whole thing, Pierce took the glass and stepped back. “My queen,” he said addressing you, “what are my orders?”

You stared up at him, thankful that he was taking the initiative even if you were shellshocked. “I… I need you to…” Gods, you couldn’t even form a sentence you were so rattled. You swallowed thickly, rolling your shoulders back. “I need you to secure the Underworld. Close the gates. This is a total lockdown situation. No one enters or leaves without my permission.”

He said nothing but bowed low. His wings unfolded from his back and he was up in the air in a blink of an eye, ready to carry out your orders.

Bucky used this time to find a seat on the boulder right beside you. He grabbed your hand and pulled it over to rest in his lap to pet it as an attempt to calm your shaking. 

You squeezed his hands tightly, your knuckles growing white with the effort. 

Carol spun on her heel to look at you, her eyes demanding. “(y/n), I need you to tell me everything that’s happened today. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

You obeyed, slightly relieved that your youngest sister was Queen of the gods and not you. She was commanding and you were more than happy to do as directed in situations like this. 

You told her how you’d woken and immediately went to charm the cage and Kronos was silent for once. And although the silence unnerved you at the time, it never could’ve foreshadowed this. From the cave, you went straight home for brunch and Bucky came by after. “We were just sitting together when the quake happened. I… I never saw it coming. I should’ve…” You hung your head. “It was my job to keep the cage secure and I…” You didn’t want to say that you’d failed, but you had no other word for what had led you to this moment.

Natasha rushed over and put her hand on your shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong, (y/n). The cave is split, but if the cage was really and truly broken, then Kronos would be out here unleashing all sorts of hell. There’s still hope.” She turned her gaze back to the opening and pressed her lips together. “Carol… We have to…”

“I know,” she said, her shoulders rolling back and her chin tiling up. “We have to call the council.” Carol looked at you, her eyes hard as steel. “You and Bucky are coming with. You were the ones here when it happened, you need to testify.”

Your heart sank.

The “council,” as it was known, was a gathering of the twelve Olympians and yourself, only called when something earth-shattering or incredibly urgent arose (which, if you were being honest with yourself, defined this event). Your sisters and you sat at the head of the table with Carol front and center, you to her right, and Natasha to her left. From there, you were joined by Maria, Tony and his wife Pepper, Clint, the twin gods Wanda and Pietro, Thor and his brother Loki, Valkyrie, and, of course, Winnifred. 

It was the last member of that list that made you nervous. Winnifred was nowhere near as powerful as you. You were the first goddess, you’d been around for centuries longer than she and you had an entire army of the undead at your will. She was simply a second-generation goddess, given domain over the harvest, but she was the mother of the man you were dating and she hated you. While she had no control over you or your actions, she did have some influence over Bucky. She was his mother, after all, and she hated you with every fiber of her being. She couldn’t control her son’s actions, but you didn’t want to irrevocably damage his relationship with her.

You were close to your mother; you didn’t want to be the reason why Bucky wasn’t close with his.

If she was to be there—which she undoubtedly was—she’d be seeing you and Bucky together for the first time. You could only imagine how well that would go over with her.

As if sensing your thoughts, Bucky squeezed your hand and glanced at you. His eyes mirrored the worry you felt. You couldn’t read minds, but you had a feeling his thoughts matched yours; he was scared she’d flip, and you didn’t need to deal with her on top of the current situation. You’d been hoping to break the news to her gently, give her time to just accept it.

Welp, looks like it would be tearing off a bandaid with this one.

You took what felt like the millionth deep breath and sat up. “Alright. Just… Give me one second.” You had to leave a message for Peggy and Pierce. In your quick absence, as much as you loathed to do it, you would be sending Peggy to the cave to do the most damage control she physically could and you would be having Pierce guard the borders. No one would escape past him. You held out your hands and closed your eyes. Channeling your wishes and your messages, power coursed through your arms until they came to a rest at your palm and small balls of red fire formed. They hovered above your skin as they transcribed the message and finally floated off into the distance, each going off to find their respective recipient. With them on their way, you looked back to your sisters and nodded. “Okay, we’re ready.”

———

Olympus wasn’t as it normally was. The streets weren’t bustling with gods and spirits. The atmosphere was haunted and cold. The shops were empty and doors and windows were locked up tight. Things littered the ground and things were knocked over; various bits of evidence that something had shaken the earth up there and caused people to panic.

You knew the earthquake was bad, but you hadn’t realized just how much it had affected the rest of the realms.

Carol had already summoned the council; you could see the ten gods bustling outside the palace at the top of the mountain. 

With every step you took towards it, you felt like you were only sealing your doom. You were scared to be seen with Bucky. You were scared that you would taint his reputation with the Olympians. You were scared that they’d renounce him. It was a ridiculous thing to fret about, considering the current situation and all, but it was also one of the only two things on your mind (aside from your father and Tartarus, of course). Your feet felt like steel weights had been glued to the bottom, holding you down and only growing heavier with every step. You squeezed your eyes shut. Oh, how you wished this was only a sick dream—that you could just open your eyes and you’d be in Bucky’s arms, happy, safe, and secure. But it wasn’t. This was reality, and you had to stare it in its ugly face.

Bucky slowed with you, matching your pace step for step. Your hands were still intertwined and he used that to pull you into his side as he finally stopped. He took a step to the side so he was standing right in front of you and brought his free hand up to your cheek. His rough, calloused skin cradled your face and he ran his thumb over your cheekbone. “Hey,” he whispered in a voice too tender for words. “It’s going to be okay.” Whether he was talking about your father or his mother, you weren’t sure, but it didn’t matter to his next words. “We’re going to do this together. You and me against it all; I’ll be with you the whole time.”

You pushed up on your toes to press your forehead to his and let out a trembling breath. You didn’t know how it was going to be okay. Nothing seemed to be okay. But his words did comfort you, and you suddenly felt like you could face the world. You were already strong alone, but now you had him and he helped you be stronger. With him with you, the possibilities were limitless. “Okay,” you finally whispered after a bit. “Then let’s go.” You squeezed his hand softly and pulled back, letting both of you fall back in line as you climbed the steep mountain to the palace.

Most of the other gods had already filed in, filling the main room and taking their seats on their thrones at the table. Each god had one to match their personality and their domain so that there would be no debate on which throne belonged to a god; even you had a throne, although you weren’t technically a part of the Olympians. 

Your sleek black throne sat to the right of your sister’s. Where Maria, your beloved sister-in-law, usually sat, a new throne had been erected. It was temporary, of course, but there was no doubt that it was Bucky’s. The flowers on the armrests made that painfully clear. 

The gods continued to talk amongst themselves as you and Bucky entered last, your hands still tightly interwoven as if they were glued together. None paid you any attention; none except Winnifred.

It was as if she sensed Bucky’s entrance. She was his mother after all; she probably had some sort of mother-sense that alerted her to her child’s presence. As soon as he took a single step into the throne room, her head snapped to the side to look at him. In a matter of mere seconds her face flashed through about 4 different expressions: shock, confusion, realization, and finally rage as her eyes landed on your interlocked hands. Her face turned beet red and steam would’ve been shooting from her ears if this were a cartoon. 

You glanced sideways at Bucky, receiving only a nod from him, before tugging him by the hand over to your thrones. This was not your first council meeting; you knew the drill. You marched right past Winnifred, paying her no mind. There was something much more pressing than her petty anger and displeasure at hand and it had to take precedence. She could wait. You finally reached your thrones and sat down in yours.

Bucky took his and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

You didn’t know if it was because his mother was in the room or if it was because he wasn’t used to being in the council, but you reached over and placed your hand on top of his regardless. Your dead color contrasted with his perfectly, and your cold fingers trailed over his skin. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “You don’t have to talk, you’re just here as another witness. It’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” he whispered back, turning his hand over so his palm was up. He curled his fingers into you, gripping your hand softly. 

It was then that Carol mounted the head of the table. Standing in front of her golden throne, she cleared her throat. “Everyone, please take your seats.” She stared out over the twelve gods assembled beneath her and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for having to call you all here so suddenly, but there has been a disturbance. I assume you all felt the earthquake this morning?”

“Yeah,” said Tony, who sat just down the line from you. “Pep and I were having lunch. What the hell happened? It had to have been bad if it shook Olympus.”

The others gathered murmured in agreement, their voices hushed.

“It was,” Carol affirmed. “Tartarus has been breached.”

As you’d expected, that simple sentence caused an uproar. At once the gods were tense and alert. Some drew their weapons.

Clint was the first to speak. Having dealt with you and the Underworld before, he knew what that meant. His face was pale and his posture rigid. “But that means your father—”

“Has grown stronger,” you affirmed. “This morning the cave’s entrance was been cleaned open. We’re not entirely sure how much damage has been dealt, but we’re working on repairing it already.”

“If you’re repairing it, then why are we here?” asked Pietro, his thick accent coming through. He was a younger god, just a bit older than Bucky but not by much. He was visibly puzzled, not understanding the severity of the situation, but you weren’t surprised; he hadn’t even been dreamt of when the first Titanomachy took place. 

“The repairs are nothing but a bandaid,” you said, your voice taking on a grave atmosphere. “Kronos has somehow severely damaged the cage once, what’s to say he won’t do it again. He’s hellbent on destroying us; he tells me so every single time. He’s powerful and dangerous. Even in the cage, he has managed to corrupt deities.” Peggy’s haunted eyes from all those centuries ago flashed through your mind and you shuddered. “He is a legit threat and we cannot allow him to break out.”

“But if he breaks out, then we can just defeat him again, right?” asked Thor. The god of war was seated towards the far end of the table and staring at you, his eyes hopeful. The man was smart and kind, but he thought that every problem could be solved with fists and fighting. He was grinning. “You fought him millennia ago and won! It should be a piece of cake.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Thor,” you hissed. “Kronos has been stewing for all those millennia, biding his time to escape and end us. If he’s breaking out now, it’s because he’s powerful enough to do so, or had help from someone who could do it with him. We would hardly stand a chance.”

“But the last war we fought—”

“The last war we fought nearly destroyed the world and took ten years!” you snapped, your vision flickering with red. Why was it so hard for them to understand? You rose to your feet glowering at the gods. “We don’t have ten goddamn years this time! The mortals have come so far, and a war of that magnitude would send them back to the stone ages. We need to put an end to this now.”

“Well, we wouldn’t need to put an end to this if you had done your fucking job! Isn’t it your responsibility to keep his cage secure?” Winnifred shouted from her spot at the table, cutting you and everyone else off with a withering glare. It was the first she’d spoken since the calling of the council and it surprised everyone into silence. “You’re the Queen of the Underworld, keeping his prison secure is your job! Or have you been distracted as of late?” Her voice dripped with malice, the hatred going unmasked in her eyes. She was glaring at you and her son having put two and two together. She wasn’t an idiot after all, after seeing you two together, you figured it wouldn’t have been hard to deduce that there was something going on between you, that to your side was the place he’d been escaping so frequently. 

Bucky looked down the table at her, his eyebrows knitted together. “Mother, please.”

“No, Bucky,” you said standing up straighter and glaring down at his mother. “It is true that I have been a bit preoccupied. Not that anyone of you would care, but for once I’ve actually decided to do something for myself and find happiness in a relationship. I have found someone among you who hasn’t treated me like a disease and who has become very dear to my heart, and I have spent some time with him as a partner and not just some unfeeling monster. And, as many of you do, I have balanced that with my responsibilities. I have never once missed a week in which I would go down to face my demons and strengthen his cage and I have even put my life on hold to increase the frequency. I have been punctual and consistent, never asking for help. And now that something that is beyond my control has gone wrong, you want to point fingers and put the blame all on me.” You spoke more to Winnifred when you said that last bit, but it was true nonetheless.

Red coated your vision ever so slightly as you glared down at the gods. “I have never once faltered in my duties, keeping you safe in silence. Now, I fear that something is happening, and I don’t know what it is, but I know that if we stand divided, then this something will end us!”

“(y/n),” murmured Carol, reaching up to place her hand on your forearm. “Be still; it’s okay.”

You calmed a bit at your sister’s touch, but not by much. Though the red dimmed in your eyes, the world continued to stay tinted with the color. You continued to stare at Winnifred as you reluctantly sat in your throne. You could still feel your blood boiling, but it was cooled ever so slightly by the hand that reached over and settled atop yours.

Bucky gave your hand a gentle squeeze, holding it atop your armrest. He kept his eyes at the center of the table, but you know he was just trying to help. You appreciated him very much. 

You let out a quiet breath, exhaling through your nose, and squeezed him back. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. 

Carol took over from there, explaining your theory that Kronos was not working alone. After all, the cave was split open and you had been monitoring Kronos’ power. He wasn’t nearly strong enough to actually do that. So that meant that someone was working for him. Of course, this also caused a nervous uproar, but Carol was quick to calm them. Instead of letting them panic, she gave them orders. First to help repair the cave the best they were able or to send their underlings down to help and second to keep an eye out for suspicious activity and prepare themselves for war. 

They were simple tasks but they left the gods with something to do and with a direction to go in which made them happy. 

The gods dispersed, opting to return to their respective realms to carry out their orders. 

You were left alone by your throne with Bucky. It was just the two of you, the throne room was silent. You sucked in a deep breath and looked at the man beside you. “I… I think that went well. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, though you didn’t need me there.” He smiled softly. “Will we go back to the Underworld?”

“Yes. I left Peggy and Alexander down there alone; they’ll probably be needing me back.” You shrugged. “I’ve got to help them with damage control.” Your head ached at just the thought of it. “I’ll probably exhaust my magic stores for the week, but if it keeps him trapped it’ll be worth it.” You rolled your neck with a grimace. “Are you coming with me or are you going back to your meadow?”

“I’m coming with you. My magic may not be the strongest, but I’ll do all in my power to help you out.” His eyes were kind as they looked at you. “As I said, you won’t be alone.”

“Thank you, Bucky.”

He nodded and smiled, but that smile was short-lived. His eyes were drawn to a point beyond your shoulder and locked on something behind you. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout a warning but you were quicker. 

You whirled around on your heel, ready to see what was coming, but you weren’t quite fast enough. 

Winnifred had appeared behind you, her hand raised and poised to strike. As soon as you were facing her, her open hand came rushing through the air, aimed directly at your face.

As the sound of a crack shattered the silence, Bucky cried out in shock. “Mother!” he shrieked as he rushed to your side, reaching up to cup your reddening cheek.

You shoved his hand away, your nerves alight with pain and your head bowed for only a moment from the impact. Fire built in the core of your chest, red as rage, and your eyes filled with a color to match it. She’d hit you; you, the original goddess and her superior in every way. You lifted your head, slow and menacing, and your lips pulled back into a snarl as you glowered at her. “How. Dare. You,” you hissed in a voice as cold as the Underworld itself. 

“How dare I? How dare you!” She was angry, and that anger seemed to be a shield that kept her from realizing just how much she’d pissed you off or what you could do about it. 

You didn’t know if she realized that you could smite her right then and there if you wanted; your weapon, after all, was one of the three that could kill other gods.

However, she carried on, not letting a second pass before she spoke again. “You are a slut, a filthy whore! The river naiad wasn’t enough for you? You needed a god to satisfy you?” Her lips curled back. “And who do you choose to prey on but my innocent son? You’ve corrupted him and lied to him and now you’ve kept him under a spell to keep him close to you!” Her claims were irrational, but she wouldn’t let you get a word in edgewise to put her straight. “Well, I won’t have it! You endanger my son by keeping him around you! Death does nothing but bite at your heels and I refuse to let him be one of your casualties! You’re going to get him killed if you keep him with you! He’s so blinded by you that he doesn’t see that you’re leading him to his doom! You can’t take him like this. He’s a boy, he doesn’t know any better. You will only get him killed if you allow him to follow you. Do you really want his blood on your hands?”

“Mother!” Bucky begged again. “Stop it!”

“I will not!” she thundered.

You knew she wasn’t lying. She’d already screamed enough to cause a scene, and there was no doubt that every creature within ten yards had heard her. Some of the lesser Olympians were cowering away, doing their best to stay out of it. Out of the corner of your eye you could see your sisters beginning to rush to your aide. You simply held up a hand to stop them. 

They obeyed. While they too were queens, they knew better than to disobey you at times like this. If you said you could handle it, you would. Your ability to command even the queen of the gods herself was enough to demonstrate the power you held in your own right.

You continued to glower down at Winnifred, rolling your shoulders back. “Winnifred,” you boomed, your voice low and threatening. “I will not tolerate these accusations in the house of my sister. I will not tolerate the lies you speak of me and my intentions. And I will not tolerate you laying your hands upon me.” You stood up straighter and the room darkened. Your hands opened at your sides, calling forth the darkness that lurked in the corners of the room. With power coursing through your veins, you were downright terrifying. The air itself quivered at your presence, the taint of death and raw power causing even it to bend to your will. Your hand rose up, your bident materializing out of the darkness to fill your grip, and your eyes glowed brighter, the red casting a ghastly glow over the woman before you. “You think that you are equal to me; you are sorely mistaken. I am (y/n), Queen of the Underworld, the first god. You are nothing to me but an insignificant pest. I could have you put to death for even the slightest attack against me; you are at my mercy always.” Every god was, but none of them had ever pissed you off enough to warrant extortion of your power; until her.

Winnifred only then seemed to comprehend the power you held over her. Never once had you exerted it, but now she had assaulted you and given you reason to threaten her. You could see the moment it dawned on her that your threats had sustenance in her face; her eyes grew wide, her skin as devoid of life as yours, and her jaw slack with something you recognized all too well: terror. she was terrified.

And rightfully so. You were the last goddess to mess with. 

You could’ve killed her right then and there to make a point, to stick to your ground, but something tugged at your heart. One look at Bucky made you realize exactly what it was. 

He was looking at you with fear in his eyes too and you knew exactly why: he was scared that you might kill his mother in front of him. 

And it was in that second that you knew you never would kill her.

Though the woman had slighted you, offended you, and struck you—all things that would normally get one killed—she was still the mother of the man you loved and you could never put him through that pain. You knew the pain of losing a parent all too well, and it was something you would never inflict upon a loved one, least of all Bucky.

And so, still staring at the woman before you who seemed to think that these next few moments were her last ones alive, you put down your weapon. The air at once grew lighter and brighter as you let your rage disperse. “You are lucky I care about your son too much to do harm to you,” you spat as you let your eyes die down too, returning them to their normal shade. They flickered to Bucky and you spared him as soft a smile as you could manage. “If it were not for him, you would be suffering the consequences of your actions, but I am feeling merciful today.” Your eyes hardened once more as you looked down at her. “Now, do not test my self-restraint anymore. Leave.”

Given the word, she vanished, teleporting away, leaving nothing but wisps of wheat behind. 

When she was gone, Bucky rushed over to your side and wrapped his arms around you. He burrowed his nose into the crook of your neck and took a shuddering breath. “Thank you,” he whispered softly, his voice trembling.

You hugged him back, but your mind wasn’t on him. Even though she was gone, Winnifred’s words still lingered in your thoughts.

He’s so blinded by you that he doesn’t see that you’re leading him to his doom!

That part… That part sounded oh so true. He was naive, blinded by his love.

Thinking hard on it, you couldn’t remember a single time he’d expressed independence around you. Everything up to this point had been for the both of you. He promised you he’d always be there, ready to support you unconditionally and stay by your side.

He’s a boy, he doesn’t know any better.

You’d told him the same thing months ago, telling him that he couldn’t possibly know that he loved you. But he’d been so sure of it, so sure of his love that he waved you off. And you let him. You let him endanger himself by staying with you. You let him put himself in harm’s way.

You will only get him killed if you allow him to follow you. 

He would get hurt with you, you were sure of it. The world was not kind to you. The world was not kind to anyone. He would be hurt or worse around you. 

Do you really want his blood on your hands?

“(y/n)?”

Your head snapped up and you came face to face with his concerned eyes. At once you saw something you never wished to see again.

You saw Bucky, bruised and bloody. Golden ichor dripped from a gaping head wound. It coated his face and matted his hair. Thin lines of the gold ran from his mouth and ears in rivers, glowing sickly in a dim light. His eyes… His eyes were the most haunting part of all. Where they normally shone with life, they were dim, vacant, dead.

This, you realized, was the future for him if he stayed with you, stayed by your side. Winnifred was right. You would only get him killed, especially with the war you knew was coming. If he stayed with you, he’d die. But… If you sent him away… He might stand a chance.

In that one second, your heart sank. You knew what you had to do. It scared you, hurt you, and made you want to throw up, but—gods—it had to be done. You couldn’t risk his safety. You couldn’t risk his life. You loved him too much to let him die.

“(y/n)?” Bucky called again. “Are you okay? You look… Paler than usual.”

Your voice wouldn’t work. It was stuck in your throat like a lead balloon. It didn't want to say what you had to. It didn’t want to say the words and make them real.

“(y/n),” he tried once more, “talk to me.”

You finally brought your head up and stared at him, your eyes full with pain, and you said, “She was right.” The words were hollow coming from your mouth

“What?” He was visibly confused and you couldn’t blame him. You’d be confused too.”Who was right?”

You brought your eyes up to meet his, the effort alone becoming strenuous. “Your… Your mother was right. We… Bucky we’re not good for each other. I’m not good for you. You’re only going to get hurt. I can’t do that to you.” 

His brows furrowed. “What? No. (y/n), my mother knows nothing about us or about you. She doesn’t know that you’re the best thing to happen to me.”

“But what if I’m not, Buck? What if she’s right? I’m the goddess of the dead; death follows wherever I go. It’s only a matter of time before it catches up with you too.” You didn’t know how you couldn’t see it before. It was so obvious! Especially with recent events.

If you were right, and you normally were, a war was coming—another Titanomachy to be exact. Gods against titans once more. Kronos was growing stronger; the battle was almost inevitable. You weren’t stupid enough to be blind to that.

But, with every war came casualties. You couldn’t allow yourself to be distracted by trying to protect Bucky. You knew he’d chase you to the ends of the earth to be with you, even if the ends of the earth was the battlefield itself. You couldn’t let that happen. You had to send him away before it was too late. You knew he would follow you otherwise. You couldn’t let him. You couldn’t let him get hurt because of you.

“It won’t,” he said to reassure you, but he didn’t know that it was futile. Your mind had been made.

Your voice cracked as you said, “It will. It’s just a matter of when.” You knew what you had to do, you just wished it wasn’t so. How was it that not even twenty-four hours ago you were wrapped in each others’ arms and now you were having to send him away?

He seemed to have a vague understanding of what you were saying and he didn’t like it one bit. His stare hardened and his eyes grew desperate. “(y/n), please don’t say that. We can work this out.”

“No, we can’t.” You were taking slow steps away from him, trying to garner as much distance as you could. It hurt to be near him. Every muscle in your body ached and moaned with pain. “It can’t be worked out. Go, Bucky. Go away. Get as far away from me as you possibly can. I’m not good for you.” You were biting back tears as your heart sped up in your chest. It thundered against your ribs with the words.

But Bucky wasn’t going to give up that easily. “(y/n), whatever this is, we’re going to do it together.” He reached forward and took your hand in his. “I promised you I wasn’t going anywhere and I meant it. I’m with you until—”

You wrenched your hand from his, cutting him off. “No, Bucky!” you snapped. “I said, ‘no!’ Go away. We can’t be together. I don’t want you with me anymore.”

He looked like you just smacked hIm in the face, which, you supposed, you did in a way. “Wh-What? But you just said—”

“I know what I said,” you moaned. You turned your head from him, unable to look him in the eye.. “I cannot have you near me. It will only get you killed. I don’t want you, Bucky! I don’t know why I ever thought I could have you!”

“(y/n), please,” he begged, his blue eyes welling with tears. “My mother knows nothing. We can get through this together.”

“Bucky, please. Just go away, leave me alone. I’m not good for you!”

“But you love me.” He glared at you, his posture and power matching your own. “And you want me.”

Your mouth went dry before you spat, “No I don’t.” The words surprised you as they left your mouth. ‘No I don’t’ what? Love you? Want you? Both were blatant lies, but you couldn’t let him know that. You had to keep him safe. You bit your lip, using the pain to keep the angry tears blocked behind your eyes.

He stopped, his gaze hardening. You knew then that he thought you meant the former: I don’t love you. He stared you down. “Then tell me, (y/n). Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t love me, that it’s over, and I will believe you.” You could see that he didn’t think you would, he believed he had you trapped between a rock and a hard place and that you would break and say that you didn’t mean it.

But he never could have predicted how desperate you were to get him away from you, how desperate you were to protect him even if it destroyed both your hearts in the process nor how far you were willing to go to keep him safe.

Heat and pressure built up in your core, rising up through your ribs to your stomach and your heart, trapping them with their iron fists. You felt like you were going to be sick, but you shoved it, along with the tears that were threatening to spill, back down. Your voice was raw, pained, feverish, when you forced out, “I… I don’t love you.” Saying the words, your whole world came crashing down. Saying them, you saw the light—that light that you loved so much—die in Bucky’s eyes.

You could feel your heart shatter as his face crumbled with sadness, anger, and devastation before finally falling away to nothing. His expression was stone, he refused to show you weakness, especially after you so ruthlessly took the heart he’d given you and smashed it. His lips formed a hard line and he nodded. And then he was gone, leaving nothing but the faint scent of flowers in his wake and taking your heart away with him. 

Your lips parted in a silent scream as the dams you had so hastily built came crashing down. Your heart ached, the heat and pressure becoming too much for it. Your hands clawed your chest, your legs buckled underneath you, and you fell to your knees. 

Natasha was the first to your side, her hand coming to rest on your back as she cried out your name.

But you couldn’t hear her. All you could hear was a ringing in your ears, accompanied by the sobs of your heart. You had never known so much pain before. Your body was simultaneously on fire and being stabbed with thousands of knives. Your muscles cried out in pain and your bones shrieked with misery. And suddenly your silent sobs were given a voice. The scream that tore itself from your throat was more than a scream of heartbreak, it was one of utter agony. Your body convulsed on the ground and you doubled over, coughing violently, expelling fat drops of golden ichor from your lungs.

And it was only then, staring at the gold that littered the ground, that you even thought to consider that the pain you were feeling was not from heartbreak alone. But you didn’t have time to ponder on it.

Your vision turned black at the edges and darkness crept in as you continued to cough up ichor. Up and up it came until you had no strength to stay upright. The world lurched sideways, your head pounded, and all you could hear were your sisters’ desperate cries for help as you fell into nothing.

Next 16: He Feels His Heart Break

[404fmdminjung]

creative claims verification — gone

summary: a song about one stage of heartbreak — full on sadness. dated sometime in february 2021 warnings: none wc: 1920 (not including lyrics)

off days become more and more frequent. days turn into weeks of silence, no new news of fuse. at first, it’s like a call of freedom, liberation from the day to day monotony of standing on stage, gearing up with the lyrics already written for her and each movement dictated weeks before presentation. however, that all fades quickly — soon after, she finds herself lost in the days of monotony. nothing to do, no new friends. just the same old tricks and finds across seoul to keep her days busy when the time’s filled with individual schedules and sparse photoshoots here and there.

maybe, that’s how she landed in the mecca of tourist attractions and promoted instrument heavens. north of insadong, and she’s found her fix of caffeine in the nooks of an old-fashioned hanok cafe — a day filled with solace and silence, ignorance to the buzz of her phone inside her backpack when she hides behind a oversized hat and a mask sneaking into a small corner store in nagwon-dong.

she bows her head, says her greetings to the staff working. nobody notices her, at least — she doesn’t think they do. covert and curious, she marches straight to the lined wall of electric guitars. far from a professional, an enthusiast at best, her hands motion for staff for help when she finds herself at a standstill with one beautiful ivory piece.

“can i test it?” her eyes look at the worker, his eyes widen when recognition becomes clear. 

professionalism still reigns, and she sits on a stool, one knee bent. she starts off shaky with one chord she fishes out from her memories. starts fiddling out the rest when her fingers shift from one take of muscle memory to the next.

they say money doesn’t buy happiness, but it can fill some void — fill in the gaps, provide inspiration at best.

“can i buy this one?” she asks. 

-

when she’s home, her mind hones in on the chord progression played at a store. a near hour of a makeshift solo jam session — but there’s no jamming nor is there the head-banging thrill of loud clamor. instead, it becomes a soft lull to getting lost into a mindless melody when her heart doesn’t know where it beats anymore, and her time strung to nothing.

being at home doesn’t lessen any of the unresolved wounds, nor does it stitch together the edges of a torn heart. superficial happiness from a new bought item dissolves, so — she decides to bask in it. bask in the comfort of her home studio, where the lights dimmed low and the guitar that rests in her lap play the eulogy to what she’s wanted to avoid for so long.

it starts slow and steady, the same easy chord brought back in her mind. she strums, continues to strum. lets her fingers dig deep, the strings pressing lesions into her skin by the time the first chord becomes ingrained in her head (she makes note of that, doesn’t want to forget the first one). 

and what she wants out of this track is something casual, something real. because the flashback memory of it all being gone, and happy smiles become a harrowing question of whether it was ever real at all — she doesn’t know, doesn’t want an answer. maybe, she just wants to wallow in it and swallow self-misery as if it’s a blip of a pill rendering her useless. 

from the chords come the plucks of the notes, and repetition. it clings on her mind like a reckoning for asinine mind, gone and lost. senseless till she figures — she doesn’t want no frills, no thrills in a song where she wants it to be a visceral, yet tangible embodiment of walking through with a bleak expression and empty head. she wants a seamless track of a vacuum mind — empty and numb.

when she presses record, she strums up the first two chords into the pluck. leaves it at just that before she repeats again, humming incomprehensible mumbles to whatever words will fill the void soon. 

but inspiration strikes once more, and she sets the guitar down, halts the recording when her hands pull out the piece of paper and the other scrambles for a pen sitting on her desk.

because in the end, the mindless nothings going inside her head all spawn from a vision, an image. a recollection of memories lost and gone, where he juxtaposes himself onto someone else — someone else that’s not her.

the first words she comes up with is how her story becomes another cliche — but cliches are there for reason as she’s been reminded time and time again. repetition as life moves in patterns of repeating circles, and what’s become the constant variable in all of this is just the pain that hits from heartbreak. pathetic, and true. she’s only been a cesspool of blue.

Another story that's sad and true I can feel the pain, can you? You had to be the one to let me down To colour me blue

pathetic at best is how she envisions herself — when her mind renders clear, it’s the words in english that come forth. a twist of tongues becomes a near mockery of her life back and forth shuttling countries — funny, how the one thing of permanency to tether her back to this life now was the one who left her in the ruins of the aftermath.

yet, when she envisions in her mind, she only thinks of herself as a fool.

the one who let him render her speechless with his sly gazes and cheeky smiles, broken promises and empty whispers only to set her up for the greatest travesty — broken love. she writes down each piece of her broken facade and shattered guard. each piece of herself she severed off when she gave to him. as much as she’d hate to admit, without him, she feels numb.

genuine laughter that breeds itself in her heart, she sows those only to reap nothing but faux leaves and frail stems. because what it feels like is getting hit over and over, run over. each piece of herself lost and stolen only to be left to fend the foreign feeling of being alone again. 

hatred, it’s a strong word — but if she uses it anywhere, it’s here.

I just wanna be the one But to you we're already done Tell me, why'd you have to hit and run me? Now I'm all alone, crying ugly You broke my heart just for fun Took my love and just left me numb Now it's eight in the morning Hate in the morning (All because of you)

she thinks to each time of each day where her fingers hover over the screen of his call. one press spurred by impulse, and she reads the radio silence of a dead-beat line. no reception as she calls out to an empty void speaking the overgrown woes to a dead-end. he’ll play it like that, take his actor grin and sprawl it across the world to flash on tv with the pretty girl linked in his arms.

funny, how it looks from the outside looking in.

there’s something lost, no longer the sharp-edged tongue she prides herself in wielding together in moments alone. an individualist — yeah, the highlight of her past-time. however, that only dissipates to whatever’s left to make of the ugly sobs that cry out to nothing in the middle of the night declaration of accepting what’s already run its final course.

she’s no longer what she used to be, at least — she doesn’t see herself like that anymore.

I see you changed your number, that's why you don’t get my calls

I gave you all of me, now you don't wanna be involved

her eyes rove over what she’s written, a pathetic remedy for a poorer cause. how many love songs she’s written about some skeleton in her back closet — but that skeleton isn’t one she can bury past six feet. because by fate of her own hands, she pulls it out each time. stares at it head-on only to drown back at the replay of memories that flood her whole. 

nobody teaches you how to survive heartbreak, not when you’ve fought so hard to hold onto something you’ve rejected your whole life.

it’s a question of what it means to let go, or whether she wants to at all.

(for the sake of tonight, she wants to hold on. wants to breathe in each moment till it chokes her whole, and her tears get lodged deep in her throat).

she sing-songs the words to the track looping in the background, and maybe at first she doesn’t know what it feels like to mouth off an empty string of words when she feels so hollow. what she is, is only a hollow shell trying to salvage anything to make her feel remotely full again. 

what she pulls off is a simple melody when she sings, finds herself crying again as she muffles her mouth with the force of her own palm. save for another day, she’ll try again when she’s less on the verge of cracking whole.

 -

inevitably, she finds herself drawn back to it like a moth at a flame. nearly sadistic how humans become attuned to the feeling of pain and emotional agony when she fixes up the mic to the computer and places it in front of her.

eyes swollen and puffy, tainted with a tinge of red — she’s been up nights still crying over another sight, another news article. another sign of him in shining lights.

perhaps, this is just bad karma she’s pocketed over the years, now coming into full fruition. but she dismisses those thoughts because tonight, she wants to be selfish and take in whatever she’s feeling and weave it into the words she keeps in her mind tonight — even if that rakes in the barrage of tears and inaudible breaths she takes in between.

there’s awareness that her voice is high pitched, breaching the hearts of ‘happy-go-lucky’, but for the sake of wanting to centralize herself in how she feels, she pulls her voice down low where there’s a melt of grit and a vacant mold that just holds the words still. the first verse goes, and she tries again — it still sounds too upbeat, so she pulls it lower to an almost-mumble where it fits the bill of what she’s envisioned.

it transfers over to the second, where it repeats. figures this is just one big picture of repetition when all her mind circles around is one thing.

but when she turns to the chorus, she cuts her voice into pieces. shifts the gones into pure staccatos with the roughness of each sharp turn. jagged and pieced apart, she doesn’t care for smoothness. because in hindsight, heartbreak is everything but smooth — it becomes a dissonance, too washed out by the cloud of media and over-romanticized dramas. she wants something real, vulnerable and honest by the time she overlays her voice to the croons of where the chorus hits.

there’s a lack of harmonies in the entirety of the song — simple and direct, it’s all she wants out a song where lyrics speaks volumes for the pains of heartbreak. no special effects nor special additions of blaring instruments, minjung keeps steady to the sounds of the electric guitar and her voice that falls up then down, twists itself into the full revelation of basing herself in the heartbreak of it all.

it’s no longer a puzzle piece to mix and match each fine-tuned element to a full song. instead, it becomes almost a story written from one to the next — smooth sailing, she finds herself rolling with the tides. the force of whatever drives this process, she masters. renders with all the little flaws sprawled in and all. a song that breeds a certain rawness to her heart, she keeps because for what it holds the gravity she feels in this moment.  

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Terms of Engagement ch.5

Summary: Rus is still a kid himself and with his life turned upside-down, he has no idea how he’s going to take care of his baby brother. Having other kid skeletons appear in his world wasn’t exactly the help he was looking for.

Tags: Pre-Spicyhoney, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, Underswap Papyrus, Underswap Sans, Undertale Sans, Undertale Papyrus, Babybones, Scientist W. D. Gaster, Possible Past Child Abuse, Skellie Daycare, Growing Up Together, Big Brothers Caring For Their Little Bros, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Violence

Notes: There is a description of an injury in this chapter, just as a heads up.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter 4

Read Chapter Five on AO3

or

Read It Here!

~~*~~

Rus knew Dog Monsters. There was a family of them back home in Snowdin, kind, eager Monsters who ran the shops and inn, and the pups were always eager for a pat on the head or a scratch behind the ears.

Nothing at all like the slavering beasts he could see coming through the trees directly towards him. There were two of them, huge creatures with the heavy fur on their backs raised, throwing up clots of snow as they ran. Their eyes blazed red, slobbery foam hanging in strings from their mouths as they barked viciously, showing a mouthful of jagged teeth ready to rip and tear.

For too long Rus sat frozen in a mixture of terror and pain, staring as they came before survival instinct kicked in, rousing him. He couldn’t shortcut away, not with his leg caught in the trap, but that wasn’t the only card in his deck. Maybe he was hurt, but he wasn’t helpless, and even with his soul pounding in heady terror, he gathered his magic, readying an attack. A sharpened bone through the eye would make even the hardiest beast hesitate and Rus decided grimly that if he was going to die here, someone was going with him.

He waited, his attack half-formed, waiting for those red, maddened eyes to get close enough to guarantee he wouldn’t miss.

But even as he prepared to cast, both dogs were suddenly knocked back by a blurry wave of crimson, hard enough to throw them against the tree trunks. Twigs rained down on them as they slid down, both clambered instantly to their feet, shaking off the attack and snarling.

Their growls turned to whimpers, and Rus couldn’t see why, his vision was blocked by foliage. But he could hear heavy footsteps punching through the snow and the dogs were groveling, tails between their legs as they whined.

Prey!

(Our prey!)

Our XP

(Yes, ours!)

Our turn!

(Ours!)

The words trailed away into wordless whines and Rus cringed at the voice that came through the trees, a growl like broken glass, "I don't give a shit about turns. This one is mine. Back to your posts.”

Rus could only stare as the dogs did, the monstrous beasts slinking to their feet, tails tucked as they darted off the way they came. Footsteps crunched heavily through the snow and as the owner of the voice came into sight, Rus suddenly understood the dogs’ terror.

It was a demon, an enormous skeleton stalking towards him, at least a head taller than Rus and twice as broad. His sockets blazed with hellfire, one of them gaping with an ugly crack. His jagged teeth gnashing, huge, crimson-gloved hands curled into fists. Even his fucking clothes screamed with threat, plated armor covered in spikes and strung with chains that clattered as heavy boots led him ever closer.

Rus distantly wished the dogs had finished him off. That, at least, might have been quick.

His magic faltered in his grip and faded as Rus cringed away, choking on terror and whimpering. First in fear and then a cry of pain as he accidentally moved his leg, the teeth of the trap digging in harder with every twitch.

The demon stopped. It crouched down, hands hanging loosely between his bent knees, and spoke, much softer than he had to the dogs, "Russy?"

The voice wasn’t familiar, rough and brusque. But the name... no one had ever called him Russy, no one else except--

“edge?” Rus croaked out in disbelief.

The demon, no, Edge, it was Edge, smiled then, and for a moment he could see it, the gentleness within it, that sweet little baby bones who always begged to be carried, always wanted hugs and snuggles, who stubbornly insisted he’d marry his Russy someday.

Then the smile faded and it was gone. Barely, Rus kept himself from flinching as Edge stripped off his gloves and reached for the trap, telling him in that broken glass voice, “Hold still.”

An edict that Rus almost immediately disobeyed as Edge began prying the teeth open and the dulling pain flared like wildfire. He struggled not to scream, arms flailing in the snow, and Edge grunted, working it open despite his thrashing.

“Don't struggle,” he admonished. “It's designed to tighten if you struggle. Hold still before you lose your leg.”

A wretched sob worked its way loose from Rus’s mouth, carrying words with it, “You made this?!”

Adorable baby bones eager to make puzzles and traps, catching his brother in one and Red had been so proud--

“I did. Now do as I say.”

Lying in the cold wet snow, numb except for the agony lancing up his leg, was the hardest thing Rus had ever done, harder than raising his brother, harder than working three jobs until they could afford their house. He bit his tongue, holding back screams as Edge did whatever he was doing.

It took a small eternity, the trap loosening in excruciating increments. Edge’s hands were steady, and he only paused once to say, “Don't look, all right?"

Yeah, not a problem. Rus definitely didn’t want to see it, he could feel the marrow soaking through his pant leg and thinking of the mangled wreck that trap might have made of his leg made nausea rise, thick and gagging.

When he was finally free, Edge slung the trap carelessly away in a clatter of metal. Rus could only lay there trembling, soaked through with snow and sweat. He didn’t want to look yet and see what kind of damage was down there. Pain flared again and Rus choked off a cry as Edge began rolling up his pant leg.

“wait,” Rus croaked. Tears blurred his vision and he blinked hard, felt the heat of them trailing down his chilled cheekbones. Numbness was sinking in, maybe he was in shock? He didn’t understand this, any of this.

“Can’t wait, we can’t stay here.” Edge looked at him then, those blazing eye lights seemed dimmer, softer, “Just a little longer, Russy, you can do this.”

You can do this. How many times had he cheered that to a group of stumbling baby bones as they jumped and played? To his brother, Papyrus, Edge, all the memories of those days flooding back to him.

Rus could barely feel the hands that settled on his leg, but the sudden warmth that coursed through him made him gasp. He scrambled up onto his elbows and looked down in time to see splintered bone coming back together beneath the warm, green flood of healing magic flowing from Edge’s hands. His pant leg was shredded, crimson marrow staining the cloth and the snow all around his leg, but the bone was moving in reverse, coming back together into smooth paleness.

Edge grunted and the green faded. He wiped away beads of crimson sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Best I can do for now.”

Gingerly, Rus moved his leg. It still hurt and he could see the bruised discoloration rising, but nothing like the agony he’d felt before. He thought maybe he could walk now and from what Edge said, it sounded like he was gonna have to do just that and quickly. But he couldn’t hold back a squeak of shock as Edge leaned down suddenly, brushing his mouth over the blemished bone as lightly as a falling leaf.

“There,” he said in that deep, harsh voice, but the smile he slanted at Rus was like staring into a memory, shyly impish, “A kiss to make it better, isn’t that what you always said?”

“i...yeah,” Rus said weakly, “i did, didn’t i.” Up close, the crack that ran through Edge’s socket looked even worse. It trailed from his cheekbone through the socket, dwindling off into the top of his skull. He reached up, thoughtlessly, but Edge didn’t flinch as he touched it lightly, distantly noting the warmth of Edge’s bones in the cold numbness of his fingers. “looks like you could’ve used a couple of kisses.”

That teasing grin widened, “I left the crack mostly for effect, but you’re welcome to try.”

Before Rus could figure out what to say to that--because uh, what?-- he was abruptly scooped up into strong arms and pulled in for a hard hug. Despite all the spikes and chains, the heavy plates that made up his armor, it was weirdly comforting to be cradled so closely. Rus couldn't remember the last time he’d gotten a hug from someone bigger than him, had he ever? His hugs had been from his bro, and for a little while from the other two little ones. No one else touched him, no one hugged him, not like this, surging power tempered by gentleness.

“I’ve missed you,” Edge said, simply. His voice rumbled through Rus, who couldn’t help leaning into that embrace. Since the moment he’d fallen out of that last shortcut, this was his first chance at feeling safe. He wound his arms around Edge’s neck, avoiding anything on his armor that seemed too pokey, and held on tightly.

“yeah,” Rus whispered, a threadbare sound. “yeah, me too.”

It ended far too soon, that tight hold easing, but Edge didn’t set Rus down. Instead, he cradled him in his arms and turned on his heel, walking briskly down what Rus supposed passed for a path.

“whoa, hang on,” Rus yelped. He squirmed a little but without much hope. Edge’s arms were as strong as that trap and didn’t budge, holding on implacably.

“We can’t stay here,” Edge said firmly. “XP hunters are always skirting this area. We can talk in town.”

“in town?”

“Snowdin.”

“you guys moved to snowdin, too?” Rus yelped as Edge abruptly stopped and looked down at him in clear exasperation.

“Talking in town,” he repeated sternly and Rus nodded meekly.

“yes, sir,” Rus mumbled.

It took a moment for Rus to realize the low, rumbling sound was Edge chuckling. “No. For you, I am always Edge.”

It seemed like there was something Rus should say to that, but words, usually his staunch ally filled with puns and sarcasm, were failing him. A morning that started like any other had fallen through a rabbit hole and Rus was still trying to figure out this dark version of wonderland. In town, Edge said, they could talk in town which he guessed must be safe, or safer than a woods where sentry posts needed barbed wire and brutal traps.

Okay, then, in town it was. Rus settled into Edge’s arms, exhausted from the domino fall of crap that had landed on him and already lulled into drowsing by the rhythm of his steps.

TBC

[blameitonshy-ffxiv]

TW / RQ Prompt: Shyril awakens from a heavily-induced anesthesia while personnel in lab coats look to take her vitals again. An assistant lays a small pair of scissors near her fingertips while they prepare for another incision shortly after. The words of a familiar father constantly echoing in her ear from her recent dreams, "precious harlot, your father and my son would not approve but our little girl will make my dreams come true."

TRIGGER WARNING: RED QUEEN

(Gore, Violence, Mind Control, Language)

Stupid.

She’d been so fucking stupid.

These were the first thoughts to filter through Shyril’s newly conscious mind, the tendrils of sanity still sluggish and heavy with whatever toxin they’d thought to drug her with. Deja vu made the world around her seem fuzzy at its edges as she remembered the moment she’d been taken, and those same thoughts silently screamed with every ounce of her internal rage.

Stupid. You’re so. Fucking. Stupid.

For years, she’d managed to evade the Collective’s smothering grip. Never before had they managed to catch so much as a whisper of her name…a name she’d tried to bury with the husk of a man she so resembled. For years, she had succeeded in being something other than what they’d tried to make her. Something better, if badly broken, pieced back together with only the dregs of smoldering defiance.

And then, she’d gotten greedy. She’d reached for more - for something she didn’t and never would deserve.

It had begun as one, then spread to a select few. That name, whispered on lips that sought to understand the thing that stood before them, desperate for something to call it. Shyril. She’d objected, at first, not willing to admit that her heart leapt to be seen. Acknowledged. Even, possibly, loved. Needed, certainly. That would have been enough.

Her beloved shadows, however, had offered only betrayal. It was their nature. That single name had carried back along their currents, to those who’d sought her long ago. Hands she’d long thought dead. The wraith had grown complacent, even bold. It had cost her everything.

It had hurt, when they’d taken her. Though she hadn’t seen her assailant’s face, he’d known exactly where to strike. The damaged shoulder had sang in agony as a perfect blow found its mark. The rest had been a pitifully quick affair, her every attempt to resist muted by pain and the inability to find that delicate line of control. She’d bitten him when he’d pushed the cloth over her nose, and felt bone snap between her teeth. It was one small, satisfying moment before the world had begun to fade into an ugly dark.

Stupid.

The monitors were beeping at a slightly quicker rate now, though she kept her eyes closed and breaths deliberately heavy. What she could see beneath lowered, slightly parted lashes was vague at best - three shadows, wreathed in white. What she could feel was by far more important. A hint of metal lingered near her right index finger, though she couldn’t guess to what it belonged, and her restraints were loose circles around each wrist as if they had never actually be meant to be of use. She wasn’t supposed to wake, that much she was certain of. Years of intentionally ingesting small amounts of poison daily rendered even the effect of the strongest sedatives muted, though the nightmare still quivered in her bones.

“Hold.” A doctor murmured, leaning across her body to get a better look at the jagged, spiking line meant to visualize her heart rate. It was the only opportunity she’d get. Her elbow snapped up on reflex, cracking bone as blood gushed forward from a broken nose. It bought her precious seconds, long enough to slip her right hand free, fingers closing around an open pair of surgical scissors.Blood pooled in her palm from one blade even as she drug the other viciously across her second assailant’s throat. A fountain of crimson painted the room in a hot spray, its scent worming through her senses and taste pooling in her mouth. A quick, clever flip  of the weapon and she drove the point home in the other’s heart, leaving only one white-faced nurse to cower in the corner as she pulled the wires and tubes free from her skin in a vicious plea for freedom.

It was amazing how quickly those skills flooded back to her - that murderous bloodlust that sang at the gasps of the dying even as part of her recoiled and gagged on the slick crimson sweat she wore. 

This is what you are.

For the first time since waking, the pain in her temple throbbed to the forefront of her consciousness. Fingers coated in thick, crimson lifeblood stretched upward and danced along what felt like an incision - the stitches rough against the pads of her fingers. Another throb, and the words echoed again.

THIS is what you are.

The hand she’d lifted pulled away, revolving slowly before brilliant green eyes as she traced the vivid spatter across it, both abhorrent and delightful. A piece of her mind - that weak, miserable piece that had rebelled against her very nature in an attempt to break the chains of fate - screamed silently as the walls of a cell slammed shut around it. Her very blood heated, tek spilling through it with every pump of her rapidly beating heart as the signals in her brain rerouted and settled into a new, terrifying pattern.

For only a moment, those green eyes seemed to glow, shifting left to right and drinking in the grisly masterpiece she’d painted. The realization fell, then. This had not been a punishment, these people not her torturers.

This was a gift.

The corner of her lip tugged once, a short curl of a smile, as the feral gaze shifted to the still cowering hyur sobbing in the corner. When the former phantom moved, she was surprised to find that no pain accompanied the effort - her shoulder still mercilessly mangled, but the sensation no longer a sharp reminder. No longer present, at all. Another sense clicked savagely into place, like a thought dancing just out of reach.

“Octum.” She murmured, her voice filled with a cruel pleasure as she faced her prey. “Engage.”

The circlet of scalpels and instruments attached to gleaming metal arms above the table on which she’d previously lay responded, the bright lights of the room reflected in the glint of razored steel. 

“Don’t worry, puppet. We’re just going to have a little fun. I’m dreadfully out of practice.”

The Red Queen wore a wicked smile as the symphony of screams began.

——-

The sharp, precise click of boots approaching the open doorway rang in time with the last few beeps of the heart monitor. She’d watched them approach, of course, the chip within her temple connecting to every sensor in the stronghold. A thought had the scalpel she’d been so carefully maneuvering retracting upon it’s metal arm, and when she lifted her hands from the cavity the still warm heart rested within them. Her own gift to the one who had truly made her. It made no matter at all that the shared not an ounce of familial blood.

When she smiled, her teeth gleamed scarlet, that deceptive innocence replaced with something much more sinister as she laid adoring eyes upon the one who had started it all. The one Iados had once slain, but what was death to them but an opportunity? Honeyed words fell sweet upon a crimson tongue, and shadow of the rebellious ghost long fled as she dipped her head in a gracious gesture of submission.

“Hello, Father.”

Mentions: @valanthius-xiv (Thank you for this!)

[bootycap]

matt/foggy: where the lovelight gleams words: ~1800 summary: yet another mistletoe fic! read below or on ao3 (this is honestly just an extension of this ask/answer but here it is anyway)

There was a man at the coffee shop wearing a truly incredible purple suit. Foggy is in the middle of describing the exact shade to Matt (a rich, shimmering amethyst affair) when he opens the door to their office and stops mid-sentence. It’s abrupt enough to catch Matt off guard, making him walk right into Foggy.

“Uh.” Matt says, taking a step back.

“Looks like one of Santa’s elves stopped by our office last night,” Foggy says.

Matt sidles by him through the doorway and stands there, head tilted.

“Huh,” he says. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that the elf’s name is Karen.”

It turns out that when no one is actively trying to kill the founding members of Nelson, Murdock and Page, and when none of them are hiding life altering secrets from one another, Karen absolutely loves Christmas. To a startling degree. Like, pulling out the ugly Christmas sweaters on Black Friday and wearing them proudly type of love.

(Foggy asks her about it. Her vague answer about having a family to celebrate with again breaks his heart.)

And now, the office of Nelson, Murdock and Page looks like it belongs in the North Pole rather than Hell’s Kitchen. There are lights wrapped around every window, garland draped across all of their desks, and even a three-foot tall Santa in the corner of the room.

Matt wrinkles his nose.

“Is that—mistletoe?” He asks.

Foggy looks up, and then around.

“Wow. That is indeed mistletoe… and it is pretty much everywhere.”

Matt hums in reply but heads over to his desk all the same.

Foggy expects that one of them will have to navigate around an awkward mistletoe encounter by the end of the day but... It’s weird, because, for as small as their new office is, no one seems to actually end up underneath one of the many sprigs with anyone else for over a week.

It’s evening and Foggy and Matt are working late. It’s not really out of necessity, they don’t have anything that would require the long hours, but it’s an easy way for them to re-acclimate to each other. They’re still working on smoothing out rough edges and navigating around jagged scars and sometimes it’s easier to deal with all of their mutual baggage in a space that’s relatively free of it.

Foggy knows that Matt will be heading out in his costume later, but he also knows that there’s no real purpose behind tonight’s patrol besides Matt’s love of his city. Matt’s missing the anxious air he sometimes get, the one that Foggy can feel from across the office, like Matt might be vibrating out of his skin. The feeling is like nails on a chalkboard to Foggy. It sets his teeth on edge and settles in an uncomfortable weight around his heart.

It’s a little frightening, he thinks, this sudden insight into Matt’s other life. To know that tonight he’ll be the watchful protector and not the predator stalking its prey… or worse, the man hunting his own demons; leaving him beaten and broken in the aftermath.

It gives Foggy an odd sense of peace.

When it’s too late for either of them to pretend to get any legitimate work done, they start bundling up, preparing to head out into the snow. They’re both by the door, Foggy’s still laughing over the avocados dwarfed by giant bows that Karen left for them when Matt backtracks to his desk.

Foggy idly follows him, watching as Matt grabs the scarf off the back of his chair and starts winding it around his neck. When he throws one end over his shoulder, movement above them catches Foggy’s attention. He looks up.

“Oh,” Foggy says.

“What’s that?” Matt mumbles. He’s using his teeth to hold one of his gloves as he puts the other on.

Foggy points up, knowing Matt will catch the gesture. Matt stills.

“I’m surprised it took so long for this to happen,” Foggy says. “She must have hung at least four bunches.”

“Five, actually,” Matt adds.

“Oh,” Foggy says again. “Well—lucky we’re by ourselves then.”

“Why’s that?” Matt asks, tilting his head.

“You—well, we really don’t have to… do anything. There’s no one here to hold us accountable.”

“Well,” Matt says, looking uncomfortable. “Besides ourselves, you mean.”

Of course Matt would find a way to feel guilty about avoiding a mistletoe kiss.

“You know what I mean,” Foggy says.

They both stand in uncomfortable silence.

“I feel like she might just… know.” Matt says. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

Foggy thinks about Karen, the human embodiment of Christmas spirit. He looks at her desk with the shiny nameplate that proclaims her a ‘Private Investigator’. His eyes catch on the way Matt is biting his lip, just enough to make the bottom one a little uneven.

“No,” Foggy agrees carefully. “Not weird. She does seem like she might have some freaky holiday senses.”

“Right,” Matt nods. “Exactly.”

“So we—we should probably—” Foggy says.

“Yeah—we should definitely—” Matt says and takes a step, crowding into Foggy’s space.

Foggy’s not sure what to do next. Kissing his best friend isn’t exactly something that's never occurred to him, but it’s also something that he never thought he would be faced with in reality. A thousand thoughts take up space in his head and he finds himself momentarily frozen in indecision.

Luckily enough, Foggy has Matt. Wonderful, beautiful Matt who is taking the initiative and leaning in, inches away from Foggy’s face.

There is a moment, right before the kiss, where Foggy is pretty sure his entire world stops. His heart, his lungs, even his mind—every one of the thousand thoughts from before just slip right through his grasp until he’s a blank slate.

And then, Matt’s lips touch his. It’s a simple, completely acceptable under-the-mistletoe kiss between friends but Foggy’s world explodes back into a life full of Matt. Matt’s smell, Matt’s taste, the warmth of Matt standing inches in front of him—the way Matt’s lips seem to fit perfectly with Foggy’s.

Foggy’s heart stampedes in his chest and he wonders if Matt is listening to it, because instead of pulling back, Matt crowds him further, his body pressing into Foggy’s, his gloved hand coming up to cup Foggy’s cheek, the leather soft and warm against Foggy’s skin.

Foggy slides his hands under Matt’s open coat and Matt shudders in response. Foggy tilts his head and darts his tongue out to trace the seam of Matt’s lips. Matt makes a wounded noise and opens his mouth to meet Foggy’s tongue with his own.

The kiss takes on new life after that, Foggy’s hands roam across the musculature of Matt’s back as they devour each other right there in the middle of their office. Foggy hopes that whatever is left of them after this kiss can handle the fallout.

Eventually, the hand on Foggy’s cheek moves down to his neck and follows the path of his shoulder down to his arm. As it travels, Matt mouth slows until they’re exchanging small, soft closed-mouth kisses before pulling away completely, staying close enough to rest his forehead against Foggy’s.

They’re both out of breath and Matt’s got one hand on Foggy’s waist and one hand is… well, it’s holding Foggy’s.

“Oh,” Matt says quietly.

“Yeah,” Foggy agrees.

They both stand there, just catching their breath for a few more seconds, before Matt takes a step back.

“We should—” He starts.

“Yeah—yeah. That’s probably a good idea,” Foggy says.

Matt walks Foggy home and while they’re both a little subdued, only exchanging a few words here and there, Foggy’s surprised that it’s not awkward at all. The silence that stretches between them is companionable, like they’re both happy enough just existing in each other’s presence.

They say goodnight at the door to Foggy’s building and Foggy finds he can’t stop touching his lips as he makes his way up the stairs to his apartment.

By the time he’s making his way to bed, he feels like the entire thing was just a dream.

At the very least, tomorrow should be interesting.

It’s weird how not-weird it is. For the most part, they go about their business as usual. Matt seems a little more thoughtful, a little more prone to silence than normal, but Foggy can’t blame him. He keeps finding himself distracted by the way Matt licks his lips before speaking.

Foggy’s sitting at the conference table to give himself more space to spread out his papers, working through his client's connections, when Matt walks over and sits on the edge to ask him about lunch.

“Oh!”

They both jump at Karen's voice.

“What? What happened?” Foggy asks, concerned.

She’s grinning widely and pointing above them. Foggy looks up and sees the mistletoe hanging above him and then he looks at Matt. Matt smiles and shrugs and leans down and presses a chaste kiss to Foggy’s lips before sitting back up and asking for everyone’s order before he heads to the Indian place down the block.

Karen smiles the entire time she recites hers. Foggy has to keep his face turned away so she won't see his.

After that, it’s like the floodgates open. Matt and Foggy somehow find themselves under the mistletoe together at least once a day. Karen’s always around so there’s none of the passion from their first kiss but it’s still...interesting. Foggy’s heart always races when it happens and judging from the smug and pleased look on Matt’s face, he’s definitely listening.

Foggy doesn’t fail to notice that Matt seems to hang out under the various sprigs of mistletoe with unusual regularity, either.

Foggy doesn’t say anything about it, because he’d hate to be a hypocrite.

(He memorized the location of every single sprig the morning after their first kiss.)

Friday afternoon, Matt is at Foggy’s desk talking about their case when he walks across the office to grab a file. Foggy’s been sitting too long and desperately needs to stretch, so he stands and follows Matt. They’re just finishing up the conversation when Karen walks back in, shucking her coat. She glances over at them and then smiles.

“Ahem,” she says.

In a pavlovian response to the sound, Foggy looks up.

“Again?” Matt laughs.

Foggy shrugs and gives Matt a soft kiss. Karen makes a small, happy noise before heading to the kitchenette to grab a cup of coffee.

Foggy starts to head back to his own desk when Matt catches his wrist briefly.

“Hey, Fog,” he says, quietly and a little intense.

“What’s up?”

Matt hesitates. Then inhales.

“Come over tonight?” He asks.

“You don’t, you know, have plans?” Foggy puts his fists against his temples and sticks out his pointer fingers.

Matt shakes his head and laughs, the sound of it warming Foggy’s chest.

“No, not tonight. Come over?” He asks again.

It's really not even a question for Foggy.

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

Matt’s apartment contains a distinct lack of mistletoe, but it turns out they both end up feeling the holiday spirit nevertheless.

[doasyouwill-blog]

He Came Back to Her in the Dark: An Inheritance Cycle Story Pt. 2 (Murtagh x Nasuada)

Author’s Note: Considering the fact that I was going to keep this to myself, I am so excited that some of you have read this and have responded. Thank you! And I hope it’s all right, but I am tagging those of you that reblogged and/or commented. If you’d like to be added to the tag list please let me know.

@fictionisalwaysbetter @thebrotherofmany @michael-jinx @piercing-the-valley @nandavore @babewith-the-power @theblackqueen-ofmyheart @blade3429 @murtagh-thorn @dragonheartstring360

I hope you’re in for a sloooow burn, because that’s what  (in my opinion) makes sense for Murtagh and Nasuada .  Also, I just want Christopher Paolini to come out with his new book...please man, come on! Hence, me writing this, and I’ve had this for yeeaaaars, so it’s been a while Sir Paolini! 

If you would like to catch up, please see Part 1 here.

This fic is rated T for thematic elements.  I hope you enjoy, and thank you!

Chapter 3: The Dark-haired Rider

One month ago

Murtagh slept fitfully in the dying light of their campfire, sheltered by Thorn’s red wing. The visions dancing before his sleeping mind aroused Thorn from his slumber. With a shout, Murtagh awoke, holding his knife aloft to the throat of some unseen assailant.

The same dream?  inquired Thorn.

Yes, answered Murtagh, his exhausted sigh transmuting even through the soundless channel of their minds.

Anything new?

The same sense of dread, the future covered in impenetrable blackness.

Our future has always been uncertain, said Thorn, but my heart tells me this is something more.

I agree…some evil yet unknown walks Alagaesia.

It sets my teeth on edge.

We’ll keep our eyes and our claws sharp then, won’t we, my friend? Always, agreed Thorn.

 ------

Thorn glittered brilliantly like a blood red ruby as he flew against the backdrop of a gray sky. The northern mountains loomed impossibly tall, even at the height which they flew, jagged black spires cleaving the horizon. Despite the ominous nature of their surroundings, the sight gave Murtagh an inexplicable sense of peace and exhilaration.

Shall we dance with the mountains today, friend, or do you wish to walk safely on the ground? jested Thorn. And have you call me a coward for the rest of our days? Never!  responded Murtagh, letting Thorn feel his excitement and sense of reckless abandon.

Without another word, Thorn raced towards the dark mountains, a singular flaming arrow speeding towards black oblivion. Thorn roared with ferocious euphoria and Murtagh did the same as they entered the narrow gaps in between the peaks, twisting and diving mere feet, and sometimes inches, away from the mountain range’s razor edge. There was nothing, nothing, Murtagh concluded, that could ever come close to the feeling of flying with Thorn. Murtagh could feel the dragon hum sonorously in agreement. The roar of the wind rushing past Murtagh’s ears eradicated all conscious thought other than the sheer joy of present moment. Pain and sorrow, resentment and uncertainty melted into the blur of rock and stone and their fevered breathing. All he knew was the push and pull of the air, the thrill of being alive, and the touch of the sun warming his wind-chilled face.

After hours of swooping between the sharp, steep peaks Thorn and Murtagh emerged, weary but intoxicated from the thrill of their dangerous dance with the mountains. Thorn landed heavily on the golden plains that stretched for miles around the black spires. Murtagh dismounted with a groan, stumbling to the ground and landing on his hands and knees, his legs sore and his black hair matted with sweat. Still nearly prostrate on the ground, he looked back at the mountains, and feeling more alive than he had ever felt in his whole life, threw his shoulders back to face the gray sky and the dark ridges that extended to the heavens and let out a guttural yell of unbridled triumph. Thorn too, roared with all his might at the black mountains, releasing a magnificent jet of crimson flames, and there they stood, one dark-haired Rider and his red dragon, their exultant bellows echoing around the empty, golden plains.

 --------

Later, in the twilight, Murtagh sat cross-legged amidst the tall grass and listened, stretching his consciousness out to the myriad of life forms that inhabited the seemingly bare lands. He heard a family of rodents eagerly collecting fallen seeds for their winter store, felt their joy as each deposited a massive pile of the day’s takings. He watched a great snowy owl as it swooped over the grasslands, searching for prey, the pangs of his stomach making his vision bright and his beak clack in anticipation of a meal. He felt the rodent family’s subsequent terror as the behemoth darkened the sky with his flight and relief as he passed over them. He listened until he heard no more, and the blood throbbing in his body seemed in perfect rhythm with the pulsations of the earth upon which he sat. Thorn probed Murtagh’s consciousness, the dragon’s familiar mind musical, noble, and powerful, saying, You have come very far, Shur’tugal. The significance of Thorn’s use of the honorific term was not lost on Murtagh. He smiled. My gratitude belongs to you, Bjartskular. Murtagh drifted into sleep to the sound of Thorn’s contented humming.

 --------

The ugly lacerations on the young woman’s back contrasted with her satin skin the color of warm chestnut. Except for a tattered skirt of white linen, her figure was bare. Her trembling arms were wrapped around a stone pillar, with her cheek pressed against the rough column. Moving closer to her, Murtagh watched as a drop of moisture traced a tract down her face. From what was not obscured by shadow, he saw that she was very beautiful, but he could not recognize her. The drop fell to the ground and in the moonlight, he realized that it was blood. The woman shifted and the night’s luminescence lit her features clearly. It was Nasuada. A whip cracked out of the darkness and she screamed, and Murtagh found that it was his own mouth that was screaming in the soundless black.

Murtagh! Murtagh!

He awoke with a jolt, his throat raw, and found the force of his yell still reverberating around the desolate plains.

Thorn! Murtagh cried out with his mind, Did you see—

Yes, responded the dragon, his thoughts perturbed as he reviewed what Murtagh had dreamt. 

Do you think—

It could be like what Eragon saw when he knew he needed to rescue Arya— …and that this is happening as we speak?

Murtagh sprang to his feet and began to pace furiously. If his vision proved true, Nasuada was in very grave danger. From whom or from what, he could not tell, but the overwhelming sense of foreboding convinced him that all was not right in Alagaesia. And if so, why has Nasuada been left defenseless? What of Elva? Her friendship with the elves or the dwarves, the Urgals even? What of Eragon? He thought back to when he and Thorn had left. Alagaesia had yet to choose a new ruler and he knew that whoever came into power after Galbatorix’s defeat would be vulnerable to attack from the old regime’s allies. He paused and comprehension dawned on him.

Of course, Murtagh thought, Nasuada must have deposed Galbatorix. The longer he considered it, the more obvious it became to him.

She is a formidable pack leader, said Thorn, but her enemies would be many and the danger would be great.

None would be better suited, agreed Murtagh, but after undergoing torture in Uru’baen…Grief and self-hatred tore at him at the memory of her imprisonment and his hand in it, I hoped she would perhaps leave the grueling and dangerous task of repairing the Empire to someone else.

From what you have told me of her and what I know myself, observed Thorn, I could not imagine she would leave so crucial burden to another.

She is a woman of unmatched virtues. Her sense of duty, intelligence, and strength are unparalleled. 

I see why you still care for her, even after all this time. 

Thorn’s perception of his regard for Nasuada piqued his irritation some, but he knew it was useless to bemoan the loss of his privacy, even within his innermost feelings. The bond between Rider and dragon superseded such boundaries. Murtagh sighed, and again his mind began to race. Regardless of his affection for Nasuada, if her life was in danger and if she, in fact, was the caretaker of Alagaesia, then the very fate of Alagaesia hung in the balance. Peace, he knew, was a fragile thing especially after a tyrannical reign of over eighty years and without a capable, magnanimous ruler to guide its recovery, Alagaesia was liable to plunge into another war, this time amongst those who seek to gain dominion over the land as soon as the opportunity arose. All that they had fought and died and suffered for would be lost.

Is it time for us to return to Alagaesia, Murtagh? asked Thorn, his tone solemn.

Murtagh turned facing the south while to the east the sun was just beginning to break upon the horizon and the golden plains that stretched before them seemed to be suspended in time, as if the earth itself held its breath in anticipation for the plunge.

Yes, Thorn, said Murtagh, I believe Alagaesia calls us home.

 ------

Murtagh tarried no longer, gathering his supplies and securing Thorn’s harness so quickly that the sun had not yet broken fully from its place on the far point of the plains. Climbing lithely into the saddle and lashing the black scabbard containing Zar’roc tightly to its front, Murtagh sat, his brow furrowed and his limbs trembling with impatience.

Murtagh, said Thorn.

What is it? asked Murtagh, curious at the tumult of emotions Thorn was transmitting. 

I am proud to have you as my Rider.

Murtagh grinned and exclaimed, Then let us be off, so that we may be worthy of the name Shur’tugal!

With a roar, Thorn spread his massive wings, beating the air with such force that the grasslands around them flattened and the very air seemed to warp. Within seconds, Murtagh and Thorn were naught but a flaming pinprick of red against the silvery blue sky.

Chapter 4: “Do as you will.”

“Again!”

Nasuada parried Vanir’s blow with as much speed and ferocity as she could muster, her hand and a half sword a silver blur. Her limbs trembling, she looked up and despite herself, grew irritated at Vanir’s apparent lack of exhaustion. He lunged forward with a stabbing motion quicker than the human eye could follow, but this she anticipated, sidestepping it and returning with a slashing blow towards his neck. He dodged this easily and touched Nasuada once on the thigh, eliciting a cry from her and then held his blade to her neck.

“Good,” stated Vanir, as he sheathed his sword, “but you are distracted today.”

Nasuada nodded, sheathing her own sword. “The dwarves are arriving from Farthen Dur. Some new evil has been stalking their lands. Orik himself wishes to meet with me and discuss the welfare of our kingdoms.”

“All this on the eve of Eragon’s Day and Galbarotix’s fall,” Vanir’s usually smooth brow was creased with worry. “The elves too, have sensed a shift in the earth,” he corroborated. 

“Do you return for Du Weldenvarden soon?” inquired Nasuada.

Vanir paused before answering her. “I will wait for the dwarves to arrive. I need to hear their account. If the need is great I will scry Queen Arya, but more likely she is within Du Weldenvarden and will therefore necessitate my leaving Iliria to inform her.”

Nasuada thanked him for again taking the time to improve her swordsmanship and then took her leave of Vanir, ending their session prematurely. While she knew she was a more than proficient archer, the number of attempts on her life and direct experience in battle convinced her that mastery of a close combat weapon could only help her. However, Nasuada got the sense that if she continued practicing with him, her rigid mental blockade would falter and that Vanir would inadvertently learn of the full reason for her distraction.

Returning to her chamber, Farica helped Nasuada change out of her sparring attire and into apparel more suitable for attending to matters of state. As Farica tightened the laces on the deep purple bodice, Nasuada couldn’t help but look at the large doorway leading to her balcony in recollection of last night. The memories of it filled her with confusion and some apprehension…

Murtagh, as he stepped into the lamplight, appeared travel-worn and so beset with exhaustion that it seemed that it might topple him at any moment, but otherwise he looked well. He wore a dark red traveling cloak over a leather jerkin, a simple black tunic and pants. His tanned hands were bare, the gedwey ignasia glowing slightly with an iridescent light. His tousled dark hair was longer than before, and he seemed somewhat deeper in the chest and more solid in the shoulders as though he had spent the last few years hard at labor.

Recovering slightly from her initial shock, Nasuada still held up her jeweled dagger. If she was in danger, where was Elva? And her Nightstalkers, faithfully posted outside her chamber, why did they not hear Murtagh, and moreover, his thirty foot long dragon?

As if guessing her thoughts, Murtagh said, “I placed a spell surrounding your rooms. I thought it best if Thorn and I saw you directly.”

Her thoughts racing, Nasuada’s alarm gave way to animosity. 

“You had no right to do such a thing,” she said heatedly.  

For him to show up on her balcony in the dead of night, after being gone for five years, filled Nasuada with a myriad of conflicting emotions, livid confusion being at the forefront. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, examining Murtagh’s face for any sign of instability or ill-intent.

Seemingly aware of Nasuada’s fury (her eyes were glinting rather dangerously) and unwilling to provoke her further, Murtagh answered promptly. 

“I had a vision,” he said. “The sort that you can’t ignore. I believed that you, and the whole of Alagaesia, were in the most grievous of perils. So I came back.” Surprised, Nasuada lowered her knife slightly, though not wholly convinced.

“You came back?” asked Nasuada. She made no effort to disguise her incredulity. “Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been in danger plenty of times before you showed up. Only two days ago someone tried to poison me.”

“Of that, I have no doubts.”

“Then what brings you back? Why now?”

“This time is different.” Murtagh’s brow furrowed. “For months, I’ve been having dreams that some darkness was seeking to envelop Alagaesia. And then, one month ago, I saw you, as clearly as you stand before me now, imprisoned and nearly at the point of death. The same type of vision that Eragon had that led him to rescue Arya from Durza.”

Nasuada nodded, recalling Eragon’s strange account. “Even if I were to believe you, and I’m not saying I do,” said Nasuada, “that still doesn’t make any sense. I’m obviously not imprisoned, and as far as I know, not dying. How could that be?”

“I don’t know,” replied Murtagh frankly, his mouth narrowing as he continued to think, “but whatever it means, it was a strong enough compulsion to return here. I’ve studied magic long enough to know that such premonitions bode some ill yet to be discovered.”

Nasuada considered the situation, and then a fearful idea occurred to her. 

“How do I know you are truly Murtagh and not some illusion conjured by an enemy spellcaster?” His gray eyes looked back at her. He nodded.

“I would feel the same in your place. Ask me something then, that only I would know, something that you have told no one else.”

“And you won’t try to enter my consciousness?”

“You would know it if I did.”

Adjusting the knife slightly in her grasp, Nasuada scoured her memories and she harkened back to her imprisonment in the Hall of the Soothsayer, their stolen moments, snatches of conversation and companionship amidst Galbatorix’s cruel interrogation.

“Who was the man that I would sneak away to see and what did he show me?” 

Though not a crucial piece of information, Nasuada so rarely spoke about herself, let alone her childhood, to another person that this tidbit is one that she knew had only shared with Murtagh.

Murtagh thought for a moment. 

“His name was Taganna. You used to run away from your nurse so that he could show you his wares. He sold knives and daggers in the market streets of Aberon.”

At this, Nasuada lowered her knife. “There’s only one thing left to be done then.” 

Murtagh raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “And what’s that?” he asked.

“Touch my mind. That is the only way I can be sure once and for all that you are Murtagh and not some clever trick.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his tone uncertain. “If I were to be an enemy spellcaster, it would be almost nothing to force myself within your consciousness.”

“Aye, I know it. But before that happens, I will stab myself and Elva can bypass any magic you have placed around these rooms and alert my guards. They won’t defeat you, maybe Elva might, but at least the people would know that there is danger in their midst. If you are truly Murtagh then I most likely need not fear you and if you aren’t or mean me ill, then I’m already dead.”

Murtagh shook his head in wonderment. “You are as tenacious and iron-willed as I remember you to be,” he said and he couldn’t help as a slight grin of amusement touched his face. 

Nasuada extended her neck and looked at him square in the eye. Her expression serious, she said, “Do as you will,” echoing the first moment she gave him her full trust. Seeming to remember the significance of her reply as well, a bright spark illuminated Murtagh’s gaze before he half closed them. Then, Nasuada recited a scrap of verse as a tendril of thought brushed against the solid walls of her mind but did not probe further. As his mind reached out to hers, Nasuada knew without any further doubt it was Murtagh. And yet, gone was the cold black heart of anger that defined his being so prominently when she last touched his mind. Instead, she perceived a fervid red glow over gold-dusted plains, the expanse extending to the farthest reaches of his mind. In it too, she saw with a shock that he still cared for her, his feelings tangled in crimson spirals of confusion and guilt. After a few seconds, Murtagh drew away. When her mind was once again her own, Nasuada opened her eyes and looked up to see Murtagh’s soft gray gaze, his face inches from hers.

“So it is you,” she murmured. Murtagh nodded. For a moment, neither them moved. Nasuada found that she was following the curve of his lips and remembering the heat of them, how they felt on hers the day he left. Almost involuntarily, she felt her head tip back as if to receive his kiss and (was it just her imagination?) Murtagh leaned forward slightly. 

However in the next moment Nasuada recovered, drawing  in a sharp breath and breaking their eye contact. She turned towards her inner chambers to hide the blush that had risen in her cheeks. 

“How inconsiderate of me!” she said, clearing her throat. “You must be exhausted. Would you like anything to eat or drink?” Nasuada thought she saw a slight look of disappointment cross Murtagh’s face, but that could just as easily have been the shadows flickering in the candlelight. He shook his head. His voice was soft when he replied. 

“You are very kind, Nasuada. It has been a hard journey and Thorn took nearly no rest. Our sense of urgency was great. He needs to hunt and then sleep.” He paused. “Also, I believe it is best that our arrival remain hidden for now, until we figure out what our next move is.”

Nasuada understood. “There are accommodations for both of you on the east wing of the castle. I will make sure you have everything you need. It is relatively empty and kept ready should Eragon or Arya choose to visit, though I have no idea if Eragon will return—” Murtagh interrupted her.

“Arya?”

“Ah yes, the green egg hatched for her, not long after you…left.”

“And Eragon is gone? Where?”

“He left Alagaesia a year or so after the Galbatorix’s defeat, to raise the dragons and the next line of Riders.”

Nasuada heard a surprised huff from Thorn, spewing out a small flame that nearly lit her curtains on fire. Murtagh too, considered the information with surprise. He met her gaze. 

“It seems that we have much to catch up on,” Murtagh said simply. 

A deep, musical voice brushed against hers. Familiar with the touch of a dragon’s mind, Nasuada knew it was Thorn and allowed him to communicate with her.

We are glad you are well, Lady Nightstalker. She smiled at the name.

It has long since anyone has called me such, O dragon, she said projecting her thoughts. I am pleased to be reminded of my past self by one as fearsome as you. May you hunt and rest well tonight. 

Thorn rumbled, his approval evident. At this, Murtagh bowed to her with a slight incline of his head and mounted Thorn. Looking down from the saddle, Murtagh raised his hand “We will see you soon.”

“Is that a promise?” asked Nasuada, with a note of jest in her voice.

Though he smiled slightly, Murtagh’s expression was as intense as it was inscrutable. He locked eyes with her for that brief moment. 

“Yes, it is,” he answered, and before Nasuada could reply they flew into the night sky, Thorn’s wings pushing against the air with the force of a thunderclap.

[alleycatwrites]

III. Strife

“Tap out!”

She screamed in defiance. Or at least, she remembers she tried to. Her brother had her folded like an origami crane, his weight settled on her feet, the soles of which were flat against the back of her shoulders. Looking back, her only saving race from serious spine injury was her weekly gymnastics classes and fierce adoration of the stretching warm-ups.

She remembers the sound she made. Wet and gurgling, nothing at all like a glorious battle cry. It was bubbles through gravel, the pressure rising in her face to make her blood roar in her ears. Wet spittle fell on her lips as she desperately scratched at her brother's forearms, drawing jagged lines on the skin the beaded red but didn’t budge him an inch.

She remembers the instinctual panic, the fear. She can’t breathe, can’t think. She needs air, needs it because her vision is fading around the edges to gray and she can’t hear words anymore. She can’t even feel the pain of being bent like this. Just dizziness even though her belly is on the ground. Spinning.

She can stop it. She can tap. Her brother was practically begging for her at this point.

She doesn’t.

She must have woke up no more than a few seconds or a minute later, face on the floor, head cocked toward the leg of a table. The old green carpet under her nose smelled of pet dander and feet, rough and oddly oily, but she remembers her body contorted and laid flat

Remembers pushing herself on shaky arms to all fours, head strangely quiet.

Now, though, she doesn’t know if her brother was there. She can’t recall with any certainty anyone was there afterward.

She just remembers she got back up.

Her parents always encouraged her to fight.

Whether it was handling guns or practicing the proper form with blunted wooden knives, sparring with her brothers or the local children, or sharpening her words on pages and pages of defense on why she should be allowed to just be, she learned. Little lessons began accumulated: how to stop crying out for help, how to struggle past the bite of pain, how to distracted and feint and push herself.

Over the course of years, she shaped herself around, molding herself into a form that could survive it. She twisted and morphed like the silver fish in her head, unrecognizable from what she was.

Maybe the seeds of it were already in her, though. Maybe she was the product of hundreds of years of selective breeding that nurtured traits like aggression and physicality. Her forefather’s forefather had been brawlers and killers, her mother’s mother’s guerillas and widows. Maybe it was just meant.

Whatever it was, her parents never did like it when she fought them.

The truth is that she never really recognizes truth. She tries and tries but it never clicks, never is just there. Fact is only fact for so long until it fades and twists, a slippery memory warped and unrecognizable.

But she can’t stop. She has to keep learning and going.

Because here’s the thing; maybe she doesn’t recognize it. Maybe it’s never a hard or solid, capital ‘T’ truth. But all the little truths, all those small pieces. They add up. The layers keep growing.

And so does she.

There’s a thousand hurts she can list. A hundred million aches and pains, wounds still bleeding and raw. Sometimes she doesn't understand why they are there, never knew she got them when she did.

Because that's the thing about these hurts that aren't physical. These are different from the bloody noses her father gives her, the welted backside and bruised arms. They aren’t the same as the pockmarks from her mother, little rises in the shape of wooden spoon holes. These can hide and sneak away. The pains of the soul -injuries to the psyche through mental and emotional trauma- they can linger, unseen. They can bleed all over your life and cripple you until you don't realize you're walking through your life with a metaphorical leg blown clean off.

Half the trouble, she has come to realize, is recognizing they exist in the first place.

The other half is split into quarters. You then have to draw attention to the wound - because it’s there and it is bleeding and raw, but people won't look at it and will tell you it doesn't exist- and then you have to try and heal it.

She has set bones before. Stitched wounds. She has pulled debris from gashes, injected antibiotics, and sat watch over more than her fair share of head wounds. She’s more than capable of lancing an infection or treating a blunt force trauma injury.

But she can't heal these other wounds. She cant fix mangled psyches and battered emotions. She can't fight them.

She doesn’t know how.

There’s a trick here, a dilemma no one talks about. Some of these wounds, some of these mental obstacles… She thinks she was born with them. And there’s this hurdle no one addresses because the behaviors hinder her, but ethically, morally, scientifically diversity is necessary for life. The differences are supposed to enrich and enlighten.

But the divergence from normal thought processes hinders more than help. They make it difficult to operate in a culture and society built for people shaped a little differently than her.

So she copes. She adapts, and she tries and tries and tries and tries to shape the world around her the way it shaped her. To make it something a tiny bit more livable.

She fights and fights and fights the world. She kicks and screams and snarls because that's what she knows. That’s what she has at that point, and it is a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

The only other option is death, and that is always on the horizon. It is an inevitable and unavoidable fact, as much as she can recognize one.

There's no need to rush toward it. It will come on its own time.

She remembers her parents fighting. They did that a lot. This, at least, is something she can confirm happening from multiple sources. It was real.

When she was young, it used to bother her. The noise and tension itched under her skin, and the lingering, imminent threat of that energy being redirected toward her or her siblings used to terrify her.

But.

But it was always going to happen. One way or another it would twist and turn, in and out like the tide. Her parent’s ire rose and fell like waves, crashing all around them and saturating every person in their life.

Someone would get shouted at. Someone would leave. Someone would get hurt. Sometimes cops or coping or lingering, oppressive silence everyone was too afraid to break.

At ten she is an old hand at it. She has played this game time and time again, but she is usually more moved by it. Usually, there’s a keener sting when he mother cries. Her father is usually more terrifying than this. The prospect of her family -the only thing she has been taught to count on, the one familiar, the thing that is hershershers- breaking apart is terrifying and heart wrenching all at once.

But. Her mother said to grow a thicker skin. Her father said tears did nothing. Her brother said crying was for babies.

Her brother is crying. Her sister and mother and father are.

She sits on the couch, watching her parents fight, and knows when they turn she will draw their attention away. She and her brother will bounce their ire back and forth until they tire themselves out, whether they mean to or not.

For now, she watches her brother's ugly face, twisted up and snotty as he silently bawls. She holds her young sister close, bouncing her on a knobbly knee as she bawls, her own eyes dry.

And she thinks, this once, she’s won.

There’s something about a fight, to this day, she thinks is pure.

Not pure like untainted or unsoiled. Fighting, by nature, is dirty work. Whether’s it’s physical or verbal, hell, even emotional, it gets dirty. 

It’s not like in the movies or media. A lot of times, from the outside, it looks stupid. Nobody has cool faces or sweat glimmering in the right places.  There are unattractive grimaces and awkward grunts, holds and grabs that are only distinguishable from sexual by the intent behind them. When you’re exchanging blows it’s not like they show. It’s skin and pressure, eyes tracking guards and muscle movements. If you get really good you track environment too.

In the heat of things,  what she remembers most, is that it’s all about opportunity. Either finding it or making it.

Regardless, there’s something about that mentality. Black and white. Fighter vs. opponent.

Fighting, she thinks, is clear-cut in a way the world seldom is.

In high school she joins a fight club.

She remembers they all thought they were very cool for it, having just read Chuck Palahniuk's novel under the same name. Mant seemed to enamored with the violence, the concept of making soap from fat and explosives to book.

She remembers wanting to fit in, but clenching her teeth and letting secrets lie quiet on her tongue. She carefully and purposefully does not say that this is nothing, that this is weak. That her parents made the Blackbook edition of the Anarchists Cookbook required reading at twelve and only expounded on it since then.

Regardless of the words she never speaks, she gets invited to a fight club. She has a friend now, a few, but this one is the referee. They know her, know she’s considering amateur MMA, that she’s been in Muay Thai classes for a year and a half now.

They know she’s angry. That she wants to hurt people. That she will.

So she goes, because she is all those things and it sounds like fun. They meet up in an empty warehouse with broken glass on the ground, and she remembers picking a piece up. Remembers thinking that she has to be the most dangerous. That she has to make this impression last.

(She’s scared. What if they get found out, what if they get in trouble, what if her parents know about it- but they do because she told them and they laughed and said win-)

Looking back it's cringe-worthy.

“Can we use weapons?”

“Uh,” her friend replies. “No.”

She drops the shard, shrugs, and waits for her opponent.

The people there -kids, they were all kids- stare back and fidget. No one wants to fight her. Probably because she is a her.

But one steps forward. A linebacker. Mikey. He is shorter than her but strong. He’s angry too.

He nods. She returns it.

They touch fists, and their makeshift ref holds a hand over theirs while reciting the rules of fight club with all the fervent passion of a captivated teenager. She remembers her heart racing in her chest, remembers quieting her head and calming it.

The ref removes her hands. They step back. Circle.

She lunges. Fists and legs and everything she can manage. He gives back just as hard. They exchange blow after blow, but he starts giving ground. She presses forward, guard up and eagerness in her heart as the others clap and cheer. She wants to win. Wants to fight and hurt.

He twists away and she lunges again, seeing an opening, but not the back of his fist that whirls with all the momentum of his body. It slams into the side of her head and she drops. Win by TKO.

But.

When she looks up, blinking on on the ground, he smiles and offers her a hand up.

She smiles and takes it.

“Tap out!”

Her sister writhes, squirming in her grasp,  but she isn’t strong enough. She won’t survive if she keeps up like this, too stubborn and proud to admit she sucks at fighting. That she is weak.

And god, god had she tried to teach her. She tried to teach her to stop crying and whining and just grow up. Her parents are going to eat her sister. The world is going to devour her.

And that is...unthinkable. This is is her sister. The one whose weak little fingers curled around hers when she was an infant. She remembers the pride in her heart when she first held up her own bottle, fat, tiny arms struggling. She remembers the way she used to beg to be played with, the wails she used to make when she had a bad dream. She loves her, wants her to win, wants her to fight.

But her sister can’t. She won’t listen. She’s soft and doughy and weak.

She will force her, show her that you will lose. That you can lose. That sometimes you have to submit.but you can get back up.

But the terror on her sisters face is so clear, so crisp. She can see the panic there. The utter fear that wracks her little body as she flails. Her sister doesn’t even try and scratch and bite or pull hair. She just flops like a fish out of water, bucking her weight around, already taller than her older sister.

It doesn’t work. Won’t work. She’s stronger than her sister, has a better technique and trained more. She’s a better fighter.

Her sister doesn’t tap, but she unhooks her arms from around her neck. Pushes her away.

The younger girl gasps. Chokes. Coughs once or twice.

“Don’t!” she rasps. “Don’t do that! I hate you!”

She doesn’t remind her sister there was another way out. That she could have tapped. They both know.

“You’re the worst!”

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t fight this.

Her sister leaves, likely to cry or tell their mother. In the suddenly empty room, she is left adrift with her own thoughts, the blankets pooling around her ankles and slipping off the edge of the mattress that rests directly on the floor.

She gets up.

[ink-splotch]

The day after the battle, Hermione Granger got up before the sun did. The Lake was covered in fog, and she was used to having somewhere urgent to go, to be, to fight.  She closed the tent flap up behind her. Hogwarts had something like enough beds, but Hermione hadn't had it in her to climb those moving staircases, to step through the painting's open frame and make her way to the Gryffindor girls' seventh year dormitory. Her bed would have been there, months untouched except for the bras and scarves and bottles of sparkly purple nail polish Parvati and Lavender had strewn onto every open surface.  The fog rolled in off the Lake and Hermione stood at the damp shore and shivered until the sun rose and burned it all away.  - The day after the battle, they buried their dead out on an island in the Lake, the day after the battle. Madame Pomfrey fretted and hovered, but every injured witch, wizard, and squib made it out to those conjured chairs. They might sit with assistance-- with spells, with braces, with a friend's shoulder-- but they sat quiet and they listened to Flitwick read out the names.  - The day after the battle, Ron Weasley stood on tiptoe when he stepped back into the Great Hall, looking over a sea of bent heads to find a cluster of red. They'd brought the tables back.  The cluster was only a tiny blip of three-- Bill and their parents were flitting about, helping Flitwick float steaming bowls of pasta down onto each table. But Ginny and Percy were sitting on either side of George, keeping up a lively conversation about Gilderoy Lockhart's hair.  Ginny was sitting half in Harry's lap, like if she didn't he wouldn't be able to stop himself from getting up to help, or to pace the castle, or to walk out to the Forest and not come back. She was holding his hand, her freckled thumb running over the words written into his skin.  Ron thought about sitting with Luna, instead. Percy tried to laugh at one of Ginny's jokes, and Ron didn't know how to be kind like that. Ginny held Harry's hand. Ron had thought for a long terrible stretch of heartbeats that he had lost two brothers yesterday.  He could sit with Dean. He could walk out to the Forest and punch Aragog in his ugly eyes, because normally when he walked away from everyone he loved it was because he was scared and maybe change was good for the soul.  Ron pushed his hands through his hair. He crossed the Great Hall, swung into a seat next to Harry, and filled his plate with lukewarm pasta.  - The day after the battle, Luna Lovegood climbed up to the Astronomy Tower, because it was the furthest she could get away from everything. She laid on her back on the cold stone and cast balls of light and enchanted birds to chase each other across the ceiling until she felt like descending down to the ground again.  - The day after the battle, Neville Longbottom went down to the greenhouses to see what the damage was there. He had sat all night and all morning in the infirmary, fetching water for Anthony Goldstein and holding Dennis Creevey's hand and folding extra blankets down over Professor Sprout's cold feet. Madame Pomfrey had banished him to go get a spot to eat and some sleep, so he walked down to the greenhouses to see what was salvageable.  Whole panes of greenish glass stood jagged and shattered. Protective spells had put out any fires, but stray blasts of magic had killed beds of vegetables and flowers and taken almost all the silver-green leaves off an olive tree that twisted in the corner of Greenhouse 4.  Neville went in through the door, even though there as a broken hole in the glass wall big enough for him, and almost fell back through it when Hannah Abbott stood up from the row of pots she'd been crouching behind. Dirt streaked every crease of her hands. "Hey," he said, and let the door click shut behind him.  "Hey." When she saw where he was heading, she added, "The olive's still alive." The bark was rough under his hand, gnarled from decades of slow growth. He could hear the green magic whispering down its xylem.  "I was thinking I'd try to mend up the walls, close this place up again," said Hannah. "But I wasn't sure I could do it alone."  "Alright," said Neville. When Professor Sprout argued her way out of the infirmary and thumped downhill with the wind throwing her cloudy hair in her face, she found every pane of glass healed and Neville and Hannah asleep on the softest patch of moss in Greenhouse 2.   - The day after the battle, Parvati Patil sent an owl to Lavender Brown's parents.  - The day after the end of it all, Hermione skipped lunch and found her favorite secluded corner of the library instead. The chairs stood silent and sober, all gouged dark wood. The high windows threw light gleaming across the polished table, catching on the dust motes drifting through the air above it.  She dumped her carry-all down on it and reached inside-- up to her elbows, her shoulders. She tried not to feel like it was eating her alive and she pulled out protein bars and unicorn horn and crumpled wanted flyers.  She wasn't sure when it had gotten so cluttered-- sometime before the night in the ditch outside the little Scottish village with the awesome curry shop. Sometime after the time they hid out from a storm in an unknowing Muggle's barn, wrinkling their noses at the itch of hay as they ate their dinner. Hermione had taken first watch, listening to the thunder roll over the shallow hills outside, and she'd gone through her bag pouch by endless pouch. Harry had twitched in his sleep with every flash of lightning, but everything in her bag had been where it was supposed to be.  She summoned a wastepaper bin to hover beside her and got to work. Quills and ballpoint pens went in a neat heap to her left. Books she stacked by subject matter around her, except for the ones she flew back to their homes on Hogwarts shelves. She checked potions ingredients for decay, tossed the bad ones and wrapped the good ones back up in their oiled cloth and ziplock bags.  She ate a protein bar while she piled duct tape and the radio and a travel-sized magnetic foldable Muggle chess set and a depleted first aid kit all up around her. She threw the wrapper away and wondered if the smell would ever come out of the bag's insides, or if she should just buy another one.   - The day after the battle, they started putting the stones of the castle back into place. They put bones back together, first, skin and knit muscle and tendons. McGonagall escorted every statue and suit of armor back to where it belonged.  Sue Li sat atop a pile of rubble and ate the biggest chocolate bar she'd ever seen her life. She thought she could still taste a film of Polyjuice on her tongue, but she told herself that was dumb. She dropped little pebbles down the ragged tumble of stones, counting their bounces and calculating averages, until Astoria Greengrass showed up with a glass of water and a pasty and put them down beside her.  Astoria got her hands dirty every chance she got, put her back into sweeping up glass shards or hauling bandages or Wingardium Leviosa-ing stone blocks the size of a horseless carriage. She would stay in the castle as long as she could, finding odd tasks and errands and corners to lurk in. When she finally went back to the Greengrass family estate, it would be to pack her bags, kiss the old house elf on the cheek, and steal her dog away with her.  - The day after the battle, Ron went out to Hagrid's cabin in the stubborn chill of the afternoon and sat in his pumpkin patch. He didn't go knock on the rough-hewn door, and Hagrid didn't come out, but after twenty minutes Fang trotted into the yard and patiently got slobber all over his shirt.  Ron watched the sway of the shadows beyond the Forest's edge. Buckbeak's old tying post stood among the twining squash vines and their giant fuzzy leaves, the metal ring hanging empty against weathered wood. He thought about Ginny brushing her thumb over Harry's scars and wrapped  his hands over the pale marks that curled around his wrists.  When the air started biting and the sky started darkening, Ron pulled himself back to his feet and climbed up to the library. He had never lived there, never really liked its labyrinth of stacks and dusty air, but he knew the way there better than he knew the way to the Quidditch pitch or the Room of Requirement or all those other places he liked so much more.  It was empty, except for Hermione, and he was glad. She squeezed her last book into her bag and looked up at him, shoving her hair back off her forehead.  "They doing dinner down there?" she said, her dry throat rasping on it.  He shrugged. "Mum's organizing, I think. It-- helps, I think."  She nodded, looking down to do the clasps up slowly, one by one.  "I just wanted to go back to the tent," said Ron. "Be alone. It's quiet."  "I won't get in your way," she said. "It's still pitched down there."  "I know," he said. "With you, I meant." "That's not alone," she said. "I'm not quiet," she said. She clasped and unclasped the bag.  "Words. Accuracy. I never claimed to be the clever one."  "But you are, Ron--"  "Hermione," he said. "Come with me? You shouldn't be sitting here alone. Come home." They went down the grass through chilling air. Ron could hear his mother in his head, telling him to take her bag and carry it for her, but he just reached out for her hand.  - The day after the end of it all, Ron laid on the floor of the tent, counting stitches in the canvas, while Hermione read Hogwarts, A History like she didn't have it memorized. She read her favorite parts aloud, stopping mid-sentence when the tent flap rustled and opened.  "Ginny's sitting on Neville until he agrees to sleep in a real bed and not a pile of shrubbery," Harry said, stepping inside and shutting it up behind him. "She got Luna to help because she says otherwise Luna will just fade into a corner and not come out for food." He hunched his shoulders. "I'm not intruding, right?"  "Don't be daft," said Ron and patted a bit of floor next to him. "C'mon, join in, Hermione's trying to bore me to sleep. I suspect it's an act of caring concern." Hermione threw a pillow at his head without looking up from the pages.   The day after the battle, they fell asleep in a tangle in the center of the tent that they had lugged across their country, across these long, cold days of the war. They had danced here to the radio, had chewed protein bars, played chess and bled and yelled at each other.  But the war was over and they were growing into it, slow, staying up too late as they leaned into each other and whispered on this threadbare rug. They meant to wobble to their feet and get to bed, but Harry was clinging to Hermione's hand and none of them wanted to go.  They would get too old for this-- hard floors and the way Harry's neck was cricked up on Ron's bony shoulder. Hermione's snoring would get worse and Ron would have to sleep with four carefully arranged pillows to stop his back from aching in the mornings, but Harry would always have a place here. He had slept on Ron's bedroom floor at fourteen, leaned on Hermione outside his parents' broken home.  In the weeks after the battle, Hermione would track down her parents and move back home, and they would all help the Weasleys rebuild the Burrow. Harry would move in Andromeda Tonks's spare room. "We're almost like family, after all," she'd say briskly, shooing him into the house and showing him where she kept the tea, Teddy's diapers, and the whiskey. They'd come for visits and talk through the night in each of those homes, curled up under Molly's quilts or out on the Granger's back porch swing or over fingers of firewhiskey with Andromeda.  In the months after the war, he and Ron would get a flat while they went through Auror training and Hermione would crash there five nights out of seven. Her university textbooks would take over their countertops, shelves, tables, and floor and Harry wouldn't tease them (too much) for how hilariously long they tried to pretend it was the couch Hermione slept on.  Every home Ron and Hermione lived in, for the rest of their lives, would have a place for Harry-- a spare room or a patch of floor or an old sofa. He would know how Hermione took her coffee, and his favorite cereal and Ginny's favorite oatmeal would always been in the cupboard, and their children would have giggly cousin-sleepovers in magical tents they pitched on the living room rug.  When the kids came shrieking in to wake them at absolutely unacceptable, ugly hours, Ginny would groan curse words they'd repeat gleefully among themselves, but Harry would let them grab his hands in their little sticky ones and pull him barefoot and messy-haired out into the morning.

[sending-the-message]

Has anyone heard of the Left/Right Game? (Part 8) by NeonTempo

Hi Guys,

Apologies for the removal of this log a second ago, not sure why that happened, and I should also apologise for the delay in posting recently. If I could dedicate all my time to finding Alice, then I would. Sadly, I need to work as many Christmas shifts as I can get my hands on, especially now I’ve decided that I can’t continue the investigation effectively from my flat in North London.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’ve decided that, after Christmas, I’m going to be flying out stateside to follow up on the leads you guys have provided. Hopefully once I’m there I might be able to make some real headway.

In the meantime, please keep any and all insights coming, however small. I really do read all of them.

Ok, here’s the next log:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

The Left/Right Game [DRAFT 1] 14/02/2017

In the brief interlude before I hit the ground, I find myself alone with the stars.

As I fall backward towards the slope, my gaze rising to meet the night sky, I feel a sudden weightlessness take hold, as if I’m being granted an audience with the heavens. The rich and endless firmament shines down through the canopy, with no earthly light to dull its glow. Despite everything that’s happened, I’m unable to ignore how magnificent it all is, how gracefully detached from the ugliness below. Though the moment lasts no more than a second, it feels longer, like I’ve been gifted some fleeting respite, a transient sliver of time in which to appreciate the calm and quiet cosmos. A moment to escape, however briefly, from the events that are to come.

I don’t know how much longer the moment might have lasted. I suppose I never will. It’s with a sense of genuine sadness that I turn myself away, twisting my body around in mid-air. The stars disappear from view, and I am left staring down the slope into the valley’s dark, uncompromising depths. My commune with the heavens has ended, and I’m returned to the cold, unforgiving earth.

It doesn’t welcome me back.

I hit the slope, immediately bouncing off one shoulder and landing on the other, barrelling forcefully and unstoppably downhill. My entire body is thrown into chaos, tossed into a frenetic, uncontrollable dance, swept along by the rushing earth towards the impatient valley floor.

The back of my ankle flails against a hard, jagged rock. My face rolls into a small bloom of stinging nettles, their caustic leaves scraping against my cheek. I battle to bring order to my descent, my hands grasping at the undergrowth, clawing through loose soil in a frenzied search for stability.

Rocks and dirt cascade around me as I pull myself onto my back, finally managing to descend with my feet pointed downhill. I’ve regained control just in time, looking ahead to see a large tree, bursting out of the hill a few metres below me. A split second before I would have collided with the thick, knotted trunk, I throw myself to the side, my wrist ricocheting against the bark and sending a shooting pain down my arm.

The valley’s base comes into view, hurtling towards me as I plummet through the rushing undergrowth. I can make out the bodies of the deer who made this hazardous journey before me. I can hear the pained braying of the survivors, moaning in hollow resignation as they struggle to stand on broken legs.

A moment later, I join them.

The slope doesn’t level out gradually. Just before the bottom, the sharp incline I’ve been hopelessly traversing drops off into a sheer rock face. Before I can stop myself, I’m launched from the slope, kicking dirt into the air. I spend the final three metres in freefall, before landing on my hands and knees, my whole body subject to a complete, bone rattling halt.

My body tensed and aching, I pick myself up off the valley floor. The second I stumble onto my feet, a harsh beam of torchlight strikes the ground to my right. My muscles groaning, I jump back against the natural rock wall as the light swings my way, sweeping directly over the spot where I just landed.

Bluejay is looking for me. I would have expected nothing less. The beam glides along the ground, scanning the base of the slope, lighting up the twisted bodies of countless deer. Fortunately, the shadow cast by the rock wall offers a measure of sanctuary, shielding me from the torch’s restless glare.

About half a minute after it arrived, the beam rises through the trees and cuts out.

I don’t expect her to come after me. I certainly don’t expect her to drop down the slope. Perhaps she could walk back down the road, taking a gentler route downhill, and pursue me through the valley once it levels out, but that walk would probably take half an hour each way. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to leave the Wrangler unprotected for that long.

Despite the fact that she’s showing no signs of entering the valley, Bluejay is clearly eager to locate me. The torch suddenly illuminates the damp soil ahead of me as she points it back down into the valley. I suspect she turned it off just long enough for me to feel overlooked, allowing me to consider stepping out into the open. I also suspect that, should the torchlight find me scrambling around on the valley floor, a bullet will quickly follow it, putting me down to lie with the deer. From that point, all she’d need to do is walk down and slip the Wrangler’s key from my cold, limp fingers.

Catching my breath, my back pressed against the rough rock wall, I run through my current priorities. I need to stabilise Rob, I need to lure Bluejay away from the Wrangler, and, most pressingly, I need to contact Lilith.

I reach to the back of my waistband, my hand searching for my personal walkie talkie. My fingers touch denim, finding an empty space where the transceiver should be. My stomach drops as I search along my back. It’s gone. I’d had it with me when I dropped onto the slope, but at some point during my furious descent, it must have gotten away from me.

The torchlight swings back around once more.

Though it’s something I never thought I’d have to do, I find myself making a mental inventory of the convoy’s radio transceivers. Before we set out on the road, Rob handed a walkie talkie out to each of us. Since then, it’s safe to assume that those belonging to Ace, Apollo, Eve, Bonnie and Clyde are no longer in play. Lilith must have lost hers when her car sank into the ground, which is why I gave her Rob’s before she ran into the forest. That just left mine, which could be anywhere on the hillside, and Bluejay’s.

The torchlight disappears once more.

I cautiously lean out from the shadows, scanning the forest around me. Bluejay’s walkie talkie had been in her car when the child pushed it from the road. If I’m correct, then her transceiver is the only one left that I can use to contact Lilith. The car itself doesn’t seem to be anywhere around me, but as I turn my head and scan the dark hillside, I can see it resting on the slope. The entire car has been stopped mid-fall, resting precariously on its side, the vehicle’s crooked undercarriage crumpled around the trunk of an old and battered tree.

If I’m going to get in touch with Lilith, I’m going to have to climb up there.

I edge along the rock until Bluejay’s car is almost directly uphill from me. Turning around, and running my hands against the damp, shrouded wall, I’m able to discern a few passable handholds. Placing my fingers into a large groove above my head, I jam my boot onto a small outcrop just above the wall and push myself upwards.

It isn’t an easy climb. My hands are cold, my arms are tired and I’m certainly not wearing the right shoes. My boots repeatedly slip from their holds, causing my arms to throb as they’re forced to bear my weight. After painstakingly scraping up the first two metres, I run out of places to put my hands, my outstretched fingers falling roughly 10 inches short of the top. I take a quick breather, letting both arms straighten as I lean back and observe the wall above me. As the torch sweeps past overhead once more, it illuminates a small twisted root on the very edge of the cliff.

I have no idea if I can reach it, and there’s every chance it will give way immediately, causing me to topple helplessly back to the earth. However, I can already feel my grip weakening, a noticeable ache running up my forearms. I’m not going to be able to stay where I am much longer, and I suspect I won’t have the energy to make it this far again. Edging my feet up, scrabbling the side of my boot against the wall until it sticks in place. I bend my legs slightly, poising myself to make the jump. Gritting my teeth, and with a sharp, tentative intake of breath, I swing myself up into the air and let go of the wall.

I feel grossly vulnerable, hanging in the air with nothing but a harsh fall below me and a harrowing climb waiting above. I throw my arms forward as I hit the peak of my jump and just manage to catch the root with both hands. A heavy jolt wrenches my shoulders, threatening to yank me back to the ground. Fear and adrenaline alone sustain my desperate grip, my arms on fire as I swing my leg up to the ledge, hooking my heel over the top after a few clumsy attempts.

I force myself over the edge and onto the soft soil, just in time for the torchlight to start circling back towards me.

With one final surge of effort, I push my aching body upright and struggle over to the nearest tree, falling at its base and pressing myself against the bark. The light travels quickly. The tree’s darkening shadow swings over from the right, covering me, and then fading again as it stretches out to my left. The light leaves me in darkness, certain to return soon as Bluejay continues her frenzied surveillance.

It's started to rain a little. A few sporadic droplets fall through the sparse canopy and land on my outstretched palm. It doesn’t take long before these scouts are reinforced by a steady downpour, drumming against the leaves and grass, soaking through the loam. The already punishing incline is going to prove completely unclimbable if the rain has enough time to slicken the grass and pound the soil into mud. I also doubt I’ll be able to make the initial climb again, especially if the rock wall becomes coated in a layer of cold rain.

As much as I have to move quickly up to the car, I also need to move carefully. It’s becoming increasingly clear that this will be my only attempt at reaching the radio.

The vehicle is only a short climb away. I can see its undercarriage laying against the tree, the entire left side of the vehicle pressed into the ground. Only now I’m nearby do I hear the ominous creaking sound that emanates from the car, as it rocks almost imperceptibly around a thin focal point.

I wait for the torchlight to swing past me once more before pulling myself out from the shadow of the tree. My dirt covered hands grasping at any conceivable purchase, I crawl up the bank towards Bluejay’s vehicle. My feet slip on the grass with every other step as the rain seeps into the ground, soaking through my fleece.

I’m completely exposed as I make my way on towards the car. Though it remains a constant concern, the torch seems to be exploring another section of the hill as I arrive beneath the chassis, the undercarriage looming imposingly over me. I briefly glance up to check on Bluejay’s movements then, slowly, steadying myself against the incredible incline, I climb out into the open once more and pull myself up until I’m in line with the warped, twisted hood.

Bluejay’s transceiver is still fastened within its dock. Despite the car’s battered condition, the windshield is frustratingly intact, with nothing more than a small jagged, irregular hole near its centre. It will take a bit of manoeuvring, but it should be just big enough to reach through and pull the radio free. Slowly, and tentatively, I thread my arm through the centre of the opening, shards of serrated glass encircling my skin. My hand reaches the dashboard, slowly brushing along its surface towards the walkie talkie as I lean into the car.

The torchlight starts to swing back across the hill. Bluejay is walking along the ledge in a frantic mission to find me. In my current position, out in the open and trapped in a slow and delicate procedure, there’s no way I can get out of the way in time.

My hand grasps the transceiver as the light reaches me. Though I’m ashamed to admit it, for a brief moment, drowned in the revealing glare of the torch’s beam, I’m stunned into inaction. The light has stopped moving, fixed directly on me, casting my stark shadow down into the valley. I can imagine Bluejay’s triumphant glare as her desperate search is finally rewarded.

Returning to my senses all too late, I grit my teeth, and wrench the walkie talkie from its dock. With no time for grace or care, I retract my arm from the windshield, inhaling sharply as an aberrant shard of glass scrapes across the back of my hand.

It turns out I have greater things to worry about, as I hear a loud bang from up the top of the hill, followed instantaneously by a disgusting zipping sound that flashes past my ear. I flinch instinctively from the noise, my sudden reaction causing my boots to give way beneath me. I slam into the earth and career down the hill. What little control I have over the slope, I give away in a desperate bid to roll into the car’s shadow and out of the light. I don’t have time to right myself as I’m dragged chaotically down towards the valley, and cast over the edge once more.

The base of the valley flashes into view mere seconds before my body slams into it. The air is ripped out of my lungs, my pained cry forming a visible plume of steam that dissipates into the cold night air. I lay on my side, cradling the walkie talkie in my hands. At the very least, I’d managed to keep a hold of it.

The torch dances erratically around my position. I pick myself up and drag my body the last few metres, collapsing against the wall as torch beam lights up the ground in front of me. As I raise the radio, I realise my hands are violently shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever been as close to death as when that bullet passed by me, and although the noise itself died quickly, it’s horrific implications echo in my skull. Bluejay shot Rob as a bargaining chip, to drag us out of the Wrangler. It was a show of force. A power play. The bullet that she just fired in my direction had no nuance, no pretence, no objective other than its primary function.

Bluejay’s prepared to kill me, which means she’s prepared to kill any of us. I raise the transceiver, and switch through the channels until I find Rob’s frequency.

AS: This is Bristol to Lilith. Bristol to Lilith. Do you copy?

The radio crackles as I release the button. I wait twenty interminable seconds for Lilith to respond. She doesn’t.

AS: This is Bristol to Lilith, can you hear me?

This time I let a minute pass. Still nothing. Everything I’ve been struggling for since I jumped into the valley has come up against a wall of silence. I feel a swell of frustration inside me.

It isn’t fair.

AS: Jen? Jen… are you there?

Another minute goes by. I sit in silence the whole time, watching as the radio I risked my life to collect transforms into a useless hunk of plastic. After a while I loosen my grip and let it drop into the wet soil.

I bring my legs up to my body, wrap my arms around them, and rest my head against my knees. In a moment of rest, my breathing becomes shallow. A set of fresh tears well up behind my eyes, spilling out down my face. The rain falls around me as I quietly cry, sitting in the middle of a dark forest, muddied, injured, and alone.

I’m ripped out of my melancholy as the rain is blasted in every conceivable direction, whipping against my face, and splattering against the rock with incredible force. The air is whipped into a furious maelstrom, and a familiar, booming sound crashes through the ether.

VOICE: I’ve watched you struggle.

As soon as it arrives the voice is gone. The wind quiets down and the rain begins to drop vertically once again.

AS: Hello?! Hello?! Who is that?

The air is still, absent of everything but the rain. I wipe the tears from my face as I call out to the air.

AS: Can you help me? Please can you... just…

The voice has disappeared, and I suspect I won’t be hearing it again any time soon. Perhaps it just wants me to know that it’s watching. One thing is certain, if the voice is attempting to bring me comfort, or make me feel less alone, then its methods are horribly misguided.

LILITH (VO): Alice are you there?

My eyes fixate on the crackling radio.

LILITH (VO): Alice are you still there? I’m sorry I couldn’t…

AS: Jen! Jen, are you ok? Are you safe?

LILITH (VO): Yeah I’m ok, I thought you were… what happened to you?

AS: I uh… I jumped down the hill, got Bluejay’s walkie, she shot at me… how’ve you been?

LILITH (V.O): She’s gone fucking crazy. I made it to a clearing in the woods. It’s straight on from the car, or at least I hope it is. I still haven’t seen that… that thing anywhere.

AS: Well, it’s a big forest. Maybe it’s gone. Can you stay near the clearing?

LILITH (V.O): Yeah I can keep hidden nearby. What are you gonna do?

AS: I’m going to make my way to you and we’re going to get Bluejay away from the Wrangler.

LILITH (V.O): How?

AS: I’m still working on that. I’m about half an hour away. Keep your volume down but stay in touch alright?

LILITH (V.O): Yeah. Ok… ok will do. I’m glad you’re alright Alice.

AS: Yeah, you too Jen.

I fasten the radio to my waistband. My body still aches from the fall, blood dripping slowly from my hand, and my fingers are almost numb from the cold. Yet hearing Lilith’s voice on the other end of the radio has brought back something I lost in the valley. A sense of resolve that jumpstarts my tired muscles, pushes me to my feet and sets me off to rejoin road.

I’m still stuck in the middle of a dark forest, I’m still muddied, bloodied, and injured, but I’m no longer alone.

It isn’t long before my boots hit asphalt. I follow the road, sticking to the tree line as I work my way back up the hill. I’m reluctant to place myself within sight of the Wrangler, where Bluejay will almost certainly be camped out and waiting. Unfortunately, it’s the only point of reference in an otherwise unknowable forest, the only location from where Lilith’s location can be divined.

Once the road levels out, I take the precaution of heading deeper into the trees. The road is almost impossible to see now, but I’ll need the cover if Bluejay is still on the lookout. Even though I’m only a few metres deep, the woods fill me with a palpable sense of unease. Every shadow feels predatory, every twig that snaps under my foot sounds like the crack of a whip.

When the Wrangler comes into view, Bluejay’s nowhere to be seen. Curiosity getting the better of me, I creep closer to the road, observing the scene as the trees thin out. The place is deserted, with neither Bluejay or Rob anywhere to be seen. I have no idea what could have forced her to move him. Perhaps he managed to get away.

Something feels wrong.

Creeping up to the Wrangler, I find the passenger side window broken, a thousand splinters of glass spilled across the ground, trodden into the mud. The glovebox has been left open, the boxes of ammunition either emptied or removed. The next thing I notice makes my blood run cold, and forces me to curse my own stupidity.

The light on the CB radio is on.

When I’d reached the bottom of the hill. I’d correctly calculated the number of active radios, arriving at the conclusion that only me and Lilith would be able to communicate. Technically I’d been right, we were the only two who could talk, but that didn’t mean we were the only ones who could listen. I’d forgotten that the CB radio in Rob’s car had its own independent battery, and in-built speakers. Most importantly, he’d been using it throughout the trip to broadcast and receive across all our frequencies.

I switch the frequency of the walkie to a random channel, lift the receiver to my mouth and hold the talk button.

AS: Bristol to all cars.

My voice crackles out of the CB radio. Bluejay must have known I was going to contact Lilith, and she’d broken into the Wrangler to spy on the conversation. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it before now.

I switch the radio back to Lilith’s frequency.

AS: Lilith you need to get moving. Bluejay heard us. She’s not listening now but she knows I’m meeting you near the clearing. Get yourself back here ok? Lilith can you hear me?

BLUEJAY (V.O): Bring me my fucking key Alice.

My heart sinks. Now it makes sense why Bluejay wasn’t guarding the Wrangler. She’d eavesdropped onto my conversation and, instead of waiting for me to get back up the hill, she’d gone after Lilith. Despite all my efforts, all my good intentions, I led Bluejay right to her.

AS: Bluejay, where’s Lilith?

BLUEJAY (V.O): She’s here.

I hear a refrain of quiet sobbing in the background of the call, I can hear Lilith meekly calling my name.

AS: Ok… ok let me speak to her.

BLUEJAY (V.O): Hah what?! No no. No you’re not going to trick me again, Alice. You don’t get to confer. You get to bring me the key to my fucking car, and then you get to walk yourselves back home. Now what about that do you need to fucking discuss?

AS: Bluejay this is ins… we’re not your enemy Denise ok? Please… please you have to believe me-

BLUEJAY: You think I’ll ever believe a fucking word you say?! Bring me my fucking keys and if you pull ANY more tricks I will put a bullet in your fucking skull. Now, do you believe that?

She waits patiently for my answer. I suddenly feel like we’ve entered an entirely new realm. Bluejay has the upper hand, and under the threat of fierce, unthinkable consequence we’ve become the subjects of her domain. Reason, diplomacy, and sanity no longer hold sway over proceedings. As long as she has Lilith remains at the end of that rifle, I’m beholden to her madness.

AS: Fine. Ok. I’m on my way.

BLUEJAY (V.O): Good. You need to remember Alice, I didn’t want any of this. You brought ME here.

Bluejay lets go of the button, returning me to a familiar silence. If I keep the keys from her, Lilith will be at her mercy, and although Bluejay can’t really afford to kill her bargaining chip, I have no doubt she’ll be willing to hurt her as much as she needs in order to force my compliance. If I let her take the Wrangler, however, we’re both dead anyway.

I take a moment to think through my options. It doesn’t take long. There aren’t that many left.

My journey through the forest is uncomfortable, and rings with an unsettling finality. Like a guilty child heading towards an unavoidable reckoning, I’m overcome by a pervasive dread which builds with every shuffling step. I do my best to keep the Wrangler behind me, carving a straight line through the woods. All in all, it takes less than five minues before the clearing opens up ahead of me.

Bluejay is planted in the very centre of a large glade, leaving too much exposed ground in every direction for me to even contemplate an ambush. Rob’s torch lies at her feet, as she keeps both her hands firmly wrapped around the rifle. Lilith kneels beside her, the barrel of the gun placed against her temple, her tearstained face contorted by a mixture of despair and vitriolic anger. Her hands rest against her lap, her wrists bound by same brand of cable ties I’d used to restrain Bonnie. I can imagine Bluejay bristled with poetic justice when she ordered Lilith to fasten the band around her wrists.

They both see me as soon as I step out of the trees.

BLUEJAY: You’re late.

AS: I got turned around. Lilith are you ok?

BLUEJAY: Stop walking. Stop walking!

Bluejay grips the rifle more tightly, sending me an unignorable message. She’s keeping me at a good distance. She knows it takes her a second or two to reload the rifle, and she wants me far enough back to allow time for at least two consecutive shots. Everything she does, every action she takes, demonstrates that she’s preparing to act swiftly against us, should anything untoward take place.

AS: Lilith, are you ok?

LILITH: I’m… I’m ok. I’m ok.

BLUEJAY: Hand over the keys, Alice.

AS: Bluejay, take her back with you. Please. You don't have to let her… you can drop her off at a police station as soon as you’re home. But just… take her home.

BLUEJAY: Hand me the fucking keys.

AS:... Fine. I have them in my bag let me-

BLUEJAY: Hey HEY! What are you doing.

Bluejay snaps at me as I reach into my bag, pointedly jabbing the rifle against Lilith. Lilith cries with distress as the barrel repeatedly prods her temple. I take my hand out of my bag, and slip it slowly from my shoulder. Every move I make is being considered a potential act of subterfuge.

AS: Fine. Fine. Here.

I swing my bag in a slow arc and throw it over to Bluejay, it lands in the wet dirt about a meter in front of her.

BLUEJAY: That's better.

Bluejay steps forward, momentarily letting the gun’s barrel slip from Lilith temple. She quickly bends down and places the bag over her shoulder, reaching in, extracting the key to the Wrangler and placing it in her jacket pocket. In the fleeting seconds of distraction, I watch Lilith raise her hands high above her head and swing her elbows down to her sides in a single fluid motion.

The zip tie snaps open, and without wasting a second Lilith launches herself at Bluejay, grabbing her waist from behind and trying to force her to the ground. Shocked at the suddenness of it all, but aware that this may be our only chance, I find myself sprinting across the clearing towards the pair of them.

Bluejay is taken by surprise following Lilith’s assault, but she adapts to the situation quickly. Planting one foot in front to brace her sudden momentum, she stops herself from being brought down. At the same time, she swings the stock of the rifle down to her side, where it meets Lilith’s face with a sickening crack.

BLUEJAY: You fucking bitch!

Lilith is knocked onto her back, dazed and hurt. Without hesitation, Bluejay swings the rifle down and fires a shot into the girl’s stomach.

I find myself trapped in the moment, as if reality itself is stunned by the madness taking place before it, unsure how it will continue on. The sound of the shot thunders through my consciousness, yet at the same time seems distant, otherworldly. I can’t bring myself to speak, my lips uselessly parted as Lilith’s fitful cries resound, uninterrupted, throughout the clearing.

AS: What have you done… what have you-

Bluejay is backing quickly away from Lilith, putting space between the two of us while she struggles to reload. She was right to keep me at a distance early on, she’s given herself more than enough time to drive a second bullet into the chamber, and click the bolt into position.

BLUEJAY: No more tricks Alice.

Before I know it, I’ve broken into a final, desperate sprint, casting wet mud behind me as I dash towards the shelter of the treeline. I can imagine Bluejay levelling the rifle, lowering her eye to the sights.

Another shot echoes through the cold air, flying wide and perishing with a distant thud. As I reach the edge of the clearing, I throw myself behind the thick trunk of the nearest tree. My back presses against the rough bark, as I listen for any movement behind me.

Twigs snap beneath Bluejay’s feet as she advances towards me.

BLUEJAY: You did this to yourselves! You did this with your lies and your tricks and your fucking games. Well I’m not FUCKING playing any more!

A shot grazes the tree, ricocheting off into the woods, I can hear her beginning to strafe around my position, poised and ready to fire as soon as she gets an angle.

BLUEJAY: You kept lying right until the end. Everything you’ve done, everything you are, you fucking monster! I will put a bullet in your skull and I won’t feel a fucking thing!!

From the moment she’d first opened her mouth, spilling her bitter, dogmatic cynicism into our group, I’d been waiting for Bluejay to realise she was wrong. Every so often, in a quiet moment, I’d catch myself fantasizing about the stark and esoteric phenomenon that would stop her tongue and force her to accept the truth. I realise now there was never going to be such a moment, that nothing lies beyond her powers of self-delusion. She was lost to us, lost to the road; a twisted woman, driven mad by her own rationality.

My hand slips into my pocket.

AS: You know what Bluejay. I believe you.

The next thing I hear is a faint, nostalgic ring tone, a sudden, deafening bang.

In the brief time I was afforded, following my tense call with Bluejay, I had taken one of Rob’s knives to the block of C4, cutting away almost everything around the blasting cap. The block was less than a pound in weight when I’d slipped it into a compartment of my satchel and buttoned it up. When Bluejay had asked for the key, I’d made sure to reach into my bag enthusiastically, I had a feeling she’d see my eagerness as a potential trap, allowing me a chance to throw her the satchel.

She didn’t trust anything I did, and it had made her predictable.

I step out from behind the tree and look towards Bluejay, lying broken on the forest ground, a large section of her abdomen removed by the blast, her arm, shoulder, and upper thigh virtually non-existent. She struggles to breathe as blood fills her air way.

BLUEJAY: I was ri… I was-

I turn away from her, and run towards Lilith. I drop to my knees beside her, grasping one of her hands. She grips my fingers weakly, her eyes are starting to drift shut, opening again for briefer and briefer intervals.

AS: Hey Jen…

LILITH: H… Hey Alice.

She speaks softly, her words hardly making it through the intense ringing in my ears.

AS: Try to stay awake Jen. You’re going to be alright ok? We’ll stop the bleeding and we’ll get you patched up… back at the Wrangler. We’ve got Roswell… in the spring. Once you’re better we’ll go there together ok? Jen? Jen…

When she manages to open her eyes once more, the look she gives me is kind, and heartbreakingly knowing. I can’t help but think back to our time on the cliffside, overlooking the vast ocean of fields. She’d asked how many people had died being told comforting lies. She asked how many of them knew. I can’t speak for anyone else, but as she stares up at me, hushing me with a look, I can tell that she does.

LILITH: I wish we could have been friends for longer.

I can’t bring myself to speak, every word seems too small, too insubstantial, too wholly insignificant to be the last thing she might hear. All I can do is stare into Lilith’s eyes as her faltering breath rises in clouds of pale steam, clouds that grow slowly thinner, and thinner, until nothing rises at all.

I lay her hand on the ground, and let her fingers slip gently from my grasp.

My legs carry me over to Bluejay. My hand reaches into her pocket and lifts out the key to the Wrangler. The metal is irreparably bent, with no hope of fitting back into the ignition. This was the potential outcome which had rendered the C4 as a last resort, only to be used if my life was in imminent danger. It had done its job, I was alive, but I was also stuck in this forest.

I can’t bring myself to care about that right now. My mind is numb to the concept of future suffering, with no space left to contemplate tomorrow’s potential trials. The horrors of the present are hard enough to face, my mind eclipsed by more darkness than I can process. The only glimmering shred of solace I can muster, comes from the wishful belief that I’ve now seen all the terrors this night has to offer.

As I turn towards the Wrangler, I find myself proven wrong once again.

I stand stock still as the child’s crooked form staggers out from the treeline. It looks markedly different, now a patchwork malformation of adolescence, adulthood, and old age. The face however, is still juvenile and filled with an innocent sorrow as it lurches towards Bluejay on uneven feet.

It doesn’t seem to have noticed me. I back away from Bluejay and step slowly towards Lilith, where Rob’s LED torch still lays on ground.

The child reaches Bluejay, observing her silent, mangled frame. Through my dampened hearing I can just make out a heartbroken whine. I continue to back away as it lifts Bluejay’s limp arm, shaking it wildly as if attempting to imbue it with some semblance of animation.

Frustrated tears dripping freely from its chin, the child throws Bluejay’s wrist back down against the ground. As it looks away from her broken body, and turns its face to me, I watch as the soft innocent features contract into a scowl of juvenile rage, signifying the inceptive throes of a tantrum that could eviscerate anything in its path.

In the last few seconds of calm, I feel my boot brush up against the torch. Bending slowly, keeping my eyes on the child for as long as I can, I reach down with my right hand and lift it from the ground. My hopes that I wouldn't have to use it are dashed instantly. The child drops onto its hands and legs, letting out a tortured, furious scream, and races towards me with staggering velocity.

I dodge out of the way at the last possible moment, hitting the soft dirt as the child skitters to a stop behind me. In the time it takes to turn itself around, I’ve already switched on the torch.

Once again, the child is hit by a powerful beam of light. It's body lurches and spasms, its skin pulling and stretching over elongated bones. Crying out in pain, its voice deepening with every passing second, the disjointed figure dashes in my direction, clasping my right arm in its hands and slamming me down onto the ground.

The torch swings wildly as the creature climbs on top of me, tearing the fabric from my right sleeve, digging its nails into the skin just above my elbow. It doesn’t stop at the skin. I feel the hot, electric agony of scraped nerve endings, hear the sickening snap of breaking bone. Before I lose my chance forever, I throw the torch weakly from my right hand, and catch it in my left, pressing the beam directly into the child’s face.

It screams a scream of decades. The child’s eyes roll back into its head, overpowered by the brutal onslaught the light has wrought. I look on as its face melts and flickers through adolescence, through adulthood and middle age. The tortured scream grows hoarse and weak as its skin wrinkles and sags, rushing beyond human years into an untouched realm of decrepitude. Eventually its eyes glaze over, and its once powerful scream becomes nothing more than a grating rattle. I let the pitiful, lifeless creature fall to the ground beside me as I roll myself onto my knees.

I stumble along the ground towards Bluejay, falling repeatedly, a stream of red soaking into the soil behind me. Once I reach her, I use my left hand to unfasten the rifle’s leather shoulder strap. I clumsily form the strap into a loop, passing it beneath my right shoulder. My head feels light, struggling to maintain focus. I grab a stick from the ground and place it through the knot of the loop, using my teeth to draw the knot securely closed around it. My left hand twists the stick over and over again, each turn tightening the leather strap until it bites into my skin.

The bleeding lessens, but not nearly enough.

Picking up my tired frame, barely able to keep myself upright, I place one foot painstakingly in front of the other, struggling over the damp ground, out of the clearing, and into the trees.

I need to get back to the Wrangler.

I can feel everything starting to fade, even the ringing in my ears is dulled, my vision blurry. I lock the stick under my armpit, freeing up my left hand to brace me as I start to stumble against the trees. The more I lose of my faculties, the less capable I am of perceiving their decline, but I know they’re slipping away all too quickly.

As I struggle further through the woods, a figure steps out from the trees, stopping me in my tracks. I sway on my feet, as I try to identify what I’m seeing, the very act of standing now requiring constant, dogged attention.

I have never seen the figure before. It seems to be composed of a constantly shifting maelstrom of crackling monochromatic sparks. An electric cloud of black, white, and grey, formed into a humanoid shape. As soon as it sees me, the humanoid creature falls backwards, scrabbling away from me across the ground, more terrified of me than I am of him.

I don’t know if the entity is malignant or benign, but in my current state, my mind softly screaming against the dying light, I can’t make the distinction. As it backs up against a mound of earth, I try to ask it for help. The requisite words have already been lost to the advancing fog, and all I can do is reach out my hand towards him. Attempting to entreat some spark of humanity within the fizzling, shifting figure.

In response to my vague plea, the entity scampers off into the forest, tripping over itself before disappearing from view. As I watch it leave, a single dim beacon ignites in the far corners of my swiftly vanishing mind. A single light, whose implications kick-start my fading reason, and force me on through the forest.

I can see the Wrangler through the trees. It’s close by, yet at the same time, impossibly far away.

There’s something wrong with my eyes. The car shifts in and out of focus, but every time it comes back in view the image is less sharp, until it exists as a pulsing dark green blur against a dull, slowly swaying backdrop.

My boot’s kick up against one another, a final stumble that brings me down to earth. When I try to get up again, I find that I’m completely unable. There’s no strength left in my body, and no amount of resolve can raise me back to my feet.

Though it may be my imagination, I think I can hear a steady rustling through the undergrowth, as if something were making its way towards me. Soon after my senses start to die away, leaving me with nothing more than the cold and the silence for company.

The dim light shines until the end however, the single strand of revelation, a solitary thought that I attempt to hold aloft from the all-consuming fog.

It’s a memory, a vague recollection from my first interview with Rob J. Guthard.

It was the day we met. The day he told me about his long and meandering life, Japan, Hiroji, Aokigahara, and the strange phenomenon he saw which sparked his obsession with the supernatural. The singular event that started him down the road to the Left/Right Game, that led this excursion… the moment that brought us here.

ROB (V.O): It walked up to me through the trees. Looked like static you see on a TV screen but it had a human shape almost.

AS (V.O): Almost?

ROB (V.O): It was missing an arm.

[fadefromthelight]

No. 19 - Mourning Loved One

Summary:  Lucien stands before Alden’s grave. He might’ve been the one to kill him, but he still misses him.

Read on: Ao3

The air is crisp and clear, the chill settling deep in Lucien’s lungs. They still ache, holding tight onto the remnants of the magic decay. It’s almost been twenty years and that research still follows him. Its influence is something he can’t shake, a ghost of a reminder brushing against his bones.

Seeing Cassidy and Alden only served to bring everything back to the forefront of his mind.

It still lives within him, dulled and worn with age. His magic slowly absorbs it but nowhere near quick enough for him to see it gone. He can barely sense it now, his magic changing it as much as it changed his magic.

The distinct feeling of wrongness no longer digs into him. His magic doesn’t feel like a fractured imitation of what it should be. These broken remains are all he knows. It’s been too long since he’s thought his magic wasn’t his own.

Sometimes, long into the darkness of the night and everything stills around him, where the fluctuation of his magic is a drop in the black glass of a still lake, he longs for the magic he no longer remembers. It’s an aching wound that’s festering with emotions he can’t decipher. They’re messy and often spill out of him in an array of confused and muddled colors.

A ravenous void rests inside of him. It tears him apart, screaming for something he can’t offer. It leaves him empty and even more exhausted, a weariness that cannot be fixed by any means accessible to him settles deep under his skin. His magic curls around it, burning too hot to touch while so cold that it numbs him.

He finds himself longing for a life that he never lived, a past that wouldn’t ever belong to him. A time where he loves the right people and can have a child that knows him for he truly is. But all he has is a mess of memories corrupted by petty things like nostalgia and regret. His own curiosity consumed him and he doesn’t know when it’ll spit him back out.

He doesn’t think it ever will.

He can’t help but wonder what exactly was the tipping point, when he crossed the line that he couldn’t come back from. The bitter, vicious part of him whispers that the darkness has always been inside of him, quiet and patiently waiting for the moment he slips.

He can’t find the words to argue.

But there was one moment that he can divide his life with, even more than his decision to clone wings or his discovery of what magic decay truly does to a person. It seems inconsequential now, after all things considered, but to him over thirty years ago, it was his defining moment. He Challenged Morgan to a race for his freedom.

Lucien knew from the moment that he learned exactly what his family name meant, he couldn’t take up the line. There was this insatiable curiosity gnawing inside of him and it wouldn’t be satisfied with sitting in a chair on the Thervin.

But Morgan didn’t understand. He couldn’t, not with the way that he was raised. So Lucien challenged him to a Race. If Lucien won, he was able to leave, and if Morgan won, Lucien would join the Thervin.

Sometimes Lucien wonders what would’ve happened if Morgan had won. So much wouldn’t have happened, the cloning, the messed up thing that was his relationship with Alden. But there was so much that should happen that he doesn’t know if he could give up. There was the chance that Julian would never be born and Lucien couldn’t risk that.

Julian’s the one thing he’s gotten right in his godforsaken life.

He couldn’t risk being shipped off with some woman he didn’t love just like Morgan and have children that he could only love painfully.

(That isn’t what he’s doing with Julian. It can’t be. It doesn't matter that Julian doesn’t even know that he’s his—)

None of this matters. Lucien can’t turn back time. He’s stuck here with the consequences of his mistakes finally catching up to him. He’s lost the only people that he could’ve loved and still chases after someone he missed having by only a few years.

Lucien forces himself to take the last steps forward. Alden’s grave sits before him, the pale grey a small mark against the sea of green grass around them. Part of him knows that Alden deserves to be buried like this, as far from the sky as possible.

But the desperate and still sickeningly in love part of him wishes that there were ashes for him to scatter over the sea.

He doesn’t know what he believes about what comes after death and that only those spread in the sky will meet each other again in another life; it’s illogical to believe that the way one was buried affected where you would go in the afterlife. But he can’t stop the bone-deep fear that latches onto him. He wants to see Alden again.

Which is ironic since he’s the one that put him here in the first place.

It was Lucien that tucked the needle beneath his skin, injecting him with the highly volatile and experimental drug he was working on. It was Lucien that watched as Alden withered with uncontrollable magic and the manic bubbles of laughter. It was Lucien that narrowed his eyes and grinned as Alden finally stilled.

Lucien told him that he hated him but they both know it was far from the truth. Lucien wouldn’t have killed Alden in that way if he did.

Lucien loved Alden at one point and he can’t say that he no longer does.

It was a deep-set ache in his chest, this feeling. It’s a strange mix between desperate craving and jagged disgust. He hated how much he needed him.

Lucien can still feel the chilled touch of Alden’s hand against his shoulder, his fingers moving until they find the curvature of his spine. His skin burns and he can’t rid his mind of the sickening feeling. It filled him with bitter desire and burning disdain.

He doesn’t know if he should call this love, but it was certainly something more than the fractured feelings he’s had for anyone else.

(Except for—)

Lucien runs a hand on the edge of the grave, the stone grainy and rough beneath his touch. He swallows, drawing in a breath. “Alden.” The name drops from his lips with the same familiar curve of longing. It echoes in the silence, dancing through the air.

Waves crash faintly against the cliff below and Lucien realizes how cruel it was to bury Alden here. He’s so close to the sky, forever trapped to see it but never reach it.

That’s if he’s even here at all.

“Alden.” Lucien tries again, his voice flatter and steadier. He hates it. “I doubt you wanted to see me but I have something I need to tell you.” He draws in a breath, the words he needs to say thick and coagulated in his throat. It feels wrong to say the words, even alone. “I’ve figured out how to clone wings.”

The silence is overbearing. It sits layered thick over him and he almost imagines what Alden would say to him. It would be something scalding but Lucien could pick out the fondness from the words.

“You probably already knew that.” Lucien finds himself continuing, unable to stop the words spilling out of him. They’re ugly and he can barely look at them. “It’s the only reason I can think of that would explain why you took Raymond and Julian. Unless—”

The words choke him and he finds himself sputtering. Alden couldn’t have done it just to see Lucien again. There were easier ways to contact him, there was a phone number that Lucien couldn’t forget shared between them.

But Alden never could understand the simplicity of talking. He didn’t trust anyone unless he believed that he manipulated into complying. His trust was something so difficult to receive, Lucien isn’t even sure that he’s received it.

(The moment that Lucien walked into Alden’s cell, relief flickered on his face. Until his gaze landed on the needle in Lucien’s hand.)

None of this matters anymore. Alden’s dead. There’s no way for Lucien to know. No matter how much he wants to.

Lucien steps back from the grave, his hand feeling empty removed from the stone. He turns towards the sea, a faint salty spray of water splattering against his face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a feather.

It’s coated in a pale grey magic, just a few shades lighter than the feather itself. Alden’s magic pulses from within, dulled with age and so different from the twisted form that he had when he died.

Lucien holds it over the sea, his hand trembling. He desperately wants to keep this with him, holding it close and guarding it. But this is from a time he no longer remembers, when they were young and believed that they were immortal.

It was from a promise that has been long since lost to wind.

Lucien draws his magic to his palm, the strength of it fracturing the fragile sheathe of magic over the feather. He releases it and the feather shatters in his grasp. He drops the shards. They float down to the sea, glimmering with the light from the sun and dancing in the slow breeze.

Lucien’s voice can barely be heard over the pounding of the sea against the cliffside. “Dutel lyres phesyrus inerves lon batenes weneth athe.”

May we fly together in our next life.

[loampriest]

Disturbing the Dead

The change came upon her painfully, as it always had, with an unnatural creaking of her bones, a stretching of tendons and flesh that left her gasping for breath. Her hands fluttered about herself, trying to gather ‘round her ribs. She bit down on a scream as a sharp agony wrenched her hips, spasming down legs which had grown unnaturally long. Her skin felt as though she’d rolled in nettles, prickling and itching as fur pushed through it in thousands of places. She crouched against the ground, groaning through tightly closed lips, waiting for the change to end. Her shifting gripped her in bits, in pieces - jagged and uneven as a broken mug, dashed against the kitchen floor.

Lisbet couldn’t help but to remember a passage she’d once read; a caterpillar dissolves as it becomes a butterfly, its body liquid within the casing of its cocoon.

She wondered what she looked like, inside the casing of her dislocated bones, when she shifted. Her body felt liquid, like hot glass in the hands of an unskilled glass blower.

It only took thirty seconds, maybe a minute, at the most. And when at last she rose from the ground, her body tingled and itched, but the pain had passed. She knew that others found the shifting effortless, as natural as drawing breath, but it wasn’t that way for her. There was always a price to be paid, where power was involved; Lisbet paid control with agony, and found it a worthy deal.

She breathed in deeply, scenting the air with a long muzzle, and couldn’t help but be delighted by the sensory bouquet which came to her now. More than the cold and the smell of dirt, she could discern the warm muskiness a rabbit in its lair, could determine each distinct variety of tree and plant nearby. She stretched her limbs, rolling her shoulders against the binding feel of her robes, but felt a sharp internal reprimand at the thought of shedding them. No. She had to continue wearing them, even if she didn’t actually need what scant protection they offered, even if they were uncomfortable and confining.

The worgen huffed softly and set herself down on all four limbs, letting the tips of her claws flex into the dirt a moment. A perverse bit of mischief stole over her, and she drew in a lungful of loamy air, throwing up her nose to the sky and letting loose a long, bone-rattling howl -- meant for nothing more than the sheer pleasure of it.

Some part of her hated this, hated the way her whole body reverberated with the sound, resented the way it echoed in the stillness of the forest. It was boastful and wild and unrestrained, and did she not take quiet satisfaction in her restraint, in her gentleness and humility-?

But in that same self indulgence, there lay the unbridled joy of pure freedom. Lisbet Wheeler, Acolyte of the Church, outreach worker for the poor and the sick and the addled and addicted, exploded through the brush like a shot from a pistol, her claws barely touching the earth as she ran.

…

She cut across mountain passes and rough terrain like a hot knife through butter. The worgen moved with an economy of motion, purposeful and alive with the sharpness of her senses.

Lisbet moved more like a wolf than a woman, giving herself over to the wilderness which had called her, unanswered, for a little over fourteen months. She bounded through the forest with unchecked delight, rubbing herself up against trees, scrabbling at rocks with clawed hands and feet - she stalked rabbits just to see them bound away, filled with a preternatural energy.

It didn’t take much guidance from the more restrained aspect of her mind; she knew the deal, was aware of what her goals were, even if she could no longer discern what it was that had made them so vitally important. And if she took more time than was strictly necessary in finding prey for the day’s meal - in selecting a young doe with liquid eyes and soft, tawny fur - … if she spent an hour stalking it, reveling in the silence of her feet against the ground, in the tension of the hunt …

Well. It was a price paid for that she’d ignored it as long as she had, when it was so gloriously clear that this was how things ought to be, needed to be all the time, not just some of the time --

The thought was curbed, and she lunged, an inky shadow between the trees, striking the young doe at the neck and felling her with a crunch and a snap. The unfortunate creature’s legs kicked and spasmed as the light left her eyes.

There was a moment’s hesitation, an objection which was overruled as soon as it arose, and she sank her jaws into the deer, tearing it open and beginning to feed.

…

It was mid day the next day when she arrived at the border between Alterac and the Plaguelands, and she was glad she didn’t need to go any further; the fetid stench of death and decay were enough to make her hackles rise, the fur prickling at the base of her spine. She should shift back; the Woman would be better for this part than the Wolf. Still, there was a reticence, a resentment that made her unwilling to give way.

She wasted several hours, instead, to prove her point. She chased squirrels and spent some time playing in a nearby pond, washing the blood from her fur, cupping her clawed hands in the coolness of the water, delighting in it.

And when she finished, she settled to a crouch and allowed her bones to shrink, her fur to recede, her hands growing smaller, more delicate -- her legs thinner, more fragile.

Lisbet lay on the river’s edge, robes sodden, hair slicked to her skull from the wet, and let out a shaky breath as she stretched experimentally, shivering with the cold. Her lips pursed in irritation, and yet, she couldn’t be that annoyed. She supposed she’d earned that pique, having disregarded her own wild heart for so very long.

She’d forgotten, after a little over a year’s suppressing the urge to shift, what it was to feel so free - a fact which that aspect of herself had taken pains to demonstrate.

But it wasn’t always like that, she frowned silently, padding through the still graveyard with her shovel in hand. How am I supposed to feel free, when that very freedom was the tool of my oppression? I didn’t ask for it. I never wanted this in the first place.

The graveyard was an old one, many of the headstones lacking names for weather wear; she worried that she might not be able to locate the one she looked for. At least, until she came upon it.

She knew as soon as she saw the bouquet of flowers; she couldn’t say for certain how it was she knew, but she knew it was him.

The bouquet was quite large, and it struck her as unusual - the combination of flowers didn’t seem to fit. Two kinds of small white flowers, what looked to be purple honeysuckle, and dwarf sunflowers, all bound together in black ribbon. There were a great many flowers in the bundle - there had to be, given all but the sunflowers were quite small in size. It was an ugly bouquet, and it didn’t make sense.

She frowned as she looked at the headstone, reading the name. The grave looked about the right age, grown over with grass, but not obscured by any brush. It appeared as if it had been kept quite clean, and paused her as much as the flowers had. If someone was going to the trouble of cleaning it, then surely they hadn’t raised him…?

But she hadn’t come all this way to not dig up a grave, now had she?

It was dusk, so she waited, kneeling her sodden robes beside the headstone. She prayed, her hands pressed together, her face downturned, and her prayers were genuine; peace, forgiveness, gentleness. Let the dead rest undisturbed. May the Light forgive the transgression I make here, for I do it not in vain.

She prayed, too, for the many wards she’d left behind, a prickle of worry disturbing the thoughts. She prayed for her parents, for the family she’d left in Northrend, in spite of what had happened between them. She prayed for Taladreth, in prison, that he might learn and grow.

She prayed for Ludovick, too; for the woman and child he’d been forced to put down, for the faces in the pictures they’d shared, indelibly scarred into her memory, now. It was unlikely she’d ever forget them.

She prayed for herself, too - that she might have the patience, the force of will, the gentleness of spirit, to help the many, many people she cared about.

And when she’d felt she’d addressed all the people and worries she had in her life, her prayers drifted to a contemplation, considering the lessons she’d learned her recent failures and successes in befriending the strange Confessor. All the while she listened, waiting for the unknown gravekeeper to, perhaps, make a visit.

The priest didn’t have any particular plan for what she might do, should such a thing occur; talk, perhaps. Whoever it was had no way of knowing who she was, or what she was capable of. Unless they’ve been watching her, a nagging voice in the back of her head whispered. Unless I’m right, and she’s intended as bait.

In which case, she was sitting in the trap at present, praying.

The Light guide me and protect me, she prayed, listening all the more intently.

But nobody came. She was quite alone, by the time the moon rose. Drawing to her feet stiffly, Lisbet pulled the shovel from her pack, and began the onerous process of digging.

It took hours. The night was cold, her hair was still wet, and the robes, though dry, were stiff and uncomfortable. Her back ached from the effort, for though Lisbet was not one to avoid a hard day’s work, the sort of labor that she did as a member of the clergy was very different from shoveling six feet of dirt.

It didn’t help that she was aware of the possibility that someone might catch her in the act, and then what-? Rather unexpectedly, she began to wish that it had been possible to invite Ludovick along; dour as he was, it was his business, too… and though his body seemed made up more of scar than skin, there was strength in those shoulders, in the lines of his back.

Not that she’d noticed such a thing, of course. But if she had, it was only because he’d given her ample opportunity. Really, for a man so filled with shame in himself, he has shockingly little when it comes to eating breakfast in a towel.

By the time dawn was rising, she’d reached the coffin, though she was nowhere near close to being able to withdraw it. Her stomach turned as she realized what she’d have to do, but there was no point in hesitation, in delaying the inevitable; she would have little enough time to hastily replace the dirt.

She took a deep breath, uttering a prayer for the dead, and drove the blade of her shovel through the coffin with a shudder.

Several more blows, and she was able to stick her hands inside, feeling around blindly before --

Yes, that is definitely a skull.

It rolled loosely beneath her grasp, and she realized with a jolt that she might have beheaded it with her shovel. Swallowing hard, she took a measured breath and closed her eyes, still crouched in the hole, slowly turning the skull around in her hands.

There. A bullet wound, a hole through which a pistol had shot, fracture lines radiating outward - just as the reports had indicated Jannis Hubaan had met his end. This was him. It had to be. Unless they’d taken someone, shot him in the head, and buried in him in Hubaan’s grave long enough ago that he’d decomposed the approximately correct amount….

She sagged in relief, covered in sweat and gravedirt, her arms leaden, her back aching.

… then she groaned aloud as she realized she’d need to replace all the dirt she’d painstakingly removed, as quickly as possible, before she was caught.

Something within her seemed to snicker at the predicament, and she pursed her lips, eyes rolling as she set to work.

…

By the time she’d finished, it was noon and she was dead on her feet. The little plot of land had been tamped down as best she could manage, though it would be obvious to the grave’s visitor that it had been tampered with. Lisbet heaved an exhausted sigh, plucking up the bouquet of flowers as an afterthought.

It would be at last another day or two before she arrived in Dun Morogh, but she rather doubted that Ludovick would be pleased to see her, when she told him what she’d done. A problem for future Lisbet, the wolfish aspect of her was quick to assure, and for once she was too tired to disagree.