#kaldar / ic.

[spakonamoved]

With everything finally within reach, Kaldar couldn’t help but feel itchy. Impatient, like time was starting to slip through fingers and shit was gonna move all over again. His heart beat a mile a minute and his ear felt like it was closing up. It was small, but the way his fingers close and open and his knuckles twitch have him ready to run out of the now familiar bar and back into the bowels of Night City. He’d have been faster by himself.

But Luci doesn’t work that way, so he scowled without much bite and more like a reflex. Kaldar knew in some way, shape, or form, he’d be nagged to hell about it. He also knew this mattered to the both of them, even if at one point the Devil had insisted that he’d moved on. He sunk back into his seat, his knuckles rapping on the table next to the Shirley Temple he’d been given.

“Fine -- what’d’you got so far?”

@aamusedly sent: “Plans are plans. I’m a bad ass, not an anarchist.”

[aamusedly]

@spakona continued from HERE.

Gloved hands were too tight around the wheel of the car on their way back. Kaldar's anger was a burning fire, but Devil's was icy and slow coming. It was born of something genuinely fearful, and suddenly Kaldar was no longer a person to show that fear to. The tell was that chrome tail flipping slowly and fiercely at his side.

But Kaldar threw the first blow, and the ice cracked hard and fast.

Devil spun on him with a finger pointed in his face, teeth bared. "Don't you fucking call me that. Show an ounce of respect for once in your miserable life--"

"Don't you walk out on me, Kaldar. You already spent the night fucking me over--"

[human-antithesis]

Ék sé framtíð í ísa broti

Ék sé framtíð í ísa broti! Ék finn alfrǫðl rísa sem sendir engar kaldar fleygiǫ́rar yfir djúp ríki vǫll brimilsins. Ný kringla er loksins byrjuð. Þessi dimmi vandar jǫtunn ok stǫðug hættan á snjóskriðum hjaðnar meir ok meir ok gefr oss nýja von um að lifa af. Þessi úlfs nótt verðr ekki gleymd, þessi hvísluðu orð verða oss alltaf í minni. Enn ólgar byrmǫrk, enn hungrar braut dýrr dreka í vammlaust líf. En ungt jarðar hár læðist gegnum hvíta dauðann ok nýtt ljós frelsar fróns legg vætti frá ís ok snjó. Margir Draupnis niðjar hurfu til óþekkts útgarðs ǫrvar ássins, mikið fé var hirt af ǫrlǫgunum. Haukstalda gramr gaf svanteigs elda orð til að muna, orð sem binda líf mitt til að leiða þessa ætt. Við byggðum brandnór oss aftr, fundum nýjar slóðir til flóðs mana viðr sem voru eigi minna bitin af ylgjar verrs kalda kjafti. En sumir Viðblinda geltir fylgja eigin vegum inn í Ǫnundarfjǫrð, þetta jarðar skarð hafi slétt mitt. Sumir enda ferðalag lífsins á sanda grunni oss. Eins ok faðir sagði oss, þetta veldr alltaf reiði ok styrjǫld. Allar áttir Ingvifreys voru teknir til ríki Loka-dóttr, mǫrg líf bíða enn eftir að falla fyrir hendi þessarar ókunnugu ok þǫglu vætt. Fetum gamlan stíg aftr til Vatnsfjǫrðs ok endrnýjum kynni. Hátt er nú gjaldið ok hærra en áðr! Svo virðist sem goðorð sé ekki alltaf merki um frið ok auðæfi. Hjaldrs bálregns viðir voru jafnvel í fyrnd fjarðarjarðar endalausra skóga helteknir af hlýðni til veraldlegra goða, til að hlýða skínandi Freyju tór kaldra dreyra mæri. Ék man að mikið hrafns vín rann niðr véttrim þeirra. Ék man að Gungnis vǫ́fuðr var alltaf bakvið tjǫldin þegar ofsi leiddi Heljar sónþollr. En erum fǫst fyrir. Ísa brot færir alltaf nýja þekkingu til þeirra sem hafa hvarma skóga stjǫrnr til að sjá. Látum mána hauðrs hvéls geisla lýsa upp myrka afkima falskra orða.

[ENGLISH - I can see a future]

I can see a future! I can feel a Sun rising that spreads no cold staves over the deep kingdom of water. A new circle has finally started. The dark storms and the steady danger from snowslides more and more fades away and give us new hope to survive. This winter will be remembered, these whispered words will be remembered. Still the ocean boils, still hungry sisters crave for innocent life. But new grass lurks through the white death and new light sets stoned spirits free from snow and ice. Many a man faded away to the unknown outside of Ullr, many cattle were caught by destiny. My father gave my mother words to remember, words that bind my life to lead this family. We built up our homesteads again and found new paths to neighbors that were not less bitten by the wolf's cold mouth. But some whales follow their ways into Ǫnundarfjǫrðr. Some end their lifes journey on our beaches. As my father told us, this always starts anger and war. Many great families were taken to Hel's kingdom, many lives still wait for their end that is caused by this alien and silent soul. We find our way back to Vatnsfjǫrðr and renew words. High is now the amount of goods that we are obliged to transfer! It seems a Goðorð is not always a sign for peace and wealth. Good men were already in the old world of eternal woods taken by a false will to obey material gods. For obeying the shining gold of cold blades. I remember that much Blood ran down their fuller. I remember Óðinn was always at hand when fury led men. But we stay. Spring always brings new knowledge to those who have open eyes to see. Let the sun's rays illuminate the dark corners of false words.

[womanlives]

SHE’S SEEN DEAD BODIES BEFORE. They’re nothing special. They weren’t when they were alive; they’re less so now that they’re dead. It’s part of life on this side of Hafnabor’s streets: the shady side, the side where money doesn’t normally touch. Right now, right here, it’s an alley behind Dock’s Row. And right now, right here, it’s — he’s — it’s dead and it’s fucking her up.

“Look at me.” 

Strange. She can’t take her eyes off the body. It’s no one important, just some drunken dock worker who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with a temper to match. Is this what they call shock? Maybe. But she feels oddly calm, even though at the same time she feels like her insides are turned all the way out. Something warm seeps through the soles of her rotting sandals. She recognizes the smell. Iron and sick. Corpses shit themselves when they die. 

“Look at me.” 

Realization dawns. Maybe it’s not the body itself, but how it got there. Everything did just happen so fast — hunkering down in the secret base all day, waiting until the crack of night to sneak out, stumbling into the drunk in the mouth of this alley. Funny, she can’t remember who threw the first blow, even though it was less than a minute ago. All she can remember is the man turning, the stench of stale beer hitting her face, and something grabbing her roughly by the wrist. 

“Look at me.”

Third time’s the charm, especially when it’s accompanied by gentle, bony fingers running along the underside of her chin. The girl snaps her gaze away from the body on the ground and looks up into eyes bluer than she could ever begin to describe, and twice as blue as anyone could ever begin to describe to her. She exhales in a rush. Kaldar brings his hands to cup her cheeks. They’re empty now — where’d the shiv go? — but still wet with the aftermath. He stains her cheekbones red. 

She doesn’t care. She will later that night, when it’s almost morning and the sun threatens to crest on the coast. That’s when it’ll hit her. That’s when she’ll realize this is the first time she’s seen him kill. But right now she doesn’t care. Not about that. About other things, maybe, but not about that. 

Kaldar opens his mouth, but she beats him to it. She mirrors his pose, lifts pale fingers to his face, runs her thumbs over his cheeks. “Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.” Her eyes search everywhere, looking for chinks in his armor where his emotions might spill through. They should’ve never left their little haven. Everything always goes to shit up here. 

His expression twists. She doesn’t know why. He inhales, tries again.

She cuts him off. “Did he get you? Where does it hurt?” The girl looks away for a split second — that’s all she’ll give herself — and runs her hands over his shoulders and arms and torso, worriedly, hurriedly. Doesn’t see any blood, doesn’t find any gashes. Looks back up into his eyes. Her expression is pleading. “What can I do? Kaldar?” 

Pause. 

“I’m okay.” She nods frantically. Her hair bounces. “I promise. You don’t have to worry about me.”

No response.

Now it’s her turn to repeat herself, in a voice that’s high and reedy and young and weary and cracks halfway through. 

“Please just tell me you’re okay, too.” 

@hvadeina sent : [ direct ] your muse taking mine by the chin and telling them to look yours in the eye . / kaldar

[housebaylor]

Complete results of Top 07 Ilona Andrews couples as voted by my followers:

Kate / Curran (KD)

Nevada / Rogan  (HL)

Catalina / Alessandro  (HL)

Barabas / Christopher (KD)

Hugh / Elara  (KD)

Julie / Derek  (KD)

Maud / Arland  (IC)

Andrea / Raphael  (KD)

Jim / Dali  (KD)

Cerise / Will  (TE)

Dina / Sean  (IC)

Audrey / Kaldar  (TE)

Arabella / Stephen  (HL)

Derek / Ascanio  (KD)

Julie / Derek /Ascanio  (KD)

Rogan / Nevada / Augustin  (HL)

Claire / Venturo  (K)

*one vote couples:

Ms Rogan / Mr Rogan  (HL)

Kate / Hugh  (KD)

Rowena / Ghastek  (KD)

Charlotte / Richard  (TE)

Bern / Runa  (HL)

Heart / Penelope  (HL)

Arabella / whoever  (HL)

Meli / Celino  (K)

[bacejelerenvorthos]

The Lore of Kaldheim: Surtland

“Wintry Surtland is a realm of constant turmoil. Volcanoes burst through snow and ice to form new mountains as the bitter cold freezes steaming geysers into sprays of ice shards. Earthquakes and eruptions reshape the landscape almost daily. Avalanches of snow and broken rock tumble down mountainsides and change the course of half-frozen rivers. The ice palaces of the frost giants dot the high mountain peaks and glacier fields. The crude shelters of the fire giants lie in the lowlands where deep lava fissures carve paths through wide fields of snow.

What little grows in Surtland grows to enormous size. Trees are scarce, but they grow as large as the ancient trees of Skemfar. The beams of Kaldar's Hall, home of the fire giant king, are cut from these enormous trees to make a shelter worthy of the massive giants. Animals, too, tend toward great size; herds of mammoths and giant goats provide much of the giants' food.

Surtland's terrain is so changeable that few features last long enough to be named. One notable exception is the Vela Heights, a series of mountain peaks and glacier fields where a group of frost giant wizards, ordinarily solitary beings, have formed something akin to a community. The Vela giants join their magical powers to create defenses that ensure no fire giant ever enters their Heights.

Giants

Two kinds of giants inhabit the tempestuous realm of Surtland. Frost giants are intelligent and secretive, using runic magic to divine the secrets of the Cosmos and jealously guarding them from the curiosity of outsiders. Fire giants, by contrast, are brutal and impulsive, sharing their kin's physical strength and resilience but lacking any of the frost giants' knowledge and resources. The frost giants control the high ground, claiming all the most stable mountain areas, where they shape fortresses out of ice. Relegated to the lowlands, the fire giants are loath to build anything too permanent, as it's likely to be knocked over or covered in an avalanche or lava flow. They prefer crude wooden longhouses that can be disassembled and moved elsewhere if necessary. The two kinds of giants fight constantly.

The frost and fire giants of Surtland are locked in constant conflict. The frost giants would prefer to be left alone, but they also claim the best, safest territories in the realm—and hoard treasures and arcane secrets for themselves in their mountain palaces. The angry, impulsive fire giants gather in bands to attack the largely solitary frost giants. Frost giants retaliate with blasts of runic ice magic that can scatter or incapacitate a whole fire giant clan.

On very rare occasions, if Surtland is threatened by invaders or a rampaging Cosmos Monster, frost and fire giants are able to put aside their differences and join together to defend their realm.

Frost Giants

The frost giants claim the high mountain peaks and glacier fields of Surtland where they build ice palaces and spend eons in solitude. Their impregnable mountaintop fortresses afford them clear views of the lights of the Cosmos and their mystical secrets. They rarely leave Surtland and have no interest in raiding, but they have a special relationship with the similar-minded Omenseekers of Bretagard, who sail to Surtland occasionally to trade information with friendly frost giants.

Frost giant wizards called Vela Mages dwell primarily in the well-protected Vela Heights. In addition to manipulating cold and ice with their magic, Vela Mages are seers who work constantly to divine the secrets of the realms. They can use illusion magic to trick unwelcome intruders into their private sanctums, but most of them consider this a lesser form of magic that is not worthy of serious practice unless absolutely necessary.

Fire Giants

Fire giants dwell in the lower elevations of Surtland where snow fields are divided by deep lava fissures. They live together in families and clans, building crude wooden structures from the realm's massive trees. Some also make their lairs in extensive cavern networks and lava tubes that run beneath the lowlands.

Fire giants are reckless, jealous, and competitive—like colossal children who are jealous of their kindred's secret knowledge but unable to grasp it for themselves. They're smaller than frost giants, but they're still giants, and are incredibly tough, strong, and resilient. Countless sagas speak at length about how hard it is to kill a fire giant, and those heroes who succeed at this monumental task are enshrined in legend.

Whenever a Doomskar brings Surtland into contact with another realm, fire giants are eager to launch raids. They love hand-to-hand combat, but they're not above throwing boulders at their enemies, and their wizards have power over fire and lava.

Kaldar is King of the Fire Giants. He and Alrund have a longstanding rivalry and have tricked each other on many occasions. Kaldar views Alrund as everything he envies and detests about the frost giants—their confusing mysticism, their arrogance—elevated to godhood and would like nothing more than to fool him so humiliatingly that he renounces his divine status.”

[spakonarchive]

@womanlives

SHE’S NEVER HEARD THE SEA SO ANGRY. Mercy feels it in her bones. It makes them shake, makes them shudder. She looks out at the horizon stretching in front of them. The waves roll in and out, booing, roaring, hitting the sand with the occasional shriek and scream. Maybe it’s a figment of her imagination (of course it is; this is a fucking dream), but she sees lights flicker to life outside on the ocean. It takes her a moment to realize this is her memory come to life before them. This terrifies her and excites her. It’s like a glimpse through her eyes into the life she’s had, one that only Kaldar will be able to see. She won’t look at him — can’t. But she hopes, instead, that he’ll look at the water.

Lights flicker. One, two, twenty, a hundred. The Maelstrom comes alive at their fingertips. Somewhere off in the sky, far away, there’s a flash of lightning and the silhouette of thousands of ships. It’s not real — not exactly. The dream has taken her memory and made it its own, warping it, twisting it, reinventing it based on idle fantasies she shared with him once upon a time in a hidden little basement filled with treasures they stole for their nest, and their nest alone. A fleet of ships — unstoppable, intense — ruled by them, so (the common refrain) so no one would ever hurt them again.

She wonders how he’ll react when she tells him about the Pirate Queen.

“Your yelling never worked on me. Remember?” Voice soft. Voice longing. Voice sad. She wants to say that he doesn’t need to look for her, because she’s looking for him. But she isn’t. It’s too — he’s too — first she has to kill the Patron, and she has a sinking feeling of what, exactly, that might entail.

Mercy’s hand buries itself into the sand at his shadow’s shoulder. This is safer. It’s this or try to hold his hand. She lifts her fingers and watches each individual grain fall in slow motion to the ground. Her very own hourglass. Her very own reminder that they’ve missed each other by four months. That’s all. Four goddamn months. When they hit the ground, they turn to the feathers, until she and Kaldar are surrounded by down.

She stares down at the feathers. Her face is angled not quite so far away, but she knows there are shadows to make up for the absence of distance. If he looks hard enough, maybe he’ll catch a glimpse of freckles. Or a lock of curly hair. It’s just a dream, after all, and briefly she toys with the idea of turning herself into the blonde-haired black-lipped woman that she strode into the Spire as.

She decides against it. That face brings back memories of Shao, which hurts. It hurts so much the world warps, and the beach disappears, and she and Kaldar are sitting on opposite sides of the bed, back-to-back, in a pleasure-hovel somewhere on the fourth level of sin. It’s trashed. There’s a corpse in the doorway. Some duergar thug. Her doing. She looks at it. She knows she should feel guilt, but there’s nothing, which is a thousand times worse than there being anything at all. Her face falls.

“Your ear.”

Nessa’s voice comes back in a rush. The guilt hits, then, but not for the duergar.

“How did you lose your ear?”

It never did. It made him angry, but he could never be angry at her. It’s always at himself. It’s justified. Angry that he wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t born rich or better. That he lost her in the first place. Never does he look away. He knows if he looks away the dream will end. The fact it’s gone on this long is odd.

It’s not a dream suddenly. It’s a nightmare. What Mercy sees is a room. What Kaldar sees is a cage. He sits with his back against the bars and she’s on the other side and she’s so far away again, but that’s not the part that scares him.

“How do you know about that?” He tries to sound calm, but it’s the first time in a long time that he feels his heart fall out of its cavity and plunge into ice cold water. She’s not supposed to know that. Has she been to Runswick? Followed his scent from the murder and destruction he did as the right hand of Irving Black?

He turns to her sharply, and he yells, “How the fuck do you know that?” Does she know what he’s become? How long has she been chasing him? He’s angry again! So angry! Angry at himself!

Dear gods, no no no -- he would burn Kyruat to the ground before ever letting her step foot inside it. It’s the place he never knew about as a kid that is nightmare personified for his little dove. His hands clasp at bars. He shakes them. He smells burning flesh. It’s the brand they put on his skin before throwing him into the ring. Kaldar shouts her name again.

“I’ll find you,” he says. He pulls at the iron bars that don’t move, “Don’t go any farther. Stop looking for me. I’ll find you.”

But the bars are slipping through his fingers. They shrink to a fork and a knife. When he looks up, it’s Charley. He has her head on his dinner plate.

“Night air gets cold,” Bruiser says, climbing her way up the crow’s nest with a blanket and a bottle in one hand. She doesn’t need both. It’s her ship, after all. The little one’s still looking for all his missing things. The creepy one is meditating like the other elves do. She’s the most interested in the one who she’s told some deep dark secrets to.

How long has it been since she’s talked about Violet?

“Brought you a blanket,” in the dark her gold canines still gleam. The wine is for Bruiser -- sorry, Gold Fang -- but she wouldn’t mind sharing it. The three of them hadn’t been joking when they had said they brought plenty of gifts. She speaks quietly just in case the other is still asleep, but loud enough to announce herself even if she’s not.

“It ain’t a bad view from up here, huh? You’d be surprised the sort of shit people think they can get away with when they think Mum ain’t watching.”

[spakonamoved]

“All men are at least 30% attracted to me.” 

Kaldar’s got his hands shoved into his pockets. It’s easy enough to offer The Devil a blank sort of look, one either done with or nonplussed by the shenanigans. It’s easy enough to tell regardless, considering his temper stays contained. Maybe he’s even in a good mood about it.

“5%,” is all he says.

@aamusedly , b99

[spakonamoved]

circilly winds up her arm to give kaldar's ass an open-handed SMACK

It's a sound that reverberates down the alley that they walk through. Kaldar doesn't drink -- never has, never will. He wants to be alert in case of danger. Unfortunately he doesn't realize the true danger is beside him.

The slap stings, the motion and impact enough to make him gasp. Kaldar lets out a yelp and he jumps forward as Circilly's hand flies back. Ever stoic, the knot in his brow, seemingly permanent, is gone entirely. He looks young without the shadow on his face and anger steeped in his expression.

Kaldar looks at Circilly with an look betrayed, akin to kicked puppy out in the rain.

[spakonamoved]

He feels complicated. About everything. About nothing. About where he is and what his path to hell now looks like. He’s alone in it, just like he should be. Doesn’t like the idea of dragging people along for the ride. Collateral, that was a word he’d read once. Followed up in a dictionary about it. Something paid back when something went wrong.

His luck, always something went wrong. Easier to fix it when it’s just him. He’s got his mind all made up about it. Only thing keeping him from walking out the door is a frantic pace of a man who knows peace even less than Kaldar does.

It’s because Kaldar’s made peace with his lack of peace, so he thinks to himself. That’s the difference. He knows what’s waiting, and he accepts it with open arms. It’ll kill him, but he’s okay with it. Ready to go -- he’s been ready to go for a long, long time. He isn’t even thirty yet.

There isn’t any reason to work together anymore. His usual seat in the bar is his last one, the glass in front of him filled with lemon lime soda like it usually is. He’s never had a drop of liquor to drink, and he never will. Not as a crutch, not as a celebration, not as a goodbye. It really isn’t all that complicated. He knows what’s next. Trying to be smarter than he is is really a waste of time.

Kaldar stands up, and that’s when it’s clear. He’s not changing his mind. No matter the ethos, pathos, or logos. Kurdan will die. Cooper will die. Every last person they throw at him will die. Until Kaldar’s dead, he can’t stop doing the one thing he was meant to do. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

He meets The Devil’s look, the twist of his face like a sneer contrasting with the stony resolve of Kaldar, obscured by the shadow of his hood. The way he holds Kaldar by the shoulders conflicts with the way Kaldar’s hands ball into fists, ready to punch back. Scared. Angry. Haunted. Jealous.

The Devil leans in, his lips against Kaldar’s in a weird game of chicken. A threat Kaldar didn’t think he’d make good on. It’s complicated. The tension in the air seems to deflate all at once, like a balloon popping. Complicated. Kaldar’s never kissed anybody before. Devil looks like he’s just been slapped. Kaldar scowls like it wasn’t the Devil that started it. Complicated.

And it doesn’t stop being complicated as Kaldar looks at the man like he wants to fight him, but grabs him by the collar to kiss him instead.

It’s clumsy. It’s messy. It’s angry and lost and honest. The Devil tastes like liquor and cigarettes. Now he knows what they taste like. It’s the only way he’ll drink it.

“Forget me.” He grunts, pushes him back with all the strength he can muster, “You did your job. Time for me to do mine.” 

And he walks out the door.

an accidental kiss that confuses you both, but only a moment pass before you crash your lips back against each other's    /     the devil @aamusedly​

[spakonamoved]

@aamusedly sent: ‘ i’m not straight. and i’m not gay. i’m bi. bi myself. ‘ devil @ kaldar because i'm sorry

Kaldar merely stares at the Devil for a second, a slight furrow in his brow grows, as do the wrinkle in his nose. One of the corners of his mouth pulls back into something confused, and almost annoyed at being so.

“No you’re not,” He replies indignantly, “I’m sitting here, too.”

[womanlives]

A GIRL STANDS IN A BURNED SHELL OF A BUILDING. It’s ruined beyond recognition, but that doesn’t matter. She’d know it anywhere. She died here, once. In this very temple. In this very spot, in fact. She looks down. That’s when she notices the blood. She’s not sure where it’s coming from. Then she notices the pain. It starts on her back in sharp, ripped lashes — then ricochets up between her shoulder blades, snaps ‘round her neck, dives straight down her lungs and ribs to her knees, and breaks them straight through. There’s no injuries, though. Not that she can see anyway. Her mothers used to call them phantom pains, which she’d always laughed at. There’s nothing phantom about them. It’s just that they’re buried on the inside, now, instead of the out.

And this whole place? This ruined temple to a silent god? This whole crime-filled city with its warlords and its politicians and its gangpins? It’s nothing but phantom pains. 

Something burns warm and gentle in her left palm. She brings her hand up. Opens it. Stares down at the match that flickers weakly against the grime of her fingers. Right — that’s what this room is missing. She remembers now. A baptism by fire. She can burn this whole city down to the fucking ground.

The girl lifts the match.

And hears a boy call a name. 

That’s when she knows this is a dream. She’s had it before — loads of times. She remembers now. She always thinks of the things she’d rather she just forget. It varies (sometimes the fire’s already started, sometimes she’s already let the match go, sometimes her legs are broken again and all she can do is watch it fall in slow motion as the world screams around her), sure, but this is the first time it’s ever had him. 

She hates it. The idea of him in this city, in this hell? Seeing what it made her? She hates it.

“Go away, Kaldar.” She doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s him. Her blood hums, reminds her that he’s in it, in it deep. Has been since the day they met, will be ‘til the day she dies again. 

The boy calls a name again. Her bones sing in response. That’s me! they say. That’s me!

But it isn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

“I go by a different name now.” The girl’s tone is flat. Between the humming in her blood and the singing in her bones, she has nothing left for her voice. She keeps her eyes on the match.

“Hundreds of thousands will die,” he says. 

“I don’t care.” Sharp, angry.

“Yes you do.” Just as sharp, just as angry. It cuts her to the core. 

She glares at the match. It eats her anger, and swells. It will become an inferno.

The boy behind her waits. “What do you go by now?” 

She hesitates.

“What do you go by now?” 

 “Mercy.” 

She doesn’t need to be facing him to know he’s staring at her, with those eyes that are bluer than the sky and the ocean and everything combined. Finally, he clears his throat. “Are you?” 

Mercy closes her eyes, bites her lower lip. Her hands loosen around the match. 

“I don’t know.” 

She drops it.

The last thing she remembers before Dunny shakes her violently awake is this: the regret, the dive, the catch, the match, the save, the smoke, the shame. And him. Turning to face him. Being too late. Only managing to get out the first of the three words she wanted so desperately to say.

“ — miss you.” It’s hoarse and ragged and altogether too late, whispered into the rags of Dunny’s robe as he rocks her back and forth from her nightmare. “I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.” 

@hvadeina sent : [ dream ] for my muse to share dream with yours / kaldar and mercie