#love this armor + the subtle glow from her face paint

[procyo9]

[rinwellisathing]

Paint The Lines, Cut The Flesh: Part 7

“The darkness is oppressive....” Wyll frowned as the party stood on the precipice of the sickened land. “Almost like it could clutch at my throat with a clawed hand like a monster in a folktale.” Jaina gazed forward into the gloom, eyes narrowing. It was difficult to see two feet in front of her face and reaching out her hand felt almost like pressing into a rip tide. Frowning, she looked at the torches in the burning pyre that seemed to have been left for adventurers and the idea of how easily they might be snuffed out crossed her mind. “Deep in the ocean, there exist creatures that thrive under pressure and oppressive darkness. Their bodies give off light...it guides their way and it can attract prey as well....If my theory is correct, if we could do the same we might overtake a scouting party from Moonrise and find out how they traverse this place...” She looked to Sentry and Shadowheart. “You two deal in holy magic, can you give our armor and weapons some sort of illumination?” Shadowheart seemed puzzled a moment as she stepped forward. “I don't seem to be effected by this curse...Halsin did say it was Sharran in nature...” Her eyes widened and her expression became one of awe. “She must truly love me, I really am her chosen....” She breathed.

“Yes, well, that just means you have more spell power to protect the rest of us...So perhaps stop gawking and get to it?” Astarion rolled his eyes. “Gods above, I never thought I'd be begging someone to cast a light spell on me.” He muttered, folding his arms across his chest. Sentry gently laid a hand on Astarion's shoulder, the touch was so soft, almost apologetic and warm, golden light pulsed over the vampire's body leaving a gentle, subtle glow. The tiefling smiled gently. “So it doesn't hurt your eyes too, I know how that can be...” Astarion looked up at him, taken aback. Sentry was a strong man, and when they'd slept together, he'd certainly been the handsy sort. But as he thought back to Sentry's healing touches or when they would just talk, he was so delicate about it, never insisting on more contact than was absolutely necessary. At first, Astarion wondered if the way he fed on Sentry disgusted the young man, but that couldn't be true, Sentry's expression was always that dopey puppy dog look of devotion. “Yes...well...thank you, darling.” He finally said absently. “No trouble!” Sentry nodded kindly and walked over to Jaina and Wyll, pressing a hand to each of their shoulders as their clothing lit up with that same gentle glow. Finally he sheepishly approached Shadowheart. “Hey...Running a bit low on energy and I still need to be able to smite if Jaina's plan's gonna work...d'you mind, Shart?” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Please stop calling me that.” She muttered through gritted teeth, but obliged, spreading her fingers over Sentry's chest plate and wreathing him in light. The party began to make their way through the shadows slowly and cautiously, Sentry taking the lead and Shadowheart bringing up the rear. As they ventured deeper into the curse, Sentry got the intense feeling he had been here before. A memory of carelessly wandering a town wreathed in similar shadows, the view of this forest from a bedroom window, a fine carriage with clockwork horses, strange blue lanterns hanging from the rooftops.

“Hey, do you hear something up ahead?” Jaina whispered. “I think someone else is out here.” Subconsciously, she took a protective step in front of Wyll as Sentry snapped out of the memory and joined her in peering around the corner. “Who are they?” Sentry whispered back, frowning in confusion. “They're definitely wearing a uniform.” “They're Harpers, see the pins?” Jaina replied, pointing to the silver harps pinned to the figures' cloaks. “We would trade with them for information a lot and sometimes they'd book passage aboard our ships. They're generally friendly if you aren't some elder evil...” She explained as she stepped out, hands raised peacefully. “Who's there?! State your business!” Their leader, a pretty human with long dark curls called out, raising her torch to get a better look at the strange tieflings standing before her. “Jaina Thalassia, Daughter of Captain Jonah Thalassia of The Bitch's Fury.” Jaina introduced herself clearly and amicably. “My friends and I have come here looking to confront the cult at Moonrise Tower.”

Sentry's eyes moved from Jaina and the woman as he noticed one of the archers was moving just a bit to close to the edge of the torch's light. Part of him debated calling out a warning, part of him knew what would happen, he had seen it before, he realized. But that nasty little voice at the back of his mind told him to stay quiet, let it happen. Either they'd make a stronger case to earn the Harpers' trust, or they would have one less weapon brandishing group to worry about. A sick feeling in his stomach chastised him for that, as the other Harpers turned to see their friend swallowed by shadows. “Yonas!” The dark haired woman called out, she and her friends closing ranks, letting the torch light glow brighter around them as a horrible screech sounded from the shadows and shades began erupting from the ground, the unfortunate harper crawling from the gloom, eyes glowing a haunting sickly green as ichor dripped from his lips, dark and slimy. “Sentry! Those smites of yours would be very useful right now.” Jaina bit her lip as lightning crackled in her hands. Wyll drew his blade and behind them, motes of moonlight appeared around Shadowheart, burning at the cursed creatures surrounding them. Astarion shifted behind Sentry, bow drawn. Sentry's blade glowed as he held it at the ready, joining the remaining Harpers in defending their position. ----

“This place gives me the creeps...” Karlach shuddered as she and Lae'zel led the party into the strange, sickly divide between the mountains and this strange, cursed forest. “Makes me wanna carry Clive at my hip, y'know, as a little comfort thing.” “My blade is the only comfort I require.” Lae'zel replied bluntly as she slashed a dead branch out of the way with a frown. “Hold...There is someone up ahead.” “Is that...” Octavia's bright eyes widened and she couldn't help but point, her mouth open wide. The figure before the party was dressed in lavishly embroidered fine traveling robes. A wizard's hat to rival the finest she'd seen in any city boutique she'd ever visited adorned his head of long, snowy white hair, and though he leaned on a staff, there was a quiet power about him, elderly though he was.“Elminster Au'rum? The archmage?” She breathed, barely containing excitement at seeing the legend she had only heard stories of in person. “T'chk....Whoever he is, he looks like an elderly Istik out for a stroll in his sleep clothes.” Kroger quirked a brow. “Who is this person that you're so in awe of?” To Kroger's eyes, the man before them was ancient, especially for a human. He was dressed in clothing laughably ill suited for the environment and a frankly ridiculous hat atop his aged head. Gale sighed, rolling his eyes as he stepped forward. “Nothing to be concerned about, just an old friend...” He approached, raising a hand in greeting. “Hello, Elminster...What brings you to this less than pleasant locale?” “Gale, my boy....I've come to speak with you, in fact.” The man replied. With a sigh, he added. “Ah, but I find myself exhausted from the long journey and in need of refreshment. Mystra bade me travel as quickly as I could with little time for comfort or concern for my wellbeing. Perhaps we might reconvene at your camp?”

“Mystra herself send you?” Gale seemed taken aback, his eyes widening, mouth set in an anxious frown. “But why?” “By the gods, boy. Have you no manners? Let us speak of this someplace more comfortable.” Elminster groaned like a grandfather, inconvenienced by a naughty child. “Aww, izzat Gale's grandad?” Karlach chuckled as she approached. “Apparently so.” Kroger quirked a brow, folding his arms across his chest. “But anyway, he IS right, we should rest a moment while we discern a way through this cursed fog. Let's find a safe place to bed down for the night and get the old man's energy back up. As I have read, some humans get quite irritable when they lack sustenance, or worse than that, they go collapsing left and right.” As the party set up camp, Gale folded his arms and eyed Elminster as they stood near his tent (which was presently setting itself up with the aid of glowing motes of purple energy. “Alright, Elminster, now why did Mystra send you to find me?” “Don't be crass, Gale. I've still yet to eat even a morsel!” The old man chastised, pausing and turning his head as Octavia tapped him shyly on the shoulder. “Here you are, Elminster, sir. And some for you as well, Gale. Speaking on such important mysteries of the arcane can be hungry work!” Octavia gave a shy smile as she hand Elminster some cheese and dried beef wrapped in a cloth and the same for Gale, with some warm spiced bread for them to share. “I'll leave you be.” She bowed politely, backing up into the darkness. “A kind and clever girl, what an apprentice she'll make some day for some lucky wizard.” Elminster nodded as he began to eat. “She's nearly as accomplished as I am, she's got no need to be an apprentice.” Gale replied defensively. “Mm...yes, well...at any rate, Gale...Mystra has told me she knows of your current plight...and she would consider forgiveness. Not only that, but in doing so, help you defeat this Absolute.” Elminster intoned, his voice low and somewhat more ominous than Gale might have hoped for one discussing forgiveness. “She would?” He paused a moment, a look of surprise crossing his face. “And what would I need to do?”

Elminster's expression softened a moment. “The orb you carry could be detonated at will in order to destroy The Absolute and its followers. I can grant a boon that will soothe it temporarily until you are close enough to set it off...” The air behind them rippled as Octavia rushed up to them. “No! Then Gale would die? It's out of the question, we will find another way! My sister is the greatest warrior our people have ever known, it will not come to this!” “Octavia...I should have known you couldn't help but listen in...” Gale shook his head with a sad smile. “But, if this is our only option...” “It isn't! It can't be! You are smarter than that! What about what Jaina and Wyll said about putting our heads together when we all first joined up?” The Githyanki frowned, her already big blue eyes wide as if fighting back tears. “It is the only way Mystra will consider forgiveness, Gale. I'll leave you with this...” Elminster murmured something quietly and crossed a hand over Gale's chest. The wizard had to admit, the orb felt calmer and more quiet than it had in some time as Elminster disappeared. “Maybe if that's the only way she will forgive you, her forgiveness isn't worth it.” Octavia frowned. “Goddesses can be wrong. Vlaakith is, why not Mystra?” “Because...” Gale gently took Octavia by the hand. “I wronged her first.” “What? By seeking greater magic? By searching for understanding? I study Istik cultures, Gale. I know what Mystra bids her followers to do, exactly what she is punishing you for now. Is that a just, wise goddess? To me it sounds like a petty tyrant.” Octavia's expression soured. “I questioned Vlaakith, perhaps it is your turn to start questioning your goddess too.” She squeezed Gale's hand tightly, her expression sorrowful under its ferocity as she looked him in the eye. Gale didn't quite know how to respond. He just held Octavia's hands gently in his and looked her in the eyes. A nagging twinge at the back of his mind told him she was right, that he was being played by his goddess and that he was being punished for doing nothing more than embodying what her chosen should. But another part of him still paused, Karsus' folly haunting his memory like a childhood fable meant as a warning.

Across the camp, Karlach was preparing for bed as Kroger approached, sitting beside her. She gave him a small smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey soldier. Missing Wyll, hmm? Afraid Jaina's got him all to herself?” Kroger blushed and cleared his throat. “N...No, why would you...what makes you think?” He inhaled deeply. “No, I merely....he is a good friend of yours, and...as I am a good friend of his, I'd be remiss not to assist you in any way I can...You talked about having your...soft-thing...at your side for comfort, I thought of a way it would be useful to you in this place.” “Oh yeah?” Karlach grinned, chuckling as she folded her arms across her chest. “You can make Clive REALLY able to protect me against this Shadowcurse?” “Well, I believe I can...” Kroger nodded thoughtfully, taking the worn bear carefully in his hands and focusing a spell very cautiously on it. With a little time, the bear began to glow gently with a warm, comforting light. “And then you'd just wear him at your waist...As you suggested you might.” He offered the stuffed animal back to Karlach. “Oh fuck yeah! Always wanted a battle buddy all my own. Thanks!” She slugged Kroger appreciatively in the arm, the smaller man wincing but giving a small smile and nod.

After the shadow creatures had been quieted, the remaining Harpers had proven grateful and informed the party of a safe haven not far from where they were attacked. Shadowheart paused to direct a sending spell to Kroger to let the other party know where to meet them and they started towards safety. “Huh...well, it certainly does look cozy enough.” Sentry nodded as they reached the threshold. He looked around at the various inhabitants about the grounds, noting with relief that it seemed the tieflings had made it here. “It's good these people have found a safe haven here.” Wyll smiled approvingly. “Hopefully it stays that way.” “We can help ensure that it does.” Jaina replied, offering him a small smile in return. “Well, I suppose at least it's better than bedding down in these awful woods another night.” Astarion rolled his eyes. Sentry was about to speak, but shifted uncomfortably looking down at his feet instead as he found vines rising from the ground and wrapping around his legs, snaking up his body. His face paled and his mind snapped back to a memory, a small Tiefling child with long white hair tied down on a dirty mattress in a cage, hands gripping at his limbs as he cried out and tried to struggle. He froze and his face flashed between panic and rage.

“Release me this instant.” He growled. “I think not...”A calm, authoritative voice replied as an old half-elven woman walked slowly towards him, her fierce brown eyes narrowed. In her hand she held a vial with a squirming creature inside, banging at the glass eagerly as she held it out to Sentry. “Ketheric is growing bold sending his True Souls into our base...” Sentry was starting to struggle, his mouth set in a snarl, eyes glazing over. Jaina frowned and hurried to step between Sentry and the woman, holding her hands up apologetically. “We aren't True Souls. We want to be rid of these tadpoles. We're here to defeat The Absolute and keep it from causing anymore harm.” She began to explain. The half-elf frowned and raised a brow. “Is that so? And how is it you are not under its control then?” “Please, let him go. He's frightened. If he calms down, we can show you.” Jaina replied. “There is an artifact, but he's the one carrying it.” The woman shook her head. “I cannot let him go until I am certain what you say is true, my people's safety comes first.” Jaina looked back towards Wyll and the others pleadingly. Sentry was fully gone at this point, panic had set in and awakened the urge. “Alright, let me.” Astarion sighed, walking up beside Sentry. He put on an air of annoyance, as though the spectacle was all too much for him, rolling his eyes and shaking his head dramatically. But when he reached Sentry, he gently laid his hand on the tiefling's arm, light and cautious, giving him room to jerk away if he needed. His mind connected to Sentry's. 'They can't hurt you, darling. Wherever you think you are, it isn't real. You don't have to go back there.' Sentry's eyes focused again. His breathing slowed. His surroundings in his minds eye changed. The walls of the cage were blown apart, the house scorched from fire damage. He stood hand in hand with that dark haired man, smiling appreciatively up at a pair of mutilated corpses hanging from the ceiling. He gave a small smile as the scene shifted again. Dark tossled hair gave way to soft white curls and deep emerald eyes gave way to shining ruby.

“Thanks...What's going on, again?” Sentry murmured, voice slurring just a bit. “The artifact, darling.” Astarion prompted. “Right...yeah...Um..” He fidgeted against the vines a bit before managing to produce the artifact from one of his side pouches. The half-elf watched in surprise as the tadpole in the jar thrashed and squirmed, trying in vain to get away from the strange device before seeming to fall unconscious. “Huh...A useful thing to have indeed.” She blinked, finally letting the vines fall away from Sentry, who heaved a sigh of relief and allowed himself to go to his knees. “If you truly seek to destroy The Absolute, then it seems our goals are aligned. Come and speak with me inside...And have a drink, I am sure you've had a long journey.” She nodded towards the inn as she turned and walked away.

Sentry blinked, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Shit...” He murmured. He could still feel himself trembling and his cheeks felt wet. That memory had hit him so hard, he'd felt truly helpless. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply and when he opened them, a gloved hand was extended towards him. “Are you alright, Sentry?” Wyll asked, his smile was reassuring as Sentry accepted his hand and allowed him to help him to his feet. “Yeah...sorry...” Sentry replied sheepishly, looking away and frowning. “A drink will calm your nerves. Father always says a good swig of rum heals all wounds.” Jaina patted him on the back with a fond chuckle. “You did well considering the way that woman treated you.” “The funny thing? She was actually a little familiar, I think.” Sentry blinked, scratching his head. ---- Sentry needed some time to calm himself before meeting with The High Harper, so the party split up to explore the grounds and get comfortable. Halsin arrived from their encampment and went to see to Sentry, relieving Jaina of caring for him. She stepped out into an open area behind the inn, no one really seemed to be walking about back here, but the comforting light protecting the inn still covered it. The water was nearby, lapping peacefully at the shore, but she saw a flash of movement to the side down on the beach, her pale blue eyes scanning to find the source.

She couldn't help but smile as she saw Wyll there, dancing on the sand. His movements were so fluid, so graceful. The lean muscles of his body moved with an elegance she wasn't used to from the sort of dancing she usually watched. Slowly, she approached him with an appreciative smile, arms folded across her chest as she watched. He turned with a dashing grin to face her, finishing his dance and bowing politely as she clapped her hands. “Well, it seems there are some things nobles do that I can appreciate.” She teased. “I'm afraid the best I can do is a sailor's jig.” “Oh come now, I don't believe that for an instant. I've sparred with you and I've seen you in combat, you've a dancer's grace all your own, Miss Thalassia.” Wyll held out a hand to her. Jaina giggled and couldn't help but smile widely, sighing and rolling her eyes before taking his hand. “Well, alright my lord, but it'll be your feet that get stomped when I can't keep up.” Wyll winced at the title. “Just Wyll is fine...I should have told you sooner, but there seemed no point in it, my father exiled me ages ago...I'm no more a lord or a noble than you are a...a deck hand.” Jaina raised a brow. “A deckhand? Well, I've never been a deck hand...Do you mean a cabin girl? I was a cabin girl for a time when I was little.” Wyll frowned, giving her a deeply sincere look as he held her hand. “All I mean is, I know it hurt you that I kept my past a secret, and I'm sorry for that...But it isn't who I am. The person I am is the person you sparred and joked with at camp, the person whose side you fight by...I'm just Wyll.” Jaina nodded, turning her head away in thought for a moment and sighing softly. “No, you're right...I took it personally when it had nothing to do with me. You had your reasons for keeping it secret and it's true, that isn't who you are...You've never behaved like the stuffy nobles who treated me like garbage back in the city...I don't believe you have a cruel bone in your body.” She sighed and bit her lip. Wyll smiled softly, squeezing Jaina's hand and pulling her close. She smiled back at him and began to follow the way his feet moved, slowly and carefully at first, but soon picking up the patterns and allowing him to lead. The stars shone only over the inn, protected as it was by the warm, glowing light, and the two of them danced together, bodies close, hearts beating in time. When finally, Jaina leaned back and Wyll leaned forward, their lips met and they held the kiss as time seemed to stand still, her tail slipping around his waist, holding him gently.

“So...does this mean I'm forgiven?” Wyll asked softly. Jaina gave him a roguish smile and gave him another long, deep kiss. “There was nothing to forgive. I was a fool to see you for anything but the man I was smitten with the moment I saw him with those children.” “You're not a fool for guarding your heart...” He gently pressed a hand to her cheek, looking deeply into her eyes. “But I'm glad you could let that guard down for me. I'll protect it as valiantly as you have.”

--- Inside, Kroger and the others had entered the inn, approaching Sentry and the others at a small table. Shadowheart handed a few gold pieces to one of the tiefling children who had just set down a fine white wine on the table. “You would think this General Thorm would consider how difficult it might be for his own army to traverse this place in the fog.” Kroger rolled his eyes. “Well, one would assume they have some strategy to pass through unscathed.” Halsin suggested, sipping from a mug of ale. “Oh, they did.” Octavia replied, producing an odd little lantern from the straps she hung her staff from. “I wanted to see how it works in the presence of the entire party. Where are Jaina and Wyll?” “Off pining for eachother and pretending to be in some imagined disagreement still, I'm sure.” Astarion snorted, examining his nails. “What else is new?” “Well, I suppose we could first see if it's holy magic...Mr. Ojeda? Miss Shadowheart?” Octavia held the lantern out.

“You couldn't have just asked your brother?” Shadowheart cocked a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “He is...dealing with a crisis of faith, we will explain further in time.” The wizard apologized, pushing the lantern towards the paladin and the cleric. Sentry's hands rested on the lantern a moment and then he picked it up, eyeing the glass panes. “Well, it isn't holy magic but there is very obviously something stuck in there, it's pounding on the glass, see? Poor little thing.” He unlatched the tiny pane that opened into a door, and a blur of color shot free of the lantern. “Huh...It's some little fae thing, see? You okay there?” Sentry blinked as the little being landed on the end of his freckled nose, standing on the tip and looking him in the eyes. He could see every detail of her tiny frame from the simple dress she wore to her long purple hair. “Thank you, thank you, good sir knight! For freeing me from that glass light!” The pixie spoke, her expression one of exaggerated gratefulness, saccharine and syrupy. “Oh...uh...no thanks are needed, lady fair, but how did you get stuck in there?” Sentry blinked. “Captured I was, by monsters most foul! But I must ask you: What comes now?” “You can go and fly away. I'd never keep you locked away.” Sentry nodded his head gently, earning a look of annoyance from the pixie as his nod threw her off balance. “Boy, you're dumber than you seem. I'll spell it out: I can grant your dreams.” The pixie rolled her eyes. “Er...It's getting tough to speak in verse, but can you get us safely through this curse?” Sentry scratched the back of his neck. “Protection from the shadow curse, what more could a dingus want?” The Pixie replied, tossing Sentry a strange little bell. “Ring this bell and speak the words, and it will give you what you've earned.” “Okay, thank you but that didn't....” Sentry began as the pixie flew off into the night. “Rhyme...Did I not have to rhyme either? Did I come up with all of that for nothing?” He frowned, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “Ah, but at least you've learned you're quite the poet, Mr. Ojeda!” Octavia clapped her hands and smiled. “You should write!” “Ugh...trust me, no one wants that.” Sentry blanched, shaking his head and taking a gulp from his glass of wine.

“Have you checked on your kin yet?” Kroger asked, sliding into a chair and accepting a glass of wine from Shadowheart, which he downed swiftly with a sigh. Sentry looked around at the tieflings holed up throughout the inn and frowned. He counted so few compared to back at the grove. He was also just beginning to notice how tired and shaken many of them seemed. His heart sank as he noticed that even a few of the kids were missing...and Zevlor as well.

He rose to his feet and slowly made his way over to the bard he recognized from The Grove. A feeling of foreboding looming over him as he approached her. The last bard he'd encountered had suffered a grisly fate and he could already feel his hands twitching. He gripped his own wrist firmly and squeezed, digging his nails in to keep the urge down. “Alfira?” He addressed her gently. “What happened? Are you alright? Where's Lakrissa?” Sentry asked, sitting beside her and examining the thousand yard stare on her face, noting the tremble in her arms. “We....we encountered a group of cultists...” She began, shakily taking a sip from her drink to steady her nerves. “Some of us tried to fight, some ran....Zevlor...he just...he just stood there...Rolan shielded me and the kids while Cal and Lia charged the cultists...but....” “Zevlor didn't fight?” Sentry frowned, looking away thoughtfully. Why? He was a Hellrider, a paladin. Even Sentry would have put himself between the others and harm, even despite the whispers in his mind. What would make Zevlor freeze like that? “Where is he now?” “I don't know...anyone who didn't die or run here got taken away by the cultists...Who knows where they've gone?” Alfira shook her head sadly. With a deep sigh, she raised her head and looked Sentry dead in the eyes. “How do you do it, Mr. Ojeda? How do you keep going through all of this?” Sentry gave a hollow laugh and shook his head, pouring himself a drink and taking a long sip. “Well, I'll let you know when I find out....I'm kind of making this up as I go...” He admitted. She gave a small, sad smile in return. “Well...at least it's good to know even heroes don't have it all figured out.” She raised her glass and took another drink. Sentry paled and stared into the distance, forcing back the urge in his mind so heavily a trickle of blood began to issue from his nose. “I'm not a hero...” He simply said, collecting his glass and hurrying back to his party.

[worminstuff]

The Balcony of the Treehouse pt. 4

sleepy bois x reader au

warnings: sad. sm sad.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Techno glanced down at Y/n his eyes wide. Y/n leaned forward away from his chest staring at the rug.

Techno stood, offering at hand down at Y/n and she sighed, taking his hand to let him pull her up. Techno watched as her shoulders sank.

“Do you regret it?” Techno asked, his face stonic.

“Regret what?” Y/n looked up at him.

“The kiss.” he slid one of his hands into his pocket.

Y/n looked to the doorway where Wilbur stood, she pictured his face and how he was hiding so many emotions at that moment she'd looked at him.

“I'm not sure.” she glanced at him for a second and watched a flash of hurt cross his face before she looked away again.

Techno watched her as she silently made her way out of the treehouse. He stood a moment longer processing what she said. He felt a surge of hurt pass through him at her words. He was still basking in the way her lips had felt on his and how she melted into him. 

What was she so unsure of? Yeah Wilbur had seen them but why should that matter?

He sighed and followed her.

Y/n walked in the house first finding Tommy standing near one of the chairs.

“Waiting on me?” Y/n smiled at tommy. Wilbur felt a burn in the pit of his stomach.

“Wanna sit next to you.” Tommy mumbled.

“Alright kiddo, pick one and I'll sit next to you.” she gestured towards the chairs.

Techno had walked in only moments after her, standing a bit behind watching the little interaction between her and his little brother.

“You don't want to sit next to me Tommy?” Techno said with his brows raised.

Tommy looked up at him for a moment, Tommy admired Techno greatly, but like the other two boys there was just something gravitational about Y/n to tommy.

Tommy climbed into a chair that was closest to him and patted the one next to him looking at Y/n.

Y/n laughed, “i guess that's a no huh?” she looked up at Techno, not laughing as much after she saw his face. 

He was staring down at her, his face emotionless but his eyes were boring holes straight in her heart. He gave her arm a small nudge, “go on. Stop staring.” he nodded over her shoulder to his little brother who was sitting looking over the back of the chair waiting for her semi patently.

Her breath hitched her throat as she quickly sat next to tommy. Y/n hadn't even realized Wilbur was sat diagonal to her.

Techno took a seat on the end of the table near Tommy and after placing food in front of everyone, Phil sat next to will.

Once everyone had filled their plates, conversation rolled in.

“Y/n are you staying tonight?” he looked to her, almost hopefully. Y/n glanced at Techno, he only stared for a moment before he gave her a subtle nod.

“Yeah, if that's alright. Parents aren't even home anyways so..” she looked back to Phil who nodded,

“Good! I've been having a hard time getting tommy to bed lately so maybe you can tuck him in tonight? Might help a bit.” Phil smiled at Tommy who was clearly busy shoving his face full of mashed potatoes.

“Sure!” Y/n shot him a smile before staring down at her plate.

She was desperately trying to decipher what Techno was thinking, and feeling. Wilbur too.

She would have never been able to guess what was going through his head though.

Wilbur was stealing small glances at her every once in a while. He couldn't get the sight of her laid back with her head to the side, Techno holding her so softly and kissing her even softer. Thinking of it again gave him chills. His first thought when seeing them was shock of course, but it slowly molded into anger and sadness and even guilt.

She was just flirting with him, and then she does that? Or was she never flirting in the first place? 

He had to be honest with himself, could she really even think to choose him over Techno? How could she? They're everything together. They've been the perfect pair since they were just little kids. 

Yet he held so much hope she may have still had that small inkling of something in her heart for him. He wanted to be the one to hold her and kiss her, he wanted to be the one always causing that cute bashful blush to cross her cheeks. He wanted her.

While Wilbur was getting emotional in his own head, Techno was staring at her leg. Y/n had this nervous habit, Techno was sure Wilbur didn't even know this existed, when Y/n gets nervous or anxious her leg starts to bounce. Sometimes ring her hands, or even try to grab his hand to have something to do with her hands to calm her down. 

Y/n actually had many habits he was well aware of. When she gets frustrated she scrunches her nose up like a bunny, when she's overwhelmed she shakes her hands as if she's trying to get water off them, and when she's tired and she doesn't want to tell him she'll grasp the edge of his shirt and just hold it. That ones his favorite. Techno would bet good money Wilbur had never even taken the time to notice these things.

And unknown to Techno, he'd lose that bet.

Wilbur was aware of these things,  but from his angle sitting across from her he couldn't see her legs.

Techno stared at her, her eyes were trained on the table cloth, while she moved the food on her plate around. He wanted her to look at him so he could try and read her and figure out if she was okay.

Y/n wasn't one for conflict, and he hated to say it but she has created a bit of a problem. 

“Pwetty!” Tommy exclaimed as he dropped his fork onto his plate.

“Tommy, don't talk with your mouth full.” Phil scolded.

Y/n looked at the blond boy standing up in his chair next to her, “what's pretty? Your cup?” Y/n pointed to the cup that sat beside his plate that had little music disks painted on it.

“Y/n/n!” he said as if it were obvious.

Y/n was a bit speechless, he'd even said her nickname. Tommy was really the only one who used it anymore, but it was still surprising. Wilbur and Phil's eyes had gone wide. Techno was confused.

“He's probably just-” Wilbur tried to buy in but Tommy had cut him off.

“Wilby said Y/n/n was pwetty.” he pointed at his oldest brother.

Wilber sighed, and closed his eyes.

Techno on the other hand, Techno could feel his ears growing red. When did he say that? To Tommy especially!

“O-oh. uhum, that's very sweet, t-tommy.” Y/n was visibly uncomfortable. She wasn't uncomfortable with the compliment itself, she just knew it wasn't particularly something she was supposed to hear. She was also sure Techno wasn't supposed to hear it.

“Y/n you're quite finished, do you wanna go get those things you need for the night?” Phil was trying to hand her a way out, for her, but also so he could talk to his boys.

“Right! Yes, I'll go do that and I will be right back!” she stood quickly, walking fast to the door with her head down.

Techno watched her leave, still sat in utter confusion and slight anger. 

Phil sighed, “what the hell happened? You three just made up and now she's all twitchy and uncomfortable and she barely ate! What did you do?” He pointed an accusing finger at Techno.

“Me?!” Techno exclaimed.

“He kissed her.” Wilbur said, looking beside him at phil.

“You what?!” Phil wasn't sure what to feel, angry? Proud?

Techno's shoulder sank as he slid a hand over his face.

“That's not anyone's business.” he mumbled.

“Oh i think it is!” Phil was now feeling the anger, how could that not be his business? After all that had happened in the past few days and Techno being Phil's son! This was very much his business.

“It was just..I-I don't know what it was, okay?” Techno looked at his father, the thought of Y/n looking at him and telling him she wasn't sure if she regretted kissing him or not, still fresh in his thoughts.

“You don't?” Wilbur sounded a little too hopeful. Maybe the kiss was nothing? He really did hope so.

“Oh shut up Wilbur!” Techno glared at Wilbur.

“Me shut up? How about you go slobber all over Y/n again like Tommy!” Wilbur spat back, his blood boiling.

Tommy was starting to get overwhelmed with all the anger. But this time around, he didn't get a nap that day.

Wilbur and Techno continued to bicker until Tommy decided to pick up his plate, and throw it to the floor.

All three looked at Tommy instantly, seeing his small face scrunched up and red. He was angry.

Meanwhile, Y/n had just managed to crack open the window to her bedroom. She hadn't gotten her key from her bag before she left, and she didn't want to walk back in awkwardly or chance that Techno was already back up at the treehouse, alone.

She wiggled her way into the room, and pulled the metal bead on her lamp causing a soft glow to emit in her room now. She grabbed a small bag and grabbed some of her overnight  things, throwing them in quickly.

Just as she was about to grab a pillow, she noticed the sweater sitting on her bed. She sat down on the bed next to it, picking it up gently.

It was the sweatshirt she'd slept in the night before.

She pulled it up to her face, feeling the fabric on her skin, smelling his cologne. 

Her eyes started to well up as she realized everything that had happened.

She clutched the sweatshirt tight as her emotions started to overtake a bit. She sobbed into the sweater as her shoulders shook and she heaved for air.

Wilbur liked her, very clearly, but she'd kissed Techno.

She liked it too.

She had kissed her best friend, and she liked it. 

She liked the way he was gentle and the way he was so careful but passionate.

But she also liked how Wilbur got nervous around her, how he gave her his sweater. He'd even tried to give  her flowers!

And Y/n had hurt both of them. 

She didn't mean to obviously, she loved them both. She just..didn't know how.

Techno is her best friend, her lanky, smart, sweet, cuddly, bookworm of a best friend. She loved his smile, his messy pink hair, his cheeky grin. She loved the way he always acted as if he were her protector, her knight in shining armor.

Wilbur, Wilbur was her childhood crush. She had the hugest crush on him as a little girl, all the way until she was 12! She gave up after a while, but she couldn't help  but feel a soft spot for him. He was always sweet to her in their few interactions, and he seemed to care so much for her.

She wasn't going to force herself to pick one of them now, or hopefully ever. Not only would that ruin her, but it might ruin their relationship a bit.

Y/n started to wonder if she should just stay home, sleep all day tomorrow too so she didn't have to see either of them at school.

It sounded like a good plan until she realized she promised Phil she would tuck Tommy into bed that night.

With a sniffle Y/n set the sweater back down next to her pillows and stood up. She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes and decided she would take a quick shower to give herself a bit to calm down before she headed back over.

Back with the boys, Phil managed to calm Tommy down after Wilbur and Techno stopped fighting. Wilbur had abruptly stood up and went to his bedroom, he was quite done listening to Techno.

Techno helped Phil clean up the table, and even held Tommy on his hip to keep him calm.

Tommy was clutching his shirt in his small hand as his head was rested on Techno.

“She's been a bit long don't you think?” Phil asked Techno from the sink.

“I guess..maybe she started nervous cleaning?” Techno said. That was another thing Y/n did often.

Just as Phil was going to say he should go check on her, the front door opened.

Techno leaned a bit to the side, to see the doorway from where he was standing. Y/n had just closed the front door and was making her way towards the kitchen. Upon seeing her, Tommy started to wiggle around in Techno's arms, wanting to get to Y/n.

Once she was close enough Techno handed him off. Tommy wrapped his arms around her neck and his legs around her middle, clinging to her.

Techno touched a strand of her wet hair, “you..showered?” he asked.

“I..yeah. Just wanted a moment to myself and all.” she only slightly lied.

Techno nodded, he knew she was hiding something that happened while she was gone.

“Wilby and Techno were bein mean wif out you.'' Tommy mumbled into Y/ns shoulder.

“Sorry?” Y/n asked, looking up at Techno. Phil made his way out of the kitchen, Techno shot him a harsh glance as he escaped.

“They were yelling.” Tommy said, picking his head up to look at her. She smoothed out some of his messy hair.

“They were? Why kiddo?” she looked at Techno towards the end of her sentence.

His face was soft, he loved to watch Y/n with tommy. He tried to snap himself out of his thoughts before Tommy could make anything worse.

“How about I tell you about that at the treehouse,” he said to Y/n placing a hand on her arm softly, “and we get you to bed, kid” he looked at tommy. Y/n nodded, agreeing with him.

Techno gave her a soft look, she really did look like a mess and he felt bad. He hated seeing her anything other than happy.

“I'll go up now, and you can come up once you've got him to sleep. He'd never fall asleep if i'm there.” he grabs her bag from the ground beside her, “and i'll set up a spot for..us?..” he was skeptical if they would sleep beside each other like normal or not. Y/n thought for a moment before nodding. 

“Yeah, i know there's a blanket up there but i grabbed a bigger one for the both of us so..” she said timidly.

You couldn't tell from the outside, but inside Techno was absolutely ecstatic at that. He didn't know if he'd be able to handle sleeping a few feet away knowing she'd had such a hard day.

Tommy grumpily shot Techno a glare from Y/ns arms and they both laughed.

“Jeez okay tommy I get it, you want her all to yourself that's fine” he raised both his hands in mock surrender, as he made his way out of the kitchen. Just as he was passing through the backdoor out of earshot he mumbled to himself, “we all do.”

Y/n carried Tommy to the bathroom down the hall so he could brush his teeth. But as she passed Wilbur's door, she heard the faint familiar strum of his old guitar.

She didn't stop to listen like she wanted to though. 

As Tommy and Y/n got to the bathroom she set him down so he could climb onto the small stool and sat in front of the sink for him. She helped him get his toothpaste on his toothbrush and stood in the doorway as she watched him lazily brush his teeth.

She couldn't help but focus on the unfamiliar tune Wilbur was strumming.

Wilbur was up against the wall, sitting on his bed. His guitar in his lap. He stared at his feet as he strummed a tune to a song he was making up as he went.

He felt helpless, he'd fallen so hard for a girl he couldn't have.

I think this time I'm dying.

His heart felt like stone as he pictured her rosy cheeks when he handed her his sweater only days ago.

I'm not melodramatic

He wouldn't let himself cry over her, he wouldn't

I'm just pragmatic beyond any

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Reasoning for thinking I've

Wilbur clenched his teeth. She kissed his brother. She looked content in his arms.

Got fucking rabies or something.

She was the one making him think wildly, she was the one he was waking up excited to see every morning.

I think this time I'm dying.

He thought about how he longed to hold her the way he got to.

I think this time I'm dying.

Why was he so hurt? Why did it hurt so bad?

I think I've lost my mind

She made him feel so much and he couldn't stand it. It was her fault.

Wilbur dropped his head back, heaving in a deep breath. He looked to the floor, a pack of cigarettes next to his backpack. His body shook as tears flowed out of his eyes, his arms too heavy to wipe them. He was far too exhausted to move to get his lighter, or the cigarettes. He just wanted to feel something other than her.

Lucky for Y/n, Tommy had decided he was done with brushing his teeth just when Wilbur had started to sing. She figured it was better for her to not hear the words he was singing into his room. 

Tommy looked at her expectantly as he stepped down from the tiny toddler stool. She held her hand out for him, which he took.

Grabbing two of her fingers, she tugged him along to his bedroom to help him pick out some pjs to sleep in.

“Cars or superheroes?” Y/n held up to sleep shirts, referring to the patterns. Tommy pointed to a shirt on the floor by her foot. She glanced down at it, then picked it up taking a look at it.

“Is this...Techno’s?” she smiled softly looking at the small boy.

“Uh huh.” he said. 

“How'd you get it?” she asked. Techno wasn't really one for sharing his clothes.

Tommy shrugged and she nodded, bunching it up so he could slide it over his head. It looked huge on Tommy, it was almost past his feet. 

She pulled back the covers for Tommy and he crawled in, sitting up to look at her.

“Do you still have Wilbys?” he asked.

Y/n's heart dropped as she thought of the sweater sitting on her bed. “Uh..yeah. I do yeah.”

“I want one of your sweaters.” he said grumpily. 

Y/n laughed softly, “why's that?” she sat on the edge of his bed.

“Cause that will mean you like me. That's what Wilby said.” he said matter of factly.

Y/ns heart clenched. She sort of wished Tommy would go back to being quiet and angry. When did he get so aware?

“Right. You can have one of my sweaters, if you go to sleep and stay in bed tonight. No bugging ph-dad. Sounds like a deal?” she gave him a smile, he nodded quickly. Y/n helped Tommy lay back and pulled the covers up around him. She placed a small kiss on his forehead before saying a soft goodnight.

On her way out, she turned off his little lamp, and closed his door behind her softly.

She was almost out of the hallway when she passed Wilbur's door, her feet felt glued to the food.

Softly she pressed her ear up to the door hearing soft sniffles. He wasn't crying..was he?

Y/n took a deep breath, shaking her head. She was hearing things obviously.

 Quickly she walked to the backyard to go up the ladder on the tree to the treehouse.

Once she was up, she made her way in to see Techno on the floor, criss cross with a book in his lap. His rectangle glasses low on his nose as he looked up at her.

“Tommy's got one of your shirts you know.” she said as she sat in front of him, also criss cross.

“He does?” Techno said, taking off his glasses.

“Mhm.” she said, taking the glasses from his hands.

A soft smile graced Techno's lips, “How'd he manage that?”

“Not sure. He wouldn't tell.” she placed them on her face, holding her hand out to look at her blurry fingers.

Techno grinned at her.

“Of course he wouldn't. Those look nice on you.” he tilted his head fondly. He really loved moments like these.

“Too bad I can't see. How blind are you?” she looked in the general direction of his face.

He chuckled, “they're only for reading, idiot.” he grabbed them from her face softly.

Y/n rolled her eyes at him.

Techno set the glasses and book aside, “the sky is super clear tonight. We could go look at the stars if you want.”

Y/n grinned. They used to do that all the time as a kid. They would sit for hours, and Y/n would listen to Techno ramble on and on about certain constellations and stories behind them.

She nodded and he offered a hand as he stood. Pulling her up with him as she laid her hand on his.

Together they made their way onto the balcony, sitting on the edge, their legs dangling off the side and their arms resting on the railing.

They were facing the house, but looking upwards above it.

After a bit of comfortable silence, Techno glanced at Y/n. “Remember how you said..you weren't sure..if you uhm regretted..the kiss?” he spoke slowly, softly.

Y/n was silent a moment before she said, “I do. Why?”

“Well I want to know why you feel like that.” he said, eyes trained on the small glittery lights above them.

“Well..i don't know..on one hand i really don't.” she looked at him. “But on the other hand..i feel really guilty.”

Techno nodded, he did understand. But he didn't particularly like that answer.

“You shouldn't feel guilty. Especially if you..liked it.” he looked to her, seeing her already looking back at him. His hand slid over hers. “You're allowed to be selfish sometimes.”

She only stared at him.

“If you..if you like me. The way I think you do. He shouldn't be the one holding you back. Be selfish. You deserve to feel your own feelings.” Techno's voice was so soft, and he was sitting so close.

“Do you understand that?” his eyebrows were raised. He was leaning over her, she felt an immense heat radiating off of both of them.

She nodded.

“Words.” he demanded softly.

“I understand.” her face was so close to his. She felt like she was back sitting between his legs laid against him with his hands on her all over again.

He really sealed that image in her head by placing his soft hand against her cheek.

Wilbur had finally gained the strength to set his guitar aside, then slid his legs over the side of his bed.

With wobbly legs he stood, and picked up his lighter from his table and his cigarettes from the floor. He sat back on his bed, and as he was about to open his window, he glanced up at the treehouse that adorned his backyard.

His breath hitched in his throat, he watched as Techno placed his second hand on the base of Y/ns neck and pulled her in. placing a chaste kiss on her lips.

Wilbur choked on air, falling onto his side. The cigarettes and lighter in his hands fell. He curled up into a fetal position as his body shook. No tears were left for him to cry, but the heaves of air and choked sobs were a tell tale there would be tears if he had them.

How did he always manage to do everything, at the wrong time?

[irreplaceable-ecstasyy]

ii. Possessive hand-holding (MARLENE)

The night stretched at the carnival and the ladies eventually found themselves having more fun as they immersed themselves in the atmosphere. The noises that had once irritated them settled into a subtle hum in the background and the blinding lights dimmed to a much lovelier glow, drowned out by their combined joy and enthusiasm. Much to anyone’s surprise, the corndogs became more bearable to Marya, and so did the other variety of unhealthy snacks that were sold at the stores with food coloring enough to paint an entire house. The clouds that littered the sky made it seem as though it had expanded the little box of a carnival that had previously blocked the sky with its menacing bright lights. It became breathable and more spacious!

The clowns that struck so much of fear in Marya now reduced her to a fit of giggles because of Hélène’s eagerness to prove to her that she could protect her. Her dear knight in shining armor whose methods of defense were words of comfort and throwing her fists in the air quite literally. Perhaps it was more of a way to distract Marya and she had to admit it was working very well. It may appear rather childish to the eyes of other but Marya adoredHélène for her thoughtfulness and courage to make her happy at the cost of her dignity. Not that she had little to spare. For Marya, she had dignity enough to supply ten lifespans.

After many headache-inducing rides, the ladies made their way to the game booths with a lot of optimism. Marya had a good aim and Hélène had passionate determination. There was no way this could go wrong with half a fraction of a probability that they might win something. They approached the most typical carnival game they found which was ‘Knock Down the Cans’ and it was a considerably easy start. Or to put it in better words, to Marya it was an easy start.

Marya went first to try her luck and on the first try, she managed to knock all six cans down. At least they knew the games were not rigged. Hélènetried her hand in the game but only managed to knock down the top three cans with the two remaining turns that Marya had left. They won a decently sized stuffed giraffe and Marya was quite amused by the choice. Hélène had the honor of carrying the giraffe with her as they continued to browse through the games.

Then they moved on to the next game which was a game of hoops and bottles. They were given seven hoops each and it was comical seeing how different the two of them played the same game. Marya was more focused on aiming the hoops onto the red bottle which was the jackpot for the biggest prize. Hélène, on the other hand, flung all the hoops with a single swing of her arm and depended on her luck to win; which she did. She landed a blue and a red, blue being the second biggest prize, and she grinned at Marya.

“Did you see that?” she exclaimed gleefully.

“It was hard to miss. No pun intended,” Marya laughed as she tossed her last hoop onto a yellow bottle which was the smallest prize.

Hélène slung an arm around Marya’s shoulders and chuckled pridefully (though, modestly). “I knew it would work!”

“You’re a lucky one, my dear. Of course, it would.”

After accepting their prizes, a large pastel rainbow plushie, a big llama and a small panda, they scurried over to another booth. They had to place all of the toys into Marya’s bag that was surprisingly enough to store their new family of toys and Hélène very kindly offered to carry the lot since Marya spent most of their time lugging that thing around unfashionably. Their next game involved a toy shotgun and balloons for targets in front of them of various sizes. The smallest would earn then the biggest price, and vice versa.

Hélène was so concentrated on getting the smaller balloons which stole Marya’s attention for a few good minutes. The way her tongue stuck out in concentration, how she kept one eye open to aim and her imperfect stance. It was hard to tear her eyes away from her. However, she had to. She could not keep the other bystanders waiting long for their turn with the game so she took her aim and fired her first shot. It hit one of the smaller balloons and she felt a burst of pride within her. She had five tries and now down to four since she had just used one. Aiming once more, she fired but it missed the smallest balloon by just an inch. The failure earned her a loud scoff from her left and she turned to see a woman who had been eyeing her with interest at his own station.

“You had a strong start. Let me show you how it’s done,” she hummed.

With his own shotgun, she fired a shot without so much of an aim and it hit the smallest balloon. It did little to impress Marya, and it only made her slightly infuriated. She was not about to have a carnival game explained to her just because she did not get that shot. But she decided to watch her for her own amusement. The woman, whose details she did not bother acknowledging, finished off the job. She popped all the small balloons within her range before settling the gun down on its stand. Marya’s face remained unchanged aside from the quirk of her brow as the woman turned to look at her with a charming smile.

“And that is how it’s done,” she chirped.

“Well, I never asked for a demonstration,” Marya responded plainly.

“You’re not angry, are you~?” she purred as she inched just a little closer.

Marya tutted softly. “It’s only a game, so why would I?”

“I do love a strict woman who knows how to speak up for herself,” the woman coddled as she extended a hand to accept his prize which he generously offered to Marya. “One for the lady?”

“I apologize but I cannot accept that.”

The woman pouted. “And why’s that? You don’t have to be so kind.”

“Made a new friend, ma belle?” Hélène interjected out of the blue and she stepped beside Marya. For a lady shorter than Marya and the stranger, she exerted quite a presence. She slid her hand into Marya’s and held it firmly, kind eyes fixated hard on the stranger.

Marya knew that look all too well. As composed as Hélène came to be, her play pretend could not go past Marya’s detection. The intensity in her brown hues and the smile that naturally came to her lips only meant that she was trying to put on an act to hide another burning feeling within. From what she could see, it was nothing too severe…yet. Hélène had patience tenfold of Marya’s but her protectiveness over Marya might reduce it tenfold as well.

“No, dear. She is simply a mentor. I missed a balloon and she taught me how to play properly,” Marya told her with a small smile, and her grip tightened on Hélène’s hand.

“Really? How thoughtful of you,” Hélène remarked, her smile growing sweeter.

“It was nothing really~ Couldn’t have a lady like her humiliate herself with such a simple game. Thought a prize would swoon her~” Gosh, the tone in that woman’s voice meant that she was not taking a hint and with how close she had scooted to Marya, the boundary stood thin.

Taking the situation into her own hands, Marya wrapped an arm around Hélène and pressed a kiss to her temple. Her hand still held hers which was highly visible to the woman’s vision. “We should get going. It’s getting quite late and we’ve got work tomorrow, haven’t we, love?”

“We do. It was a pleasure to meet you, miss. Have a great night,” Hélène wished quickly.

Marya maneuvered them away from the booth as swiftly as possible after a brief nod towards the woman, and she had not realized how tight she had been gripping onto Hélène’s hand until they reached their car. Marya unlocked it and released the hand to get into the driver’s seat silently. Neither of them spoke until they got into the car and drove away from the parking lot.

It was quite an eventful night and not quite the way they wanted it to end. Though, Hélène was rather astounded by the way Marya had complete grasp of the situation. She had been the one who wanted to diffuse it because of her budding jealousy but it was Marya who did it. The handhold, the kiss to her temple and the rapid excuse to leave. It was all Marya and Hélène could feel her love for the woman swell.

She spoke up bashfully. “Thank you for handling the issue.”

“It was hardly an issue to begin with.”

“It was going to be one.”

“True but the issue was only centered on that woman. I drew the line but she chose to step over it. I knew we had to leave then before it grew into one.”

“Smart move.”

Then there was a moment’s silence.

“Why’d you do it?” Hélène inquired all of a sudden.

Marya glanced at Hélène questioningly. “Did what?”

“Everything just now. You’re never open to PDA.” Even in the dark, Hélène could see Marya smiling fondly.

Sighing to herself, she held a hand out to Hélène for her to take and when she did, she brought her knuckles to her lips to press a lingering kiss. She did not lower her hand even as she spoke. “I wanted to show her that I already had someone to love. Someone I’m very proud of in all she does, even if she sticks her tongue out in concentration.”

“So you were showing me off?” Hélène joked with a light laugh.

“Sort of like that. Only because I’m proud that I have someone and I truly love you.”

“Marya Dmitrievna Akrhosimova! I never knew you were so corny,” Hélène gasped dramatically.

“Oh, shush… I’ll stop talking.”

“No, no! Go on, please!”

Marya shook her head but continued anyway. “After today, I really just… I’ve never appreciated you so much. From the clown incident at the start to standing up to that woman. You showed me how much you cared and I’m touched.”

“Aw… You big softie.” Hélène pecked Marya’s cheek gently and rested her head on her shoulder. “I love you, ma belle. So damn much. I hope you know that.”

“I do. And I love you too. So, so very much… Now, if you could just move back to your seat. Your head is very distracting.”

“But I’m comfortable.”

“Oh, you minx”-

“Alright, alrighty. Yes, ma’am~”

[highsviolets]

like real people do, chapter one: obi-wan x handmaiden!reader

summary: in which you and obi-wan stumble into each other’s acquaintance through accidents of honor and pleasure

word count: 3k-ish

cw: brief, brief allusion to body dysmorphia in first paragraph after part one (a). 

A/N: WOW it’s finally here!!! my handmaiden x obi fic!! my first multi chapter!!  anon you are so patient. thank you for bearing with me as i developed this concept and finally got words onto paper. This lil chapter takes place at the beginning of AOTC and sets the scene for all sorts of shenanigans. pls be gentle folkx i am v nervous i hope you love these idiots honorable humans as much as i do. 

*if this is your gif pls lmk!* 

like real people do, a fic by corellians-only 

prologue

Glamor. Satin. Hapan wine and curtseys and a diplomatic accent polishing over your country roots and the knife strapped to your thigh and a propensity to linger in shadows. This is your life, as handmaiden to Senator Padmé Amidala. This is your duty.

Grime. Sweat. Clone armies and custom armour and a commission muddling the balance of peace and deep-rooted affection and unwavering devotion to the Jedi Order. This is Obi-wan’s life, as High General of the Republic. This is his duty.

You meet before the chaos erupts, though, before it spills over the senate security and the temple’s walls and starts incinerating the foundations of life itself.

You meet before the chaos erupts, but your acquaintance is tangled with its aching tendrils. You do not see each other, at first. So many things are in the way. But slowly, gently, acquaintance forms into friend forms into companion forms into lover over cups of tea and night watches and snatched moments of vulnerability in a world that is determined to wrest your soul from your body. Armor and silk and robes are stripped away; duties that once swathed you tightly become more gentle. When you are together it is just you and him, but when you are in the world you are handmaiden and he is general.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves: let us go back to the beginning, when the wholeness was yet separate. Let us go back to the beginning, and meet ourselves anew. Let us go back to the beginning, where everything divines its purpose.

part one (a)

Shimmersilk voile glistens as you turn in the mirror. The tender glow of artificial sun lamps is enraptured by the diaphanous weave, and its metallic threads gleam under such ministrations. It’s a dress that drips with regality. A sense of noblesse oblige seems to ooze from every swish of the cape flowing from your cap sleeves, and you sigh. The act is heavy, and the cape grumbles as your shoulders heave with the motion. Brilliant flickers of gold and silver mock you as you continue to shift from side to side, scrutinizing your body from each angle. Another sigh leaves escapes through your nose, but this one is softer, gentler, more like the gossamer that now encloses you — more like the woman you been trained to be. You will never be as petite or slight as the Senator, but that, you observe, wrangling to adjust one final hairpin into your headpiece, was never quite the point. Your job is to stand in for her ladyship: not to assume her person.

The offending hairpin proves obstinate. You surrender to the cause and submit yourself to an evening of faint wisps of curled hair framing your face. Wisps of hair are too spontaneous. You must be crisp, but it is not about what you want — not in these petty, mundane expressions of living.  

While you have been doing battle a figure has entered the room. It’s one of the Senator’s new Jedi protectors, if the robes are any indication. Without fanfare he approaches you and plucks the pin from your fingers, like he is intimately acquainted with such things and communes with them on a daily basis. Gentle fingers — though, the bruised knuckles tell you they are not immune to struggling against life’s grip — smooth the hair at the crown of your head before he slips the pin into its rightful place, nudging into the golden circlet now held secure. The sleeve of his robe caresses your cheek, obscuring your vision, and you feel with your , rather than see, all of this occur.

“All of this” happens without sound, without breathing almost, as though the two of you have entered a vacuum that warps both space and time and sound.

The man takes a step back and paints himself with an apologetic smile, clasping his hands together in the privacy of his robe and offering you a half-bow.

“I apologize for the liberty, your ladyship.” The Jedi’s voice is precise. “I do hope I wasn’t too forward.” He announces every syllable, acknowledges every idiosyncratic whimsy, each grammatical proclamation.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, and despite the shadows casting about, you can detect the openness, the earnestness of his gaze. He holds no tension in his face, or anywhere else in his body, for that matter. It has been a long while since you have seen someone so at peace. Perhaps, hidden under the cloak, his fingers are grasping at themselves, trying to be rid of the vestiges of forbidden touches.

A half-smile graces your painted lips and you incline your head. The movement cuts but a short arc in the air’s currents, just as you have been taught. “It is no matter.” You toy with the idea of letting him continue to believe you are Padmé, the thought careening through your mind like a model airspeeder run amok. You let the thought crash. It is above you to engage in such petty games, you decide. Padmé would not do it, and it is your job to act as she does. Besides, the Jedi would know, wouldn’t he? Can’t they read minds with the Force? That’s what fisherman in your village used to say when you would let your feet dangle off the docks and graze the surface of the water and watch the boats come in with the day’s catch.

So you turn, then, the cape twisting behind you, and address him face-to-face. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Master Jedi.” You gesture to your twinkling gown. “I am not the Senator.” You catch the tail end of his frown as you avert your gaze, fixating on some unseen object just out of sight. “I am but one of her ladyship’s handmaidens.” You hear the clipped tone of your voice, the way every word is measured like cups of flour, like the yards of fabric for this dress, and you think you hate it, but you cannot tell.

“Oh, I am sorry.” The apology is sincere and bookmarked with amusement, and he rocks back on his heels. It seems he is laughing at his own mistake. “I must however, inquire after the whereabouts of her ladyship. The council has requested that my padawan and I escort her to this evening’s function.” The Jedi’s hands drop to his sides and the robes that shield them follow.

“I’m afraid the Senator has already departed,” you say, making for the exit. The Jedi matches your stride. “She left with another Jedi some twenty standard minutes ago. I presume it was your padawan, Master Jedi?”

“Blast!” he murmurs, but you hear his swearing and duck your head to hide your grin. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, throwing a glance your way. “I’m afraid my padawan has a mind of his own.”

“I think the Senator and your padawan will get along famously, then,” you remark wryly. You have reached the landing pad and are about to bid him a good evening when he climbs into the shuttle and extends a hand to guide you.

“May I be of assistance?”

Skin meets skin for the second time that evening. At this rate you will be more acquainted with his body than your own, and as you sense his muscles grow taut when you shift your weight to board, an unfamiliar sensation embeds itself among the metallic threads. It feels like when you have to receive the Chancellor when Padmé is away on business, or when you act as decoy traveling to and from Theed, but more subtle, more inviting.

“Thank you, Master Jedi.” Skin breathes on skin for one, two heartbeats and then the contact withers and he drops your hand.

A silence nestles over the two of you as the pilot races you over to the function. It persists as he helps you exit the shuttle and delicately rearranges your cape, ensuring the shimmersilk is matches the beams of fractured stars.

Obi-wan does not know why he does this; he does not understand why he feels the nudging of the Force to offer his arm like he is a chivalrous courtier, but he obeys. It is his duty to obey the will of the Force, so he does.

part one (b)

The function teems with lifeforms, and each one spars for attention. They are wrapped in chiffon and decked in damask robes and fine crystals compete for light so they can shine that much brighter. It’s some gala ostensibly designed to raise credits for a struggling cause, and it is like all the rest. A pathetic excuse for most Senators to say they are dedicated to more than greed.

To you, it reeks of Coruscanti power; to him, it stinks of politics.

The Jedi Master spots the Senator and her Jedi protector before you do, and he steers you in their directly, swiftly sidestepping curious glances and intoxicated beings. You manage to snag a glass of something from a passing tray.

He bows again, deeply. His hair seems to blend in with the crowd — it is copper and gold and refined.

“My lady,” he intones, and his voice sparkles like the gem-encrusted champagne flute in Padmé’s hand.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Master Kenobi.” She looks up at the gangly teenager by her side. Rich chocolate and licorice colored robes complement the Senator’s wine-colored gown. It’s a striking image, despite the youth’s awkwardness, here in the blurry illumination of the cavernous room.  

Padmé breaks into a full smile as she spots you lingering at Kenobi’s side. “I see you’ve met my handmaiden.”

“I suppose I have,” he says, examining you anew, “although I’m afraid introductions got swept away in the excitement.”

You think he sounds as unaffected by “the excitement" as one could possibly be, and the duplicity gnaws on your gentility.

You sip while Padmé sweeps together strands of lore about your service, about your loyalty, about your selflessness. The beverage is sweet and sparkling, rather like your gown, and like your dress, it feels sticky and cloying and altogether fake for something that tries so hard to be real. But you smile and nod and once more his skin melts into yours as he shakes your hand.

“The honor,” he says in that voice colored with melody, “is all mine.” You look into his cerulean eyes and wish, dimly, in that part of your brain untouched by starlight, that he had said pleasure.

Padmé’s eyes flicker between you and him, but the moment has passed. She pulls you away, citing the need for diplomatic business and brushes aside her escorts with a firmness she seems to have possessed since birth.

The pair of you wander through the crowd. You are always one step behind, always letting her be the first person they see. She is wearing her favorite designer tonight, and you wonder, taking another sip as she holds court with Bail Organa, why she has commissioned such a work of art for tonight’s event.

Like yourself, the Senator has opted for airy materials matched with splendor. And yet, her garb lacks your ethereality: the deep burgundy smacks of something firmly rooted in rich soil even as you strain heavenward. Tulle and satin are artfully draped over her lithe form, and beaded crystals cover her from head to toe. An open back reveals creamy skin. More than one being in the hall has dragged their eyes over the Senator’s body, straining to glimpse more, more, more, in the dim light.

The Senator pays them no mind. When she concludes her business with Organa, she refreshes her glass, and yours, and tucks you in her side. You begin to walk. It is an aimless thing, but not purposeful — now is when you see who is here, and who is not, who is watching, who pretends to look away, and who slips out unnoticed.

“How did you meet Master Kenobi?” you ask.

“Oh, it was years ago.” Padmé drinks. “I was still Queen at the time.”

“And?” Back in those days, she had retained at least a dozen of Naboo’s finest young women. Now, it’s just you and few others.

“And that was when we met,” she announces. “He’s very famous, you know. So is his padawan, Anakin Skywalker. They’ve protected at least half the galaxy.”

Confusion contorts your features, carving rivers in your forehead. “I’ve never heard of them.”

Padmé laughs, but the expression is faint, almost undetectable. Senators do not typically jest with their bodyguards. “That’s because you think anyone who reports on the Jedi is a gossip-mongering snob and you refuse to read anything about them.” She squeezes your arm and drops her voice to a whisper. “Don’t know know they’re the ones who write all the good stuff?”

“All…the good stuff,” you echo, voice flat and uncomprehending.

Padmé simply rolls her eyes and resume her stride. “They’re in charge of my security now, with Captain Typho. I expect that you’ll be working closing with Master Kenobi. Please help him fulfill his mandate from the Council in anyway you can.”

The mere suggestion of working with that man twists your insides. It’s the same feeling from earlier, swirling and basing into unease. Work with a Jedi? A famous one? The ache anxiety you are used to. It is familiar and it is your unwelcome companion but you have made peace with each other. This — this is something new. This is a grinding jaw and a drawbridge heart and hot and cold dueling for dominance in your stomach and something so strangely akin to anger. You drink more champagne to mask the disconcerting sensation.

part one (c)

The Senator is being pulled away, now, to a group of prominent Senators to discuss the new child labor protection regulations. She does her job and you do yours, melting into the shadows, embracing them, keeping eyes on all those who gather near to your mistress.

Master Kenobi’s sudden appearance at your side does not surprise you, though perhaps it should.

“Are you quite sure you’re able to keep watch on her ladyship from this distance?” His words are no longer melodic. They come to your ears dry and flinty, the way rocks feel without the rain to abate their constancy.

“Quite.” You fail to elaborate because there is simply nothing more to say.

“Your disguise is quite effective. You must pass along my compliments to Captain Typho and the rest of the security team.” He tries again, but you refuse to be endeared. He is stubborn, just like you — he resists being broken down by your cool acidity.

“Thank you, Master Kenobi.” You finally meet his gaze. “I was worried it would be too intricate, but the Senator assured me I had selected the perfect piece. It’s just enough like her for people to not look twice.”

“You engineered this?” Master Kenobi’s body is static, but his face swells with vivacity. A minuscule gesture to the left, an arching eyebrow, a corner of his mouth quirks upwards, ascending to meet his eyes.

“It’s my job,” you return, but the pH of your tone has neutralized somewhat. You are uncomfortable, so you try to tease him. “Maybe one day I can show you how to use all the weapons I have under this gown, and you will believe I can do my job.”

You regret the tawdry joke immediately when he shifts and looks away. “I’m sorry I’ve offended you, my lady.” Master Kenobi analyzes you, then the Senator, and sighs heavily. “I see you have everything well in hand. I shall bid you good evening, then, my lady.” He bows and exits in a boiling mass of robes, his padawan not far behind. Anakin Skywalker lingers on the threshold, gazing into the crowd, eyes frantic, but his Master beckons and he follows obediently.

part one (d)

It is not until early morning, during that brief moment between night and dawn, that you are able to think clearly about the strange feeling gurgling in your chest.

You think of Master Kenobi and his sentimental hair and the caramel of his accent. You wonder about his hands grazing yours, how your fingers curled so naturally around his, the ghost of fingertips in your hair. You consider his attempts at gallantry, at his fealty to his duty, to Padmé embrace of his presence and her lavish praise.

And you ask yourself what would it have been like, if he were just a boy, and you were just a girl, and maybe if he had danced with you he could have respected you more, and maybe if you had been less defensive he would have been more contrite, and you laugh at yourself.

Silly girl, you think as sleep nibbles at your vision. Those are not our kind of dreams.

tbc.

[pergaias]

okay I fixed it works now 😌 I’m very unaware of the ships in glass shard cause I’m bad at finding ships but I’m pretty sure briony and Val are one? I mean I ship it so... could you do one for them? :)

i felt feelings writing this. happy holidays from the girls <3

Briony was dreaming again, dreaming of her. 

Valentine was wearing a celadon-green dress with a flowing skirt that whispered around her ankles like water. Her pale dreadlocks were braided into an updo, with a tiny star-studded headband adorning her head. Briony was striding towards her, confident and flirtatious, wearing a beautifully cut black suit and gold flat shoes. 

The ballroom was decked out in holiday splendor, tinsel and holly adorning every glass banister and warm light spotting the floors in patches of gold. 

“May I have this dance?” Briony found herself asking, as Valentine turned to face her. She seemed like Valentine right now, regal and beautiful, the blood of kings and queens flowing through her veins. 

The room seemed to bend around her, like Valentine had gravity. Half of Briony knew that it was her power - the subtle emotional manipulation of the people around her, something so small that Valentine’s subconscious controlled it. This girl who tried to armor her heart, still compassionate even after everything that had happened to her.

Valentine’s lashes lowered, and suddenly Briony felt so tall. Valentine was small of stature, short but not slight, and yet she commanded a presence that made her seem so much bigger than she was. Briony was tall and lanky and inelegant, a heron in a flock of ducks.

“You may,” she murmured, her voice like a broken violin. Briony’s heart went into overdrive as Valentine placed her hand in hers and music swirled around them, Valentine’s skirt flaring out and moving like—like—

Gods, she was so beautiful. Her soft lips, gently parted in concentration as she and Briony moved to the music, first awkwardly and then more in sync, like they were becoming part of the song. Like they were falling into a rhythm like rain, like a heartbeat. 

They waltzed around in a circle, Briony spinning the princess and listening to her cracked laugh, to the hoarse rasp of her hum when she started to sway in tune with the music, a soft smile on her face.

But Valentine would never smile like that, not to Briony, not for any reason. 

The vision of swirling ballgowns and Valentine’s face getting closer and closer under a sprig of mistletoe, her hair smelling like eggnog and her lips tasting of merlot - receded like a tide.

Valentine wasn’t meek or delicate, she would never lower her lashes like that—let alone make herself seem small. The Valentine that Briony loved was the fighter, the stone that wouldn’t be softened by the sea, the girl who loved like a wildfire and died a thousand times every day. 

She was the broken girl, the shining girl, with gold painted over the cracks that appeared every day. A queen of scars, queen of shards, with fire burning behind her eyes even when she’d had every reason to let it die.

Her heart contracted as the image of a softer, gentler Valentine faded away like a memory. Briony knew—she knew—that a lot of people thought that if they took Valentine’s armor off piece by piece a loving, tender girl would be left behind.

Briony knew better. 

That girl burned away in the fire Valentine stoked to keep herself warm. The abrasive Valentine, the untrusting Valentine, the girl with the brittle, cracked voice that only faded when she sang or recited poetry—that was who was left.

That was the girl Briony loved.

The holiday party scene shifted, and now Briony was standing in the snow, wrapped in a coat. Next to her, Valentine was wearing her gray capelet and wine-red knitted mittens, scowling at the color. Briony laughed and pointed at a bough above them, where a sprig of mistletoe hung daintily on a silver ribbon. 

“We should kiss, in all seriousness,” Briony smirked, and Valentine scoffed and rolled her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed—whether it was from the cold or embarrassment—and Briony’s heart contracted. 

“How about no?” Valentine elbowed the other girl, snowflakes caught on her lashes. “I would rather kiss a frog.”

“I make quite a lovely frog, if I do say so myself,” said Briony, laughing. 

And Valentine—no, Blondie—laughed.

Silver bells. Not a violin with a broken string or a stone scraping across sandpaper. Windchimes and bells tolling on a breeze, that was her laugh.

But like all good things, it had to end. Briony was jerked out of sleep by a hand on her shoulder—shit, did she sleep through a guard coming to get her—but when her eyes blinked open, it was a moon-shaped face. Freckles glowing on her cheeks like constellations.

Briony could wake up to that sight every single day and it wouldn’t be enough.

“Hi,” she managed, reaching out to touch Valentine’s cheek. Valentine caught her hand and pressed it to her skin, her eyes gently closed.

“Once upon a time,” she breathed, her voice rough, “I promised you almost.”

[ikesenhell]

Heatwave

You can find all other IkeSen works of mine on my page under the Masterlist. NOTES: Thank you so much to the wonderful folks who came out and hung out with me as I wrote my first Ikesen piece since ‘American Dream’ in ages. I’d been batting around this idea at the lovely @a-shout-to-the-void and finally buckled down and did it. TW: torture, abuse mentions and descriptions, blood, painful injuries. A lot of descriptions and references to Ieyasu’s childhood with the Imagawa Don’t worry, no one dies. It also somehow has a good ending? Idk man. Also, hello to my first piece with Yoshimoto in it whatupppppp

----

It was three months after the second disappearance of the Takeda, and the main hall was deathly quiet. All were assembled--Nobunaga lording on his dias, his allies gathered close--and no one spoke. 

Ieyasu wished someone would. 

“He wasn’t difficult to bring in at all,” Mitsuhide commented, as if it were the weather. Clouds from the shoreline--perhaps it will rain. 

(Funny, they could use some of that. The summer was stifling and showed no signs of abating, even as the seasons turned. The crops weren’t going as well as expected, and Azuchi was a cooker. They’d slitted the screens open, but even then, Ieyasu could see sweat beading on Hideyoshi’s forehead. Even Mitsuhide, usually pristine and inhuman, sported small pools of darkened silk in the underlayers that peeked through.)

Masamune almost smiled. “Do you really think he was stupid enough to come here on purpose? He’s got guts.”

Nobunaga’s perceptive red eyes flickered in Ieyasu’s direction. 

“Perhaps.” Mitsuhide allowed a smile. 

“Probably to try his hand at Nobunaga.” But even Hideyoshi seemed unconvinced. “Maybe the last ditch effort of the Takeda before we destroy them.” 

Ieyasu hated that he glanced at Mitsunari, looking for something in the way of understanding, anything he hadn’t guessed at already. Even if that stupid puzzled expression was there, it was something. No luck. Mitsunari had the hard, calculating stare of a man who already knew the score. 

Damn it all to hell. 

“He no doubt knows where Shingen and his ilk have scattered to. Until we have found them, they remain a threat.” With a subtle nod of an imperious head (the fine sheen of sweat glittered on his neck), he motioned to Mitsuhide. “Do what you must.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” the other man noted, “I believe there is someone else here who might be better suited to… gathering the information you require from our latest guest.”

His hands were cold. His hands were cold and they were all looking at him. Ieyasu balled his fingers into fists and willed them to stop trembling. 

(Was he angry? Furious. Incensed. They needed rain in Mikawa and the crops were a concern and in the vacuum that the Takeda left there were a thousand bureaucratic things to consider and he was never not angry, only three steps away from it where he could look at it from what he liked to think was a cool remove when it was really like a fiery tornado. They’d taken so much from him and here he was again, to take more with a smile, and he couldn’t do a damn thing without destroying it anyway.)

Nobunaga just stared at him. “Well?”

And he was the best man for the job. 

Ieyasu nodded, his face as porcelain-still as he could force. “Of course.”

---

The first time he met Imagawa Yoshimoto, he only said one word. 

Ieyasu was only a child, still in the hands of his enemies. He had bruised banding around his legs from switches and cut knees, hair that went every which way and eyes that still welled traitorously with tears when struck. Illusions of fair treatment were gone. All he had was will and a directive: this is what you can do for Mikawa. If being beaten saved Mikawa, that was his responsibility. 

Wasn’t it?

There was a banquet and the Imagawa wanted to show him off like a prize pet. Ieyasu was quiet, not stupid.He smiled politely and remembered all of the tiny details of court manners, the little things that would help him (Mikawa) survive. They’d put him into a finer haori than the one they usually allowed and seated him where all the other nobles could spy on the little waif from a nothing place. 

Yoshimoto, he later learned, was the beanpole teen sitting perfectly only a few spaces away from him. Dark hair, a charming smile, pretty eyes. Ieyasu hated them all on reflex. Whoever he was--that didn't matter. Ieyasu smiled with thanks to one of his benefactors and imagined stabbing him between the eyes. 

How would he do it first? Who would go? It made sense to start with the Imagawa head--of course, that was only the correct order of things--but he could also trap them all in the hall and set it ablaze, let them scrabble over each other like rats. He could pick off their families one by one. He could--

Someone set a sake cup heavily in front of him, only half-poured. Ieyasu blinked rapid-fire up at the teen smiling down at him. 

“Smile,” he instructed, fluttering a fan entirely-too-close to both of them. And then he rushed away.

Ieyasu glanced down at the cup on his table and realized two things: one, he’d allowed his polite facade to slip. He could feel the stormcloud in the grit of his teeth. Two, the Imagawa teenager had blocked him from view with the fan--and probably spared him a beating. 

Only later did he learn his name. 

---

The dungeon stairs were slick. Every once in a while, someone came and cleaned the mold and mildew from the flagstones, but that was a lost cause. It seemed like the only moisture in Azuchi had escaped to its basements. Wet-blanket heat settled foul in the belly of Mitsuhide’s workspace, the little light lancing from narrow windows illuminating hazy curls of breath-sucking humidity. Ieyasu disguised his disgust at the foul smells the way he knew best--frowning. 

Their prisoner was moved to the very last cell, the ‘interrogation room’. Mitsuhide’s gentle words didn't disguise its purpose. It was an execution chamber and torture cell. Ieyasu never went in to discover its secrets. What he did was in the open, precisely where everyone could see it. 

(Because if you were going to hurt someone, you did it openly, he’d decided. Cowards hid abuse. If you raised the sword, you showed the sunlight its deadly glint and let heaven know your intent. Violence couldn’t be wrapped in a silken kimono and paraded before leering eyes--)

The door was shut. Ieyasu didn't waste the time to reflect on it. No interior monologue did him good here. Shunting thoughts and the heavy latch to the side, he stepped in. 

Their prisoner was kneeling. Mitsuhide prepped well. His knees were tied to those uneven slats the other man so preferred, jagged, uneven boards guaranteed to end with shattered shin bones if left long enough. He’d been stripped of his fine armor and things, reduced to a (still beautiful, dark grey and blue silk) final layer of kimono. Unkempt, shiny dark hair spilled loose on his shoulders. As Ieyasu stepped inside, those gold eyes met his. 

Yoshimoto had the audacity to smile. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, light as a feather, his voice already hoarse. Like commenting on the weather. Awfully hot, isn’t it? It should have rained by now. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

All the anger he kept so tightly coiled unfurled, the head of it raring like a threatened snake, and Ieyasu bared his fangs, too. “You should have. Why did you come?”

It was a stupid question. They both knew that. Yoshimoto just smiled that serene, sad, painter’s smile. Maybe, Ieyasu thought, if he had half of Yoshimoto’s artistic eye (the way he’d never had Mitsunari’s reflex genius or Masamune’s slick tongue or Nobunaga’s command or--), he could take the scene before him and transform it into a painting. The light cast over his prisoner’s back in sharp relief, all of the folds of silk and linen and hair akin to one of those Portuguese paintings they tried so hard to pawn off on them. 

“Are you going to answer?” Ieyasu demanded. Cold, cold, cold. His hands were cold. 

Yoshimoto dipped his head silently. “You know why I came, and you know why I won’t leave.”

Ieyasu sucked in his breath--like that would crush the flames of anger twisting, tornadoing in him. It burned in his throat. First, he’d get Yoshimoto off those planks. Those would come later. 

---

When he emerged several hours later--without anything to show for his efforts, just blazing fury and frustration renewed and a respect that clawed at his spine--Ieyasu blinked in surprise at the Chatelaine standing just outside the stairwell. He almost missed her. The sun was gone by now, the moon rising in its inconstant arc over Azuchi’s peaks, long lines of moonlight as gentle as the flickering torch light below was ominous. 

Of course she was there. Of course.

“How is he?” She asked, and Ieyasu wanted to scream.

“How do you think?” He snapped. “Go inside.” 

She didn't move. Instead, she produced a cold cup for him, shoving it into his hands. 

“What’s this for?”

“It was hot today. You must be thirsty.”

He stared at the cup in his hands, the silvery liquid inside glowing like moonbeams. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

What did that mean? How long had she waited here in the fading dusk, listening to the muffled sounds below, with a cup for him? Was it even for him? How could she give him this when only moments before, he’d washed away the blood of her--her--

Gods, he still couldn’t say it to himself. 

“Who told you?” He finally asked, his voice sharp. 

She folded her hands over her skirts instead of answering. “Is he alive?”

Of course this was about Yoshimoto. Of course this was. Even the cup was in the interest of getting information. Icy, crawling hatred slithered down the small of his back like sweat. Unceremoniously, Ieyasu dumped the contents of the cup on the ground. 

“Ieyasu--!”

He contemplated breaking it. But that wasn’t fair to her. None of this was. None of this was fair to her, just like none of it was fair to him. So instead he shoved the little mug back into her hands and stalked inside, as if moving fast enough would leave all of that behind. 

---

For the rest of his captivity, Yoshimoto was less a person and more a concept. Ieyasu saw him sometimes, fleeting glimpses of a young man blooming handsome. What kind of a life did he lead, Ieyasu wondered? It must be the opposite of his plight. No doubt he had enough to eat. No doubt he had clothes that fit, people that cared whether he lived or died, someone to spare a smile at him. No doubt he could sleep at night without a burning hate clawing up his throat and threatening to choke him. 

It was hot that summer--sweltering, relentless. Ieyasu’s room had no screens to the courtyard and so he tossed and turned fitfully at night, too uncomfortable to sleep. Sometimes he dreamed of Mikawa and home, home with the people who relied on him to be strong, people who allowed him to step down from his endless responsibility of strength for a day and be a young man again. 

They exchanged words only briefly once more, before Ieyasu went home and returned again and razed them, burned their houses the way he’d always dreamed, released all the untamed hatred raring in his heart and finally did for Mikawa what his endless abuse at the Imagawa had never done. They passed in the hallways and Yoshimoto stopped him, a small retinue at his side. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said lightly. Yoshimoto said his name like a name, not a curse, not a burden on a household already determined to hate him. “How are you today?”

What could he say? A thousand callous things spiraled through his mind, each one more vile than the other, until he couldn’t think of a single nice word. He simply shut his mouth and nodded slowly, safely, feeling thick and stupid. “It has been quite hot lately.”

Those gold eyes stared right through him. And at long last, Yoshimoto nodded. “It certainly has. I hope it rains soon. May you have an excellent day.”

When he returned to his room that night, there was a small, beautiful fan sitting in a neat package before his door. Ieyasu let the slow, languid sound of its fluttering lull him to sleep, its cool breeze the first reprieve in months. 

---

He didn't think about Imagawa Yoshimoto for a long while after, not even when he served as Imagawa's puppet ruler. That chapter of his life was behind him. Ieyasu had exacted his revenge on Imagawa. That was over. 

It was, at least, until the Chatelaine. 

---

“Why are you here?” He demanded. 

She was waiting for him again in front of the dungeon steps, a small package wrapped in her hands. Her kimono was a soft blue with little white details, modest and cute and practical and perfect. She worked so hard. Everyone knew that. He knew that. 

“You didn't have anything to eat this morning,” she answered. The sun wasn’t yet at its peak, but already he could see the waves of heat rolling across the fields behind her, the bronzed backs of villagers in its orange glow. “You almost never miss breakfast.”

“Almost,” he pushed, as if that word made all the difference. Damnit. Damn it all to hell. This was why he had to hate people like her and Mitsunari (and Yoshimoto). The second you saw anything different in them, they pried you open like oystermen searching for pearls and only recoiled in disappointment when they discovered nothing but sand and salt. “You know that this won’t bribe me, right?”

Her cheeks flared white-hot. Good. Hate me. Hate me like I have to hate everyone else who wronged me. 

“You do know I like you, right?” She snapped. “I’m your friend. I’m not doing anything to bribe you.”

“Yeah?” Ieyasu sneered, too angry and confused and bitter to stop himself, “Just like you like Imagawa Yoshimoto? Should I expect a love letter--”

She flung the package into his hands (he caught it, barely) and marched away, her shoulders knit tight together. 

It still smelled of bean paste when he arrived in the last room of the dungeon, Yoshimoto already prepared and silent for the day. He looked well, for a man who now sported a bruised eye, crusted lip, and a slightly jagged shoulder. 

“Good morning, Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he announced, hoarse but polite. 

Ieyasu unwrapped the breakfast and examined its contents. There was a little more than usual. 

“Your woman,” he announced, (and why was it so hard to sound angry and impassive, why did he want to sound sad?) “Apparently gave me extra food under the impression I might give you some.”

No doubt the prisoner was starving. He’d barely had enough to eat to sustain himself, let alone under the pressure of the torture. But Yoshimoto straightened.

“Is she well?”

No mention of the food. No weakness. Just that endless reservoir of hope that Ieyasu resented, resented because he couldn’t find it anywhere inside himself. Didn't he deserve that kind of serenity? 

Silence. Ieyasu considered his words. Yoshimoto, no doubt, was wondering what had become of her, if Nobunaga had exacted on her the same fate that awaited him. The uncertainty was doubtless crushing. A thousand lies presented themselves.  

“Yes,” he finally allowed. “She’s fine.”

Yoshimoto smiled. Even through the bloodstained teeth and greasy hair and bruising and marks running roughshod over his arms where everyone could see, he still glowed. “Good.”

---

Ieyasu still dreamed about being with the Imagawa. 

Usually it was just the shape of things. The oppressive hot of his bedroom, the rolling waves of contracting pain in his muscles, the crushing emptiness of a room with no sunlight. 

Sometimes Ieyasu considered them a mercy. It wasn’t the same as the real thing. He didn't have dreams about how the men decided to test how far his stone expression went, applying hotter and hotter blades to his skin to see if he’d cry. They finally applied a white-hot wakizashi to the tender flesh of his thigh and he screamed so loud he couldn’t talk clearly for a week. 

Where was Yoshimoto during all this, he wondered now? There was no way he couldn’t have known. He had a reputation as a lush, but Ieyasu also knew from first-hand battle experience that more lay beneath that pretty exterior. He was like his Takeda cousin: he knew how to play a good game. Had he known just the hint of Ieyasu’s abuse, or had he understood the full spectrum of it? Surely the men of court talked. No doubt they made it a game. 

Yoshimoto had to know. 

She was surprised when he confronted her in the courtyard. She was hanging up some silks she’d washed, their bright colors like cavalry banners. Her stone-face was good, too, but not as good as his. He could see the thin lines of worry and sleepless nights stretched in the fine skin under her eyes. 

“Why him?” Ieyasu demanded. 

The chatelaine blinked at him, registering his question. No immediate answer. That was wise. “Why do you want to know?”

“Do you know what the Imagawa are like?” He hissed. “Do you know what they did? Do you have any idea?”

(It was hot out, so hot that he could see the wet silks drying already. No breeze lifted them. They hung like corpses strung out as an example. The remains of the burns on his thighs and arms, even now, stung superheated. The prickle of sweat against them was agonizing and he’d learned to live with it.)

Slowly, she dipped a hand into the cold water of her wash bucket and took his fingers in hers. Sweet relief! Ieyasu tried not to unbend under her gentle touch, the kindness, tried to convince himself that this was for someone else’s benefit and not his. History said otherwise. Long before she’d met Yoshimoto, she’d been like this. 

“No,” she said at last. “I don’t know much about who they were to you, just the vague details you’ve shared.”

“Then why him?” Ieyasu groped for his real question. It was that simple, wasn’t it? Yoshimoto wasn’t just on the wrong side. He was on the worst side. Even Uesugi Kenshin was better than an Imagawa. 

“Well…” She dipped her hand back in the bucket, splashed more water on his arms. It clung to the silk of his sleeves and cooled the worst of his burns. “There’s a lot to like about him.”

Of course there was. Yoshimoto was intelligent and clever. He had excellent taste and was handsome and diplomatic, even if he had a reputation as a useless leader and a lush. He’d never been anything but kind, and Ieyasu hated that. 

---

Yoshimoto hit the floor with a thud and a yelp, but an unsatisfying one. Ieyasu prowled around him. 

“You know what Nobunaga wants.” The sun shot unrelenting into their chamber, superheating everything. Ieyasu was sweating like a madman and refused to cede even a single article of clothing. He would not reveal the testament of his failures hidden underneath. “Just give me where Shingen went.”

The other man laughed miserably and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Ieyasu kicked him back over. 

“He would have told you,” Ieyasu snarled. “That was your plan. Your plan was to come here, get her, go back into hiding with her and the rest of the Takeda. Wasn’t it?”

For once, Yoshimoto sighed and shut his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“Giving us his whereabouts--”

“Ieyasu,” Yoshimoto interrupted wearily (and he still said his name like a name, goddamnit, not a curse or a burden or an evil thing, even after all of this), “She hates war. Why would I bring her straight into one?”

Outside, heat thunder rolled. No break in the heat yet. Its siren song drove the farmers and townspeople mad with hope. Hideyoshi had looked out sagely that morning and declared that it wouldn’t rain--not today--but it might later that week. They usually trusted him with that kind of thing. Right now, Ieyasu wished that it would come pouring down and drown them both. 

“That has no relevance to where Takeda Shingen is,” Ieyasu finally responded. 

“I don’t know where Shingen is.” Yoshimoto laid his head on the cool flagstones, eyes still shut, blood flecked over his hair and the filthy silk of the kimono he’d worn the first day. “He wouldn’t have told me.”

Cold, cold, cold hands. “So you’ve said. You’ve said that at least a dozen times.”

A pause. Yoshimoto’s chest heaved a slow, jagged tempo. “He wouldn’t tell me because of her. Because of us.”

Ieyasu wanted to scream again. He could feel it bubbling in his throat, like the ghost of that white-hot blade pressed to his skin. 

They were too nice too nice too nice, they both knew what he was doing to him and still she washed his hand and still he said his name like a friend and still there was no damn rain and still she didn't hate him he didn't hate him why couldn’t they just hate him

“Why?” He finally managed, his voice a twisted blade that tore at him the whole way out. “Don’t you hate me?”

Yoshimoto opened his eyes, still gold and pale against the gray walls, still handsome and bright and sharp. 

“You’re doing what you have to do,” he managed at last. “And I’m certain you hate me. I probably deserve it.”

Burning burning burning cold hands. The sweat seared him. “Did you know? Did you know the whole time I was there, and did you ignore it?”

At last, they were down to the crux of the whole thing. Yoshimoto wriggled like he meant to sit up (as if they were peers in this moment, just sitting and listening to a friend share their worries) and when his body failed him, he slumped over as best he could, eyes locked and gaze unwavering. 

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, “You do know I was thirteen?”

That wasn’t an answer. 

“I knew there was something wrong,” he answered at last. All the words sounded labored. “The details, I never knew. Just the hot room and that you looked ready to kill half of us if given the chance from time to time. I never would’ve known anything specific unless it came from you.”

(He was angry. So, so, so angry. A free-wheeling, blistering summer, crop-killing, volcanic kind of anger that threatened to overflow and kill everything in its wake.)

Ieyasu curled his fingers so tight that his knuckles creaked. Yoshimoto slumped his head back to the floor, shut his eyes and took another labored breath. All of his bruises were out in the open, where everyone could see them. There were no hidden marks, nothing easily covered in the painted facade of a silk--like desecrating a pretty vase, Ieyasu thought. 

“Did you know that your uncle--I think it was your uncle--burned me?” He announced. “My arms, my legs. He held a knife over a fire and waited until it glowed, then tried to see if I would scream. He only stopped when I finally did. I’ve still got the scars.”

Yoshimoto’s eyes were open again. There was no stone face--just a well of confusion and relentless sorrow. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Ieyasu instantly wanted him to take it back. “That should never have happened.”

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. They’d both been kids, once. Kids who barely knew each other, who lived in the same place and entirely different worlds and never once knew what lay beyond their circle. There was a faint scar just above Yoshimoto’s collarbone. Ieyasu wondered what it was from.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ieyasu said. “You couldn’t have stopped it anyway.”

---

No one was completely sure when she and Yoshimoto met, though Ieyasu suspected that the Takeda had spies in Azuchi for a long time before the battle. It was likely in their own marketplace. They had fine fabrics and he knew that Yoshimoto, otherwise an unremarkable daimyo, wouldn’t have stood out. He’d noticed her disappearing off to the stalls for supplies more frequently, but her business was also thriving. Everyone wanted her wares. 

Mitsuhide found the letters first. 

The only thing that saved her from Nobunaga was that she’d revealed nothing treasonous. It was love, plain and simple. His fine calligraphy lay neatly on thin mulberry paper (an artistic touch and beautiful in its own right), every character reserved entirely to her wellbeing and their budding affections. No mention of armies or war. No hatred, no grandstanding. Just love--love, plain and simple and innocent and complicated and all-encompassing and blinding. 

But all that meant was she was safe. 

And the match made sense, as much as Ieyasu couldn’t stand to admit it. They were both art lovers, convinced of its importance as much as warfare, certain that without it, what kind of a world existed to fight for at all? They used entire leaves of paper discussing dyeing techniques and exchanging book recommendations and talking about their homelands. 

(And honestly, Ieyasu hadn’t needed the letters to cement what he already knew. She’d spied Yoshimoto on the battlefield and he saw her whole body light up, eyes blazing with the kind of need he’d never seen in her before. He already knew then. He’d just hoped he was wrong.)

Nobunaga wouldn’t let some traitor daimyo run off with his lucky charm. Not in a thousand years. 

Ieyasu rapped on her door late that night, and she opened the screen, bleary eyed from fatigue. She’d barely slept in a week. The red rim of her eyes betrayed every tear she couldn’t shed in front of them. 

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled. 

“Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

The silly woman somehow still trusted him. Ieyasu dragged her quietly down the stairs, past the main hall, through the courtyard and out the front door. She wasn’t dressed to be in public and still didn't question him. Without ceremony, he reached the dungeon door and yanked it open, its hinges silvery in the moonlight and depths impenetrable. 

She stared at him. “What are we--”

“I said shut up.”

One step at a time, he lead her into the darkness. The stairs were almost dry, the unnatural heatwave baking it clean. Still he was cautious. They reached the bottom and he fetched a lit torch, motioning at the guard on duty to leave without a word, and fetched the key ring. “Lift your skirts and follow me.”

Yoshimoto was back in his holding cell. He was still holding his left shoulder slightly jagged, his breathing shallow but even, his split lip now clear and the grime of his face washed clean. Apparently he’d used his drinking water to do that. He peered intently around the corner at Ieyasu. “Tokugawa--”

Then he saw her, and he fell completely silent. 

“Here.” Ieyasu fumbled with the keys (he’d never had to unlock the cell doors) and finally found the right one. “You don’t have long.”

Yoshimoto struggled to rise and failed to get up. He didn't need to. The second Ieyasu cracked the door, she flung herself inside and her arms around him, their bodies bound so tight together that he wondered if they’d ever been separate at all. Her voice cracked, slurred something in her native tongue, the beginnings of a sob rolling through her back. 

“Shh.” He lifted his arms with effort, wound his fingers in her hair, kissed her forehead, her head, her eyes, clutched her to him. “Hush, darling. Hush. It’s okay.”

It isn’t, Ieyasu thought. It really isn’t. But they just sat there in silence together, her tears muffled into his chest and his body emanating love like sunlight. And he wondered (as he’d wondered a million things about Imagawa Yoshimoto lately) how a man who’d barely been able to get up this afternoon could summon the strength to smile and hold her so tight. 

---

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Nobunaga and Hideyoshi cocked the opposite brow at the same time, which might’ve been comical were it not so deadly serious. 

“Is that so?” Nobunaga remarked. It was the tone of voice that let him know this was not a question. 

“Shingen didn't divulge where he was going to Imagawa expressly because he knew about the attachment to the chatelaine.” Ieyasu inhaled. “So when he left, he was effectively spurring Imagawa to leave the fight too.”

Mitsunari frowned. “That is a valuable ally to excise for sentimental reasons.”

Mitsuhide smiled. “Practically cutthroat of you, Mitsunari. Color me surprised. As it so happens, I’ve obtained similar intelligence.”

Hideyoshi’s surprise translated loud and clear. “Really?”

“So it would seem. The thorn in our side still has a few petals remaining.”

Nobunaga’s gaze fell back down on Ieyasu, searching him. He’d grown used to most of those inscrutable expressions: contemplative, frustrated, puzzled. Now it was just the brotherly stare he got after some of his worst days on the battlefield. 

“How is our prisoner?” He asked. 

“Yes indeed,” Mitsuhide purred. “Is he still alive?”

“He’s alive.” Ieyasu paused. “He’s… relatively okay.”

The Devil King’s eyes never wavered. “And what would you recommend we do with him?”

---

Yoshimoto was allowed medical attention and to rest for one week, the meagre possessions he came with restored to him. Even with the fresh scar on his lip and a slight catch in his shoulder (Ieyasu was relatively certain it would smooth out over time), he was still regal and handsome. The cold grey of dawn greeted them with a blinding lightning bolt and a torrential downpour. It soaked through the cracked earth and ran muddy and wild over the fields. 

Ieyasu affixed the last of Yoshimoto’s things to the saddlebag himself. “That’s everything.”

Imagawa Yoshimoto smiled at him, despite everything. “I appreciate that.”

The chatelaine lingered in the stable. She’d snuck out to see him off, despite all of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi’s disapproval. Her eyes were puffy with new, unshed tears. “You’re just going to put him out in the rainstorm?”

He glanced out the stable door. It came down in thick, obscuring sheets. “Yep.”

“Come now.” Yoshimoto gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be just fine, love--”

Ieyasu snorted. “Of course you two will.”

The lovebirds started. He relished the look of surprise. 

“What does that mean?” She said. 

“You idiot, the rain will keep anyone from seeing that you’re gone for at least twenty minutes.” Ieyasu checked it again. “No one on lookout will be able to tell the difference between one rider and two. If you time it right, you can clear the Azuchi fields by the time it lifts. Yes, you’ll get soaked--”

“--It’s perfect cover.” Yoshimoto finished, breathless. 

“Ieyasu.” She dashed to his side, catching his hands in hers. They were so warm that it melted through her fingertips and into his--a comfortable, gentle heat. “Ieyasu.”

“Go.” He pointed at the saddlebags. “I smuggled in some of your things. Your weird bag, sewing stuff, some goods. Mitsunari helped me grab extras. No one questions if he takes things. Now get out of here before anyone realizes you’re gone.”

The chatelaine smiled at him--a blazing, beautiful smile--and leaned in and kissed his cheek hard. “Thank you.”

He was going to miss her.

“Go,” he repeated instead. “Go now.”

Yoshimoto and him helped her into the saddle first. Afterwards, Yoshimoto mounted up behind her, wrapping his cloak and body around her as best he could. “Thank you, Tokugawa.”

“If you don’t do right by her,” Ieyasu warned, “I’ll definitely kill you next time.”

“I take that under advisement. Thank you.”

A jerk of the reins and a kick, and they bolted out of the stables and into the pouring rain. Within seconds their figures swam into a vague blur, melding together in the shifting faraway. Only moments later--gone. 

Ieyasu stood there alone in the silence, his hands warm, his thoughts swirling like lazy koi in a fishbowl, aimless and unbothered. Without thinking, he stepped outside and stretched out his arms, letting the cold droplets run down his sleeves and cling to his skin. 

[semperintrepida]

Payable Upon Proof of Death

The weather was about to change, and the dawn skies above Kassandra's head glowed like coals in a forge, red folding into orange, bright but without heat. She stood at the Adrestia's railing, shivering in her armor, and swept her gaze further down the beach, where the soldiers in the Spartan camp were already moving with smooth and silent efficiency. Keep your mouth shut and let your spear talk for you. A favorite polemarch saying. She wondered if Thaletas had ever passed it along to his men.

Below her, the huddled shapes that dotted the sands around the dock began to stir, the blanket-covered lumps yawning and stretching back into people, some forty in all, each of them family of one of the rebel fighters left on Mykonos. It would be the Adrestia's job to deliver them to safety.

She didn't envy Barnabas and Gelon, who'd have to make sure everyone made it onto the ship, and quickly. A hard task getting harder in the commotion spreading across the sand, as belongings were packed, little ones escaped from their parents to tumble with gleeful shrieks into the surf, and voices grew tense and louder.

Chaos was what it was, and she imagined what Kyra would do to put it in order. She'd stroll into the crowd, let every eye settle upon her while sizing up the situation. Then she'd pick a few people from the group, give them her instructions, and turn them loose while adding her own hands to the effort until the work was done.

Kassandra smiled as she indulged in the daydream. She closed her eyes, hoping to add Kyra's voice to the illusion — but it only made the sound of approaching footsteps easier to hear, steps that rolled with the perpetual motion of waves.

She glanced upwards as Barnabas joined her at the railing. "I don't like the look of that sky," she said.

"Aye. We'll sail for Siros instead. Plenty of shelter in its coves, and we'll be able to drop anchor early. I won't go running towards Poseidon's anger with so many families aboard."

"Agreed." She watched the people below gather the baskets and bundles that held all they had left of their lives. "Did they decide where they wanted to go?" There'd been disagreement among the families, and Barnabas had been forced to play magistrate to settle the dispute.

"Keos. We'll fly the Pirate Queen's colors, and she's certain to grant refuge to these fine people. She favors you, in her way."

"She'll favor me more when I bring her that chest full of drachmae."

Barnabas laughed. "Aye, she will, but she's no friend of tyrants either. And I'll—" He didn't finish, distracted by movement on the gangplank, where a crewman was limping down to the dock. Kassandra looked closer. Not a he, but a she. That smuggler Iola, who seemed to be moving well after her escape from death's claws and teeth.

"If Xenia asks for more drachmae," Kassandra said, "tell her to add it to my tab."

An annoyed shout blasted the deck and pushed his answer aside. "What are we fucking waiting for? Someone to roll out a welcome carpet woven from the hair on Zeus's ass?"

Kassandra chuckled despite herself. Gelon's curses were growing ever more vibrant. She'd have to remember that one for later.

Then there was a flurry of motion among the crew as Gelon played the part of a herding dog nipping at their heels. The chaos had spread onto the docks, and a crowd of people jostled around the gangplank, while the youngest children played in the sand below and chased each other around the wooden pilings. The older ones wore the same furrowed brows as their parents, and were standing off to the side, some carrying small bundles of their own, others holding babies.

Uprooted. Adrift. Hoping that this would be temporary, that it would last only long enough for Kyra and her rebels to depose Podarkes and cleanse the island of his supporters.

Barnabas leaned back against the railing, his dead eye gleaming orange. "I see you took my advice," he said.

"And which mote of wisdom was that?"

He pressed his hand to his chest. "Mote! You wound me, Kassandra. Have you forgotten that motes can accumulate like sand on a beach?" He grinned and raised his eyebrows. "Some lucky lady owes Eros an offering, eh?"

"Ares's balls, am I that obvious?"

"There's no shame in that. You're a great many things, Eagle Bearer... but maybe not so subtle."

Kassandra sighed.

"Do you know who is subtle?" he asked. "Kyra."

The rising heat in her face would give him all the answer he needed, damn him.

"Ha, I knew it! You two have been circling like sharks since we got here." He punched her lightly in the arm. "You've an eye for the finer things, I see. Why, if I were younger I might have tried to woo her with a few poems myself."

Kassandra rolled her eyes.

His face grew serious. "I like her. I like her a great deal."

"So do I." She pressed her forearms into the rail and flexed her fingers, watching bones and muscles work together. Skin hid so much. "It scares me. A little."

He blinked, then peered at her closely. "How so?"

"I worry about her." Saying it out loud didn't make her feel any better. "No matter where she goes on this island, she's surrounded by threats." Her fingers curled into fists. She squeezed until her shoulders were tight as hawsers, released, then did it again. "And I know she can take care of herself, but..."

"Aphrodite's gifts sometimes don't feel like gifts at all."

Is that what this was? "I hope I've given Aphrodite cause to treat me gently."

"She can be kind as well as cruel. Your worries mean your feelings are real."

"I didn't know you were wise in the ways of love as well as sailing."

"It's the same thing, isn't it? Navigating fickle currents, weathering storm after storm... And yet, when the sun comes out and turns the waves to gold, and you feel the wind in your face and know that you're home — it all becomes worth it." Then he smiled, like a break in an autumn sky, sunny one moment only to cloud over the next. "I was married, once."

"Once?"

"A long time ago." He sighed and looked into the distance, and she sensed him treading water above depths darkened by sadness. "I'll tell you the tale some other time," he said.

She looked down at her hands, and at the water slapping against the side of the ship's hull. "I'm not sure I like this... worrying. Even if it is some god's idea of a gift."

"You'll just have to make room in your heart for it."

"It doesn't go away?"

The question surprised him. "Would you want it to?"

Ever since the night she'd spent with Kyra in the hunter's hut, her worry had become entwined with something more, and now a memory emerged from the buried depths, of a time when she was five years old and had slipped away from her chores to explore the city of Sparta and its wondrous delights, and she'd taken off as fast as she could run, thrumming with illicit excitement, dodging merchants and helots in the agora, climbing the vine-clad walls of the Temple of Artemis onto its roof in time to see the setting sun paint Mount Taygetos gold. She'd stood there, drinking in the crisp air and the divine view, her blood shimmering with the thrill of it, until her mother's voice broke through her elation. Then she'd gone to the edge of the roof and peered over the side. The ground was so far away. How in Hades would she get back down?

She shook the memory away and lifted her gaze back to the beach, where Iola was helping carry blankets to the dock. "Glad to see her up and about."

Barnabas's eyes followed hers. "Iola? Aye, she's a strong one, both in will and good fortune."

"Good fortune? She almost got mauled to death by a bear."

He turned and faced her, his eyes soft. "It brought her to you, didn't it?" he said, along with a cryptic smile. "And you..." He fell silent, but her mind filled in the missing words anyway: You brought her to me.

If he wanted to say more, he would have. She wouldn't pry. Instead, she stood beside him and watched the happenings on the beach in silence, until the fires in the skies cooled to merely dramatic shades of pink, and the rebel families had long begun ferrying their goods up the gangplank.

She gestured at the remnants of the camp. "Will you be ready to depart once they're all on board?"

"We're still waiting on one family that didn't arrive last night... and one of the crew."

"Who?"

"Onomastos. He was due back yesterday with the rest, but no one's seen him." Barnabas frowned. "He's a good lad. It's not like him to be late."

"Wait for them, then. I'll leave it up to you to decide when to depart."

"Aye, Commander. We'll be back in time to see you put Podarkes's head on a spike."

She appreciated his optimism, but she wouldn't be the one holding Podarkes's head up on display — that was Kyra's destiny to fulfill.

And being on the Adrestia wasn't helping Kyra at all.

Down on the sand, past the following eyes and the trailing voices, the expanse of beach between the docks and the Spartan camp was strangely serene. Walls of rock guarded the cove in a protective circle, and the only entry point was on the far side of the camp, where she found Thaletas's lieutenant in conversation with the two soldiers on guard duty.

He turned at her approach. "Eagle Bearer."

She nodded a greeting at him and the others.

"Haven't seen the polemarch, have you?" he asked.

That made her stop. "No."

"He went to the rebel hideout at sunset last night and hasn't been seen since."

That's when she'd left Kyra at the spring. Her stomach tightened. "Perhaps he stayed the night at the hideout," she said in a neutral tone.

"He usually sends word."

She would have answered if the soldiers hadn't readied their spears and shields and focused their attention on the narrow funnel of beach and a lone man running towards them.

"Kassandra!"

She recognized him. The lad Barnabas had spoken of earlier, Onomastos. "Let him through, he's one of mine."

"Stand down," the lieutenant said to the soldiers.

Onomastos ran through the gate, skidding to a halt before her. "Kassandra— I mean, Commander. There's—" He choked on his words, doubling over and panting hard.

"Breathe," she said.

He did, in great huffs, and then he pulled himself upright and tried again. "There's trouble in the city, and smoke in the forest north of it."

"What do you mean by 'trouble'?"

"The streets are deserted, and Podarkes's men have taken over the port. They're checking everyone coming in or out by ship. I only got through because I'm a citizen of Delos." He waved his hands helplessly. "I couldn't get a ride from Delos yesterday. Every felucca was booked."

"You did well getting here," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "Go tell Barnabas he can wait a quarter hour for any stragglers, but after that, he's to set sail no matter what."

"Aye, Commander," he said.

Kassandra had known the truce wouldn't hold, that it was merely an opportunity for the two sides to make plans and prepare them to play out. Kyra had spent her days on the defensive, gathering rebel families across the island and bringing them to safety here. What had Podarkes been doing?

She looked at the lieutenant. "Ready your men. I assume your orders are to hold this beach?"

"Yes." He lifted his shield.

"The Adrestia must leave here safely. You understand?"

He nodded.

"Good. I'm going to the hideout to look for Thaletas," she lied, "and I'm borrowing a horse." Thaletas was the least of her concerns. She'd not waste time readying Phobos for travel when there were horses waiting here already saddled.

Then she was swinging her leg over a chestnut gelding, and once she passed the gate, she urged him to a full gallop, pointing him straight into the teeth of whatever plans Podarkes had set into motion.

.oOo.

The gelding's flanks were coated with lather when she nudged him away from the road and into the forest, and when she reined him in at the hollow where the rebels picketed their horses, the youth who'd been tasked with watching over them materialized next to her knee. "Eagle Bearer! They're waiting for you at the hideout," he said as she dismounted.

She patted the gelding's neck and murmured to him in thanks, then handed the reins over. "Know what's going on?"

"No, just that there's trouble in the city."

Trouble again. She brooded over the word all the way to the cave. Whatever it was, it had roused the rebels to full alert. The air crackled with nervous anticipation, voices speaking a little too quickly, blades lingering a little too long against whetstones.

Kyra found her at the chamber's entrance, and she beckoned Kassandra back to the scroll-strewn table where she plotted strategy. She tapped her finger on the map. "You've heard about the city?" she asked without preamble, her voice a hard rasp that matched the chips of flint in her eyes.

"I know there's something going on, that's all."

"My scout says Podarkes closed the port this morning. All but a handful of ships have been turned away."

"With what army?" The number of Athenian soldiers left on the island should have been countable on one hand.

"His personal guard. But there are also armed fighters roaming the streets, moreso than usual."

"Misthioi?"

"Seems likely."

Kassandra crossed her arms in thought. "Paid for with whose drachmae?"

"Good question. I'm still waiting for my second and third scouts to report back." Kyra slid her finger north on the map, to a spot on the beach that matched the location of the Spartan camp. "Has the Adrestia sailed yet?"

"Barnabas should have her underway by now."

"And what of the camp?"

"Quiet when I left it, and the roads in between were clear." Kassandra glanced around. "Is Thaletas here?"

Kyra's brows lifted. "Why? He's not at the camp?"

"No. His men said he never returned last night."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping, and lowered her voice so only Kassandra could hear. "I told him. About us."

Another complication. "It would have been better if you hadn't."

"You think I don't know that?" Kyra said, her voice sharpening to a point. "He figured it out."

"Where could he have gone?"

"I have no idea." She pressed her thumb against her temple and rubbed her brow with her fingers. "He was furious when he left here, that's for damn sure. But he's smart enough to stay away from you."

"I'm not worried about him."

Kyra gave her an appraising look. "No, you wouldn't be."

"Think he might go after Podarkes?"

"Maybe. He's got a good excuse to now." She traced another circle on the map, just north of the city. "There's more. We've reports of smoke coming from here, but the orphan camp's the only thing worth checking in that forest and I can't spare any more scouts to investigate."

Kassandra's heart squeezed tight as she remembered something Barnabas had told her not long after they'd arrived on Mykonos: that Podarkes had once murdered a farmer's children and fed the bodies to pigs. Even children would not escape the long arm of his cruelty. "What would you have me do?"

Kyra blew out a frustrated breath. "I don't know," she said. "I've been saying that a lot this morning. I don't know enough to act."

The urge to pull Kyra close was almost overwhelming, but Kassandra fought it down. She'd not undermine Kyra's leadership in full view of everyone. Instead, she settled for placing her hand on top of Kyra's, wincing at the chill in the skin beneath her palm. "Waiting is an action," she said, and Kyra tensed, as if she were a started deer, caught between staying and fleeing.

Noise at the chamber's entrance sprung those muscles into motion, and Kyra stepped away from the table to meet a man running towards them. He wore a pair of daggers on his belt and carried a scroll clenched in his fist. One of her scouts.

"Kyra," he said breathlessly. "Podarkes has his thugs posting these all over the city." He handed her the scroll.

Kyra read it, her eyes flickering over the words like flames, and then she passed it to Kassandra without saying a word.

Kyra,

The orphans of Mykonos belong to me now, and one will die every day until you turn yourself in.

Podarkes

The scout shifted his gaze from Kyra to Kassandra, then back again. "Nothing good in there, I take it?"

"No," Kyra said, her expression opaque except for the muscles tightening in her jaw.

Tell Kyra that her execution will be long and painful. Kassandra crushed the papyrus in her fist and threw it onto the table.

Kyra turned to the scout. "What of the misthioi in the city?"

"Still there, mostly around the port and the agora," he said.

"How many?"

"Fifteen or so."

"That we know of." She thought for a moment. "If any of them leave the city, I want to know where they go."

"I'll need more eyes."

Kyra gazed across the chamber, watching her fighters, weighing numbers and risk. "Find someone to take with you."

He bowed his head, then left to carry out Kyra's orders.

She watched him for several moments, then gestured for Kassandra as she headed for the passageway at the back of the chamber. "Come with me," she said. "Now it's time to act."

.oOo.

Kassandra stood beside the table in the center of Kyra's bedchamber, wondering if the room had always been this cold.

"I'm going with you," Kyra was saying. To the orphan camp, where the worst case scenario was too horrific to dwell on for long.

"No, you're not," Kassandra said. "You're needed here, and everything about this smells like a trap."

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you." Kyra's lines — the cords of her neck, her crossed arms, the bend of her knee and thigh — were stretched taut, like a crane over a quarry straining under a load. She was an arm's length away, but she could have been on the other side of the island.

This was not the hideout's central chamber, busy with rebel fighters who kept their eyes and ears attuned to Kyra at all times. Kassandra took Kyra by the hand and gently led her to the bed, pulling her down next to her.

"This moment is what you've been waiting for all these years," Kassandra said. "He's within your grasp now."

"Is he? How do you know he's not already two steps ahead?"

"Because you've pushed him to the edge. He's acting out of desperation." Kassandra chased Kyra's gaze until she caught it. "Why are you doubting yourself now?"

"I've made some bad decisions."

"Like what?"

"Thaletas."

"Ahh," she said. "I'm sorry, about..."

"Don't be."

Kassandra's stomach hollowed out anyway. Kyra had said 'decisions' in the plural. Who knew the number of her regrets.

Kyra was shaking her head. "I didn't go far enough. I should have made sure the orphans were safe, like the families—"

"You can't protect everyone. And even if you had hidden the orphans, he would have gone after civilians in the city streets instead. No one's safe until you kill him."

There was a long pause. "I let myself get distracted from that."

Her words hung like the motes of frost that dusted the hills below Mount Taygetos after a winter storm, carried by air cold and sharp enough to cut the breath from one's chest.

Kassandra stood up, unable to sit with the idea that Kyra considered this — whatever this was, whatever they were — to be a mistake. "I'm going to the camp. Alone," she said, as she held up a hand to forestall Kyra's response. "It won't take long, and depending on what I find there and what your scouts report back, you'll know what to do next."

Then she turned and left the chamber, left the hideout and its nervous energy, left Kyra behind, every step putting real distance between them to match what she'd felt only moments before.

.oOo.

No birds sang in the forest around the orphan camp. No mice or hares scurried through the pine cones and leaves, no goats or deer stepped through the brush. Even the wind was subdued, and smoke hovered in a dirty grey pall between the trees.

Kassandra found Otonia's body at the edge of the camp. She lay facedown in the center of a damp and darkened patch of dirt, and the stench of death and clotted blood overpowered that of the smoke. Kassandra knelt beside her, and though she had seen countless bodies in her lifetime, she shuddered at the cold, rigid flesh in her hands as she turned Otonia over. Wounds gaped at the woman's belly and throat, her hands and forearms sliced open like a woodcutter's chopping block. Whatever awaited her in the Underworld, she'd not gone easy to meet it.

Kassandra dug a coin out of her pouch and placed it on Otonia's lips, then gently closed those wild eyes for a final time.

Smoke. Silence. Stillness. The camp's makeshift hovels were empty, and there were no other bodies, or signs of blood or struggle. Then she arrived at the open area in the center of the camp, where a massive firepit still smoldered. Nearby, a large, dark spot stained the dirt. Something had bled here, and judging by the size of the gouges leading away, that something was an adult and not a child.

She followed the scored dirt past a cluster of blackened and collapsing hovels, where the air was thick with acrid smoke and a handful of burned out torches lay discarded along the path. The rest of the camp remained untouched. The attackers had arrived before dawn, and they'd taken the children without wanton destruction. Professional work.

Misthioi work.

How many there were remained a mystery. She was no tracker; the dirt had been disturbed by too many feet for her to guess their numbers. Were the misthioi in the city the ones who'd rounded up the children? Unlikely. They would have had to have been as swift as Hermes himself to travel here, take the children, and return to the city by dawn. No, there were dozens of misthioi prowling this island, and Podarkes had used someone else's money to pay for them.

There was nothing left for her to see here. Otonia was dead, but the orphans had been taken alive — more leverage for Podarkes that way. It was up to Kyra's scouts to find them, and then Kassandra would go and kill her way through a camp full of misthioi to bring them back to safety.

But first she had to leave this place, while knowing the trap within it had yet to be sprung. The lines of its snare tightened around her with every step she took away from the camp.

She avoided the well-worn trails the orphans had cut between the trees. The breeze was picking up, obscuring the sounds of her movement, but then again, she'd also find it harder to hear as well. She drew her spear, finding comfort in it as her fingers curled around their usual places along its leather-wrapped handle.

Her breathing sped up, and her heart also, its pounding grasp pulling up a sense of ready anticipation from some deep and hidden wellspring. She stopped. Listened. Felt it, like a vibration, like a murmur of Danger! — and she spun and knocked an arrow out of the air with her spear.

Then she ran, and a second arrow streaked by as she plunged through a curtain of cedar boughs. She crashed through the undergrowth, but now there were other sounds converging upon her, snapping sticks, crunching leaves, and when the first misthios burst into her path, she ducked and let his axe swing over her head into a tangle of branches while her body pivoted up and her spear found a sliver of space between his cuirass and helm.

She felt nothing as he died, not a whisper of pleasure from her blade puncturing his throat. She could guess why, but there was only room in her thoughts for what was in front of her right now: another misthios charging out from the trees, followed by a second and then a third.

Three misthioi. At least she wasn't on open ground. But that damned archer was still somewhere behind her, and the trees wouldn't shield her forever. She'd deal with the three in front of her, and take her chances with the rest.

One carried a sword, the other a spear, and the last was a woman armed with the javelins and sling of a peltast. An odd assortment of weaponry among them, but what was an army of misthioi if not an odd assortment of unique weapons?

Spear and Javelins were at a disadvantage among the trees, their weapons hindered by the foliage around them. She stepped back and put a pair of slender tree trunks in their path, buying herself time to focus on Sword, who was curving around towards her left side, the weak side for most fighters.

He'd find out his mistake soon enough. She quickened her steps, closed the distance, raised her spear to meet his blade — and watched feathers sprout from his shoulder. He cried out in pain and dropped his sword, his free hand reaching for the arrow that impaled him, his fingers closing around two black feathers and one striped with light grey. Kassandra knew those arrows; she'd seen Kyra fell Athenian after Athenian with them.

Movement to the side. Javelins emerged from the green, her arm drawn back, ready to throw at a target behind Kassandra's line of sight.

Kassandra didn't think, but took two hard, driving steps and launched herself at the woman. Too late she saw the flash of a bronze spearpoint off to her side, and pain flared through her left thigh as she slammed her shoulder into her target. The javelin fluttered weakly into the bushes, and Kassandra drove her blade into the side of the woman's neck. They crashed to the ground in a bloody tangle.

When Kassandra rolled to her feet, the misthios who'd stabbed her was already on the ground, gurgling his final breaths around the arrow jutting from his throat. His spear lay in front of him, its blade stained red. She felt around the back of her thigh, and bit off a curse when her fingers came back wet and bloody.

Leaves rustled to her left, where she'd first encountered the swordsman. She swiveled in time to see him stumble backwards and sit against a rotting stump, and then Kyra stepped out from behind a big pine, her bow drawn and pointed at him.

Kyra's head turned, and her eyes flicked over Kassandra, up and down, with a long pause at her leg, where blood was trickling from the wound in a warm and steady flow. No pain, just a cold ache deep inside. Kassandra dug into her beltpouch for a bandage.

Kyra returned her attention to the man. "How many of you did Podarkes hire?" she asked.

He spat at her feet.

She shot an arrow into his thigh, calmly pulling another from her quiver and nocking it while he cried out in pain. "Am I going to have to shoot you again?"

He held out a hand to ward her off. "No! No. Thirty of us, maybe. I'm not sure. We all came to Delos separately."

"To do what?"

"Some to get the children, some to guard him, some to find you. He said: kill the rebel bitch. Kill the Eagle Bearer. Fifteen thousand for each, payable with proof."

Proof. Kyra's head in a bag. Hers too. Fifteen thousand drachmae was an attractive bounty to anyone, but thirty was enough to retire on in comfort. Small wonder he'd found so many misthioi on short notice. She narrowed her eyes, blood pounding in her ears as she bent down and began wrapping the bandage around her leg.

"Podarkes doesn't have that kind of drachmae," Kyra said.

"He paid me just to come here. Got it in deposit at the temple back home. And he paid the others, too. They said the Eagle Bearer fights like a lion, but you..." He bared his teeth with dark humor, his head rolling back against the stump. "You were a surprise."

"Where are the children?"

He closed his eyes and began to groan. "It hurts. Bad."

Kyra kicked the foot on his wounded leg, and his groan turned into a scream. She waited until he was finished. "Where are they?"

"The fort, the fort," he gasped. Miltiades, the fort Kyra had burned down when they'd stolen Podarkes's treasury — or what they'd thought was his treasury. How was he funding this gambit? The mystery grated against Kassandra's thoughts.

"Get off this island and you might live to withdraw your coin," Kyra said. "If I see your face again, your life is forfeit." He'd be lucky to drag himself out of this forest, but Kyra had given him a chance, small as it was.

Kyra watched Kassandra finish tying off the bandage. "Can you walk?"

Kassandra nodded, and she followed Kyra through the trees, each step aching annoyingly from knee to hip. They walked until the birds began to sing and chirp again, but as the smoke faded, it revealed no sunshine overhead, only mottled grey skies and a chill, blustery breeze.

"How bad is it?" Kyra asked after a while.

"Don't know yet. I think the bleeding's slowing." Kassandra didn't want to move the bandage to find out. "There was an archer somewhere behind me."

Kyra stopped walking. "Archers. I killed them."

"Thanks, even though I told you not to follow."

"If you think I'm going to let someone shoot you in the back—"

"And who was watching your back?" Kassandra asked. "I let myself get distracted by you."

Kyra flinched. "I suppose I deserved that," she said, but before the moment could fester, she spoke again. "Can you make it to the hideout? You can yell at me all you want there."

Kassandra didn't want to yell at Kyra, she wanted Kyra to be safe. But now wasn't the time to say it. She tightened her jaw around the words and set them aside. "I'll make it," she said. "I hardly even feel it at all."

.oOo.

She managed to reach the hill below the hideout before she started limping. Distance had turned the ache into a ragged sawblade of pain that cut into her thigh with every step. She stopped at the cave's entrance, looked at Kyra, then down at the blood-soaked bandage. "Can you retie it?" she asked. "Tighter."

Kyra knelt, and Kassandra felt her fingers begin to work the knot. "It won't be good for the wound," she said as she pulled the ends free.

"It's only for a moment." Long enough for Kassandra to cross the central chamber full of rebels without showing any weakness.

She remembered, then, the agoge: kneeling in the mud with the boys in her cohort, each of them holding a spearshaft over their heads to see who could endure the longest. The boys who gave out too soon were whipped, but the winner would get extra rations, and after months of near-starvation, that proved plenty of motivation. First her knees had ached, and then her muscles had burned with a dull smolder, then with a fierce flicker, then with a pain that swallowed the world. And the only weapons she had to fight it were her will and her breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Will herself to do it again, and again, and again, never stopping because stopping meant failing like the boys around her, as they collapsed one by one into groaning heaps.

And their teacher had walked among them, saying, Pain is weakness leaving the body, and Pain is only a message, and Pain can be ignored, and she'd spent that agonizing day learning that everything he said was true.

She'd feasted well that night, hidden in a hollow on the hillsides high above Pitana, away from the roving packs of boys who'd try to steal her winnings from her by force.

The bandage tightened around her leg, and she hissed as the pain gnawed at her muscles. She gathered it in and exhaled it out.

Kyra winced. "I'm sorry," she said, as she knotted the ends. And then she stood, her hands covered with Kassandra's blood.

Kassandra reached for her and cupped her cheek, and they looked at each other without speaking. Kyra closed her eyes, and relaxed into the touch with a sigh. Then she opened them, reluctantly, and said, "We should get going."

Their arrival in the hideout caused heads to turn, and as Kassandra walked with Kyra across the central chamber, eyes shifted from Kyra's bloody hands to the rusty rivulets of blood coating her leg. There was no hiding her wound, but her stride was steady and her face untroubled. Let them see her brush it off as if it were nothing. Pain was just a message to be ignored.

A short while later, she lay on her side on a woolen blanket in the bathing chamber deep within the cave, watching Kyra gather lamps and a jug of water.

Then Kyra knelt beside her, frowning as she unwrapped the bloody linen from Kassandra's leg. "That's going to need stitching," she said. "It's still bleeding." She lifted the jug and sluiced water onto the wound. "Looks clean though, thank the gods."

Kassandra twisted her shoulders back to take a look. The spearpoint had entered the outside of her thigh below the hip, opening up a wound as wide as her palm and slicing deep into the muscle. She'd been lucky that it hadn't plunged in far enough to hit something important. "Time to find someone handy with a needle."

"I can do it. If you want."

"Of course I want."

Kyra's smile was faint, but her eyes softened. "Are we talking about the same thing?"

"Maybe," Kassandra said innocently. Seeing Kyra relax was a welcome distraction.

Kyra stroked her fingertips over Kassandra's skin, then climbed to her feet. "I'll be right back."

When she returned, her hands were full with a tray that held a steaming bowl of water, cup, a needle, lengths of gut thread, and a pile of linen strips.

She handed Kassandra the cup. "Drink this."

Kassandra did, and had to fight back a cough as the wine burned its way down. "It's undiluted."

"There's water in it. A few drops at least." She grinned. "Trust me, you'll feel better. And I'll feel better too if you aren't wriggling around." She peered at the needle and threaded it with ease.

"I won't be moving, wine or not," Kassandra said. But she finished the cup anyway.

"If you tell me no one feels pain in Sparta, I'm going to kick you into that stream," Kyra said, pointing the needle towards the water flowing across the far end of the room. "Speaking of, go look at it for awhile, because I don't want you staring at me while I'm doing this."

Kassandra did as she was told.

A rustle as Kyra shifted positions, then a deep, indrawn breath and a sigh. "This is going to hurt, Kassandra."

Kassandra nodded for her to do it anyway, then felt the warmth of Kyra's hands, and the first bright stab of pain, as if an ember had crackled out from a fire to land on her skin. Pain that faded quickly. Such was her gift.

Kyra worked steadily, her fingers deft and gentle, and Kassandra closed her eyes and tried to think of something nice, something like a spring meadow by a misty forest of pines, or a brand new set of armor all polished and gleaming, or Kyra naked in her arms, but all she could see was a red sky glowing over dark water, endless in every direction.

A final tug on the thread, and then Kyra was wiping her skin down with a cloth and warm water and saying, "A little higher up and it would have scarred your perfect ass."

Kassandra snorted.

"It's done."

She craned her neck over to look. One continuous line of neat stitches. "You're good with a blade and a bow. Good at spying and tracking. And now, you've a physician's skill with a needle. Is there anything you can't do?"

Kyra's flush was deep and immediate. "Cook," she said, suddenly fascinated by the stitches she'd made. "And I'm hopeless at sailing. Something about being at the mercy of the winds." Then she smiled, self-consciously. "I'm no physician, but it's easier to send people off to fight knowing I can help patch them up when — if — they come back." She picked up a clean bandage and began winding it around Kassandra's thigh. "You made it easy, though. I have to damn near knock Praxos out whenever he needs stitching."

Kassandra waited until Kyra finished tying the bandage, and then she sat up and flexed her thigh experimentally. Back to a dull ache. She could work with that.

Kyra had busied herself with cleaning up the remnants of thread and bandages, and Kassandra took the tray from her hands and pulled her closer so they sat face to face. Then she kissed Kyra, gently; leaned forward so their foreheads touched; closed her eyes and breathed in the warm scent of her and whispered, "Thank you."

"I was ready for you to yell at me."

Kassandra shook her head, smiling as their noses brushed. "Why would I?"

"Oh, I don't know... It's not like you got stabbed because you were busy saving my life or anything."

"You probably saved mine. Those archers would have been trouble."

"I'm not so sure — I just watched you swat an arrow out of the air like it was nothing."

"That... was a first." And it was: another skill Kassandra didn't know she had until she'd done it at just the right moment.

"Whatever it was, it helped me find where that archer was hiding. She just about fell out of her tree." Kyra grinned, then found Kassandra's lips and kissed her, and Kassandra marveled at the rightness of it. "I just want you to be—"

"Safe," they said at the same time.

"That might be impossible," Kyra said quietly. "What are we going to do, raise goats?" Kassandra's own words, echoed back to her from what seemed a lifetime ago.

"I'm beginning to see some appeal in that," Kassandra said. "But I don't think I'd want to do it alone."

Kyra's face lit softly, like a lamp, hopeful in the darkness, and Kassandra's heart beat once, twice, three times. Then the glow began to fade, and Kyra sat back and said, "I need to check if any scouts have returned, and you"— she pulled Kassandra's braid forward to its usual place over her shoulder —"should go to my chamber and get some rest."

The argument rose within Kassandra, growing like a breath as her mind listed off everything she had yet to do. All those misthioi to kill, all those children to rescue. But Kyra... Kyra — who sat before her with furrowed brows and shadowed eyes, who cared enough about her people to learn some of a physician's art, who was the leader of this rebellion — had asked her to rest.

She nodded and let Kyra pull her to her feet. "Will you come back, if you have a moment to spare?" Her words tumbled out in one quick, regrettable burst. "No, forget I asked, you don't—"

Kyra placed a fingertip across her lips. "I'll come back," she said. "But rest first, while I figure out our next moves." Then she kissed Kassandra like a promise, took her by the hand, and pulled her into the passageway.

What else could Kassandra do, but do what she was told?

.oOo.

Kassandra awoke to Kyra slipping into the bed beside her. "How long was I asleep?" she asked, as she opened her arm and welcomed Kyra inside.

Kyra's hair spilled across Kassandra's chest as she made herself comfortable. "A couple hours. I'm sorry I woke you."

Too long. Kassandra had been sleeping on the job. "Don't be. What did your scouts report?"

"The city's quiet, and Podarkes is still cowering in his estate. But they found the children in the fort, under misthioi guard."

"How many guards?"

"Roughly a dozen. I'm still waiting for confirmation." Silence for a moment, and then Kyra shook her head and sighed. "What happens if he starts killing them, Kassandra?"

One child for every day Kyra remained free. "He won't. I won't let it happen."

Kyra played with the fabric of Kassandra's tunic as she lost herself in thought. "I believe it," she said after a while. "Against all reason, I believe it, even if your leg's been cut open like a side of pork."

"It aches some, but it won't stop me from going to the fort tonight."

Kyra's head jerked up. "What?"

"I'm going to kill every misthios there."

"And I bet you're going to say—" She forced herself silent, and tried again. "What do you want to do? Go by yourself? Or do you want help?"

"I want you to come with me, along with however many people you'll need to wrangle all those children once I free them."

Kyra wrinkled her nose. "Playing babysitter."

"Not you. I need you to watch my back."

That made her smile. "Gladly," she said. "I'll tell everyone to make an early night of it, as we'll need all of them to help. As much as I'd like to use wagons, I'm not sure the roads are safe enough..." And as she talked her way through the strategic details, Kassandra found herself smiling at this glimpse of Kyra's mind at work.

Once the plan was settled, Kyra patted her belly and asked, "Is there anything you need before we leave tonight?"

"You, right here, like this." She grinned. "At least until duty calls you away." On the eve of battle, trying to sneak time like a love-addled youth. Surely her grandfather was shaking his head with disapproval in Elysium. But once she tightened her arms around Kyra, and felt Kyra's body settle perfectly into place against hers, Kassandra decided she didn't care.

.oOo.

Miltiades Fort had burned down to a maze of bare stone walls, scorched timbers, and ashes, but there was enough of it still standing that Podarkes's men had been able to turn part of it into a prison camp. Kyra's scouts had snuck as close as they dared to in the daylight. "Fifteen misthioi," they'd said, "with most of them hanging around the ruins near the center courtyard. We think that's where the children are."

We think. Kassandra and Kyra would have to make up a plan as they went along.

The last time they'd infiltrated the fort, they'd been forced to climb the seaward cliffs to reach it without being seen. This time, they hid in the darkness of a moonless sky cloaked with clouds, and followed the gentle slope of the road up to the northern gate, where a single misthios patrolled the elbow of the fort's inner wall.

They moved in sync with the misthios's pacing, freezing in place as the footsteps grew louder and creeping forward as they faded away, and soon Kassandra knelt at the foot of the wall and listened to the waves slamming themselves onto the nearby cliffs, driven by winds that left her skin stinging with salt. A storm blowing in.

She traded a nod with Kyra, then began climbing the wall. No pain in her thigh; just a steady ache. Good. Before they'd left the hideout, Kyra had fed her some concoction that tasted like trees, and it seemed to be doing its job.

When Kassandra reached the battlements, she stopped and waited until the footsteps passed directly above her, and then she pulled herself atop the parapet, leapt forward like a sharp gust, and her spear flashed, and the bracer on her right arm took on a dark and wet sheen.

Kyra watched Kassandra lower the body to the walkway, her eyes lingering on the dead woman's bow and helm. She plucked the pilos from the woman's head, put it upon her own, and picked up the torch that had fallen from her lifeless fingers. She'd take the place of the dead misthios, and as she walked with a slow and steady sentry's gait along the wall, she'd buy Kassandra time to assess the fort's interior.

Kassandra followed the parapet down to the courtyard. Voices skidded across the dirt. Two men, walking closer. She slid into the shadows next to a burned-out building and peered around the corner.

Someone was bound to one of the stout wooden poles the Athenians had used to practice their swordwork. They sat with their back to her; slight shoulders, skinny arms pulled tight overhead by ropes at the wrists. Kassandra had a pretty good guess who it was.

She couldn't see the prisoner's face, but as the two misthioi crouched in front of the pole, she could clearly see them right down to their bad intentions.

"Comfortable yet?" the smaller man asked. "Better than living under sticks in the forest."

Silence.

"You're lucky we didn't slice you up like that other harpy. She'll be wandering the banks of the Styx for the rest of eternity."

"Brave of you to kill an unarmed woman." The voice belonged to Melitta, as Kassandra knew it would.

"A job's a job. She got between us and our drachmae."

Kassandra closed her eyes and took a breath. How long until Melitta tried to kick one of them?

"You greedy fuckers."

The man laughed, and she did try to kick him then. The smaller one caught her legs and pinned them under his knees, while the bigger man leaned in close and wrapped a meaty hand around her throat.

"You're gonna be the first to die, you little cunt, for what you did to Panos," he said. "Tomorrow's your last day among the living."

"I hear Podarkes is a right bastard. Maybe he'll skin her alive."

"Then he won't mind if we help ourselves to some of her first." He grinned a gap-toothed grin and grabbed his crotch.

Melitta spat at him. "The Eagle Bearer is coming for you," she said, her head turning from one to the other. "And you too. You'll die by her blade."

Harsh laughter. "The Eagle Bearer is dead. Six of us went to track her down this morning. They're gonna gut her and that bitch who's causin' all the trouble around here. Gonna get paid, aren't we Gyklos?"

"Only six of you? She's not dead. You'll see. And Kyra will rescue us."

The man backhanded her, a hard sound that cracked through the wind and recoiled off the stone walls surrounding them. Kassandra's blood rose hot behind her eyes, and she pulled her spear from its sheath. Melitta was running out of time.

Up on the wall, Kyra's torch was slowly moving closer, and in a few moments, she'd be at the top of the stairs leading down to the courtyard.

Kassandra found a small clay pot and shattered it against the ground. Then she crouched in the darkness and waited.

"You hear that, Gyklos?"

"The wind, I bet. I'll take a look." Sounds then, in the silence between gusts: the creak of a swordbelt, hands slapping dirt from leather tassets, footsteps coming closer.

He rounded the corner, and she sprung upwards and drove the spear into his throat, his spine parting before her blade, and as she stared into his eyes, he lived just long enough to know who had killed him.

Movement to her right. Kyra, halfway down the steps, bow drawn, taking aim, taking the shot. A startled "Wha—" and Kassandra was moving, around the corner, spear glinting in torchlight, blood spraying into her face. Kyra stepped into her line of sight, bow drawn again, lining up another shot at some target across the courtyard. She loosed the arrow, drew another from her quiver, and shot again in the span of a few heartbeats. Smooth efficiency.

Four misthioi down, eleven to go. Kassandra dragged the big man's body around the corner and dumped him next to the first as thunder rumbled in from the sea. She pulled a dagger free from his belt, then moved back into the courtyard, where Kyra was already using her knife to cut through Melitta's bindings.

"I knew you'd come," Melitta said as Kassandra and Kyra helped her to the courtyard's edge, where she could rest in the shadows between two large crates. She stared at Kyra, one of her eyes blackened and swollen, while fresh blood ran from a split in her lip.

Kassandra breathed in, and out, not realizing she'd gone rigid with anger until Kyra placed a hand on her arm and whispered, "I know, my blood boils also." Then she turned to Melitta and asked, "Where are the rest of the children?"

"To the southwest, in the tallest building. You can't miss the cages outside," Melitta said, grimacing as she shook the blood back into her arms and hands.

"They'll be numb for a while," Kassandra said. "Think you'll be able to walk?"

"After a little bit, yeah."

She handed Melitta the dagger she'd taken from the dead misthios. "Don't try to be a hero. When you can walk, start moving south, to the collapsed wall." She looked at Kyra. "It won't be long before someone notices the missing."

"I'm going to clear the way to the south, so you and the children will have a straight shot to the exit."

"Then I'll circle around to meet you from this side. It'll give you time to work before I free the children."

"Careful, Kassandra," Melitta said. She pointed to a large building next to the tallest. "They've been using that one as a bunkhouse."

Kassandra's mind mapped out the fort: the misthioi they'd already killed, the ones she'd seen prowling the far walls. Perhaps a handful sleeping in the bunkhouse. Who knew how many lurked between here and the southern exit? And the gusting wind made every bowshot a difficult one. And then Kassandra couldn't stop herself, and her worry leaked out across her face, so obvious that it made Kyra pause.

She lifted her hand to Kassandra's cheek. "Have you forgotten? When I aim at something, I don't miss."

When the stakes were highest, there was no room for doubt. Kyra had left all of hers behind at the hideout. In its place was confidence, tricking the mind into believing she could walk through an inferno and come out unharmed.

Kassandra would not weaken Kyra's belief. She made her face smile. "No, you don't."

Kyra nodded. "Good hunting," she said, and then she disappeared into the darkness.

Melitta had been watching them silently. Kassandra met her gaze, said, "Be careful," and stared at her until she acknowledged it with a nod.

Back up the stairs to the top of the wall, past the dead archer, past the back side of the building Melitta had called the bunkhouse, and then a torch was flickering in the darkness up ahead, clinging to life as it moved through the unsettled air. She ducked behind a pile of stones, waited for the misthios who carried it to come into view, and when his back turned, she swept into him and opened his throat to the wind. Another neck shot; when surrounded by heavily armed and armored misthioi, every strike had to be a killing blow.

She drifted back to the bunkhouse as the air quivered and boomed with thunder. From a doorway, she peered into the dimly lit interior. The wooden floor had burned away, but the next level down was made of stone, most of it intact. Below that was the ground floor, where a burning brazier leaked light up through the hole in the ceiling. She dropped down a level, rolling into a quiet landing as her thigh flared with real pain for the first time since she'd arrived at the fort.

The thunder was cracking overhead at regular intervals now, and muttered curses sounded from the misthioi trying to sleep below. She chanced a quick glance over the edge of the hole in the floor, counted six of them in various states of wakefulness.

She managed to kill two before the others awakened, and then it was chaos, as she flipped the brazier over, cutting the light and scattering hot coals across the floor. She chopped one's legs out with her sword as they scrambled to arm themselves, knocked another's dagger away with her spear, then stuck its blade deep into an unarmored belly.

Something slammed against her wounded thigh, and her leg gave out as her vision went white with pain. Just a message, just a—

She moved without conscious thought, turning, seeking her attacker out, reading the angles, power gathering within her, and it surged upwards through her feet and legs as she exploded forward and drove her shoulder into his chest like a battering ram. He flew backwards out the open doorway, and then she had one misthios left to kill, and her sword swatted his blade aside and opened a path for her spear to cut his throat.

Then the skies broke open with jagged lightning, and the rain began to pour, and when she rushed outside, she found Melitta, dagger in hand, scrambling away from the misthios she'd knocked through the doorway.

Melitta's dagger held his attention, and he never even turned as Kassandra floated like a spirit through sheets of rain and speared him through the back.

"This way," Melitta said, wasting no time as she bounded up a set of steps nearby. "Kyra's killed the rest."

Kassandra followed after her, limping now in the fading rush of battle. At the top of the stairway, a body sprawled across the flagstones, pinned with arrows. A long row of cages ran the length of the wall, and then Kassandra heard the crying: lost and desolate echoes of children in despair. Her heart spasmed. She picked up the dead man's axe and hacked at the lock on the nearest cage, moving swiftly up the row while Melitta coaxed each group of children to come out and join the rest.

Then all that separated Kassandra from the children imprisoned inside the building was a heavy wooden door, and when the axe failed to make a dent in its lock, she chopped handholds into the boards on either side and tore it from its hinges.

There was a pause like a breath, and then a swarm of children burst out through the doorway, rushing to join those already crowding around Melitta on the portico.

Kassandra trailed after them, and some of them noticed her and turned and stared, which caused others to turn, and then others, a cascade of attention bearing down on her, and then all of them were frozen in place, gawping at her with terror in their faces. She was covered in blood, she realized. She could taste it every time she opened her mouth, the rain only making things worse. "Melitta, lead them," she said, suddenly weary.

Melitta's whistle was sharp, and it pierced their horror with a sound clearly familiar to all. "Let's go!" she said, and she turned and hurried down the steps.

The children followed like a school of fish, bumping and jostling up the steps and stone pathways, and Kassandra swept along with them as they streamed towards the break in the wall, and once she got there, she stopped and stood motionless, bracketed by dark and crumbling stone, covered in mud and blood and ashes, as the orphans spilled out around her, running to Kyra, running to freedom.

Part of the Elegiad. Go back to the previous story...

[kittysaucesyeah]

Denial Cannot Stop a Ceaseless Rain

Word Count: 1570

Summary: Dancing in the dark, the fools in love merrily think themselves to be the only people in the whole world.

Or:

Post reveal - pre relationship fluff after the two fools miss the last dance of lycee to fight an akuma.

Inspired by this beautiful post by @chatalyst

Read on AO3 Here

“I’m tired of being sad.” He said.

Marinette blinked into the darkness that surrounded them, far too tired to turn from her position, slouching into Chat Noir’s side. She chose not to say a word, instead turning her eyes up to the stars, wondering what her friends must think now.

She really must have been a total klutz to forget when the last school dance of lycee was. Especially after she spent weeks hand creating a beautiful blush pink gown. Of course, that gown was coated in mud from when she had fled from a dance themed akuma. She sighed. While her friends were dancing and eating and being normal teenagers, she had been fighting a super villain bent on destroying every happy couple in Paris.

She lifted another stale chip to her mouth, fighting frustration as she sat curled up with Chat, eating the buffet’s leftover food on the roof of their school. After everything that had happened today, this, she decided, was the best possible outcome. At least she didn’t have to simply go home and pretend like nothing had happened. Instead she was here, sharing rejected snacks with her best friend. She smiled at that thought.

After all, it was simple to bond as soon as they both knew that the other was their crime fighting partner. With just a look, he could determine all the different methods Marinette was considering to dunk Lila’s head into a nearby trash can, lips puckered and eyes narrowed like she was working out a Lucky Charm. She could see, in a lightning fast wink and a subtle tilt of the head, that Adrien was already planning a long list of puns about the situation around them, waiting to slide up next to her and whisper them under his breath, making her laugh until she swore she could see little black ears on his head. And although Alya teased her about how suddenly comfortable their relationship was, Marinette couldn’t imagine it any other way now.

The chip never made it to her mouth, missing by a long shot when Chat suddenly shifted, pulling his shoulder out from under her head. He stood, eyes gazing out across the streets of Paris, now dark and quiet. His slender form was illuminated from below by the golden glow of street lights, lighting on the swirling curl of his belt tail.

She forced herself to look away.

“Will you dance with me?” Adrien whispered into the gentle night breeze after a long moment.

She glanced up, and there he stood with his arm stretched out, and although he was dressed in black leather and black cat ears thrust from the wild burst of blonde on his head, she swore she can see it.

He stands there, rain soaking into his designer clothes already, holding his umbrella out to her. His wide green eyes burn into her, asking her questions she cannot make out. Lightning flashes in the distance, painting a halo around his dripping head. The thunder rumbles and she can hear his laugh, see the shy dimples on his cheeks.

And although Marinette knows she shouldn’t, she takes his hand.

Chat Noir pulls her up gently, soft warmth crackling down her arm like electricity. They stand face to face, arms hanging between them like a question and she wants to tell him everything.

How Adrien’s soft kindness gave her hope, made her believe that the world could be more than it was. That every small action could somehow grow into something bigger, more important than the cost of a little kindness. How his laugh was her favorite sound, but only his real laugh, the one he used when no one was paying any attention. Like tiny fireflies, she caught every little chuckle in jars and placed them on her shelf, frozen in time, twinkling for her. How she could see a sadness in him, a yearning in his eyes that she could never quite place, like a mask or a smile that never fully forms, never shows off his dimples. She had longed to meet the side of him that he kept hidden from the world, but it turns out that she already had.

But she didn’t say any of that.

Instead she says the least important thing she can think of.

“But there’s no music.”

He smiles like he knows a secret, drawing her closer and settling his free hand onto her shoulder blade.

And she knows.

Piercing blue eyes beneath a white mask. Crumbling ash and twisted metal. Rancid water and a broken moon.

So when he says his next words, she snaps her head to the side, looking away.

“Bug, you dare doubt me?”

She nearly crumbles, resolve buckling at the tease of laughter in his voice, so she focuses far in the distance, eyes lighting on her balcony across the street.

Chat Noir balancing on her rail, twirling his tail around and around in his hand as he ran his mouth, putting on quite the show for her civilian form. Jumping a foot out of her seat as he appears, poking herself with the needle carefully clutched in her hand. Chat’s resulting panic and feeble attempts at first aid. Reluctantly feeding a stray slowly turning into Marinette bundled up in piles of blankets, waiting for a hint of black on the horizon. Stargazing and drinking homemade hot chocolate. Sharing an iced tea and a tiny bit of shade.

She turns her head away from the balcony. Without her permission, her hands snake their way onto his shoulders, red against black, blooming in the moonlight. Far in the distance she can see the facade of the Agreste mansion, dark as the depths of the Seine.

 Swinging past to peek at him after an especially long day and being surprised when Chat suddenly appears on the rooftop beside her. Rushing to save him from a pack of crazed fans, grasping him tightly around the waist as she swung, his arms encircling her neck, both of their faces burning. Finding little notes tapped to his big glass window, complimenting her on her latest akuma victory, covered in doodles of ladybugs. Spotting him in Ladybug pajamas, reading the Ladyblog late into the night of her solo patrol.

Her feet suddenly begin to move, as if they had been waiting for their chance to take control. He leads her patiently, and she is shocked by the easy way her body falls into their dance. She tries desperately to find anywhere to look.

The Eiffel Tower, glowing in the far distance?

Perching together at the top of the tower, quiet until Chat dares her to see how far she can throw him. Her bad mood cracking as he yelps, flying stiffly through the air moments later.

The curling path of the Seine, dark tendrils fanning out in the night?

Chat Noir choking down his Andre’s ice cream, determined to finish his first. Nearly falling into the river with laughter when he trips on his own tail, smashing his cone onto the cobblestones of the bridge.

The roof beneath their dancing feet?

Light purring echoing across the empty rooftops as he lays out blankets and she sets down her snacks. His gentle teasing as she struggles to rig her yo-yo into a projector again, asking what movie they are watching this week.

Paris is their city, so there is nowhere she can look that Adrien doesn’t appear.

In the quiet, the tapping of feet on the roof and their breaths are the only sounds in the air. But Marinette can suddenly hear music.

Raindrops pattering across pavement. Beads clinking together down the length of two Lucky Charms. The flapping of pure white butterfly wings against blushing cheeks. Laughter and woops of joy and the tap of feet as they raced along the rooftops. His real laugh.

She can no longer look away.

So she meets his eyes, and it feels like seeing a thousand different lives playing out in front of her. She sees her hand, but it is not her hand, clad in red against the shoulder of a boy in black. That boy is Chat Noir, but it is not Adrien. They are dancing in the woods, her long flowing skirt brushing through the undergrowth.

She is a man clad in warrior’s armor, sore from a long ride but still sparing with a boy in all black armor, a smile gracing his scarred face as they dance around each other.

She is leaning into the blistering sands that pelt her and her guide. The guide wraps Marinette in his dark cloak and they sway together, waiting for the storm to pass.

She is an artist, hunched with age, teaching a child in ragged black pajamas how to make pancakes, twirling around the kitchen to her favorite song.

She is all of them. And he is right there beside her. Echoes of every Ladybug and Black Cat miraculous holder twined together in this dance, stretching forward and backwards through time. For just an instant she sees the way the universe unravels, gossamer strings threading together every one of them.

Burned into her skull is the after image of

Spots and tails.

Red and black.

Light and dark.

Creation and destruction.

Everything in perfect balance.

Then, she is just Marinette, standing on the roof of her school, dancing with her Chat.

“I would never doubt you, kitty.”

[jabbajambler]

01

When We Were Young

Obi Wan Kenobi x f!OC

Word Count: 2,141

*GIF by @obimauls​*

         The sun was bright on Coruscant. I always loved how the city would glow and beam. Even on the darkest days, it could lift my spirits. Thankfully, today was not one of those dark days. Today was a day that could easily make history, the day the Jedi called in me for assistance in their war.

         I never had a huge opinion in the war. Of course,  I wasn't a fan of it, but no strong opinions. I only wished it would end. Hopefully with my help, it will.

         "Aaryn Skywalker?" An orange, armor-cladded clone asked. Their helmet resembled those of the Mandalorians. I always thought that was silly. But of course I couldn't put it past the Jedi to steal their ideas.

         "That's me." I sighed, holding onto a large bag that I had packed for my time. They told me to pack the necessities and for me, there was a lot.

         The clone trooper grabbed my bag and led me onto the small ship. I assumed we would be traveling to a larger Republic station. It was a simple ship, nothing too fancy. It was old, though. Something I'm sure I once flew back when I trained under the Jedi Order.

         "There's another Skywalker in your ranks. Any relation?" The trooper sparked up a conversation as we took off into the air. My stomach sunk while I gazed out the windows. I would miss my city, but I hoped this wouldn't take too long.

         "Yes. I have a brother, Anakin." I couldn't help the smile on my face as I thought about the once blond haired boy. Our mother was never sure of who either of our dad's were so I always assumed it was the same. It was strange, though, that she never knew our father. In fact, she was never sure about how we even came to be.

         "That could get confusing." He chuckled. He had a nice laugh. It was warm and inviting.

         "Oh, I'm sure we won't be around each other too often. The council will want us as far away from each other as possible. They probably think I'm a bad influence."

         "You certainly have similar taste." He joked. I cocked my head to the side. I didn't quite understand what he was getting at.  

         "Your clothes, I mean." He gestured towards the black cloak that was wrapped around my shoulders. Despite the warm, rising sun of Coruscant, the mornings were still quite cold. "General Skywalker tends to prefer the darker colors as well."

           "Did you say General Skywalker?" He nodded. "He's practically a child. How did he land that position?"

         The clone shrugged and relaxed in his seat as another clone in the same color armor flew the ship.

         "I'm not sure but he's a hell of a leader. His Padawan, Ahoska-"

         "Excuse me, his Padawan? You must be joking!" I smiled as I spoke with the clone. He was easy to talk to.

         "No, I am not. Wish I was, sometimes. Those two are quite the pair."

         I laughed as a darkness had settled in the ship. We finally reached the stars, the glowing, ever changing stars.

         "You know, I never got your name, Commander."

         "Cody. Commander Cody of the 212th Attack Battalion."

         "Well, Cody," I smiled, "relax. We have quite the ride ahead of us."

         And it was quite the ride. Cody told me stories of how he trained with his brothers.

              Brothers.

         The term was endearing. They were able to form a connection with someone right from the beginning. It was nice to know that our soldiers were real men regardless of whether they were all duplicates, grown at a rapid rate. They had feelings and formed connections. It must have been a slip-up on the Jedi's part. I'm sure they formed attachments to their men all the time.

         "General Skywalker, we have arrived." Cody stood, stretching his body from the ride.

         I rolled my eyes and rose from my seat. "Please, call me Aaryn. I don't want things to get too confusing."

         "Aaryn Skywalker." A deeper voice spoke up as the ramp rolled down to the metal floor. "We've been expecting you."

         "Well I'd assume so since you invited me." I looked up to meet the cold stare of Mace Windu. I always wanted to see if I could get him to crack his tough exterior. Today was apparently not that day.

         He sighed, his eyes trailing down to the bag in Cody's hand. "I thought we said to bring only what was necessary."

         "You did. And I brought everything I deemed absolutely essential." I beamed. "I like what you've done with your hair by the way."

         I could see his eye twitch in subtle annoyance, something I deemed a small win. I even earned a chuckle from Cody.

         "Well, what are we waiting for? Shall we get going?" I sauntered down the ramp, expecting to find ourselves in some crowded landing dock, but we weren't. Well, there were plenty of ships but no people. "What? No welcome party? After all those years, I would hope that you'd remember I love to make a grand entrance."

         "We're in a war, Skywalker. We have greater concerns than your welcoming." Windu hissed through his teeth.

         "Aren't you a bundle of sunshine." I rolled my eyes. Windu was never the warmest person, but the war turned him into a complete ass.

         He led us down the cold, metal halls. For some reason, I expected the ship to be just a bit more inviting. After all, we're in a war. Everything else is dark and horrifying, why should the mother ship be the same?

         My face turned down in a small frown as my eyes shifted around. There were kids growing up in this, their childhood turned into a war zone. I couldn't imagine the toll that took on them. I was already afraid of what it would do to me.

         "I'm sure it must be strange for you to be here." Mace Windu spoke calmly beside me. "It is strange for us as well. We did not want to call you in."

         "It was weird to receive the notice." I spoke honestly. Being here was weird. Hearing from the Jedi Order, however, was even weirder. I'm still not sure how they managed to find me in the first place.

         "You've heard all about the war, I assume."

         "Please, it's all anyone talks about." I chuckled. "Besides, it's great to rub it in all of your faces that after all this time, you called me back."

         Mace stopped in the hall, turning quickly on his heel to face me. His dark eyes narrowed as they met my brown ones. "Now Aaryn-"

         "I know, be civil." I smiled and played with the loose strands of hair that fell down my shoulders. It, too, was a dark brown. Someone once told me that I simply didn't look the part of a Jedi. My aura was tainted, dark.

         I glanced around the hall again, avoiding Windu's eyes. No one was there but the Master Jedi and I. The walls were bright but cold and plain. I suppose that was the 'Jedi way.'

         "Commander Cody brought your things to your quarters. You can explore that later once it's time to settle down. Since you're so antsy to meet everyone, I'll introduce you to who you'll be working with."

         "Of course. Who needs time to relax." I rolled my eyes, receiving another stern glare from Windu.

         "You have had eleven years of rest." He snapped and ushered me along the sad hall.

         My eyes wandered once we entered a large meeting room. There were clone troopers everywhere. Before Cody, I had never seen one so close. Soon enough, I'd be working with entire squadrons of them. Was I truly fit to lead an entire battalion of men into a war? I wasn't a Jedi, not anymore. I wasn't trained for something like this.

         "Captain Rex." Windu addressed one of the troopers that stood around a large hologram of a separatist-occupied planet. His armor was painted a vibrant blue, a stark contrast to the white and gray. What color would represent my men? "I'd like you to meet General Skywalker. You've been notified of her presence, I assume."

         "General Skywalker?" He chortled. "I don't think so."

         "And why not?" My smile turned into a scowl at his mockery. Or, what I assumed was mockery. Did I not seem capable of being a General? My hand reached for the brown and silver hilt on my hip. Surely that would prove this trooper wrong.

         "Excuse me, ma'am, but General Skywalker has been with us for quite a while now."

         "Oh." The word barely left my mouth in a whisper as I dropped my hand back to my side. "You mean Anakin."

         "Yes." He spoke quietly. It sounded more like a question than a statement.

         Mace scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "You mean to tell me that Anakin has not told you about Aaryn's arrival?"

         "You're Aaryn? Anakin talks about you all the time but never about you being here." Rex laughed lightly. It was so similar to Cody's but that shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did.

         "I told him to do one thing." Windu grumbled to himself. "Where is he-"

         "Aaryn?" I heard a voice behind us. There was a tall man dressed in all dark robes. I had never seen a Jedi dressed in such a way - well, not since I was one. His hair was a light brown, wavy and soft. He wore a bright smile across his face, matching his beaming blue eyes.

         I recognized his eyes, first. They were similar and gave me a subtle sense of déjà vu. Honestly, I was ashamed of how long it took me to recognize him. It had been so long since I'd seen him, but I would never forget the eyes of my baby brother.

         "Anakin." I smiled. Before I knew it, he rushed towards me and crushed me in a tight hug. He had grown so much, standing nearly 8 inches taller than me. I returned the embrace with what strength I had left from his suffocating hold. "You're going to crush me."

         "Sorry." He let out a nervous laugh and stepped back, his eyes darting from mine to the undoubtedly angry glare of Mace Windu. "It's been a while."

         "It has. I mean, just look at you! You're a general now? Who decided it was a smart idea to give you that rank?"

         "All Jedi Knights became Generals once the war started. The council thought I was ready to graduate from my training." He smiled proudly. My smile, however, was lost.

         Only nineteen and he was already a Jedi Knight. How was he so different than me? I was 20 and they told me I still wasn't ready.

         Oh.

              Right.

       He was the chosen one. A title that once belonged to me.

         "I doubt I'll compare to you, though, General Skywalker." He joked, giving me a small nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

         "You forget that I've gone eleven years without training. I'll struggle keeping up with you and your Padawan that I am so excited to meet!"

         Anakin rolled his eyes at the mention of his Padawan. I still couldn't believe that he was training someone. "If you think you'll struggle with us, just wait till you see Obi Wan on the battlefield."

         "Obi Wan?" My eyes lifted at the mention of the name. It felt foreign on my tongue.

         "Did someone call for me?" An auburn haired man stepped into the room, dressed from head to toe in earthy robes. His blue eyes were soft and once they landed on me, grew wide in an emotion I couldn't quite detect. Fear? Remembrance?

         I'm surprised I recognized him, really. He changed so much in the last eleven years but then again, so did I. His Padawan braid was long gone and his short hair was grown out and swooped to the side neatly. A soft, red beard adorned his handsome face. I must say, he looked good with it.

         "Master, look who it is!" Anakin wrapped an arm around my shoulders, looking to me with a subtle wiggle of his eyebrows.

         "I see." Obi Wan breathed out. His back was straight, his entire posture was as stiff as a board. I wanted to run into his arms just as Anakin had done but I was sure that wouldn't be well-received by the other Jedi. Instead, I smiled a fake, but confident smile and held my hand out towards the man.

         "It's nice to see you again, Obi Wan."

[onigirisuna]

a cozy fire to keep you warm

a contribution to @zutaramonth​, quarantine edition, day 11: secrets. view my other works for zutara month (quarantine edition) here.

a story about love found.

She was always there, at the corner of his (good) eye.

When he was chasing the Avatar to the ends of the world, she was there, standing guard.

When he nearly keeled over with regret and shame in the Western Air Temple, she was there, seething with disgust and contempt.

When he was nearing the end of his world, close to transcending the earth beneath him, she was there, saving him.

Her prayers came in waves, crashing broken and scattered on the shore. “Please,” she begged through her tears, “Don’t– Agni, please, you can’t– don’t leave me– she can’t– she can’t take him away this time.”

Azula once took you from me before, she thought. When you left me in the among the crystals.

You came back, goddammit. You can do it again.

Behind his eyes, colors fluctuated from the crimson of the comet to the burgundy walls of the palace gardens. His sister’s agonizing screams and Katara’s desperate prayers were nothing but white noise to him; all he could see was a little turtleduck – you were mine, weren’t you? – and a lone, lean figure standing by the fire lilies.

Katara was still there; he saw her at the corner of his good eye, glowing crimson and blue. “No, no, no, you can’t die. Agni, please– Yue, anyone, please– Agni, he’s slipping–” 

The garden began to blur. The figure walked towards him; as it was coming closer, its features came into focus. He was a boy, no older than 18, with unmistakeable golden eyes and a stature only found in Fire Nation royalty; but his face was kind and his gaze was soft, much like Iroh’s. The boy’s warmth flooded him.

Somewhere in his periphery, Katara started to fade.

“Lu–” he began, but Lu Ten grabbed him by his shirt.

“Not today, Little Zukey.”

What the hell? Before he could could ask, he was shoved backwards with a force and a searing pain that knocked the air out of his lungs; he realizes too late that his spirit has found his body again.

He opened his eyes for the first time since Azula chased after Katara – blue against blue – and all he could see was crimson —

— and the sharp blue in his periphery.

She was there; after all the pain, all her pain, she was still there. You told me no one else has to get hurt, she thought. No one ever told me someone was supposed to die.

She almost jumped at the feel of his heartbeat coming back to life. “Zuko,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he said weakly. His nerves were numb, his vision was swimming, and any movement felt like streams of fire raging through his body; so he settled for looking at her, gold eyes meeting blue.

“Thank you, Katara.”

You idiot, she thought. You damn near died for me –

“No,” she said. “I think I’m the one who should be the one thanking you.”

No, dammit, he wanted to say. Not after everything I’ve put you through, but the streams of fire shot through his body and instead of a retaliation, an agonizing groan escaped his mouth.

His body convulsed against the pain, only settling when Katara wrapped his injury with glowing water. Her tears were beginning to pool again and holding them in took all the strength she had left. “You nearly died because of me, Zuko,” she said weakly. “Goddammit, I could’ve lost you a second time, and I couldn’t let that happen. Not ag– not again, goddammit, you hear me?”

When he began to feel his nerves again, he reached for her hand. “I hear you,” he said. He squeezed it with all the strength he could offer. I’m here, I’m alive, and it’s thanks to you. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me,” she whispered, as if it were an afterthought. All that mattered to her was that he was breathing, he was– they were okay.

—

to give your heart a song to sing

—

She didn’t know how it started.

She was desperately praying to every god she knew – there wasn’t much, if she was being honest – and before she could stop herself, she said, “I love him, Agni, please–”

Her hands stopped healing for a second when she realized what she had just sworn to the gods. She checked to see if he heard her, and to her (sick) relief, he was quiet. She resumed her healing before he could slip away.

Even after they dragged Azula to her cell and Zuko took his place as the Fire Lord regent, the shock of her words still tingled in her mouth. It stayed and persisted through the days since they’ve won.

The first time he was putting on his new robes – only to be worn by the Fire Lord, said his sages – Katara was the one who helped him. Zuko didn’t allow anyone else to do so.

The tingle prickled her lips. I love you, she wanted to say, I don’t know how or why but I know I do, but the fear of rejection keeps it from rolling off her tongue. After all, behind the warrior is a little girl. “It’s real,” she whispered instead. “You’re really Fire Lord now.”

“Fire Lord regent,” he corrected. “I’ve yet to be crowned.”

“Same difference.”

They smiled, years of hurt and anger and tears and hugs and healing and love coming to this moment.

He gazes at her with barely-masked awe, wondering when the girl bloomed into a woman – when a child turned into a warrior. His partner-in-crime, his confidant, his best friend, the woman he trusts, the woman he grew to love. I love you, you know, he wanted to say.

Maybe it was after we set sail in the sky, when you learned how to forgive. Maybe it was when you held my hand before I begged for forgiveness from the man I knew as father.

Or maybe it was the moments in between, when you held up a painting of my father and thought it was me; maybe it was when I saw you and knew that there was no one I’d rather see my sister with.

Katara squeezed his arm, smiling through her bright eyes. Her gaze skimmed upwards, along his bandaged torso, until it reached his scar.

Maybe it was when you agreed to an Agni Kai, seeing you glow against blue, when I knew I couldn’t lose you, she thought. Maybe that was when I knew.

—

i wish you shelter from the storm

—

She wished the two boys good luck before they prepared to face the new world. Her friends followed shortly after, crushing her in a sandwich of hugs and tears.

“We’ll see you on the other side, you stupid armadillo-bunnies!” Toph hollered. Sokka gave them a salute, and Suki held them tight one more time before she made her way to the Kyoshi Warriors.

“I’m proud of you,” Katara said, gripping the arms of the two boys. “You already know that.”

Aang and Zuko smile at her; one lopsided and goofy, the other warm – but tight and contained, like Pandora’s box. Some secrets are meant to be locked away, he thought.

Maybe it’s what’s best for everyone, she told herself.

This is our duty. This is what we owe the world.

It took all her strength to hide the pain that gripped her heart when she saw Mai approach Zuko. She held onto Aang’s arm with a vice grip, the only thing keeping her from stumbling into a mess of tears.

“Hey,” Zuko said, an arm outstretched to welcome his (supposed) girlfriend. He greeted her with a kiss to her forehead; but he kept his eyes wide open, forcibly reminding himself that this girl had hazel eyes – not ones of ocean blue.

When he saw her again, she was with her tribe. Unlike the men around her, she wore no headgear, held no weapons – just a simple tunic; the armor that she wore to war.

She gazed at him – there they are again, her bright blue eyes – and nodded his way. She pointed to the crown of her head and smiled. It’s real. 

He cocked his head to the side and sent her a subtle, puzzled look that disappeared as soon as it came. Same difference. 

She smiled. Amidst the raucous cheer, she closed her eyes and prayed, keep him safe, hold him close.

Please, Yue, do it for me.

—

but most of all, when snowflakes fall,

—

Time heals all wounds; so when he sees her again, five years later, the ache in his heart no longer feels like broadswords through his chest. When he sees her in her powder blue wedding dress, the pain becomes nothing more than slow throbs.

Aang and Katara marry in the winter, just shy of the solstice. The ceremony is private, meant only for the couple’s family and closest friends; it took months of convincing and countless threats of walking out on the wedding to convince Aang to keep it to ten friends only, or there will be no ceremony.

Time isn’t enough, however, to quell his aching heart when he sees their first kiss as husband and wife – so he closes his eyes. Visions of powder blue in his garden flood his mind, with her laughter filling his ears, and the ache he’s fought so hard suppress resurges like a wave. His wife grips his arm.

“Zuko,” Mai whispers. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m just not used to the cold anymore. Just warming myself up.”

Mai shoots him a suspicious look before clapping for the couple in front of them. This is our duty. This is what we owed the world.

But the world is cruel and unfair.

He first meets Katara’s gaze when his eyes open. She gives him a distant smile and waved hello from where she stood. I’m sorry, she thought. I’m sorry we couldn’t be.

He nods and claps with his friends, his sense of duty overtaking the throes of his heart.

—

He leads the toast, standing tall and proud as he congratulates the happy couple,

because the world is cruel and unforgiving.

“I didn’t have much prepared, if I’m gonna be honest,” he says. “But the Ember Island Players were wrong.”

Hefty laughter followed. He forces a smile when he says, “Congratulations, you two. Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

He looks at Katara and raises his glass to her. She smiles, tipping hers to him.

I wish you love.

[serpent-craft]

Secrets

 A ribbon of smoke wound its way through the holes of an antique Quel’dorei incense burner. Sandalwood and citrus cleansed the old house of its musty smell that lingered from years of neglect. A month in, and the process of refurbishing the Goldenheart estate was slowly coming together like pieces of a puzzle; riddled with memories of sordid and pleasant experiences coiled into one. Rhythmic music filled the small gaps of silence that the pair of Sin’dorei had between them as they continued to bring the house back to life . It wasn’t an artist that the two recognized, but the record player proved to be an interesting find at the festival in the Jade Forest.

Aendonys reclined into a pile of ornate pillows and blankets, more goods acquired from the markets to serve as a makeshift bed. He caught a few last rays of sun before it fell below the horizon, reflecting off the polished tiles on the balcony. It was a domestic deed he did himself, taking a cloth and solvent to the grime until the surfaces felt smooth to the touch. The demon hunter was quite proud of himself for this, and for that he decided to take a break while Micael finished unboxing the decorations and momentos.

“Hm...retiring early?” A golden light neared close, speaking in a baritone voice. The details of Micael’s face were visible in the demon hunter’s vision, like a sketch or a watercolor painting that grew in detail the more he focused. He was a broad shouldered, muscular framed Sin’dorei with soft androgynous facial features that suited him well. Even compared to Aendonys, Micael easily showed far more physical strength. “Well, I suppose you did a decent job.”

“I did a damn good job.” Aendonys quipped, running his claws over the pristine grout and tile. The paladin gave a throaty laugh, the light in his chest grew like a tiny sun.

“You did well above my expectations, Aendonys.”

The two exchanged prideful smirks, intertwining fingers as the hanging crystals projected dancing lights from the sunset. In the distance the spires of Silvermoon created a black backdrop against the purple and orange sky. It was a welcome sight as the world withdrew into an hour of peace. For however long it would last--one could not discern, but for this moment the defeat of an old god and the pause of war could serve as a brief respite. It was a good time for them to settle into a relaxed life, or at least make a nest to come back to when they were off on another adventure.

The paladin’s hand gently slipped away as Aendonys heard the clatter of Micael’s armor being slipped off the manikin. A subtle expression of concern was painted upon the demon hunter’s face, he reached over to remove the needle from the record.

“I’ll get my glaives.”

Micael cut him off before the other sat up. Placing a metal hand firmly upon Aendony’s shoulder. He was becoming accustomed to the prosthetic.

“I am just preparing for the night watch. I’d rather you stay here to keep the place guarded.” There was a sense of assurance in the tone of his voice, a stubborn self-reliance that Aendonys grew fond of in this man. He huffed in a mildly annoyed retort, sticking his tongue out far enough that the gold piercing glinted in the light.

“Suit yourself, Goldilocks.”

-------

The galloping hooves of holy knights took off into the night, clearing whatever undead still lurked in Tranquillien. To this day, the Ghostlands still remain a threat, but the undead have thinned out in numbers. The borders of Eversong grew as patches of verdant grass returned, and the wildlife no longer feared the remnants of the Dead Scar. Perhaps one day it would only serve as a memory and nothing more. The Goldenheart estate was a starting point, at least.

Aendonys drifted into a brief sleep--a couple hour nap that the night owl had before midnight. He had yet to light the sconces as the burning embers of incense glowed inside copper chambers. He wouldn’t need light to see anyways, but it was courteous to Micael for when he came home. They still had so much unbuilt furniture and decor strewn about the room like booby traps in the dark--and speaking of, Aendonys’ ears twitched at the sound of footsteps in the house. A hard clacking like that of an armored foot...was he back already? The demon hunter blinked sleepily, a pair of violet glowing eyes piercing the darkness.

“Micael? Is that yo-”

A hand clasped over the demon hunter’s mouth, claws digging into his skin as slender fingers wrapped around his neck. He failed to react in time as a paralysis took over his body.

“Hmm. just like old times, Aendy.” The sinister voice of a woman filled his mind. It was harrowingly familiar. He saw her silhouette clear as day, the curvaceous demoness with her upright horns and outstretched wings that seemingly dripped with shadow magic.

“I’d bite you if you weren’t into that, Bryketh.” He snapped a muffled reply. The succubus removed the hand over his mouth to dig her stiletto claws into Aendony’s shoulder as she straddled him.

“Oh, we know each other so...so well.” She hummed. “It’s sad to see you so...hm--domesticated. That’s what paladin’s do after all, they take our gifts from the void and stomp on them with their big, obnoxiously shiny boots.”

Aendonys sneered, struggling against her magic to reach for the dagger he buried into his pillow. The hilt brushed against his fingertips.

“Heh…maybe I’m into that. Not like you’d know since you're a heartless bitch.” He paid the price for that quip, feeling her claws dig through his demonic skin. Blood was certainly being drawn, but her spell was slipping.

“Did you tell him what you did to me, Aendonys? How you made me love you for your own gain?” She whispered in an aggressive trill. “Does he know what kind of treachery you are capable of--my dearest demon-hearted bastard?”

He reached for the blade, he fingers wrapped around the hilt. He waited for Bryketh to slip up enough that he would slit her throat--but suddenly he felt a pressure on his hand. The succubus disappeared in a plume of smoke as Aendony’s eyes snapped open with a burst of violet flames.

“It’s just me.” The voice was similar to Micael’s but in a monotone drone. Aendonys saw a man with outstretched feathered wings and long stark white hair. His foot was over the dagger that he reached for. Red curtains ominously flowed over the open balcony that he entered through as a cool breeze entered the room.

“Gabe?” The leaves outside rustled as the twin brother’s wing’s disintegrated from sight revealing the full moon behind him. He could feel the gaze of the other’s spectral sight piercing him. Gabriel was best described as an icy dagger compared to Micael’s warmth. 

“I wanted to see if it was true. That you and my brother are going to live here now.”

Aendonys was quiet for a moment. He still hadn’t recovered from that nightmare, but this was certainly reality now. He ran a hand across his shoulder as if expecting to feel blood there, but it was dry.

“Yeah. We’re going to at least try.”

It wasn’t uncommon for a moment of silence to linger between them. Aendonys knew Gabriel far longer than he had known Micael. They both witnessed each other’s sacrifices and betrayals as Illidari, in a way he always saw him as a brother like Asmodan. A cold and distant--soon to be step-brother--who cared far more than he ever wanted anyone to see. Even his spectral vision worked differently than others. He would see the emotions Aendonys was feeling like they were painted on his face in clear view. The discomfort and fear he always masked.

“He proposed the idea, didn’t he?” Gabriel spoke.

Aendonys smiled a bit more genuinely than he usually did. “He did. It’s because we are getting marr--”

“I know.”

Gabriel strode over to the closest sconce on the wall and lit it, illuminating the two in a arcand light. He sensed where each one was by memory. This was once his home too.

“Goldilocks can’t keep his mouth shut, huh?” Aendonys kicked the covers off and rolled onto a cross-legged sit. He chuckled a bit at that before his smile faded, watching the white-haired man select and open a book from a nearby shelf. It wasn’t as if he could read it but the texture of the pages was pleasing, perhaps. This suddenly didn’t feel right. “So...which one of these rooms was yours?”

The white haired illidari pointed to the ground where Aendonys was sleeping.

“This one.”

Aendonys pursed his lips awkwardly. Straightening up a pillow like it didn’t even belong to him now. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was acting like this. “Oh, I see. Well it’s now your guest room for whenever you stay here. Unless you wanna move in with us.”

“I don’t.” He replied in an eerily calm manner. Shutting the book he inspected.

Aendonys sighed and adjusted his posture having nothing to say to that. He might have understood why Micael didn’t speak with his brother about this, but it wasn’t done so out of ill will.

Gabriel wandered into the other rooms for a moment, reminiscing quietly as he somberly lit the hallway for Micael’s return. Aendonys quietly followed after as if expecting the brother to speak about his past here like Micael did. He did not.

“Have you told him about Bryketh?” Gabriel suddenly questioned. Aendonys slapped a hand over his face in a disgruntled display.

“For fels sake, Gabe. Not you too.”

The white haired Sin’dorei suddenly snapped his gaze towards the other interrogatively.

Aendony’s waved his hands dismissively with a sigh. “--nevermind that. No. I have not. Why should I? I wouldn’t ever treat Mike like that anyways so it doesn’t matter. I know I’ve done some people dirty in the past to survive, but I’m especially not going to sit in a confessional booth over betraying a demon.”

Gabriel turned himself to face Aendonys. His bangs fell over the wraps that covered his eyes but a dim white glow shone through. “I told him my secret. Now you tell Micael yours. It doesn’t matter that you wouldn’t do the same to him. He should still know for your sake.”

Aendonys scratched at the stubble that began to grow in on the sides of his scalp. He would ask Micael to shave it for him soon, maybe that would be a good time to talk about his both figurative and literal demon. It wouldn’t be like his fiance would turn the blade on him in that moment...or at least he hoped not. Gabriel did have a point however, keeping this from Micael would only give whatever was left of Bryketh ammunition to torment him. It took him a while to fully admit that, but somehow Gabriel’s bluntness was something he needed at this moment.

“Alright. Bet.” He replied. “...but also I wanted to say that we didn't a day for the ceremony yet. When we do though, you should come. Micael really wants to see more of you, ya know?”

Another moment of silence lingered between them. Gabriel didn’t answer that as the sound of hooves thundered close. He instead walked back to the balcony and rematerialized feathers. The moment another cool breeze passed by, the estranged brother beat his wings. Ribbons of smoke danced and the parchment rattled as he took off like a shadow in the night. Aendonys didn’t even bother to offer a farewell, he knew Gabriel well enough.

The front door opened as Aendonys spied Micael’s golden light. The paladin’s helm gently clinked onto the floor as he sauntered in; the image of pomp and glory himself had arrived with his job done.

“Oho, you’re certainly feeling better lately.” The demon hunter leaned against the hallway with a sultry grin.

“.--and you’re awake early for your late evening nap. A shame...I wanted to surprise you.” Micael passed by Aendonys, swiping his armored fingertips across his chest. He hung his sword upon the wall.

“Yeah, well maybe I couldn’t wait for you to get back?” Aendonys followed after as the paladin unfastened his armor piece by piece.

“Hoh? Do you care about me that much? How endearing.” For a man who wielded holy power Miceal sported a devilish grin. The other Sin’dorei took a seat next to him, he couldn’t witness his partner undressing with his lack of eyesight but he could hear the armor falling unceremoniously to the floor. The spring air brought another brisk breeze through the room as Aendonys ruminated on the dream and Gabriel showing up. He could sense Miceal’s attention being drawn to the corner of the room with the bookshelf. The curtains swaying as they did earlier.

“Aendonys, one of the books is gone from the shelf. The one Gabriel always liked to read.”

The demon hunter turned towards the paladin, he took in a deep breath.

“Micael. I have something to tell you.”

[lysonde]

TRP Flag: Lysonde Riverblade - Lady; Aerialist; Dancer; Knife-thrower’s Girl

Directory Information: Race: Sin’dorei Class: Performer Age: Adult Eye Color: Mint green Height: 5′9″ Body Shape: 147 lbs. (Athletic) Birthplace: Dawnstar Village Residence: Silvermoon City

Additional Information: Pronunciation: “Lihs-ahnd” House: Riverblade (née Stormfall) Nickname: Lys Piercings: Two gold studs per earlobe. Left ear tragus with ruby stud. Tattoos: Elaborate art nouveau blackwork on right thigh from hip to knee. Scars: Slash on upper left arm. Affiliations: Dalaran infirmary, Armies of Legionfall Vitality: Healthy and happy! Languages: Thalassian, Common, Orcish

Personality Traits: Lawful (4) < Chaotic (16) Altruistic (17) > Selfish (3) Gentle (18) > Brutal (2) Cautious (5) < Impulsive (15) Swords (8) < Spells (12) Extroverted (16) > Introverted (4)

Physical Description: Stout of form with skin the color of rich clay, Lysonde faces the world with the polite smile of a woman who will not take your shit or anyone else's. Freckles decorate her skin, concentrated on her cheeks and shoulders and collar bones. Heavy mahogany-tinted curls tumble to the middle of her back. She walks with an acrobat's grace and bared limbs reveal lean muscles. An elaborate tattoo of architecture-inspired curves and diamond-tipped spires marks the outside of her right thigh from hip to knee in soft black ink.

Despite her no-nonsense demeanor, she's often caught smiling or laughing, and dresses in the wild colors and patchwork mix of fabric common to flower children and carnival followers. She sports a substantial iridescent topaz ring on her left hand, stacked atop a diamond-set wedding band.

History: - She's a known performer for the Succulent Tart troupe and spotted more and more often at charity events.

- Elves in Lordaeron at the time of the fall of the city may have seen her before.

- Frequenters of traveling shows and carnivals might have spotted her performing aerial rope acrobatics and dances, as well as acting as a knife thrower's assistant in her younger years.

Those actually involved in the carnival circuit have probably heard rumors of her as a tramp who sleeps with patrons and steals their money, an unreliable dreamer who skips performances whenever she feels like it, or a cold-hearted maneater with a taste for rich men.

At First Glance:

Smells like... A light perfume of amber, vanilla, and tiger lily.

Dark-skinned elf. Contrary to available skin-tone choices in the game, this character has tawny brown skin. She also has a substantial scattering of freckles.

Shiny! Sporting a topaz ring on her left hand, stacked atop a diamond wedding band.

* Fancy! Wearing a lovely gold and pale yellow gown with fiery orange beading decoration.

Other Information (OOC): I like big words and I cannot lie. http://lysonde.tumblr.com

Inventory:

Ruby Stud Earring Jewelry          Earrings “A single, small ruby stud earring.”

Shell Necklace Jewelry          Necklace “A spiral shell wrapped in wire and capped with three raw crystals. A hinged top hides a miniature black panther figurine inside the hollow of the shell.”

Rosewood Bead Necklace Jewelry          Necklace “A multi-stranded necklace of hand-polished rosewood beads which produce a lovely rose scent when warmed against the skin.”

Med-kit Container “A hard-sided case containing all the necessary items for non-magical triage healing: bandages of various types, needle and thread, antiseptics, painkillers, antidotes, gloves, burn cream, tweezers, and a myriad of herbal salves and potions.”      Cough Drops      Consumable          Medicine      “A small linen sack of throat-soothing candies.”      -----      A Medicinal Guide to Herbs      Document          Book      Use: Read the book.      -----      Arcane Antibiotic Ointment      Consumable          Medicine      “The sterilizing properties of arcane magic are harnessed in this cream to prevent and treat minor, common infections. Use: apply liberally to breaks in the skin to prevent infection. Not for oral use. DISCLAIMER: Arcane resistance is increasing globally in microbial populations. Contact a healer if infection develops.”      -----      Medicinal Sutures      Consumable          Medicine      “Suturing material pre-soaked in a palliative concoction of herbs. Designed to promote healing, reduce scarring, and prevent minor infections to superficial wounds that require suturing.”      -----      Herbs and Their Uses      Document          Book      “by Gavin A. Dobinson”

Libram of the Light Trinket “A simple prayer book and paladin’s libram, bound in leather and strips of silver.”

Iridescent Topaz Ring Jewelry          Ring “A white gold and iridescent topaz ring in shades of cool twilight, framed by two triangular white diamonds.”

Diamond Wedding Band Jewelry          Ring “A white gold band channel set with sparkling white diamonds.”

Simple Dagger Weapon          Dagger “A small, simple dagger of good steel and minimalist design, meant as a back-up or last resort weapon.”

Citrine Crescent Stone Trinket “A yellow orange stone associated with midsummer, bringing warmth and happiness.”

Silversage Smudge Sticks and Liferoot Water Trinket “A handsome leather pouch filled with two smudge sticks of dried silversage, bound with thread. One bound with red thread, one bound with white. Used for blessing home and cleansing energies. Also included is a vial of liferoot water, with a small living root inside it. The root can be used to safely purify any water put inside it in minutes, and sprinkled around the home to bless it.”

Pocket Mirror Cosmetic “Check your style with style.”

Highborne Starwood Dice Trinket “A game enjoyed by sailors and in seaport taverns. Carved dice in the shape of stars, thrown to reveal shimmering arcane dots. The person who rolls higher will find a small drink of their liking in the hand. This seems to be attuned to personal preference. They sometimes backfire, however, and have been known to produce shots of things like pickle juice, hot sauce, and mud on occasion.”

Welcome Sign Decor “A hand-made stained glass welcome sign with the word for ‘welcome’ in the Travelers’ tongue. In shades of green and gold and white, it reads ‘Fáilte’.”

Oversized Hand-knit Blanket Decor “An oversized hand-knitted blanket.”

Jewelry Box Container “A fine jewelry box such as one might find on a dresser in a modest estate.”      Gold Bangles      Jewelry          Bracelet      “Several inexpensive yet pretty gold bangles, some engraved to glitter and others painted with vivid colors.”      -----      Mint Green Zen Crystal      Jewelry          Necklace      “A clear, mint green crystal on a silver chain. Small mist flakes bounce in the crystal to calm the wearer.”      -----      Ocean Princess Crystal Crown      Jewelry          Head      “A wire and crystal crown in beautiful ocean blue.”

Wardrobe Furniture “A large wardrobe, like one might find on a modest estate.”      Beaded Slippers      Armor          Feet      “A pair of beaded slippers with a rope design around the ankles, a pair of daggers, and some flowers. Soft-soled and meant for house wear only, they’re lined inside with rabbit fur.”      -----      Silverpine Grey Wolf Cloak      Armor          Cloak      “Exquisite cloak crafted from ethically claimed hides of fallen wolves. Perfect for the snowy Northrend climate!”

A Jar of Cold Cream Consumable          Cosmetic “Removes makeup for natural skin.”

Wild Dusk Shampoo Consumable          Cosmetic “A subtle perfume using twilight jasmines in shampoo form.”

Light in Dark Perfume Consumable          Cosmetic “This perfume begins with notes of fig leaf, night-blooming jasmine, gardenia, and sage. Applied on the skin, these scents intermingle with blackcurrant, violet, plum, and black amberwood. Comes in a black bottle, the liquid inside shining out with a soft pearly glow. When applied, fireflies and moths will be drawn to you at night, as you will cascade a slight, shimmering glow under the light of the moon.”

Vial of Anointing: Oil of Mothers Consumable          Cosmetic “A base of jasmine oil. Made with banana blossoms, fruit stones, beeswax, and coconut milk. For motherhood or the expecting.”

Glass White Rose Trinket “A rose that helps bring good luck and clarity. Can help bring better chances at pregnancies, etc.”

Al’ar Plushie Uncommon Plush “The elemental god Al’ar, here to warm your hearth and your heart! Handmade with love and a little magic, this warm-to-the-touch plush glows with traditional Thalassian paisley, and stuffed with hawkstrider down for the softest hug you’ll ever experience! Brought to you by Dawnseeker Tenacious Tapestries!”

Faerie Dragon Plushie Common Plush “Cute little faeries that glow in the dark! This one is in spectral blue.”

Silver Covenant Hippogryph Plushie Rare Plush          Silver Covenant Fundraiser “Silver Covenant Hippogryphs are known to be fiercely loyal to their friends. What better addition to your plushie collection?” Use: Give your plushie a hug!

Phoenix Plushie Rare Plush          Commemorative “Released to commemorate the marriage of Aeriyth Dawnsorrow to Binor Dungalion.” Use: Give your plushie a hug!

Patchwork Lynx Plushie Rare Plush          Food and Blanket Drive “Made from donated and recycled cloth bits and buttons.” Use: Give your plushie a hug!

Bear Cub Plushie Common Plush “It growls when you hug it!”

The Three Virtues Document          Book “A brief volume on the Three Virtues of the Light.”

An Elder’s Wisdom Document          Book “A slim volume commonly shared around the Order of the Silver Hand, detailing wisdom shared by an old master speaking to young trainees.”

Compendium of the Light Document          Book “by Symmathan Brightarrow A book bound in brown leather and softly glowing Light-blessed gems.”

====================

Delwyn - A fancy white rat

Delwyn is a curious and friendly white rat. He's clearly well-cared for with glossy fur and a plump belly. Somebody spoils him.

[sheyshen]

Fictober ‘19 - Day 1

This is the first time I’ve written about this pair, so it was kinda fun, also it’s been ages since i played Anthem last and there’s not enough love for the game so contributing a little in my own way. :) As a note: Raya uses a Ranger suit that’s solid black with the N7 decal on it.

Prompt: "It’ll be fun, trust me” Series: Anthem Pairing: Raya/Matti

She had meant it when she had said it, climbing into her javelin and turning to face the man she had come to trust more than anyone else in Fort Tarsis, “It’ll be fun.” Raya had said as she had extended her armor-clad hand to Matti, “Trust me.”

He had sighed, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was curious to see what she wanted to show him so badly, so he took her offered hand and let her fly them to the place she had in mind. She had told him practically nothing aside from it being an exciting find that he had to see in person and not just through the sensors on her armor.

“It’s not the same unless you’re there in person.” She had insisted back in his lab when she had rushed in earlier that day, hair still a mess from her helmet.

Matti had looked from the relic he had been studying to the other two Matthias’s on the other side of the lab back to his obviously excited freelancer as she practically beamed at him. He had debated on asking to delay the adventure until the next day so he could finish what he was working on, but between the obvious grumbling from Sumner and his stalled out notes he decided to accept instead. Raya was rarely this excited about anything that didn’t have to do with her books, so that alone would be worth getting dragged halfway across the Bastion in her arms.

Or at least he still hoped it was worth it, he started to wonder as he squeezed his eyes shut to try and blink the water out of them as he kept a death grip on the edges of her armor.

“Must you fly through every waterfall?” He asked as she stopped on an abandoned watch tower so he could stretch and dry his face.

He could hear her chuckled through the speakers of her helmet before she replied, “You could’ve borrowed a javelin and flown yourself, y’know.” She teased.

“You know how I feel about squeezing into one of those Storms.” He rubbed his face with the scarf around his neck, before stretching his arms one at a time and flexing his fingers.

“Sumner didn’t seem to have an issue with it when someone was turning to goo.” She grinned at him from behind her helmet as he fussed with his tunic next. “Besides, I’m sure you can sacrifice how your butt looks for a more comfortable flight.”

“Says the one who appreciates that butt most out of us.” He returned as he fixed his clothes as best he could considering they still had some distance left to travel.

She put her hands up, “Guilty.” She said before offering him her arm to help him back to grip onto her armor once more. “To be fair it is a very nice butt.” She added in quietly before speaking louder, “We’re almost there.”

True to her word, the rest of the trip took only a few more minutes before she landed on an outcropping that was dug out of a cliffside. Dropping down he strode carefully to the edge and took in the view. The sun was setting and he could just barely make out some runes along the path below, as well as various animals grazing in a vast field nearby.

The hiss of the locks of her javelin disengaging made him glance back as she climbed out and joined him. Raya took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“It’s a beautiful view.” Matti said as he continued to take in the sprawling fields and the cliffs that lined them.

“Mhmm. But just wait, it gets better.” She grinned at him, reaching over to take his hand.

He returned her grin and turned his attention back to the view as the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon and the field was washed in the glow of the moons.

As the darkness fully took over the field and cliffs a subtle glow rose from the fields, spreading quickly to illuminate the entire field. He sucked in a breath as the field was practically painted in light.

“I told you it got better.” She smiled softly at him as he took in the view. “They’re flowers, from what I can tell anyway. The animals eat them so I wasn’t able to get close enough to check them out without getting attacked.” Raya chuckled as she sat down, leaning back on her arms to just enjoy the cool breeze as it blew her hair in her face. She puffed a breath at the strands that stuck, attempting to blow the stubborn bits free.

Joining her, Matti brushed the offending strands from her face before leaning over to kiss her. “Thank you for bringing me to see this.” He reached over, urging her to lean on his shoulder as they sat and watched the glowing flowers flow with the breeze, running his fingers on the scarf she wore, his scarf that she had ‘procured’ during one of their more recent nights together.

“And here we didn’t even get to the fun part I promised.” She kissed his cheek.

“Oh?” He glanced down at her, a sly grin on his face.

Raya nodded toward the cliff behind them, “I figured you’d want to check that out personally.”

“Hm?” He glanced in the direction she had indicated, a rune at least twice as tall as he was was inscribed on the rocks, the green glow almost too subtle to notice with the light from the flowers below. He stood quickly, rushing to inspect the work.

“Matti.” Raya called, and he turned half his attention back on her as she stood and handed him her journal. He took it from her, already flipping it open to a blank page before returning to the rune.

She chuckled at him, his focus almost entirely on the glowing mark before he scooted back over to her to kiss her hard. “Thank you, for bringing me out here to see this.” He said as he broke the kiss, grinning excitedly before turning his attention back to the rune.

She smiled lovingly at him as she heard him muttering about the details of the runes, and the lettering that was used as he took notes and sketches before she returned her attention back to the glowing fields and the star filled sky around them.

[rolanberry-rebel]

A Hasty Escape

Blazing golden chandeliers bathed the foyer’s shimmering and crystalline accoutrements in a rich glow. Frothy champagne overflowed from fine stemware and gathered crowds of the wealthy, the powerful, and the ever-present from across all of Eorzea gathered upon velvet furnishings; carved wood trimmed in gold, and laughter issued from painted lips and pretty faces.

And it frankly bored Anylissa Sebastis, the Sebastis family heiress of fifteen years, utterly to death. She hid near the corner of the banquet table, its covering, too, trimmed in gold; her family was a great many things, but ‘subtle’ was not one of them. Controlling a merchant empire stretching across Vylbrand’s valuable shipping lanes, with contacts all the way to the shores of the far east, her parents enjoyed perpetuating the image of self-made hard workers from a simple La Noscean berry farm.

This couldn’t be further from the truth, of course, and these ostentatious balls served as the perfect proof. And today, on her fifteenth birthday, Anylissa endured what any other young woman would celebrate - a ‘coming out’ party, where wealth meshed with wealth; where families came from across the lands with their handsome young sons to jockey like whinnying thoroughbreds for her parents’ favor. It provided no small amount of stress to her parents, then, that Lissa preferred to stay out of the limelight, even at her own party.

“Anylissa! Anylissa!” the young debutante recognized the voice as her mother’s; not her real voice, of course, but the voice of the friendly gossip mother wore when chattering with other rich people. Through the gathered crowds of flowing pastel-toned gowns and black-white suits she picked out her mother - wearing the largest and most showy dress of all - accompanied by another woman Lissa recognized at Ms. Constance Grenovre, wealth of Ishgardian stock, tall and clad in muted greys.

And Anylissa sighed when she saw the third party to this procession - with his hair slicked back, a suit too large to be his own and the arrogant folly of youth beaming in a smile, she saw a young man, no doubt several years her senior, his every feature polished and gleaming like some maple end-table. She knew not his name, but before the three arrived she had quite a handle on why she’d be expected to speak with fondness to him.

“Yes, mother,” Lissa spoke; her tone bleeding of false manufacture, airy and light and lily-white, as would be expected of a young, cultured heiress, though so maudlin as to beg parody.

“Darling Anylissa, this is your coming out party, don’t you think you ought to speak with your guests?” her mother said with a small laugh, a laugh Anylissa knew covered a seething discontentment her mother kept hidden beneath the mask of proper appearances.

“What need have I to mingle when you seem ready to do my mingling for me, dear mother?” Lissa responded; sassy, and her mother knew it, but Lissa’s porcelain-angelic tone elicited instead a laugh from those assembled.

“Now, daughter, I’m certain you’re acquainted with Ms. Grenovre,” mother started. Lissa was, indeed, but not for the reasons her mother thought; ever the nosy one, Anylissa had dug into her family’s business records and therein divined that Ms. Grenovre had been responsible for smuggling a fair amount of the family’s wine into Ishgard over the years.

“Certainly, a fine woman,” Lissa smiled and nodded.

“Well, this is her son, Oliver,” mother said softly. “A fine young man.”

“Indeed,” the shrill Ms. Grenovre added. Her son took a step forward, all chest-puffed and bloated and boring.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Sebastis,” Oliver began, and with a kneel Lissa struggled to resist rolling her eyes; she knew what was expected of her, and gods was it so, so boring.

“Oh, certainly, of course, my pleasure as well,” Lissa said, tittering in a manner that her mother - from the look of rage beneath the old woman’s classy veneer - knew to be sarcastic. Lissa offered her hand, and Oliver’s lips smooched irritatingly upon the young lady’s lacy white glove.

“I think you probably have a lot to talk about, with Oliver, don’t you, Anylissa?” her mother interrupted the expected exchange of social currency.

“I had hoped we could speak away from the crowd, m’lady,” Oliver beamed. Not the brightest candle burning in the foyer, Lissa surmised, but she could scarcely expect to find scholars and philosophers and leaders among the stunted and privileged offspring of the elite.

“Oh certainly,” Lissa replied; fortunate was she to have attracted the attention of the grandest dullard in the ballroom, for any brighter a gentleman would’ve noticed the debutante’s wry performance. Anylissa’s eyerolls met with her mother’s scathing glare in silence; then, Oliver took Anylissa’s hand and led her across the tiles, her dress flowing and swaying along with each step, until the cool of La Noscean nightfall met Anylissa’s blushing cheeks.

“Lady Sebastis, I cannot express how grand a pleasure it is to become acquainted with so fetching a woman as yourself,” Oliver said, not so much conversant as rehearsed.

“Did your mother give you that one?” Lissa spoke under her breath, laying her arms atop the stony banister.

“I’m sorry, m’lady?..” Oliver asked.

“Oh, nothing, nothing!” Anylissa laughed precociously.

“Lady Sebastis, my family, we’ve a growing amount of influence among the Ishgardian houses,” Oliver said, and when talk of business began Anylissa could not any quicker feel her heart slow and her eyelids, belabored, begin to dip towards sleep.

“I’m certain that’s fascinating, Oliver,” Anylissa yawned exaggeratedly.

“Mother is certain that a friendship between us could bear exceptional fruit, Lady Sebastis, and I’d be more than honored to take the first step in such an arrangement,” Oliver spoke excitedly.

“Yes, well, that’s quite wonderful, good, and all such things,” Anylissa said, glancing back into the ballroom. “But if we’re to forge a friendship, how-shall-ever we... do it,” she tied herself into awkward noble-speak, giggling, “.. if we are not to seal this new arrangement over the approval of my father?”

“Your father? Oh, certainly,” Oliver responded excitedly. “Shall my father speak to yours, in the morning, then?”

“Oh, no, dearest Sir Oliver,” she said, “we mustn’t tarry, certainly, perhaps fetch my father for me, now, so that he might bless this entanglement?” Oliver’s dim face lit up and he nodded.

“I-indeed, Lady Sebastis, don’t move, I’ll return with him forthrightly,” Oliver sounded almost giddy and rushed back towards the ballroom crowd. Anylissa sighed in relief; as her father had that morning left for business on a boat to Thanalan, the task of finding him would doubtless keep ‘Sir’ Oliver quite occupied for a few moments.

“Your mother really knows how to pick ‘em, doesn’t she?” Anylissa smiled, the voice soothing, even as rough and tumble as it might be. She preferred the rough and tumble.

“I had a feel I’d hear from you tonight, sugar,” Lissa replied, her voice morphed completely; dropping the airy pretexts she adopted for the crowd within the foyer, she felt far more comfortable with the deep and sultry lull now fresh in her throat. She glanced to the rooftops of the Sebastis manor, and set upon a precipice, in his mismatched armor of straps and metal and leather and with his throng of messy black hair tossed wildly around his stubble-dotted face, her coarse angel had arrived to set her free.

“I’d never miss a party like this,” he flippantly retorted, taking a heavy swig from the green glass bottle in his hand.

“I hope you brought enough for me,” Lissa said, a smoky giggle at her throat.

“Oh, the shite in this bottle isn’t made for proper madams, little girl,” her shadow atop the roof joked with a smirk brimming upon his wicked lips.

“It’s a good thing I’m not one, then, isn’t it?” Lissa smoldered. With a quick tug at the corset latched along her midsection, the entire lacy ensemble upon her loosened and fell like a sudden rainshower, revealing that beneath she wore something far more.. appropriate, to her usual tastes. Boots to her thighs, colored a lush purple-red; a black skirt, dangerously short. Lace trimmed in violet, red and black gathered her chest up tight. She pulled her flowing hair back into a messy tail.

“I thought we were going to stay a while and mingle,” her shadow added sarcastically. With deft skill he leapt from his perch, landing quiet as a cat upon the balcony tiles. “After all,” her hero said as he sauntered confidently towards her, “I think your mother’d love to meet me.”

“I’m sure she’d love you, Tallik,” Lissa exclaimed. “We could tell her the story about our last date, remember?”

“You need to be more careful which lunkheads you piss off,” Tallik responded, brushing his long hair back out of his eyes to reveal a darkened spot around his left. “It’s still sore.”

“Come on, handsome, I didn’t doubt you for a second,” Lissa chuckled, grabbing the green bottle out of her shadow’s hand and taking a long chug of its contents.

“Careful, beautiful, I’m not dragging you through the streets again,” Tallik joked, grabbing the bottle back.

“Yes you will,” Lissa said, smiling warmly. “You love me.”

“Let’s not go crazy here.”

“Anylissa! Anylissa!”

“Shit,” Lissa whispered under her breath, blushing at letting so coarse a word slip from her mouth. “That’s mom.”

“I guess we’ll just have to jump for it, won’t we?” Tallik glanced over the edge.

“Tallik, it’s like, two stories!” Lissa exclaimed.

“Relax,” he whispered, dangling a hook and rope from his palm. “Do you think I’d really let you get hurt?”

“Maybe,” Lissa said, blushing bright red. Lissa took one last look at the ballroom and its pretentious laughter and clinking champagne glasses. She couldn’t wait to get away from it all.

[fallwritesfiction]

At Ease

Fandom: Summer Rose Court (RWBY) Pairing/Characters: Yang/Pyrrha Rating: Explicit Summary: Being around Pyrrha is easy. She doesn’t want anything, doesn’t expect anything. It’s exactly what Yang needs. Notes/Warnings: Summer Rose Court, flirting, manual sex, oral sex, first time, not quite canon for SRC even in YP savestates

Being around Pyrrha is easy.

Yang doesn't realize how much of a show she's putting on, how much she's playing everything up, until she meets Pyrrha with her curious eyes and her lack of expectations. She doesn't see Yang and expect her to represent Vale, or the tribes, or anything. She wants to know who Yang is. And Yang... likes it.

So she pokes at Pyrrha a bit. Flirts with the captain, winks and flashes her teeth and maybe even flexes a little. Pyrrha doesn't flirt back, but she smiles and laughs and watches when Yang shows off, and that's close enough.

"Hey there." Yang sidles on up to Pyrrha, watching the other girl watch the Xiao Long tribe. "Taking in the big tourist attractions?"

Pyrrha smiles, wry. "Just the little ones, so far."

After living in an underground cavern for years and having to fight every time she came out, yeah, Yang can understand taking time for the little things. She doesn't think she'll ever forget what happened in Spiritus Bellatorum, and she was only there for a few days. With everything that's happened since they left the desert, Yang's got a little bit of that, too. Feeling like maybe she should stop and look at what she’s got instead of running forward.

"How about a medium thing?" Yang offers. Pyrrha tilts her head curiously, and Yang grins. "A place we don't usually show people. It's not a secret or anything, just out of the way."

"Yes," Pyrrha says, "I'd like that."

They take Celica out, Pyrrha riding behind Yang and twisting this way and that. To Yang's eyes there's really only sand dunes, nothing special, but Pyrrha's paying attention like Yang brought her to a magical forest or something. It's kind of nice.

They come to a halt just outside of a cave about an hour away from the Xiao Long camp, Yang sliding off and offering Pyrrha a hand. The other girl takes it, somehow dismounting gracefully despite never having ridden before coming to Vale.

Inside there's a pool of water, gently steaming with a hint of sulfur.

"Hot springs," Yang explains. "These aren't big enough for more than a couple people at a time, so we usually take visitors to the big ones."

Pyrrha tilts her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. "I didn't bring anything to swim."

Yang grins. "I usually swim naked, but I brought something for you just in case."

They separate, Pyrrha to change and Yang to strip down. She sinks down into the water, propping her arms up on the edges and closing her eyes.

Yang doesn't hear Pyrrha walk up; for such a tall woman she's got a light tread. She steps into the spring, jaw dropping when she's fully in it.

"Oh! It feels wonderful!"

Yang laughs. "Oh yeah, great for relaxing." She shoots Pyrrha a wink. "Not my favorite way, but it gets the job done."

"Oh?" Pyrrha widens her eyes, painting on innocence. "What's your favorite?" Then, to Yang's shock, her voice shifts a pitch lower, suggestive. "Tell me."

Her mouth hangs open, and instead of responding... Yang squeaks.

She didn’t even know Pyrrha could go there. Yang’s been flirting with her for days and she’s just smiled and laughed, and now she just… that’s not allowed. Girls get flustered when Yang flirts with them! They don’t fluster her instead! She’s the smooth one.

Pyrrha grins. "I bet I can guess."

Yang squeaks again, bringing her hands up to cover her bright red face. She's very aware she's making a noise like a teakettle boiling over.

Gentle hands coax her hands downward. Yang swallows. Pyrrha is very, very close. And very, very pretty.

"I apologize," Pyrrha says, solemn. "That was too much."

Yang wills her face to return to normal. "It's fine." Her voice is too high and she's not fooling either of them.

The other girl moves away, relaxing against the back of the spring.

They spend the rest of their time there talking, telling stories, bantering. Yang teases Pyrrha a little, not quite daring to flirt after Pyrrha flustered her, and the other girl responds in kind. Yang can admit, her heart isn't in it anymore.

Because yes, she does fluster easily if someone flirts back. Most times, just having someone in her space like that makes her uncomfortable, especially when she doesn't know them well.

She's all about hugs or taking someone for a ride on her dragons, but Pyrrha was way within kissing distance and Yang's head doesn't even do that unless she really likes someone. It definitely went there with Pyrrha. And Yang's not going to pretend Pyrrha didn't notice; Yang isn't subtle, and Pyrrha isn't stupid.

But Pyrrha hasn't said anything, hasn't tried flirting or moving closer. She's either the most relaxed uninterested person Yang has ever met, or she's just... letting it sit. Yang has never met a single person who just lets stuff like that go.

She doesn't get an answer one way or another by the time they leave for Beacon. Yang decides if Pyrrha's alright with not saying anything, Yang is too. She'll just see where it goes, if anywhere. She can wait.

[*]

Back at Beacon, Yang doesn't forget but she does get distracted. Things with Ruby have been weird basically since they left the desert, and then she leaves with Jaune and doesn't even tell Yang. She has to find out from Glynda. Yang had hoped... well, it doesn't matter what she hoped. Ruby left and didn't take Yang with her, and that's the end of it.

She's in the stables when she gets a visitor. She's rubbing down Celica, scowling and forcing herself not to be too rough, when she hears footsteps stop outside the stall. They've been here too long for it to be a Valean gawker, so Yang makes herself look over to see who it is.

"Hello again." Pyrrha flashes her a smile. "I thought I'd find you here. Are you busy?"

Yang snorts. "No, not really."

"I think I found something you might like." Pyrrha's smile gets a little wider. "If you have a few hours free?"

"Sure." Yang shimmies out of the stall, and follows Pyrrha out.

Yang tries to tease out their destination, but Pyrrha teases her right back, not giving up anything. She's got a sword by her side, but only a little armor and a small bag on her back, so Yang figures they're not going too far.

"We're almost there," Pyrrha says, when they've slipped out of Beacon's walls and are heading towards the lakefront.

"So I have just enough time to get ready, if you tell me now," Yang says. At this point she's having more fun bantering with Pyrrha than actually trying to get answers out of her.

"Or," Pyrrha says, amused. "You could wait a little while and find out yourself."

She kneels in the grass just before it starts turning into reeds, probing the ground for something. With a pleased noise, Pyrrha pulls up an iron ring, which flips open a small metal hatch. The hatch leads to a ladder, stretching down deep enough that Yang can't see the bottom from here. Yang can't help but laugh. Beacon has so many crazy secrets.

"A light if you would, Yang?"

Yang conjures a small flame, setting it to hover above their heads, and follows Pyrrha down. The ladder ends at a small natural cavern, with gently glowing walls and a pool of water in the middle.

"You seem to like the water," Pyrrha says, "so when I found this, I thought of you."

Yang turns to see a soft smile on the other girl's face, and she tugs Pyrrha down for a tight hug. "I love it. I didn't bring anything to swim in, though."

Pyrrha lets her go, smile turning sly. "I thought you swam naked?" Yang's face turns pink, and Pyrrha chuckles, holding up her bag. "I did bring something extra just in case."

It turns out Pyrrha doesn't actually know how to swim, but like everything else she picks it up quickly enough. They play and roughhouse and throw each other around, and when they finally return to the surface, Yang has almost entirely forgotten about Ruby leaving.

"Thanks," she says, bumping her hip into Pyrrha's. "I needed that."

Pyrrha squeezes her shoulder, and doesn't say a word.

[*]

They've just gotten word that Ruby's on her way back to Beacon when Yang invites Pyrrha up to her room.

She's a little nervous. Basically all the rest of the Council have been in her room at this point, even Ren, but it's different when it's Pyrrha. She cares more what Pyrrha thinks.

While they've been in Beacon, Yang's filled her room up with little trinkets, things she picked up at the markets here, in Michglas, or Hépíng. A wooden frog, a metal bell, a handful of shells. There's a story to go with each one, and Yang loves that Beacon is becoming a place where so many stories can get told.

Pyrrha examines her shelves, sometimes brushing her fingers over this or that, but where she pauses is at the hand puppets.

"I've seen these," she says curiously, carefully picking up a dragon puppet. "Your tribe makes them."

"Yup," Yang steps up next to her, picking up a dragon in a different color. "They teach us to make them when we're young."

Pyrrha slips her hand inside, and clumsily makes it talk, laughing at herself. "Which ones did you make?"

Yang points out which ones she made, a couple that Ruby did, and the rest that she got from here or there. Kids tend to trade them, or trade favors for people who are good at them. Yang hasn't made one since they left, but she's sure she could pick it back up if she wanted. It's like riding a dragon; you never really forget.

"Thank you for showing me these," Pyrrha says, gently putting the dragon puppet down. She turns a warm smile on Yang, and there it is, that jolt she gets when Pyrrha's close.

Yang bites the inside of her cheek, then reaches up to frame Pyrrha's face with her hands. The older girl softens, her arms coming up to wrap loosely around Yang's shoulders. This is the point where the other person either says they're not interested, or pulls her in closer. Pyrrha just waits, watching. And keeps waiting. There's no expectation, no pressure. Yang leans up on her toes, and presses their lips together.

They kiss slowly, with closed mouths and shared sighs. Yang keeps waiting for her body to say stop, for fun to turn into run, but it never comes. She opens her mouth under Pyrrha's, and everything is fine. It's great, honestly. Pyrrha's a really good kisser. It’s… a little confusing, but she doesn’t want to stop.

"You're so tall," Yang laughs into Pyrrha's mouth, tugging her back towards the bed. "How do you kiss anyone without getting neck cramps?"

"I'm not usually in full armor," Pyrrha says wryly, sitting down next to her. "The boots add a little more height."

Yang grins, reaching out to trace Pyrrha's jaw with the tips of her fingers. The other girl closes her eyes, leaning into the touch. Yang explores the planes of her cheekbones, the column of her neck, then back up to trail down the bridge of her nose. No one has ever sat still for her like this, let her go at her own pace. Pyrrha's thumb swipes over the back of her neck in a slow rhythm, but otherwise she's still, just letting Yang touch her. Yang leans in for another kiss.

A second kiss turns into a third, and a fourth, and eventually Yang loses track. She runs her hands along Pyrrha's neck, her shoulders, getting more confident when Pyrrha sighs in pleasure. Her fingers find a patch of ropy scar tissue starting at Pyrrha's elbow and leading in under her bracer, and Yang pauses, curious.

"It was healed badly," Pyrrha explains, unbuckling the bracer and setting it to the side. "Training accident."

Tiny punctures along the edges tell of stitches, and Yang leans down to press her lips against the scar on impulse. When she looks back up, Pyrrha's eyes are soft, and Yang pulls her back in.

She's curious to see if there's anything on the opposite arm, and Pyrrha takes off that bracer too even though nothing's under it. That leads to Pyrrha being stripped down to the waist, and Yang reaches behind herself to unwrap her own chest.

"What happened?" Pyrrha traces light fingers down a series of four clawmarks leading from Yang's collarbone down towards her hip. They're silvery scars, so faint Yang can only see them herself from certain angles, in certain light.

"Drakes," Yang shrugs. "Baby dragons think they're cats until you train them otherwise, and they'll climb on you if you let them. I found that out the hard way. It barely even hurt, just happened to scar."

Pyrrha leans down, mirroring Yang's earlier kiss to her own scar, and Yang lets her eyes flutter shut.

By the time Yang has another solid thought, the sun has dipped down to paint oranges and reds across her room, and Pyrrha's in her lap, naked and kissing her with the same gentleness as earlier. The only reason Yang starts to surface from her haze is because she has one hand on Pyrrha's (amazing) ass and the other on her inner thigh, and she doesn't really know where to go from here. She's never gotten this far before, always bolted before the clothes started coming off. She's fine, but she's been running on some vague stories and instinct and now she doesn't know what comes next.

"Time to stop?" Pyrrha's voice has dropped, deeper and fuller, and faint red marks from Yang's teeth dust her shoulders. She's definitely enjoying everything - with where her hand is, Yang can feel it - but her eyes say she's ready to stop whenever Yang is.

"I don't want to," Yang admits. She's not chaste because she doesn't want, she's chaste because she hasn't been comfortable enough with someone to get here. Even though it hasn't been that long since they met, she's comfortable with Pyrrha. She wants this. She just doesn't know how. "Do you...?"

Pyrrha kisses her. "I want whatever you do."

Yang blinks. "I mean. You're naked in my lap, so I thought...."

"I would very much enjoy it if you touched me." There's a flash of hunger in her eyes, then it disappears as quickly as it came. "But more than that, I want your companionship. Whatever form that takes."

Yang searches her eyes, seeing only that truth: Pyrrha wants what Yang wants to give. "Show me how."

Pyrrha guides her hand, and Yang sinks inside her.

They move together, Pyrrha riding her fingers and Yang chasing down her quiet cries. She's so slick, hot and wet and perfect. She muffles herself against Yang's temple, arms wrapped around her shoulders and legs wrapped around her hips. Her voice rises in pitch, hips moving in jerky motions, and Pyrrha grinds to a halt, shuddering. Yang stopsr, breathing just as hard. She can’t help but look up at her in wonder, feeling Pyrrha’s pleasure like it’s her own.

Tendrils of hair stick to Pyrrha’s jaw, her lips parted as she gasps for air. Her eyes slowly open, unfocused and heady as she meets Yang's gaze.

Yang did that. Yang put that expression on her face.

Pyrrha eases her back against the bed. She moves Yang's hands above her head and laces their fingers together, heedless of the slick on Yang's right hand. Pressed together from shoulder to hip, Pyrrha slides her thigh in between Yang's, and starts to move.

Yang has touched herself, knows what orgasms feel like. She's never done this, had another person do this for her. She moans into Pyrrha's mouth, moves with her, chases down the pleasure. It unfolds in her, warmth rippling out in waves and the only things she's aware of are Pyrrha's body on hers and the way she's pressing into her.

Then Pyrrha leans down to whisper into her ear, "How do you feel about oral sex, Yang?" and electricity rips down her spine.

"Yes," she gasps out, wanting it, wanting Pyrrha so badly it's almost painful. "Yes, please."

Pyrrha lets her hands go, moves down her body, and-- oh. Oh, gods.

Later, Yang can only be grateful that Ruby and Blake are both gone, their rooms empty, because she's not completely sure the entire hall didn't hear her screaming Pyrrha's name. She's not sure if Pyrrha's that good or if Yang is that new to everything or both, but when Pyrrha finally stops, Yang feels like a limp noodle, tired and sore and feeling amazing.

Pyrrha pulls her in, lips brushing over Yang's forehead, and Yang cuddles in eagerly. Gentle fingers push her hair back from her face, and Yang floats.

"It's getting late," Pyrrha murmurs.

Yang screws up her face, protesting the fact. "Do you... are you gonna go?"

Pyrrha doesn't answer, stroking Yang's jaw. She waits, patient enough for Yang to sort her head out a little. Right. Companionship.

"You should stay."

"Then I will."

Pyrrha reaches over to rescue a sheet where it's nearly fallen off the bed, and tucks it around them both. Yang pushes her face into Pyrrha's neck, and drifts off.