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izaswritings · 4 years

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Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis: Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: cursing, threats of harm, aftermath of trauma, references to past blood and death, and references to past character injuries.

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

Chapter V: The Answer

The lovely Moon, however, did not agree.

For three mornings and nights, the Sun lingered at the edges of the sky, hoping desperately to see the woman once again. But Moon was not there, hidden away with the shadows, and each day Sun left the horizon a little dimmer, a little more heartbroken. Still, she did not give up hope. Her heart, forever filled with light, rallied against her despair.

And on the other side of the great sea, concealed in darkness like a cloak, the Moon hid still, not wanting to be found. For the Moon was a secret being, often reclusive, and dancing was as dear to her as her own heart. That she had been seen embarrassed her terribly. That she had been seen dancing by a beautiful stranger, who had looked upon her with such awe…

And though the Moon thought she should simply run away, and hide from this stranger forevermore, something bid her to stay. Maybe it was the honest wish in Sun’s eyes, visible even from a distance. Or the lingering warmth of Sun’s smile, before Moon panicked and ran.

Perhaps it was the memory of her song.

And so the Sun continued her fruitless search, and deep in the shadows, unable to pull away, the Moon too slowly began to fall…

For the first time in months, Varian wakes with the sun.

Light streams through the guest-room window, falling bright and clear across his face. Beyond the frosted glass, the early morning sky blushes pink and new, clear and cold but for a few distant swaths of cloud. Though the wind rattles at the panes, it’s locked up tight, and the room is warm and cozy. When Varian rises to press his hand against the window, it is icy, and his touch leaves a faint imprint behind, the heat of his palm melting through to the frost.

It’s… peaceful.

Varian wonders at that thought, turns it over in his head again and again, examining it at all angles like a shiny new toy. He feels—not great, technically. His eyes are hot and gummy from lack of sleep, and his cheek still aches with a faint bruise, and his body is sore from the market… and yet. There is a stillness to it all. A sort of softness. Not like something has settled, but as if, for a moment, it has hushed.

He’d cried last night. Like a child, Varian thinks, with some secret curl of shame. When Yasmin had returned to the bathroom Varian had been hunched over Ruddiger, almost hiccupping from the sheer amount of tears. It hadn’t been all her fault—hadn’t been sparked entirely from her words, or her questions. Part of the breakdown had simply been from everything. In that moment in the middle of the night, it had all finally struck him, and sunk in.

Yasmin had said nothing upon seeing him. She had pushed him no further. The rest of that midnight makeover had gone almost mind-bogglingly mundane. After the haircut and impromptu lecture on proper nail care, as well as a long-overdue bath, she’d sent him off back to bed without any more comments about Corona or the attacks or anything. And when Varian had returned to the room, tired and reluctant and secretly terrified he’d open the door and see Adira sitting there… he’d entered to find her cot untouched and the room empty.

He’s not sure when he passed out—sometime around three in the morning, maybe—but now he is awake again, facing the day, and there is something lighter in his chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the bath, or the drowsiness that comes from crying all the conflict right out of you, but for once, Varian’s sleep had been completely and utterly dreamless.

He exhales hard, watching his breath fog on the glass. His eyes are still sore from crying, and he rubs at them preemptively, sucking in a deep breath. With the dawn all his fears feel lighter, farther away. His head isn’t as fogged.

Day two, start, he thinks to himself. Gods.

Varian turns back to his cot, and sits to give Ruddiger a good head scratch, and then finally sets about getting dressed. He waits for Ruddiger to find his usual perch on Varian’s shoulders, then snatches up the yet-unfinished nightlight—hollow crystal and unpoured glowing solution—and heads down to the kitchen.

Ella is already there, cooking breakfast, and she looks up with a smile when she sees him. “Just in time,” she says, and goes to hand him a plate full of cooked eggs and fresh-cut ham, still sizzling slightly from the pan. She pauses when she sees the crystal in his hands. “Oh?”

“Um… Yasmin said you had something to seal it…?”

“Ah, the nightlight! Yes, she mentioned it.” Ella holds out her hand. “I can do that right now. Watch the eggs?”

Varian hands it over, biting back any fretting—the nightlight solution is already mixed and glowing, no extra steps necessary, she can pour the damn thing without issues, he’s just being silly—and hesitantly takes the spoon she offers him. Bacon and eggs. Shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Surely he’s gotten better at cooking since two years ago, when Dad banned him from the stove.

Ella returns five minutes later to three burned eggs and extremely crispy bacon, and Varian standing bright red in front of it all.

“So,” Varian says. “Bacon, um, bacon does not cook better with 300 degrees—trying to concentrate the heat was a bad idea—it does, uh, cook faster though, but. Um. Sorry.”

Ella is badly trying to hide a smile behind her hand. “…I’ll salvage it,” she says, muffled laughter in her voice, and hands him the sealed crystal. “Go, go, eat.”

Varian settles down at the table, still red in the face, and distracts himself by turning the finished nightlight over in his hands. Ella has put a lovely silver clasp on top, sealing it shut, with a little loop so he can hook it on a necklace chain or on his belt. The nightlight itself has a soft pale pink shine, warm and comforting, and it radiates quiet warmth in Varian’s hand, the crystal comfortable in the curve of his palm.

Varian eats his breakfast slowly, rolling the crystal absently against the table and keeping one eye on the stairs. He hasn’t seen Adira at all yet, not since yesterday, and he’s not really sure if he can face Yasmin yet, either.

It’s not that he’s avoided thinking about what Yasmin said to him yesterday, Varian tells himself. That question of forgiveness and redemption. It’s just… he doesn’t really want to think about it right now.

(He doesn’t really have an answer.)

Still. For all his watchful wariness, he jumps when he sees Yasmin stomping downstairs, and goes absolutely still when she marches up to him.

“Awake at last, are you,” Yasmin says critically, and eyes him up and down. “Well, I see the night has done you well—and you are clean at last, with a nice haircut to boot, if I do say so myself. Fantastic.” She claps her hands. “Come along. I have one last thing for you, and then I must be off. Chop chop.”

Varian hurries to his feet, ruefully thinking on how this is already becoming a habit. He’s only been here for two days, come on. “Wait, where are you going?”

“The city, obviously—with luck, the authorities should know much more by now, and I hate to miss on information. Now, hurry up!”

He follows her upstairs, wondering, but this time instead of her bedroom Yasmin shoves her way in a smaller side room squeezed in at the end of the hall, thus far unexplored. Varian peaks his head around the doorframe, interested despite himself. It’s a small, cluttered room, devoid of proper furniture, with only the bare frame of a bed stripped of sheets and mattress, and boxes piled up underneath. Yasmin is kneeling by the bed, and as Varian watches she picks out one chest and drags it out with a grunt of effort.

“Must be something useful still in here,” she’s muttering, pawing through the chest. “Hmph, too fancy, too old, too big… ah-ha.”

Varian likes to think himself adaptable, but even he has to take a moment to blink at the… thing Yasmin is holding up to him. “Uh… what is this?”

“New clothes. Obviously.” Yasmin stretches the shirt out, tilting her head critically. “You are nearly exactly the size Devdan used to be at your age. Yes, this will work. I will barely have to tailor these at all.” She tosses the shirt at him; Varian fumbles to catch it. She turns back to the chest. “Hmm, let’s see…”

“I don’t need new clothes,” Varian protests, half-hearted. He looks down at the shirt. It’s soft in his hands, off-white with a high collar and stiff sleeves. It looks… fancy. “And who’s Devdan?”

“I suppose you could call Devdan my nephew. Unofficially speaking. The son of a dear friend of mine. They stayed here, for a time, much as you are doing now.” Yasmin holds up a vest, now, and squints at it in the light. “Does not matter, you are not meeting him, he is in Arendelle with his father and none of your concern.” She eyes Varian up and down, gaze lingering on his threadbare hems, and sighs. “And you most definitely need new clothes. Those do not fit you at all.”

Varian picks at the hem of his shirt, unable to argue with that. His shirt, his pants… even his boots are all either cheap hand-me-downs or whatever he and Adira could find on the road, and none fit him properly, or even really keep him warm. Still. “I want to keep the coat.”

Yasmin gives the coat in question a stink eye. Varian shoves his hands in the pockets, offended on its behalf. “It’s a great coat!” he insists. “Heavy trench coat! Lots of pockets! It looks awesome!” If it were made of stronger stuff it would even be perfect for alchemy, like his old one was, but as it is this coat works just fine. He likes the pockets, the way the sleeves pool over his hands; it’s something he can hide in, and there’s a comfort in that.

“It is practically eating you,” Yasmin says, scornfully.

“I—I’ll grow into it!”

Yasmin’s whole face scrunches up at that, doubtful, but at last she shakes her head. “Fine, whatever, they are your bad fashion choices.” She shakes out the vest she is holding. “But I am getting you at least one nice outfit before you go, boy, so help me gods.”

Varian rolls his eyes.

The morning passes quickly after that. Varian tries on three pairs of boots and finds two that are both sturdier and better fit than his current ones, and Yasmin hands them off immediately, waving off Varian’s protests like smoke in the air. “I am being paid for this,” she snaps, at last, when Varian’s hesitance apparently gets too annoying. “I would have bought you new clothes entirely if not for the damn pirate attack; be grateful I have now been limited to hand-me-downs only. Honestly!”

Another few minutes of hemming and hawing over clothes later, at last she and Varian come to an agreement. Yasmin takes up the new outfit with the promise to have the clothes tailored and ready for wear by the time he leaves, and then pushes him out of the room without fanfare.

“That’s that,” she says, when Varian stares at her blankly. “The last of what I needed to do with you. The rest of the days are yours. Have fun, or whatever you angsty teenagers like doing these days.”

Varian splutters. “Angsty—?”

And all too soon, Yasmin is gone again, out the front door and into the unknown without any set time to return. With nothing more to do and the rest of his stay looming over him, Varian stands at the cusp on the staircase and hesitates for a long while. He’s been left here again, in the house with only Ella and Adira—who he has still not seen—for company.

He thinks he should probably find Adira. He thinks he should probably say something to her. Varian thinks very hard on this. He brings a hand to his bruised cheek—now molted green and pale yellow in the daylight—and in the end he goes to sit outside, back out on the front porch, watching the waving grasses and the wind play around the garden.

It’s not running away, Varian tells himself. He draws his knees up to his chest, inhaling the crisp morning air. It’s not running away if he has nothing to run from. He doesn’t even know where Adira is, right now, so there’s no real way this is running from her. Really.

He buries his head in his hands and groans. Oh, who is he fooling? He… he doesn’t want to see her.

She’s never hit him before.

He’s not entirely sure what to do about it—what to think about it. Nothing about that moment seems quite right to him. He’d panicked and summoned the rocks, all utterly without thinking, and then Adira had… but at the same time, he thinks, she hadn’t seemed angry. He’s pissed her off before; he’s broken down and yelled and been a brat, and the most she has ever done is snap back at him. So this—this wasn’t anger, he thinks. But in a way that is almost worse. Anger Varian can understand. But—fear?

He doesn’t know how to imagine Adira afraid. Something in him recoils at the very idea. Adira can’t be afraid. She can’t be. She’s too—confident, boastful, annoying—she’s too strong. She can’t have been afraid. Because if she was… if she hit him out of fear, of either Varian or the rocks… if Adira was afraid…

From the moment he met her, all those months ago at the edges of the Dark Kingdom, Varian had always thought Adira knew what she was doing. For all that she bothered him, angered him, infuriated him—he could trust in that. Adira would know what to do. She may not tell him what that was, but she still knew it. But now… now he isn’t so sure. Now, with yesterday in mind, everything comes into sudden focus.

What if, Varian thinks. What if Adira is just as lost as he is?

What if she doesn’t have the answers?

That terrifies him most of all. Before, the question was how to get her to give him the answers. Now it is a question of whether there is an answer at all—and he hates that. He hates that. He doesn’t even want to think about it, and at that thought his fingers tighten on his sleeve, and Varian buries his face in his arms.

Adira was right, he realizes, sudden, cold. I really do just run away.

Not just from her. Not even just from Corona. He’s running from everything else, too. The Moon—the rocks. Varian is still trying to run away from it all. The Moon is stronger than him. The rocks are stronger than him. The pirates, definitely. It’s all so much, all so big, and Varian is just one person. Fifteen years old, nearly sixteen, and yet in these past few months he has felt so small.

He doesn’t have that surety, anymore. That old, fanatic confidence in what was right and wrong and what had to be done. He doesn’t even have alchemy, or his gloves. And worst of all—

What will you do if you can’t be forgiven?

(The mirror, bright and silver, and every time he sees a flash of himself in the reflection his eyes turn away. We all have to face the mirror at some point, Yasmin had said, and she is right— but it is easier, still, to look away. To pretend he isn’t there. To pretend that person staring back isn’t him.)

Worst of all, Varian thinks, is that he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If—if he goes back, and apologizes, and is hated anyways. He’d like to be—better. He doesn’t want to be the person he used to be. But can Varian even trust himself anymore? How does he know what the right thing is? He’d thought he’d known before, and look where that had gotten him. He’d hurt people. He’d been… cruel.

And at the time? Varian had wanted to be that person. Varian had liked it.

What is to stop him, he thinks to himself, cold all the way to his bones—what’s going to stop him from becoming that person again?

Maybe this is why he’s running. Maybe this is why Varian can’t face Corona, or the rocks, or the Moon. Maybe it’s because he knows, deep down, that this dream of redemption is probably never going to last.

Maybe. Maybe. The very idea makes his throat go tight, his eyes burn. Varian presses his hands against his eyes, breathing deep. Ah, stupid. So stupid. This is what happens when he thinks about stuff—this is what happens when he stops running from his thoughts. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“Something wrong, Moony?”

The thought ends, his mind abruptly blank. Varian flinches, going stiff, and snaps his head back to stare. His breath catches. Adira. She’s standing in the front door, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking down at him. Her head tilted in question. He—he hadn’t even heard her come up—but he’s been so out of it lately, that’s probably no surprise.

It doesn’t matter. She’s here. She’s… here. She’s here, and she’s waiting for an answer.

His mouth goes dry. His cheek throbs with a fresh ache of pain, and Varian fumbles for his words, struggling to wrench his mind back to conscious thought. “U-um, I…”

Nothing. The words die off.

Varian presses his lips in a thin line, and looks away, staring hard at the ground. The silence stretches.

Adira sighs, so soft he almost misses it. Her feet thunk heavy on the porch steps; she sits down beside him, gingerly, and Varian would flinch, except—she’s not next to him. Not really. She sits a few feet away, and the distance makes it easier.

Varian peeks out at her from the corner of his eye, trying not to move his head. He thinks he should probably say something, but his mind is abruptly free of thoughts, and anything he can think to say… isn’t very kind.

Adira isn’t looking at him either. She sits with her elbows propped on her knees, staring grim at the horizon line, her gaze distant and seemingly lost in thought. Blue breaks bright across the morning sky; sunrise is almost blinding. Even now Varian’s every breath mists like he’s breathing fire and smoke, but the sun shines so bright that he can feel the touch of warmth, beating through even the chill.

She doesn’t speak. The silence settles. Varian watches Adira and Adira watches the horizon, and slowly but surely, Varian relaxes. He rubs his shirt hem between his fingers and then settles Ruddiger more firmly on his lap, hugging the raccoon to his chest, and finally looks away, not quite willing to turn his back to her but feeling at ease enough to turn his gaze.

“Well?”

Varian jumps. His head snaps around to stare. His shoulders hunch. “What?”

Adira snorts. “I wasn’t just asking to start the conversation, Moony. You seem like you’re…” She eyes him, up and down, and shakes her head. “Spiraling,” she decides.

“I was thinking.”

“Hm. Well, don’t do that, then.”

“Don’t think?” He wants to be scandalized; bizarrely, instead, he has to bite back a laugh. It’s just so ridiculous—even when trying to fall asleep, Varian’s mind has always run at a million miles per hour.

“Don’t mope on whatever is making you look like someone stabbed your cat,” Adira corrects.

“I don’t own a cat.”

“Gods.”

“No, but I don’t—”

“Varian.”

He shuts up, turning away. He has to bite back a tiny smile.

“And now you’re feeling well enough to mess with me,” Adira mutters, but she sounds more bemused than truly annoyed.

“I don’t feel well at all, actually.” His voice is light, airy. Varian ruffles his fingers through Ruddiger’s fur. “I couldn’t sleep. I cried all last night.” He scrunches Ruddiger’s face between his hands, scratching under the racoon’s chin. “And my face really, really hurts.”

Silence.

There is a long pause. Adira shifts. “Ah. I deserved that, I suppose.”

“Mm-hm.”

“… I didn’t come out here just to bother you.” Varian squints at her. Adira raises a judgmental eyebrow back. “No, I didn’t. Honestly.” She shakes her head, the words trailing off, and there is another long, awkward pause before she finally speaks again.

“I came out here to apologize.”

Varian goes motionless, caught off-guard. He eyes her, sideways, and his lips press thin. This is uncharted territory, and he isn’t sure if he likes it. “…What?”

Adira’s eyes drift away, fixing back on the horizon. She shrugs. “You heard me,” she returns, mild. She leans back, stretching out her legs, her elbows propped up against the porch steps. Her expression is resigned. “But I’ll say it again, if you need to hear it twice.”

Varian watches her. Adira sighs, then turns and looks him square in the eye. “I’m sorry, Varian,” she says. Her voice is strong, each word intent. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Varian looks away first, unsettled. He’s not sure what to think of this—not sure what to make of the ease of it all. She says it so plainly. Like it’s easy. It makes something small and petty deep inside him go tight with a weird kind of envy.

But all he says is: “You hit me all the time in training.”

“That’s different,” Adira says, simply. “And you know that.”

It is, and he does, but he’d still wanted to hear her say it. Varian draws up his knees, resting his chin against his legs. His cheek aches. He feels suddenly very tired. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, almost mumbling the words. He stares out at the rising dawn. “Not really.”

Adira’s voice is firm. “It matters.”

“I was summoning the rocks. If you hadn’t—”

“There were better ways to handle that.” This time, it is Adira who falters. For a moment she almost seems to stumble, fumbling for the words, and the sight is so bizarre—so unlike her—that Varian can’t help but stare. Adira looks away. “I—I will admit that I… panicked. Forgot myself. Whatever.” Her voice hardens, frustration turned inward. “It’s no excuse. It should never have happened, but it did, and I’m sorry.”

Varian turns back to Ruddiger, curling fingers into soft fur. Ruddiger noses at his palm. “I thought you were too great to make mistakes,” he says, only slightly sarcastic, and he can hear Adira roll her eyes.

“Moony, half the reason I’m so great is that on the very rare occasions I make a mistake, I own up to it. The other half is that, yes, I rarely make mistakes.” She clears her throat. “And… that was one. So.”

“Uh-huh.” Typical Adira. But still— the note of her usual confidence makes him relax. Thank gods. She hasn’t gone completely weird, then.

But then… that does, in hindsight, make her apology uncomfortably genuine. Varian rubs at his hands, feeling something like cold, and tries to forget the look on Adira’s face when she’d hit him. The way she’d looked right through him. “…What does that mean, anyway? Forgot yourself?”

Adira says nothing for a long moment. Varian kicks at the dirt, his chest tight. Typical, he thinks, but this time the thought has no fondness.

“…It’s a long story,” Adira says, at last. She sounds tired. Varian’s head snaps up. “And not a happy one.”

“I don’t really care.” He watches her, intent. “I, I want—” He bites his lip, mentally backtracking. “If you’re really sorry… then tell me. I want to know why.”

“Still manipulative, I see,” Adira says, dryly, and she seems almost resigned. “But… fair enough.” She tilts back her head, watching the sky, and takes a deep breath.

“I have—experience. With the black rocks. What they are… and what they can do, when out of control.” She sighs, heavy, for once sounding almost weary. “You remember the labyrinth? The Dark Kingdom?”

He has never forgotten it. Not even when he really wants to. “…Yes.”

Adira nods. She links her hands. “I grew up there,” she says, simply. “I lived there. I swore to protect it with my life.” She tilts back her head. “And then I watched it fall.”

She waits. Varian says nothing. Adira shrugs, and looks back to the skyline. “As I said. I… panicked. For all of my many, many talents… I am… not good at this.” Her mouth twists like she’s bitten into a lemon. “But again. That’s no excuse.”

Varian pulls up his knees, wrapping his arms around them. Ruddiger scampers up his back, settling warm on his shoulders, but for once the comfort is muted. Varian links his fingers to keep from rubbing at his torn ear, and sighs into his arms. The anger has faded in him, turned ashy and dull, drifting away like smoke. She told him. He asked, and she gave him an answer. He rests his head in his arms.

“It doesn’t really hurt,” Varian announces, at last, to his elbows.

“Hm.”

“Seeing the rocks hurt more.”

“…Varian—”

“But it did hurt, a little,” Varian says, and finally lifts his head. “So. Thanks. For the apology, I guess.”

“…Of course.” Adira shifts, looking uncomfortable. “I… I meant it.”

Yeah. He thinks she really did. Varian nods, and Adira looks away, and this time when the silence returns, it feels a little lighter than before.

Varian stares out into the fields, watching distantly as the grasses bend and break to the breeze. The sunlight is starting to warm the crown of his head, near-uncomfortable. He feels—calmer, now. Like a peace has fallen over his thoughts, a tension unraveled from his shoulders. He looks back to the horizon, the burning blue sky, and wonders which way Corona is from here.

“Are you…” He trails off, hesitating, then tries again. “After you leave here, are you—going to Corona?”

Adira stills. “…Yes.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod, studying his fingers. He remembers the mirror, from yesterday. He remembers staring into his own face, and crying, not even really sure why. He remembers Adira smacking his chest with the staff, pushing him back, her voice like a snap.

This is your problem! You run away!

Is he running away? Maybe. Probably. Yes. But is he right to?

If the pirates really will attack Corona… then shouldn’t Varian be running to Corona? Shouldn’t he want to help?

…He doesn’t know.

And more than that. More than anything else.

Does Varian want to go back?

(He thinks about it. He thinks about all of it. The people of Old Corona, who walked away and left him alone; the King, who lied, who was responsible for the rocks in the first place. He thinks about Cassandra, who gave him a chance and hated him when it all went wrong; thinks about Eugene, smile gone, anger in his voice. Find someone else to lie to you! He thinks about Rapunzel—Rapunzel, who turned him away in the snow; Rapunzel who—who stood tall, and strong, and unwavering between him and death.

Cassandra, who gave him a chance— who wanted things to get better. Eugene, who sat Varian down and told him the truth long before Varian ever wanted to admit it. And he thinks about Rapunzel, who cried in that cave and for a moment must have hated him as much as he hated her, who still held him when he broke down and who offered him her hand in that awful, lonely tower.

Will you come with me?

He thinks about it.)

Varian closes his eyes. He swallows. I’ll go with you, he thinks. How easy those words should be. How simple it should be to say them. And yet.

And yet.

The wind howls. The grasses bend. Adira sighs and stands, and her hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezes not gentle but firm, strangely comforting even so. His cheek burns. He doesn’t flinch.

“You still have time to think on it,” Adira says, quietly. “If not Corona, then Port Caul… or anywhere you’d want to go. Yasmin won’t let you stay here, but she’ll make sure you’re settled, wherever you choose to go. There are other options. Corona isn’t the only road to take.”

Adira pauses. Her hand tightens. “But Moony?”

He doesn’t move.

“Sooner or later, you really are going to have to choose.”

His head lowers. Varian doesn’t answer. And Adira’s voice drops, bitter with something he cannot name, something almost like regret. “You can’t outrun anything forever.”

He wonders what she ran from. He wonders when it caught her.

He doesn’t ask.

Adira walks back inside without another word, and Varian stays there—sitting on the porch, knees to his chest, watching the sun rise and the horizon burn, thinking of home.

As rain sleets the darkened streets, Cassandra shivers in the cold and draws her coat closer.

Corona at midnight is a picture of silent beauty, even in the midst of a storm—lit by a soft lantern glow and utterly silent but for the distant whisper of the waves and the wail of the wind through the spiraling streets. But Cassandra is in no mood to appreciate the sights—the sky above is dark and clouded, pouring rain, and the winds are sharp with a lingering winter bite. The mist makes her hair frizz, and even in her warmest coat, she can’t quite defeat the chill starting to nip at her fingers. She smacks her hands together and grits her teeth, and gives her companion an icy glare.

“So,” she says, “mind explaining to me why exactly you called me out here at the coldest goddamn time of the day?”

“Personally, I thought you were immune to the cold…” Leaning against a darkened storefront, Eugene gives her a smile that is almost a smirk, humor bright in his face. “Ice queen! Don’t tell me! Could it be your cold heart is thawing?”

She glares at him, because it is raining and she’s cold and he’s the one who called her out here in the first place, with a rambling letter full of nothing. He’d underlined must tell in person three times, and then written TOP SECRET in the largest letters possible, and for all that Cassandra had rolled her eyes she’s here anyway—and now what, he’s mocking her?

She puts a hand to her sword, and lifts a brow. “I will cut you.”

“Hm. Guess not, then.”

“Eugene.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He straightens up, yawning into his arm. “Don’t get all in a twist; this isn’t fun for me, either. Gods, if only spring could come faster…” He trails off with a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry about all this, but this kind of information—” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t trust it to a letter.”

Cassandra stiffens, clenching her teeth at a sudden flare of heat in her gut. “You—found something?” Bitterness is a sharp bite on her tongue, weighing in her chest. Her thoughts twist and turn. Already. He’s already found something. It’s not just Rapunzel. All of them—in this twisted game they’ve found themselves in, Rapunzel and Eugene are stumbling upon all the answers, while Cassandra…

Her fists clench. Useless. She swallows it back. “What did you find?”

“Well.” Eugene runs a hand down his face. “Lance and I… we got a lead sooner than I thought.” He pauses. Exhales a shuddering, shaky breath. “It’s, um… not good.”

Cassandra watches him. Waits. The rains drums behind them, swept into a downpour by the wind. It pounds at the ground like a hail of arrows.

“You know what Blondie told us about? The people trying to back Corona in a deal?” Eugene meets her eyes. “Well. Have you ever heard of the Baron?”

Cassandra stares at him. The Baron. The biggest crime lord on the continent, with enough power and prestige to have a known name and a whip-tight false legal business. Everyone knows he works shady, but no one can prove it, and it’s made him one of the most dangerous enemies of Corona for that reason: enough power and cruelty to do whatever he likes, and clever enough to escape the law as he does it.

The Baron. Blackmailing Corona. Oh, god. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Eugene holds out a slip of torn paper, and Cassandra takes it, eyes scanning over the words. “This was written by his daughter, Stalyan. And if she’s a part of this, then he is most definitely involved.”

“…This just says Vardaros. How do you—”

“I’m… familiar with her handwriting.” Cassandra stills. “And Lance found a dagger with his crest in a drawer. We’re sure. Like, 99.99 percent sure, but if you doubt the .01 percent—”

“Why are you familiar with her handwriting?” Cassandra straightens. “Wait, how do you even know his crest? If we could identify his shipments from the get-go, the guards would have…”

Eugene winces. “…Oh.”

“Eugene—”

“Well, okay, first off, his crest is a golden spider against a red background, so jot that down. And, uh, I… Lance and I, I should say, we have… experience with—the Baron. Past experience.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Fine fine fine, I was set to marry his daughter, okay!?”

Um. What? “Stalyan?”

“Yes! But I freaked, I left her at the altar, and man oh man, I do not regret it, that family is… anyway, that doesn’t matter. Just, trust me when I say they are definitely involved, okay?”

Usually, such a story would make Cassandra roll her eyes, pinch the bridge of her nose and groan. Of course Eugene was set to marry the Baron’s daughter; of course she is involved in this whole tangled mess of political calamity. Why not? But something about the whole situation grates on her.

Barely two weeks out of the castle, and he’s already—!

The whispers are growing. She feels cold. The distant light of the streetlamps almost seems to flicker, and the rain hums like a song, a mutter of helpless disappointment.

Why does everything go easy for him?

Something in her snaps. “Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?” Cassandra snarls, and steps in close, one hand reaching out to fist in his shirt. She drags him forward. She just barely remembers to keep her voice low, hidden by the downpour. “Why didn’t you say—”

“Excuse me?” Eugene looks startled. He puts a hand over her wrist, his grip tight, trying to pry her off. “What are you— gods, Cass, it wasn’t important!”

Her hands seize up. “Of course it was—!”

“No, it wasn’t!” Eugene looks thrown, caught somewhere between hurt and anger. His hand tightens on her wrist; he twists her off, but doesn’t follow through with the move, prying her hand away from his collar and then holding it up, almost in warning. “It was a long time ago. And it was my business. My past. Stalyan was important in my life, sure, but that was both five years ago and also now not my life. I wanted to move on. So yeah! I didn’t mention it!”

He hesitates, then lets go, stepping back out of range. Cassandra watches him, eyes narrow. Eugene crosses his arms. “Look,” he says, a little quieter. “I get it, okay? I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. But it wasn’t important then. It is now, and I realize that, and I’m telling you. Get off my case.”

“I—”

“Seriously, what’s with you today?” He shakes his head, looking her up and down, something like concern furrowing his brow. “Are you… doing okay?”

“Excuse me!?”

“Well, you don’t usually bite my head off at the drop of a hat,” Eugene says, almost wry. He frowns. “And you look… uh. Hey, no, seriously, is everything okay?”

Cassandra’s hands curl, but something in his words strikes home. He seems genuinely concerned, and she turns her face away, shame a sudden spark in her gut. What is she doing? He’s—he’s right. She’s being unfair. He seems as out-of-breath and soaked as she is freezing, which means he must have rushed here as soon as he got the news. Without a coat, even.

He’s right. But that still doesn’t stop the sudden lock in her throat, or the sharp twist of jealousy in her chest, bitter as poison. How can it be that in all this time, she’s found nothing, whereas he and Rapunzel so intimately and effortlessly stumble across the answers? How can she possibly hope to protect them—to stand against the next labyrinth—if she can’t even help them with this?

It’s like they are leaving her behind, like being left in the dark, and the whisper rises again, beating in the back of her mind like a mantra. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

But that’s no excuse. It’s not Eugene’s fault that Cassandra is useless—she shouldn’t have taken it out on him. He of all people… he’d stood outside that labyrinth too. He’d understand.

“Cass…?”

Her jaw clenches. She turns her face away. Yes, she thinks. Eugene of all people would understand. She could tell him. She thinks, after all this time, all they’ve been through—he might even listen.

But her throat locks up. The whisper curls. He was useless then, but he isn’t now, is he? He’ll just pity you.

And—and just like that, she can’t say it.

“No,” Cassandra says. She shakes her head, taking a deep breath, and meets his eyes again. “No. I’m fine. And—I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Eugene looks hesitant. “Look, if you need to talk…”

“I’m fine.” She takes another breath. “Just… just tired. Night shifts are hell on earth. And lately, the dungeons have been… bothersome. Everyone’s been fighting, and it’s just… ugh.” It’s not even entirely a lie. Just last week, two prisoners had almost murdered one another for near no reason at all. Strangest of all was that they were usually pretty friendly with one another. Prisons are typically high-temper places, but lately… Cassandra doesn’t know. It’s just exhausting, whatever it is.

“Well, that’s no surprise.” But the joke seems weak, almost lackluster. He’s still watching her. Damn it, he’s not letting this go.

Cassandra fishes for a distraction—and finds it. “Hey,” she says. “This Stalyan thing. Have you told Raps yet?”

Bingo. Eugene looks away. Cassandra crosses her arms. “Eugene.”

“I was hoping you could,” he says, weakly, giving her a hopeful sort of smile. It’s the same smile he uses to con people. Cassandra lifts a brow, unimpressed. “There’s still some stuff I need to check out. Weird jobs floating around, an island to stake out… I can’t come back just yet. But soon.”

Cassandra sighs, suddenly tired. “You should tell her.”

“Cass—”

“Look, I know it’s really the least of our issues, but Raps… really cares about you.” Cassandra looks away, the words heavy. “If you and Stalyan have this complicated past, then she’d like to hear about this from you. Personally. Especially on the off chance we actually meet this lady.”

Eugene slumps. “I know,” he says, sounding tired. “But I’m not sure, if I go to the castle, if I’ll… be able to walk out as easily as I did the first time. Or worse, on the other hand— if I get banned for good…”

Cassandra looks away. She can’t argue with that. Who knows what the King is doing? Rapunzel is holding her silence, and they’re both getting caught in the middle of it. The chains chafe. “That said. I’m not exactly in a good position to talk to her, either.” She isn’t really sure if she wants to, right now, but she keeps quiet on that. It’s not—she doesn’t blame Rapunzel. She doesn’t. She’s just… she just needs some space. From both of them, apparently, given how this conversation is going.

Cassandra comes to a decision. “Write a letter, then. That’s a bit easier, isn’t it? And in that way, it’d still be from you.” She meets his eyes. “She needs to hear this from you, Eugene.”

Eugene looks away first, shuffling on his feet. He pushes a hand back through his hair, still dripping from rainwater. His smile is rueful. “Going for the throat with that guilt-trip, huh.”

“If it works, it works.” Cassandra smirks, for a moment truly holding back laughter. “You should have expected this, anyway. I always go for the throat.”

“Oooh, guard joke.” Eugene rolls his eyes, then sighs again, leaning back against the wall. “I hope we don’t meet Stalyan. Really, I do. She isn’t exactly known for… reasonable action. Or moral rules.” His head drops. He looks tired. “But… you’re right. I should tell her. Uh. Wait a minute for me to write it?”

“It’s not like I have anywhere better to be,” Cassandra says, and she rolls her eyes as she says it, even as the words make something pit in her gut.

Eugene just grins. “Hah, good point. Okay.” He hesitates—and then, awkwardly but sincerely, claps a hand on her shoulder. “But… I mean it. Thanks, Cass. And if you need anything…”

“I know.” Cassandra manages a smile, almost fond. “I got it.”

It’s a happy moment—something warm despite the midnight hour, something bright despite the pouring rain. A moment with a friend. She should be happy. She should enjoy this. She should take comfort in the fact that for all she isn’t contributing, she’s as much a part of this team as before.

And yet. And still.

Her throat is tight. Her eyes fall to the ground. Useless, the wind seems to whisper. The rain drums on in the back of her mind. Always useless. Do you really think you can protect them like this?

Can you protect them at all?

And by her side, unnoticed, her hands curl into fists.

Despite Varian’s disdain for it, he has heard tales of magic all his life.

Before alchemy, before logic, before the wonders of science convinced him magic was misconception and the truth lay only in the beakers, Varian was a young child enchanted. Every night, once the sun went down, his dad used to sit him down on the house steps and talk, quietly, of fairytales. Of magic and heroes and long-ago adventures, of daring and clever trickery. But the stories his father had loved most of all, the tales his father told quiet and hushed like a secret—were the stories of radiant Sun and her devoted, lovely Moon.

The tales had never really appealed to Varian, even then. The romance bored him, the magic made him frown, and the happy ending made him sigh. Where was the excitement? The swords? The great battles? But at this his father’s face would crease, would pull into a frown and a faraway gaze, and Varian soon stopped asking.

Of course, he knows better now. Most of Corona—most of the continent—knows not the tale of romance but a tale of mortal enemies, Sun and Moon fighting to the death over the fate of humanity, enemies from the very start. Why Varian’s dad knew and told a different story is a question that, even now, Varian has more guesses than actual answers for—but it doesn’t really matter. That’s not the point.

Days after his talk with Adira, with the sun just set and Varian alone back in the guest-room, he paces back and forth across the cluttered floor and thinks. He is alone in the room but for Ruddiger, whose little head follows Varian back and forth across the floor; Adira is downstairs with Yasmin and Ella, discussing Port Caul. It’s a conversation he’s not keen on hearing about, and so he is here—thinking. Weighing his options.

Varian thinks about Corona, about Rapunzel; he thinks about the labyrinth and the ruins of the kingdom buried beneath it, the symbol on the wall and on his father’s hidden helmet; his dad, dead in the amber. And he thinks about stories. He pivots before he hits the wall, ponytail swinging by his face, and thinks about magic, about legends, and how much Dad’s midnight tales could get wrong.

Magic, he thinks. Magic. He’s never liked it. Can, unfortunately, no longer deny it. It’s the lingering warmth in his chest from his Sundrop reversed almost-death, the icy cold pain in his hand from taking the Moondrop opal. It’s here, it’s part of him now—and it is, also, the rocks.

The rocks, which are now Varian’s. The rocks, which he can’t control.

He grits his teeth, thinking hard, pivoting again before he hits the wall. His fingers itch for chalk—he wants to write—but also, he’s pretty sure Yasmin would murder him in his sleep if he wrote on her walls, so that’s a no-go. Unfortunately.

In contrast to the last few days’ unending trauma conga line, the last few days in Yasmin’s home have been almost dull. After his talk with Adira, that morning of the second day, nothing more of note happens. To make matters worse, this also happens to be the last night. Tomorrow, Adira leaves for Corona. This is it—his last chance. There is nothing more to do. Nothing he can do. Except think, and pace, and wonder.

He has to make a choice.

Varian isn’t sure what choice that is, yet; where he’s going to end up is one, and Corona is most definitely the other, but somehow that doesn’t feel like enough. It’s more than Corona, somehow, and that’s where the problem lies—it’s a choice about the rocks, and Moon, and Adira, and redemption. It’s a choice about mirrors. It’s a question of where he’s going to go next, and all the alchemy in the world can’t help Varian here, as much as he hates to admit it.

It’s a choice about magic.

Because Varian knows: the rocks aren’t going away. He knows this better than anyone. He tried to run; they got him anyway. And if the disaster in Port Caul and the mishap in the gardens was any clue, then the rocks are here to stay.

He squeezes his eyes shut at the reminder, and mid-pivot his hand seizes with a sharp stab of icy pain. Varian stops, winces, and grips his wrist. The Moondrop power, again. It’s always ached more in the nighttime hours, but these last two nights it’s been near-unbearable.

He exhales a harsh breath, looking down at his hand, stretching out pale fingers. There’s nothing there. No mark to prove he ever took the Moondrop in his hand. Except for the missing half of his ear, there is very little to prove he even went on that journey with Rapunzel and the others; of his trial in the labyrinth, there’s nothing at all. Some days, bizarrely, he wonders if maybe he dreamed the whole nightmarish scenario up, those endless days of torture nothing more than a fever dream.

He almost wishes it was a dream. But he knows better.

And he’s been running from that too, Varian realizes then, with a sudden flash of exhaustion. The labyrinth. That awful, nightmare place. The place where he broke. The place where…

(Rapunzel’s offered hand, bandaged and bloody. Her pale smile. The distant glow behind her eyes, and her quiet plea. Will you come with me?

And this, too. Varian, who rose to his feet and took her hand.)

He closes his eyes, breathing deep, and turns away to sit on the cot. His hands are shaking, now—both of them. Not from power, or the cold. Just from the memory. Ruddiger curls up by his side, crooning comfort, but Varian can hardly feel it.

A glint of light catches his eyes, sudden illumination. He lifts his head. There’s a break in the night-time cloud cover, and with the passing of shadow the moon seems brighter than ever. Varian looks at it for a long time, hands lowering in sudden thought.

If he needs to start somewhere… why not start with the source? The cause of his fears, of this panic. The rocks, at the root of everything. The rocks—which he has no control over. And he needs control, Varian realizes suddenly. He needs control, or the next time things go wrong because of the rocks, it really will be entirely his fault.

And more than that—he is afraid to sleep. Not just because of nightmares, now, but because of the Moon herself… and he hates that. Fearing his own dreams was fine, but being afraid of someone else’s? No. He’s sick of her games, her twisted dreams; he’ll stick to his nightmares, thanks. But… he has to sleep sometime. He has to dream sometime. If he’s going to have to face her eventually, then why not on his terms? His way?

The thought is… really, really tempting.

Still—for a moment, Varian is utterly frozen. His next exhale is shaky and thin. Oh, gods. Oh no. He isn’t really thinking of doing it, is he?

He lifts his head. His eyes catch on the window—on his reflection. Wide eyes. Pale face. Clenched fists.

…Oh, gods, he’s really thinking of doing it.

No, no, no. Varian takes a deep breath. He’s not going to panic. He’s not. Adira is right. So is Yasmin. He can't run away anymore. If nothing else, he thinks, remembering the rocks, Old Corona, his dad— he has to try.

His fingers clench, tight fists, and he uncurls them slowly, watching the crescent imprints of his nails fade away. He looks back at his reflection. He takes a breath. Then another. Something burns in his chest—the echo of Sundrop fire, searing away the cold touch of death.

“Moon.”

One heartbeat. Two. His hand stings. His eyes, in the reflection, are a blue so bright it seems almost unnatural.

“Are you there?”

The inside of the house is warm. The candlelight soft and golden. But for a moment his hand aches with an icy chill, and something like a shiver crawls down his spine. The air is weighted. All at once, it is so much harder to breathe.

How interesting.

In the window, his reflection wavers. Tired blue eyes and a grim expression, replaced now by a cruel grin.

Calling upon me so soon, little boy?

Fear seals Varian silent. He has to fight to think. His chest feels numbed, disconnected. He can’t believe she really… she really came. She’s here. He’s forgotten how she felt— her presence like a physical weight; power so strong and malevolent it seems to twist the very air.

He forces the words through numb lips. “I…” He clears his throat. His terms. This is on his terms. He called, and she answered. The thought steadies him. “I—I have some questions.”

Moon barely blinks, but her thoughtful hum distorts the air like static. So demanding. I never promised you answers.

The whispering taunt strikes at something deep within, lost beneath the fear. Varian’s lips curl back, and his hands grip tight at the cot covers. “Tough,” he snaps, before he can think better of it. “I’m going to ask anyway.”

The reflection shimmers. He gets the impression, suddenly, of a person right behind him—the grin bearing down at the back of his head. An icy hand grips his shoulder, fingers curling like claws into his collarbone. White hair, glowing soft as starlight, drifts by his head. This time, Moon’s voice rings clear and cold in his ears. Such rudeness. Such anger. Have you no thanks for your savior?

“Savior?” She is so close it is abruptly hard to breathe, and the walls feel closed in all at once, the labyrinth re-created. Even the window cannot banish the sense of darkness, closing in. Still—his hands clench. The outrage grounds him. “You ruined my life!”

Oh no, child. I’m afraid you did that all on your own. I just came in the aftermath. She circles him, ghostly afterimages fizzing in her wake, like a skip in time. The labyrinth was months ago for you, honestly. Don’t tell me you’re still upset?

Varian grits his teeth. His hand fists in his shirt. He forgets, in this moment, to be afraid.

“You—” he splutters, cold with fury. “Of course I’m upset! You tried to kill me—you practically did kill me! You hurt Rapunzel! You trapped us! You impaled me! And, and everything else—”

Aren’t you over it by now?

He snarls at her. “Are you?”

For the first time, her smile wavers. The Moon’s eyes narrow, and her lips thin, and she turns her head away.

Varian watches her, breathing shaky, and leans back, deliberately putting space between them. He breathes in, a longer inhale. He—he needs to calm down. It’s a bad idea to snap at an immortal goddess, no matter how awful she is. Probably a worse idea to sass her.

But still. The Moon gets to him. Everything she does—everything she is—the labyrinth, the rocks, Port Caul—!

No. No, Varian has to stay calm. He has to try. She’s here, as terrible as this is, and he can’t miss this chance for answers—for the truth. So long as it gets him what he needs, he can sit through almost anything.

When he opens his eyes again, the Moon is looking back at him. In the mix of shadows and moonlight she seems almost ethereal; her eyes glow like spotlights, her hair drifting as though underwater, coiling across her shoulders. Her smile, as ever, is fixed perfectly in place, but… there’s something grim in the expression, now. Something bared, and furious, and seething.

If you called me here just to whine to me, I feel it is important to express a warning. She leans in, and her smile widens; in the glint of moonlight he can see the serrated edges of her needle-like teeth. If you invoke my name in vain again, trial or not, you will not escape the experience in one piece. Her form wavers, beginning to fade. Learn some respect, child, or I will teach it to you.

Varian freezes. Her form is turning ghostly. Through her, in the window-reflection, he can see his eyes flicker back to blue.

“No, I—w-wait!”

Pressure bears down on him. Do not dare to—!

He wheezes, the air abruptly thin. “I didn’t—invoke—in vain or whatever, I—I just wanted to talk!”

A pause. The pressure eases, slightly.

…Talk.

“Y-yes.”

Are you fucking with me, boy?

“A-am I—?” His voice squeaks. Despite everything, he almost laughs. Somehow, he never imagined an immortal goddess knowing modern cuss words. “N-no, no, no. I—I’m not.” His hand seizes in pain; he winces and grips at it. “I really did… just want to talk.”

You have a very funny way of showing it.

He bows his head. He should let it go, he shouldn’t rise to her taunts, but—

But he doesn’t want to let it go.

“You locked me in a labyrinth with someone I—hated. At the time.” His voice is quiet. “You hunted me down, you, you almost killed me—did kill me… and the black rocks, your rocks, they… from the moment they entered my life, it’s all been one big downward spiral.”

Varian curls his fists in the covers. “So yeah. I won’t lie. I… I really, really hate you.”

Cold pricks at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to flinch. He thinks of Adira, standing tall, staff pointed down—the first training lesson she ever gave him. It’s fine if you hate it, Moony, she’d said then. But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn from it.

And Yasmin, in the market, when he lashed out at her charity: I do not have to like you to do you a kindness.

He is not here to do Moon a kindness. He doesn’t want to help her. But Varian knows enough now to know that this power—the black rocks—aren’t going away. And Varian doesn’t know magic. He doesn’t know anything.

He doesn’t have to like the Moon, he thinks, to learn from her.

“But I don’t think you like me, either,” he continues, and lifts his head, offering a thin smile. Moon’s eyes narrow. “Just a guess. And that’s fine. Whatever your reason.” He meets her eyes, tired blue to unwavering white. “I just… figured if I couldn’t run, I may as well as try and ask you all my questions head-on.”

She doesn’t look convinced, still, her eyebrow lifted in an expression of great contempt, and Varian starts to panic. He lifts his chin, forcing confidence to hide his shaking hands, his mind casting back. The dreams, the dreams—gods, what had she said back then? He can hardly remember. Something about a game?

He chances it. “And you have to admit,” he says, chin up and eyes rolling, trying to force the old arrogance that once came easy to him, “whatever your plans, it’ll probably be way more fun if I actually know what you want me to do, right?”

Silence. The Moon’s eyes narrow further. Her smile is gone.

Varian refuses to look away. His mouth is dry. His throat is tight with the tension, the threat. He meets her gaze and holds it, and his palms are slick with sweat.

A long pause. And then, at last, the Moon shifts.

You are right that I do not like you. The flicker of a crescent smile. If I had my way, your corpse would be buried with my labyrinth… but the Sundrop challenged me to watch. To learn. To… see what I might have missed. I do think she’s delusional, and I cannot wait to be proven right, but… here I am.

For a moment Varian doesn’t understand what the hell she’s talking about—and then clarity strikes. Rapunzel’s comment to Moon in that other world, he realizes. Her declaration that there was no use in telling Moon why she’d saved Varian because the god would not understand. Had Moon—had Moon taken that comment as a challenge?

The idea is laughable. And yet—here she is. Here they are.

Moon reclines in the air, her attention distant, unfocused. And your boldness is amusing, I suppose. And your ignorance in these past few days has… already vexed me.

Her mouth works, as if feeling out the words. Her smile returns, pale, a bare of teeth. Oh, why not? Fine. Ask your questions. I cannot promise you answers… but I will at least hear you out.

Varian almost falls off the cot. He gapes at her. “Really? Are you serious?”

Ah, and now I find my patience waning…

He feels almost scandalized. “Is that a joke—”

Tick tock, child. The brief humor drops from Moon’s voice. Speak your mind or shut your mouth.

“I…” Varian trails off, taken off-guard. He swallows hard. He has so many questions, he has no idea where to even begin. What he wants to know most of all is about the rocks, but… best to start small, he thinks. “Why… why did you warn me about the pirates?”

Hmph. Isn’t it obvious?

“Um… no?”

Moon blinks. …Humans. So limited in their view of the world. She considers him, and tilts her head, gaze distant and thoughtful. Let us just say… in that human city, I sensed a danger too great for you to handle, and hoped to ward you off before I’d have to step in. She sighs then, heavily. As you can see, that worked out spectacularly.

“You… why?”

You think I like the idea of advising an annoying human whelp? The longer you stayed away from danger, the longer I could ignore you. I’d hoped to avoid this part for a while yet. But of course you didn’t listen. And now, here we are. Stuck with one another.

“That’s not my…!” No. No. Stay calm, Varian. He has to stay calm. “…Never mind.” He takes a breath, swallowing down the anger, and changes tracks. “But I don’t get it. Why the pirates? How did you even know they were there, or—or going to attack? It doesn’t make any—”

I could be in the middle of a burning desert at midday on the damn Summer Solstice, and I would still know the touch of that… foul magic. Her lip curls on the words. Her eyes slit, bright with hatred. Of course I sensed them.

“Magic?” Varian shakes his head. “What magic? They were—they were just pirates! Just human!”

Human? Certainly. But you are a fool if you think that it was all it was. Or do earthquakes usually strike a city right when a raid is underway? Such timing cannot possibly be coincidental. The Moon laughs. Dear, stupid child. You should have seen this coming. Why on earth do you think my labyrinth existed in the first place?

“I—” Varian blinks. Frowns. To test Rapunzel, to get what the Moon wanted, to prove Moon right about… something? About humanity? He’s not sure. He had only ever caught snippets. Because you’re a cruel, heartless person and you found it funny? But he can’t say that, she’d probably stab him again, and once was more than enough, thank-you-very-much. “…I don’t know.”

Typical. Well, I will tell you what I told the Sundrop. There is something coming, child. There is a rot that grows forever beneath the deep, and it lingers in this world like a curse, even in sleep. Her voice drops. But now, I fear… it sleeps no longer. It is here. It is coming. The rot’s reaching fingers have finally found our throats.

Her words are low, cold, serious with all the weight of an incantation. Varian stares at her. He doesn’t move. His breath shudders out of him. Realization washes over him, cold as ice. “The pirates,” he whispers. “Corona?”

I have no interest in the games of mortals, Moon remarks. For one, they are usually very boring. But recently, human politics have become… rather interesting. Unnaturally so. I have my suspicions. And I know what I felt, there in that city.

The meaning of her words finally sinks in. Varian looks down, his mind whirling. The attacks had terrified him. Corona at war had chilled him. But this makes something deep within him go small and tight with fear. This is more. This is like the labyrinth—a force more than science, or logic, or even magic. A force that Varian, slowly and reluctantly, is beginning to think of as fate.

“It’s aiming for Corona.”

The Sundrop’s own home? But of course it is. How better to draw her out? If I was not bound to my kingdom, to my Moondrop opal, I would have done the same.

He shakes his head, his mind spinning. “Wait, but—that doesn’t make sense—the labyrinth—”

I had more than my own reasons for the labyrinth. The personal benefits were just a bonus. Though. I admit, by the end, I perhaps got a bit… carried away. Her chin lifts. Fortunately, the situation is salvageable. I have my doubts the Sundrop is strong enough, yet, though she is certainly better suited for what's ahead after my labyrinth, but you…

She looks him up and down, doubtful, and her lip curls. Unfortunately for us both, my kingdom is gone, and so you are my only real conduit. For the moment, anyway. With luck, soon you will no longer be necessary, but for now… well. Do your best to not get speared anytime soon, boy. Replacing you would take more effort than I can spare.

Varian swallows, trying not to react. That—doesn’t sound good, though he can’t say he’s surprised to hear it. The Moon seems to need him, for now… but that probably won’t always be the case. If she made a place like the Dark Kingdom once, presumably she could do it again. Maybe. He thinks.

Ugh, magic.

Varian takes a breath, pushing the thoughts aside for later. Okay. All very interesting information, but… not what he needs, right now. He called for this conversation for a reason. “Okay,” he starts, careful, calm. He straightens his shoulders, and does his best to meet her eyes. “Actually, that was…something I was hoping you could help me with? The not-dying thing.”

Moon’s lip curls. She hooks her chin in her hand and regards him through narrowed eyes. Explain.

Well. Okay, then. “How do I… the, the black rocks.” He steadies himself. “How do I control them?”

A smile flickers across Moon’s face, sly and cruel. Your mishap yesterday. Hah, yes, I sensed that.

He doesn’t like the look of her smile. “…Right. H-how do I stop that from happening again?”

Moon considers him. Her smile widens. He can see the gleam of knife-like teeth, and then she leans back and stretches, laughing softly under her breath. Oh, who can say?

Varian’s eyes narrow. His fingers clench. He has to fight to keep his voice steady. “You, obviously.”

Moon is still smiling. Her eyes glow in the darkness. Don’t get smart with me, boy.

He grits his teeth. “I—”

Your distress over this silly power is amusing, and far more entertaining than your frankly dull nightmares. And I have been so bored… no, on this I don’t think I shall tell you. Have fun finding out.

Varian stares at her, breathless, feeling gutted. She won’t—? And then the rest of her words sink in, and his lips peel back in a snarl. Blood roars in his ears, and for a moment the whole world feels very still, cold and quiet. She is smiling. She is laughing at him. And suddenly Varian wants nothing more than to snap that smile right off her face. He wants to make her bleed.

“I was wondering something else,” Varian says, sweetly, the heat rushing through his head. His fingers strangle the cot covers. “Why do you look like that, by the by?” He gestures, casually, to his face. His hand is shaking. His teeth ache.

Moon’s smile drops at once. Her eyes go wide. Her lips peel back from her teeth. And Varian smiles where she does not, bright and poisonous and angry, and says, “I mean, I’ve already seen the scars!”

Pressure slams down on him. The air goes snap-cold, burning against his skin, and Varian just barely keeps from crying out. All at once, the Moon is no longer distant, no longer ghostly—she is here, she is right in front of him, so furious that the air warps around her very image. For a moment, that smooth façade drops. For a moment, he can see the scars in question—the great ruts that carve up her face and shatter her eye, the cracks crawling deep through her stone skin.

You— dare—!

Varian lifts his head with difficulty, struggling against the unyielding hand slowly crushing him to the ground. His smile has dropped, the sweet anger fallen, and now all he is is furious. “I hate you!” he cries, too incensed to be any more articulate than that. “I hate you! You and your stupid—tell me how to control the rocks!”

Moon’s voice shakes with a snarl. No.

“Tell me!” Varian shouts back. Something roars in his ears. Is it blood? The wind? Or most frightening of all—power? “Tell me how to stop this!”

The Moon leans close. Her smile is a bare of teeth. Her eyes are bright and vivid with rage.

FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELF.

Something shatters. Wind howls. For a split second, Varian is falling, dropping in free-fall—

His eyes snap open.

His throat catches on a scream, and he lurches half-way out of the cot before he realizes where he is. Yasmin’s house. The guest-room. His bed. The room is lit blue by the midnight; the air is cool, the candles all blown out.

Sweat plasters his bangs to his face. He feels feverish. The room is far too warm, but maybe that is because Varian himself feels as if he has slowly frozen solid. His heart beats unsteady and rapid in his chest. He has—he is—what?

Soft breaths. A warmth by his side. He looks down and reaches out, and—Ruddiger. Ruddiger?

Ruddiger is sleeping. Ruddiger is calm. He…. He’s not acting like either of them were ever in danger. Come to think—had he—had he been in the room at all, after Varian called the Moon’s name? He can’t remember.

It’s quiet. Dead silent. Varian looks across the room, and sees Adira in her cot, blankets pulled up, still in sleep. She hasn’t moved. No, wait—when had she come in? Wasn’t she meant to be talking with Yasmin?

Varian turns to the window, his hands shaking. The sky outside is clouded and dark—no moon to be seen past the clouds. And the person looking back at him from the reflection is… himself. Varian.

It’s just him.

Slowly, his panicked breaths ease. Varian settles against the pillow, his mind racing. A dream. It had just been a dream.

And yet—he remembers it perfectly. He lifts his arm—the Moondrop one, the one that always burns whenever magical fuckery is abound—and looks at the hand. His veins are dark and blue. There is frost on his fingers, slowly but surely melting away in the heat.

Ah. Not just a dream, then. That is… that is… gods, he should have guessed. Moon and dreams. Maybe that conversation was never on his terms after all. Typical.

His breathing has gone very shaky. Varian falls back against the pillow. He stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, letting it all sink in. Breathes in. Breathes out. Rewinds the whole conversation back in his head, all the information bombshells and that disastrous ending, and slowly covers his face with his hands.

“Oh,” Varian says, weakly. “Oh, fuck.”

Morning comes almost too soon.

Varian doesn’t really sleep that night. After his conversation with the Moon, his mind is running too quick for rest. The information—the Moon herself—all of it is just so much, and he spends the rest of the night half-way between passing out and staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning, caught somewhere between regret for lashing out and a petty sort of inner voice that insists he probably should have insulted her more, that secretive conniving jerk. Watching you struggle is amusing, ha-ha-ha, Varian wants to punch a wall.

The night drags on, near torture, and Varian drifts in and out of sleep, until finally he blinks open fever-hot eyes to the crackle of distant birds and the morning rime on the gleaming window. Dawn, come again. He closes his eyes and sighs. Then he sits up.

Adira left sometime when he was half-way passed out; her stuff is gone, bags packed and cot rolled up. That’s right, he remembers, all at once. She’s leaving today. Last night was… the last night. Yasmin’s home is no longer open for shelter.

He sits there for a time, listening to Ruddiger’s sleepy snuffles and looking out the window with a distant stare. The sunlight sparkles over the frosted fields, crisp and clean, and he watches the light glitter for a long moment. He’s exhausted, but he feels oddly calm. The darkness is gone, chased away… and finally, Varian knows what to do.

He can’t deny the horror of it all—the fear creeping through. The sense that whatever’s going on, it’s something way, way more than he can handle. But if something like that is coming for Corona…. for Rapunzel and the others…

Varian looks down at his hands. He takes a breath. Takes another. And then he sets his jaw and gets to his feet, and starts packing.

By the time he pads downstairs, Ruddiger on his shoulders, his bags are packed and Varian himself is dressed in the new clothes Yasmin tailored for him. He fiddles with the sleeve as he thuds down the steps, unsure of how to clip the cuff, and Yasmin snorts when she sees him, the older woman standing at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Dear gods, have you never worn a vest before?” She sets down her cup and goes over to him, tugging the sleeve from his hands. Varian watches intently as Yasmin buttons the cuff, memorizing the fabric fold as she steps back and pulls his vest straight, the heavy fabric sitting snug and fit on his shoulders. She surveys the outfit with a critical eye and hums. “Well. Not bad for a rush job.”

Varian makes a face, pulling at his hem. The clothes fit well, but they are unlike anything Varian has ever owned—and not just because he’s still missing his gloves and apron. He’s wearing a cream cotton tunic with buttoned sleeves, paired with a low v-cut blue vest embroidered with golden skeletal floral stitching and buttoned with small silver half-moons, the swirls of soft gold stark against the dark blue. The black pants are cut in a sailor-style, the ends tapered half-way down his shin to tuck in his boots. A dark magenta sash ties around his waist, the color so rich it nearly shines in the light. Above it all Varian’s oversized trench coat with its many lovely pockets envelops him, the pink nightlight swinging from one notch, the sleeves rolled up twice and still too long for him. Combined with the new haircut and the ponytail Varian is currently struggling to tie, he looks like an entirely different person.

He’s not sure if it’s a good look or a bad one, but it’s definitely troublesome. This stupid ponytail especially.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Yasmin snorts and pulls the ribbon from his hands. “At least you brushed your hair,” she murmurs, turning him around. “Pay attention. You will have to tie it yourself after this.” She pulls back his hair and secures it tight atop his head. “See?” She takes the end of the tail and loops it, tucking the strands away. “And do this to make a bun. Whichever style you please. Simple.”

Varian undoes the bun with a sigh, letting the hair fall as a normal ponytail. Ruddiger bats at it, letting it swing. He’s not used to having his hair tied back; the pull and weight of the ponytail on his scalp makes his nose wrinkle. It’s not uncomfortable so much as… odd. “I look like some nobleman’s kid.”

“Tsk. Nothing so fancy. Merchant schoolboy, perhaps. Apprentice wizard for the imaginative.” Varian scowls at the joke as Yasmin turns back to the table, sipping at her cup. “Regardless, it will help. The less you look like you, the easier it is to hide. Besides. New clothes and haircuts are a nice way to actually feel as though you are getting a fresh start.” She sips at the drink again. “It will help. Two birds with one stone, I believe the saying is? Like that.”

Varian hums, unconvinced but not really wanting to argue, and drops into a seat with a sigh. He takes Ella’s offered cup of coffee with a weak smile, then glances around the kitchen. “Um, where’s…?”

“Here.” Adira moves into the kitchen, taking a cup of coffee herself. “Thanks.” She turns to Varian and looks him up and down, and lifts one brow at the outfit change, but all she says is, “You seem tired.”

Varian shrugs, his eyes dropping to the mug. In the dim reflection of the drink, his irises seem almost unnaturally bright. He grimaces and looks away. “I…” He doesn’t want to discuss his talk with the Moon, not yet, and definitely not with Yasmin here—if she finds out he summoned and then insulted an immortal god in her house, she might strangle him with his new sash—so he shrugs as casual as he can. “Just, um, ah… t-thinking?”

There is a long pause. All three woman stare at him. Ella and Yasmin exchange a meaningful glance. Adira closes her eyes and sighs.

“Adira,” Yasmin says, conversationally, “he really is a god-awful liar. What on earth are you teaching him?”

“I take no responsibility for this.”

“Simply dreadful,” Ella murmurs sadly.

Varian sips loudly at his drink and ignores them. He’s a great liar, damn it. The best. He fooled Rapunzel down in Corona’s tunnels, hadn’t he? He just needs time to prepare, is all, that’s not his fault.

Ruddiger gives him a supportive chitter. Varian sighs.

“Well, regardless.” Yasmin sets down her cup. “Good morning, lovely weather we are having, etcetera —all pleasantries out of the way, I will get to the point. While I admit it was… interesting to have you both here, I must say it is time you moved on.” She looks between them, and her eyes linger on Varian for a long moment. “So. When will you be going?” The slightest of pauses. “And… where?”

The silence stretches, awkward, tense. No one moves. Ella is watching them. Yasmin sips at her drink, her gaze heavy on Varian’s head.

Varian pulls his mug closer, cupping the warmth in his palms, drawing strength from the weight of Ruddiger by his side. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “My bags are all packed,” he says, to the floorboards. He can feel, rather than see, all of them go still. “I’m…” For a moment he stutters on it. For a moment he fumbles.

Then he takes a breath, and says it anyway. “I’m ready to go,” he says, at last. “To Corona.”

In the ensuing quiet, Yasmin’s sharp and relieved exhale is clear.

Adira is quiet for much longer; she shifts slightly, and Varian’s eyes snap to her, searching, afraid. But Adira is calm, near-expressionless, and her voice is even when she replies: “Then we leave together.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod.

He hears Adira stand, but keeps his eyes down, and almost startles out of his seat when a hand abruptly finds his shoulder. He freezes, stiff—but all Adira does is leave it there, just for a second, her touch warm and grounding.

For a moment he thinks she’s going to say something—what, he has no idea—but all she does is squeeze his shoulder, once, then take her hand away. “…We’ll leave soon. Finish your food.”

Varian glances up through his bangs, watching her go. He feels a little wondering. That warmth in her voice—what was that? And the hand on his shoulder… he knows Adira isn’t big on physical contact. So then, what was the point of that?

He turns back to the room to find Ella with her face politely turned away and a smile on her lips, and Yasmin looking insufferably pleased with herself. He narrows his eyes, feeling the heat rise to his face. He grips his cup protectively. “What?”

“Nothing.” Yasmin sips at her drink. She is smirking. “Just… I am very good at my job.”

Ella smacks her arm without looking.

“I mean, we are all very proud of you, congratulations on your character development, whatever, make good choices.”

Varian rolls his eyes, and tips back his drink to hide a smile of his own. He finishes his meal quickly—when Adira says leaving soon she usually means leaving now—and sneaks away some bread for Ruddiger to snack on later, getting up from the table. He is half-way out the door before he hesitates.

He glances back. Yasmin raises an eyebrow at him, bemused, waiting. Varian chews at his cheek, deep in thought.

On his end: the market, the haircut, the clothes. But he remembers also the way Adira gave him answers that day in the field, when before there was nothing, and her new strange attempts at mentoring, odd but not unwelcome. He gets the sudden sense he isn’t the only one Yasmin has been bothering, and tucks his hands behind his back.

Yasmin is annoying and rude and cold, and still a stranger in many ways… but in these past few days, Varian knows, she has truly and honestly helped him.

“Thanks,” Varian says, rushed and hurried, and just barely looking Yasmin in the eye, and then he runs out of the room before Yasmin can laugh at him, or worse, look touched.

Packing takes no time at all, both Adira and Varian already prepared. Before Varian knows it, he and Adira have waved goodbye to Ella and taken up their packs, walking away from the little cottage in the fields for the last time. To Varian’s embarrassment, Yasmin goes with them, claiming to see them off, dressed in her heavy winter coat with a wrapped package under one arm.

Varian avoids looking at her best he can, his face red, regretting that moment of thanks with all his being, and pretends badly he can’t hear her laughing at him as they walk.

They reach their destination quickly, thank gods—a merchant camp nestled in-between two farms, a small circle of carts by the road. It’s apparently the same merchant camp as before, the one from Port Caul, just moved more inland to escape any drama from the recovering city. There are far less carts than before—most of the merchants having fled after the attack—but there is still a few lingering, and Yasmin approaches one at once, already bartering for their ride.

“Javon, yes? I have heard you are on your way to the west. I would like to discuss a deal with you—”

In less than ten minutes they’ve gotten safe passage assured and a deal made, Yasmin shaking the merchant’s hand with a grimly satisfied smile. She walks back to them with her head high. “There you go,” she says to Adira. “My final favor for you—free of charge, even.” She glances back, and they both watch as the merchant loads their extra bags onto his cart. “Lucky we came when we did. The others are going east and he is leaving now.” She turns back. “I suppose this is goodbye again.”

Varian looks up at her, surprised by the words and the sudden sense of loss. How strange, he thinks. He’s really only known her for a week or so—but what a long few days they have been. He feels as if he’s been here far longer.

Adira tilts her head. “This is it,” she says agreeably.

“So it is.” Yasmin crosses her arms and looks Adira up and down. “Well. It was far more excitement than I should ever like again… but it was good to see you, Adira.” She sighs. “Just, please. For the love of all the gods. Write to me next time?”

Adira almost seems to smile. “We’ll see.”

“Tsk, bothersome woman.” But Yasmin almost seems pleased, and when she looks down at Varian, she cocks an eyebrow and settles a hand on her hip, near-smiling. “Well, boy, I hope you remember what I have taught you.”

Varian meets her eyes with some difficulty, but manages. The echoes from their conversation still sting, but he takes a breath and refuses to look away. “I’ve, um… been thinking on it.”

“That is all I can ask.” Yasmin offers a hand. “You are a brat and a pest and more trouble than you are worth… but perhaps you are not so bad.”

Varian rolls his eyes, unable to help himself. “I really don’t like you.” But he takes her hand, and feels almost cheered. He manages a smile. “Um. But… uh…”

Yasmin snorts. “You do not have to thank me again. Once was enough. Uncomfortable for both of us. Do not.” She hesitates, then takes the package out from under her arm and holds it out. “Ella’s idea. From both of us. Blame Adira.” She pauses again, and then scowls at him. “Open it later, once you are gone and I cannot see. Got it?”

“Okay…?” Varian takes it. Tests it. It’s soft, so not a book… “What—”

“Once you are gone!”

“Okay, okay!” He stows the package away in the satchel. Ruddiger chitters up on his shoulder, clearly curious, and hangs down his back to sniff at it. Yasmin’s scowl turns to him.

“Goodbye, Yasmin,” Adira says, drawing the attention back to her. Yasmin fixes her with a frown.

“You will keep in touch?”

Adira shrugs. “I’ll try.” She hesitates. “It… was good to see you too.”

Yasmin makes a face. “Yes yes, goodbye, go already. You are going to give me hives at this rate.”

Adira briefly smiles at that, a hard sort of grin that is almost laughter, and turns away with one last wave over her shoulder. Yasmin, too, for all her annoyance, seems more fond than truly irritated. Varian looks between the two of them and shakes his head, turning to follow Adira to the cart. Ridiculous. He doesn’t understand them at all.

It feels almost anti-climactic, after everything. With every step, Varian waits for something to go wrong. He steps to the cart. He gets in the cart. He sits down in the back with Adira and watches the road. Nothing. The sky is cloudy but dry and the cold winds are beaten back by the warmth of his new clothes and heavy coat. It’s dizzying. Is he really leaving?

The merchant snaps the reins and calls the horses to a trot. The cart lurches into a roll. Varian draws his knees to his chest and watches as Yasmin slowly shrinks away against the gray skies and endless fields. How strange, he thinks. How funny. Leaving really is that easy.

He looks down at the satchel, and pulls out the package. He looks at it for a moment, and hesitates—but, well, if they’re going, isn’t that the same as being gone…? Technically?

Varian sneaks a glance at Adira, who is sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed. She opens one eye under the attention, and looks at him blankly for a full second—then snorts, softly, and closes her eyes again.

Well. He supposes that’s technically permission. Right? Totally. Yes. One-hundred percent.

He looks at Ruddiger. Ruddiger pats at the package with one paw and gives a meaningful look. Which—yeah, okay. There’s no saying no to that.

Varian opens the package.

It’s well-wrapped, sealed tight; it takes him a few tries to rip it open. He tears off the paper in one long strip, setting it aside for Ruddiger to play with later. There is an extra layer of tissue paper to get through, and he tests the thing in his hand, frowning. It’s light—soft, and malleable in his hands. He turns it over and pulls off the paper—

His breath catches. Varian goes absolutely still. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Adira is almost smiling.

Gloves.

Yasmin has given him alchemy gloves.

For an instant, all Varian can do is stare. The gloves are made from heavy leather, with stiff stitching and an oily waterproof sheen. They’re a little different from his old ones—a block maroon trim lines the ends—but still. Gloves. She’s given him…

And it hits him, all at once. Every question, every fear, every moment of struggle—every time he’s had to fight against the anger that burns constant in his chest, every instant of pushing back against the urge to run away. Nothing has changed, in the end. Nothing is very different. He’s still not sure what he’ll do—what he’s even doing now—or even the difference between forgiveness and redemption and why it matters.

But he holds the gloves in his hands, this gift he didn’t ask for and didn’t expect, and—he wants to. He wants to know. He wants, at the very least, to try and find the answer.

Varian blinks rapidly, feeling tears starting to well up. His breath hitches. His eyes burn. He lurches to his feet, standing shaky on the rocking cart, and leans over the back with his hands braced against the ledge.

“Yasmin!”

In the distance, he sees her head rise. He’s too far to properly read her expression, but she’s looking at him. She is waiting for an answer. Varian pitches his voice as far as he can. “I’ll—I’ll be good! I will!”

He lifts his voice, calling out, his words echoing across the fields: “I promise I’ll try!”

Yasmin’s form is growing distant, indistinct. She doesn’t yell back. But she raises her hand, a quiet goodbye silhouetted dark against the pale gray sky, and Varian almost thinks she might be smiling.

And then the cart turns down a bend in the road, and she is gone.

Varian sits back down in the cart and wipes the tears from his cheeks, pulling on the new gloves with trembling fingers. His smile wavers bright and thin on his face. The weight of the gloves makes a knot catch in his throat. For the first time in over a year, in a long, long time… Varian finally feels complete.

It’s not that things are better, really. He’s still afraid—still shaking with it. Going back to Corona still fills him with dread, and he has yet to learn how to deal with the rocks. But for the first time in a while, for all the problems ahead, Varian finally feels like he can face them. Adira’s presence by his side is almost a comfort; the cart, lurching down the road, is finally going somewhere. He finally knows where he’s headed. He finally has a start to this long road he has chosen to walk.

He reaches up and rests a hand on Ruddiger’s head, and the raccoon sniffs at the new gloves and squeaks, delighted. Ruddiger is warm and weighted on his neck, a soothing constant. Varian tilts his head back to that cloudy and bright sky, and his smile pulls hard at his cheeks. It’s a small smile, a fragile thing—but it is there, faint but real, and maybe that’s enough.

It’s not working.

Her head aching with the strain of staring at an empty canvas for far too long, Rapunzel blows a strand of hair from her face and settles back on her heels, one hand propped on her hip. She lowers the paintbrush almost reluctantly. The canvas is… it’s a mess. Colors an ugly swirl, a tangle of mish-mashing hues, and she changed her mind on the subject half-way through, and now…

Oh, it’s awful. A lost cause. She sighs and moves the canvas away from her frame, her heart heavy. Another one bites the dust.

Usually this works. Art has always been Rapunzel’s avenue of expression—her way of wants, of desires, of dreams. The new mural spread out on her balcony floor, for instance. But this time, something’s gone wrong. It’s not so much art block as it is something else—a restlessness, an itch, an emotion she can’t pin down. There’s something she’s feeling, something she needs to get down on paper, and yet…

She can’t figure out what it is, this time. It’s not working. For the first time in forever, Rapunzel has found an issue she can’t work through with paint. She isn’t exactly pleased with this astounding phenomenon.

Or maybe, Rapunzel thinks glumly, settling back on her bed, watching the rain pool outside her window—maybe it’s just too much. She’s had… so much to think about, these past few days. The attacks, the blackmail, Vardaros, the Baron…

Stalyan.

Rapunzel’s lips thin, her mouth twisting on the thought. It’s—she’s not stupid. She knows, she knows Eugene loved others, once, knows he was a rogue and a flirt and… well, she knows. Stalyan isn’t a surprise so much as she is… a name, at last, to put to the once many nameless faces. And she isn’t even really the problem. It’s just—

Rapunzel had to learn through a letter.

It’s that which grates on her most of all. This stupid situation—this stupid mess—and it’s so silly, anyways, because Eugene has written the exact same thing. I wish I could have told you in person. I’m sorry I couldn’t. And still, she can’t stop thinking about it—about all of it. Having to learn all this stuff through a letter, and then Cassandra hadn’t even been able to give the letter to Rapunzel. She’d had to sneak it through her window via Owl, because the secret passage route to Cassandra’s rooms only works so long as it remains undiscovered, and…

It’s—awful. It’s just awful. And annoying. And… ugh.

Rapunzel falls back eagle-spread on her bed, bare feet kicking in the air, hair loose and pooling on the floor of her bedroom. Beyond her window she can hear the soft drip of rain, a storm that has lingered over Corona for almost a week now, and she closes her eyes to the soothing sound. It’s only morning, but— she’s exhausted. And she’s already pushed her hands to the limit, from her frustration with the canvas. And she’s still in her nightgown. Maybe—she just needs a break. Maybe she should just go back to sleep…

A knock sounds at the door. “Um, Princess?”

Elias. She bites back a sigh and pries her eyes open, lifting her head. “Yes?”

“Um, your, your parents—um, uh, the King and Queen… request your presence gr-greeting some guests to the castle…”

Oh. Rapunzel closes her eyes. “The…um…” She should know this. “The merchant groups. Yilla. Renewing contracts.” More importantly—it’s busywork. All the politics are already figured out. She resists the urge to sigh again, louder this time.

The queen hasn’t pushed the question about her hands, even though she obviously wishes to. In that way, Rapunzel’s parting comment has left its mark. That doesn’t mean anything else has changed. Her parents are still, even now, trying to keep Rapunzel in the dark.

She scowls at her bedcovers, lowering her head to cradle her forehead in her palms. Pascal, on her shoulder, pats her face in quiet sympathy. “I’ll be right out,” she calls to Elias, exhausted with it all. “One moment!”

She gets dressed as quick as she can, in the stiff formal gown Rapunzel hates but her parents prefer for formal situations. Pascal helps wordlessly with the bodice, and while usually Rapunzel would braid her hair for this, she has neither the time nor ability—after her painting session her hands are stiff and frozen, tight with pain, and she grabs for the beads, instead. Pascal helps her with the clasp, and when Rapunzel pulls on her gloved she has to do so with her teeth.

She’s pushed it today, she thinks, somewhat mournfully, and massages gently at her palm to loosen some of the pain. Her fingers still won’t curl right. Pascal gives her a look.

“I know,” Rapunzel mutters, exasperated, and hides her hands behind her back when Pascal opens the door. Elias stands in the door, hand raised as if to knock again, amber eyes wide—when he sees her he squeaks and hurries aside, hands scrambling at his halberd.

Rapunzel sweeps out into the hall, right past Elias, and heads for the stairs. He scrambles to keep up, eyes wide behind his helmet. Despite everything, the sight almost makes her want to smile.

“We’re meeting in the throne room, right?”

“Ye-yes…”

She does smile at him this time, hoping to put him more at ease. She doesn’t dislike Elias—doesn’t really know him, honestly—but he doesn’t seem the bad sort, and his nerves are understandable. He’s stressed, too, and his support during the dinner conversation has endeared him to her a little. He reminds her, strangely, a little of Varian—less confident, and not at all angry, but… young. And trying his best, with all that’s been given. Quiet kindnesses.

The thought of Varian makes her smile falter. Rapunzel turns away. She hasn’t thought of Varian in… too long, she thinks. She’s tried not to. It’s—useless to worry about him, when he is so far away and she is unlikely to ever see him again, but sometimes thoughts like this crop up. It’d be a stretch to say she misses him—even now, after the labyrinth, she isn’t sure where they stand, and he’d been cruel to her for so many months before that—but sometimes she wonders how he’s doing. If he’s okay. If…

Useless thoughts, in the end. She tries to push past them. Quick, Rapunzel! Distraction!

“It’s—” Hello, train of thought, where did you go? Rapunzel clears her throat. “It’s… been a hard couple of weeks, hasn’t it?” She bites her lip, staring down at her bare feet. “I want to say, I’m sorry for all the trouble—”

“It—it’s no trouble!” Elias fumbles, then seems to blanch when he realizes he’s cut her off. He swallows hard. “It’s… it’s an honor, my princess.”

“Mm…”

He watches her, hesitant, and then slowly relaxes. “But…” His voice trails off, going small, and he takes a quick breath. “Ye-yes, it… it has been, um… quite a week. Haha.”

An understatement, really, and to such a degree she almost smiles, even though it isn’t really funny. Eugene’s letter had filled Rapunzel in on that, too. There’s been another harbor attack—the city of Port Caul, in the kingdom of Lencia, brought to its knees. It’s not at all near Corona—a two months journey at best—but it’s a major trade partner, and now it won’t be trading at all, not for a while. Another route lost.

“The castle has really been up in arms…” She glances back at him, wondering. “I meant to ask you—was it like this before I came back, too? It all feels so sudden to me, but…”

Elias hesitates. “It, um, it was… actually was kind of sudden,” he admits, voice small. “First it was a letter… and the routes started closing… and—and then—” He cuts himself off, looking away, and shrugs one shoulder. His lips are pressed thin and tight.

“…Oh.” There’s not much she can say to that. Rapunzel turns away, eyes fixing back on the hall. They move down the final flight of stairs, stepping out into the main wing of the castle. The grand hall stretches out wide before them, pale and blue in the dim light of the morning rain. The lamps burn small and golden, little haloes of light.

“Act-actually…”

Rapunzel blinks, looking back at Elias. The boy looks conflicted, his breathing quick and funny. “Hm?”

“I… I have a friend. Addy. Adeline. Um.” He shifts in place, his grip tight on the halberd. Rapunzel blinks, her attention focusing. He looks—afraid. Almost ill. She straightens. This is serious, apparently. “She… we—explore. Sometimes. Tunnels… and, and—dungeons.” He bites his lip, hard. “I’m, I’m sorry, I mean, I don’t know if it’s… um, im-important? But I know—you’ve been looking around—and all this, it happened… at—the same time. As the attacks. And, and everything else.”

Rapunzel watches him, closely, stopped fully now. Elias cringes under her attention. “Maybe? But my friend—Addy—she thinks—there’s s-something—in one of the cells, in the dungeons, and we heard them—and after that night, everyone started getting so angry, all the time, and Addy, she thinks—” Elias cuts himself off mid-word. His eyes go wide. His attention fixes over her shoulder, and stutters to a stop. “C-C-Ca—”

Rapunzel follows his gaze. Her breath catches. Pascal squeaks on her shoulder. “Cass?”

Down the hall, exiting through the other set of doors, is Cassandra. After a week of silence, seeing her is like a shock—for a moment, Rapunzel feels frozen, staring. Cassandra walks down the hall with her fists clenched and her eyes dark, mouth twisted on a frown. She’s not dressed for guard duty yet, and she doesn’t seem to have noticed them, her head bowed to stare unseeingly at the polished castle floors. But she’s here. She’s right here.

The conversation completely forgotten, Rapunzel races forward, almost tripping in her haste. “Cass!” she cries. “Cassandra!”

Cassandra stops in her tracks, her head snapping up. Her eyes widen. “…Rapunzel?”

“Cass!” She barrels into Cassandra for a hug, squeezing her tight. Cassandra hugs her back almost on automatic, and when Rapunzel pulls away she still looks stunned, blinking fast. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! I haven’t talked to you since—” Last week, she means to say, but then she remembers Elias at her back and the fact her father has banned her from seeing Cassandra at all, and blanches. “—sssssssince I came back! To Corona! Haha!”

Cassandra blinks and then gives Rapunzel a look, almost bemused, a faint smile pulling at her lips. She doesn’t seem to have seen Elias yet. “Since you’ve been back,” she agrees, almost a question, her eyebrows raised. She looks Rapunzel up and down and blinks again. “What’s with the get-up?”

“Politics,” Rapunzel admits, sighing heavily. She scowls down at the formal gown and then lifts her head with a weak smile. “Um, merchant contracts, I think.” Lower, she adds, bitter: “Busy work.”

Cassandra’s face is momentarily unreadable, but then she visibly shakes herself and frowns. “That’s… I’m sorry, Raps.” She squeezes at her shoulder. “Chin up, yeah? You’ll…” She trails off, suddenly, her eyes catching over Rapunzel’s shoulder. Something flashes through her eyes. She stops talking.

Rapunzel glances back, seeing Elias, standing small and nervous at the end of the corridor and trying desperately not to look at them, and sighs, her headache returning. Right. Elias. Replacing Cassandra, watching her for the King…

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel says, subdued. She tries for a smile. “He’s… he’s fine. He’s actually very sweet, honestly.”

“Sweet for a spy.” Cassandra’s voice is cold. Rapunzel frowns at her, and she shakes her head. “No. No, that’s good. I guess. Sorry.”

“Yes…” Rapunzel leans in, hugging Cassandra again on impulse. She’s missed her, missed having her by her side, missed just having a friend. “I mean it, though! It’s been a while. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Cassandra steps away from the embrace, tone clipped. She rubs one hand at her upper arm, starting to look agitated.

“I’m glad.” Rapunzel steps back too, giving her some space. Her voice lowers. “Actually, um, I wanted to thank you—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“U-um, okay.” Rapunzel blinks fast and then rallies herself. She needs to go soon, but before she does— “I…” She drops her voice to a whisper. “I’ll try and get out tonight or tomorrow—I know we can’t really do anything, but maybe we could talk for a bit? Or visit Eugene? There’s some stuff I want to—to talk through, and—” She smiles, weakly. “I miss you guys.”

Cassandra doesn’t smile back. When she speaks, her voice is flat, and she is not whispering. “Are you serious?”

Rapunzel blinks fast, taken aback. “Um—”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“I—I just thought—”

“It’s not like I’ll have anything to report, anyway. Have I been any help at all these past few weeks?” She scoffs, cutting Rapunzel off before she can answer. “Besides, it’s not a good idea. Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

“I—no!” Rapunzel steps back, stunned. “Cass, of course not! I just thought…”

“We’re not even supposed to be talking right now,” Cassandra adds, poisonously, eyes snapping to Elias, and something in Rapunzel snaps.

“Cass!” Rapunzel shouts, and Cassandra’s eyes crack back to her. Rapunzel stares at her. She doesn’t say anything. The silence almost seems to echo. Cassandra’s eyes are wide.

“I don’t understand,” Rapunzel says, helplessly, her voice tight, and Cassandra outright freezes.

“You—!”

For a moment her face tightens, and she almost seems to snarl—and then the moment fades. Cassandra’s eyes squeeze shut. She brings a hand to her temple. Her lips curl not into a snarl, but a grimace. “…Sorry.”

“Cass…”

“Sorry. I just—haven’t been sleeping well.” Her hand drops. All at once she sounds tired, dull and worn thin. “It was good seeing you, Rapunzel. But let’s just… I’d rather not get into any more trouble than I’m already in, okay?” She turns away. “See you around.”

“Cass!”

It’s too late. Cassandra has already gone.

Rapunzel watches Cassandra go, feeling almost cold. Her breathing is tight. Her hands are aching. Her teeth clenched. Cassandra turns the corner and vanishes from view, and Rapunzel stares after her for a long time, something in her shaking. Pascal, on her shoulder, is frowning. His tail pats Rapunzel’s cheek. Rapunzel doesn’t move.

Hesitant footsteps approach her side, the clank of armor. “…Princess—are, are you okay?”

She breathes. “I’m fine.”

Elias is silent for too long. Rapunzel turns to him. “What is it?”

“You—you look—” He falters, his voice going small. “Um.”

The observation startles her. Rapunzel stares. “What?”

Wordless, Elias points a hand to his face.

Rapunzel raises a hand to her cheek, feeling numb. Her gloves come away damp with tears. She stares at it, wide-eyed, and thinks: Oh.

Oh.

The empty canvas, the uncertain emotion. The tangle of feeling in her gut. And this, too—the burn behind her eyes, inside her chest, in her heart. The roar in her ears. She knows this. She knows this.

Her mouth is dry. Her hands are shaking. She is struck with the sudden urge to—to break something, or scream, or just sit down and cry. Why is everything going wrong? Eugene, leaving. Stalyan—this part of his past he never shared, and he couldn’t even tell her to her face. Varian, missing, whose presence haunts her like a ghost—her parents—

She knows why Eugene can’t tell her. She knows why he didn’t want to. She knows it isn’t Varian’s fault that everyone is hounding her; she was the one who chose to let him go, after all, which is the main issue. Her parents are another story, but… she’d accepted this. She’d known this was coming. She’s fighting it. She was ready for this!

And yet.

Her hands shake.

Rapunzel stares at the floor, feeling cold, feeling flushed. She rubs hard at her face, trying to stop from crying. She hates this. She hates crying like this—her throat all twisted and her words all gone. She hates this.

Cass.

It’s not fair. She knows Cassandra is hurting. She understands why. But Rapunzel didn’t ask for this, either.

Why won’t you just talk to me?

A long time ago, after Varian nearly killed Rapunzel with the arrow and everything spiraled into pieces, Cassandra had sat Rapunzel down and asked her to be honest. To trust her. And Rapunzel had promised. She had promised, and she has—she has tried, over and over, again and again. She is trying so hard to be honest with them, even when it hurts, even when it’s about things she wishes she could lock away and never think about again. And it infuriates her. It rises in her like a burning wave, strangles her throat and makes her eyes hot, because—

I’m trying to be honest with you, Cass. So why won’t you be honest with me?

Why won’t you talk to me?

Rapunzel swallows hard. She closes her eyes. She breathes through her teeth. She raises her hands and threads them through her hair, yanks once and yanks hard, and then smooths the strands back with shaking, aching fingers.

Elias’s voice is so quiet. “I’m—I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Rapunzel pries her eyes open, breathing past the wall of emotion beating against her chest. “I—it was always there, I guess, I just—I didn’t realize. Really.” She reaches a shaking hand and dabs away the tears with her gloves. “Sorry.”

Elias looks miserable. His eyes fall. “I…” He hesitates. “If there, there’s anything I can—”

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel repeats, quiet. She rubs her face dry and breathes in deep, pulling on composure like a cloak. Heat coils tight and bitter in her gut. She hates it. She hates this. “…We—we have somewhere to be, anyway. The merchants.”

Elias nods, hesitant. His eyes cannot seem to decide whether to stay fixed on the floor or on her.

“Right,” Rapunzel says. She takes another breath. “Right.” She rubs the last of her tears away and straightens. “Let’s go, then.”

His lips press. His head dips. But Elias does not argue, and he leads her to the throne room with his head low and his shoulders bowed almost in something like guilt.

She should say something to him, probably—but she’s tired. She’s so tired. She is so angry she aches with it. Her hands are shaking like a storm, and she has to fold them behind her back to keep her poise. Even her hair feels heavy, right now—a ball-and-chain, the weight of destiny. Awful, awful, awful. Her eyes burn. She wants to go home.

Rapunzel enters the throne room with her head high and her mind a million miles away. She is late, and the advisors look testy; Rapunzel’s mother meets her eyes for one second before her gaze flickers down to Rapunzel’s hands. Rapunzel moves them behind her back, poised, her expression unchanging.

Her father watches the exchange warily, his lips pressed thin. He seems to realize something is wrong. He studies her face. “Rapunzel—”

She meets his eyes. “Yes?”

He quiets. He looks away.

Rapunzel bites back another sigh, and heads for her seat by their thrones, settling into the chair exhausted relief. She folds her gloved hands in her lap, half-hidden in her skirts, and Pascal jumps down to settle in her palms, the weight of him warm and soothing against the ache. Rapunzel forces a faint smile for him and then keeps her eyes on the great doors. As soon as this is over, Rapunzel is taking a nap.

She’s so tired.

Trumpets sound, loud and echoing, and the noise makes her flinch. The merchant caravan is announced by the herald, their issues presented… the doors, swinging open, admit a bald middle-aged man with sweat on his brow, dressed in dark red threads. Yilla, the merchant leader. He walks with wringing hands.

And then, stepping up beside him— a woman.

Even from a distance, the newcomer is visibly striking. Long, dark brown curls frame a heart-shaped face, her clothes expensive and well-tailored. She is tall and smirking, her head high and proud, and she almost seems to be laughing as she leans over to the herald, whispering something in the man’s ear. Her smile is cold and bright and unwavering on her face.

Something washes over Rapunzel then. A warmth. A whisper. A hiss of threat. She straightens in her seat. Her head spins. Her eyes feel hot, burning. There is something here—something about this woman—that makes her every nerve scream in warning.

The herald is still listening to the woman, and when she finishes speaking he goes pale in the face. For a moment he fumbles. His glance back at the King is terrified.

“And—and if I may present,” says the herald, stuttering and shaking on his tongue, “with the merchant Yilla… his g-guest, Lady Stalyan of Vardaros!”

Deep in the dungeons of Corona, locked far away from the commotion above, a lone prisoner sits slumped against the wall.

His once-long and beautiful hair has gone ratty and grimy with time; his hands hang limp before his knees. His shoulders slump forward, his head bowed—in defeat, perhaps, or maybe sleep. In this dismal and empty dungeon hall, the prisoner rests with his eyes closed.

Water drips in the distance. Someone yells. The creak of metal armor from patrolling guards passes by and fades, again and again. And still, the prisoner does not move. Still, the prisoner does not speak. His shoulders are tense and taut. His fingers curled. His eyes closed, his ears straining. Not a man asleep at all—not defeated—but something else. He is listening. He is waiting. He has been waiting here for over a year.

And then, at long last: he hears the answer.

Something shifts in the shadows. An echo hums in the air, a low buzz like a swarm. The prisoner’s fingers seize and twitch at the icy touch trailing his shoulders, and then still at the whisper echoing in his ears.

His eyes burn. His smile pulls wide and cruel. The prisoner starts to shake, laughter wheezing through clenched teeth, and in the shadows of his eyes, his hatred shines bright and green.

“It’s finally begun, huh?” He crosses his legs at the ankle, lounging back against the wall. He exhales a long sigh. The air ripples at his breath—an echo, a whisper made manifold, a twist of magic like an oily rot. Halfway down the hall, a guard is struck with a blinding rage, his innermost anger set to boiling, and turns to strike his fellow. A sword is drawn with a shriek of steal. Someone screams.

The commotion catches an audience—another set of guards—footsteps pound on the stone, the men come running. The guard, down the hall, is apologizing. His sword is bloody. His fellow lies still on the cold floors. I don’t know what came over me, the first guard is saying, high and hysterical. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want— I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this!

And far away from the disaster, safely hidden in his cell, Andrew tilts back his head to the dungeon’s grimy ceiling and laughs.

“Finally,” he says.

I don’t know what came over me!

“Let the countdown begin.”

#tangled the series #tts #rapunzel's tangled adventure #rta #varian #rapunzel #eugene fitzherbert #cassandra #adira #tangled #iza fanfic #fic: faults of the mind #fic series: the long road back to home #please reblog if you liked it!!!! 💖

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Text

Anaticula Pt 67

“Alberforth, it’s time.” Lowly your voice sounded in the doorway connecting the Room of Requirement to the Hog’s Head. Turning away from the pantry your old friend and confidant in each of your most elaborate plans reached out grabbing a stuffed rabbit he twisted the plaque on the platform to the side revealing a smaller one underneath that flashed with a blue phoenix etching popping up through the world calling for aid.

In his turn again he smirked seeing that you were gone and stole a glance at the portrait of his sister then mumbled, “You never deserved her trust Albus.” A step away and he drew his wand joining those in Hogsmeade setting up barricades and traps for the incoming hordes of Death Eaters.

Through the halls of Hogwarts you sent out hundreds of traps and hexed items that whizzed past the students racing for the hidden entrances for their mandrake doubles to wither once they were next to their waking real bodies again. By the thousands you could feel them coming, Dark Wizards and creatures, those from R and Death Eaters alike on the distant edges of Hogwarts’ land while a squeeze of the rubber duck charm around your neck triggered a cascade of Auror doubles of those closest to you with those not so close bravely coming without a double.

The first to drop were the Carrows, a blast from Minerva sent them flying out a fourth floor window away from a band of fleeing students to fell heavily into the courtyard before hurrying the students along to seal the door behind them into the wall. Each and every entrance was sealed and now vanished to any but you while down in the Chamber Opal, Norberta and Tulip stood ready to face any who might possibly get past your defenses keeping the cowering students in a sense of calm as they filed out through your doorway onto a beach of your island completely removing them from danger.

Quietly you eyed yet another archway leading to another bridge the larger Chimera had taken guard over with her daughter at her side when your head turned at a rise of the hair on the back of your neck hearing, “Hello Petal.”

Sharply your eyes narrowed and in a shift of your hair to midnight blue a purple burst of light exploded from your palm you shoved up towards him sending him flying out into the courtyard you passed through a dark hallway to enter hearing Patricia stating, “Meddlesome little half-blood.”

Another member of R stood cackling as his twin stated, “Someone called a party at Hogwarts.”

A barrage of curses flew your way and a swirl of your hand rebounded them back at the group that instantly stepped back, well those that weren’t taken out at least. All at once they began to flood around you and Aurors flocked towards the sounds of the cries of pain to join in and in the middle of them Hermione stood holding Harry back from a rogue curse she blocked staring at you open mouthed stating, “She’s not using a wand.”

Ron, “What?”

Hermione, “Her hands are empty. Wandless magic.”

Harry, “How-,” His words broke at the burst of lightning around you in countering another attack lighting up the dark courtyard with a light giving way to the sliver of daybreak coming on. Silence echoed through the halls before an explosion of a bridge Minerva had tasked Neville, Dean and Seamus to blow up sounded seemingly luring another wave of attacks. Another swipe of your hand rebounded a wave of curses while at another entrance Alberforth took his stand guarding that one with another Alberforth, his brother Albus in disguise, to aid however he could.

More and more bodies descended on the school and it was in a giant rumble on the tail end of another explosion that signaled the arrival of Riddle and his closest followers triggering a telling burn in your arm. Turning to mist you flew back to the main hall scanning the crowds to find Draco, wide eyed he stood staring at the burning remnants of the barrier and your hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his daze, “Go down to the Chamber.”

“I-,” His eyes scanned out the window again and he promptly nodded following the glowing orb you sent ahead of him to guide the path, all at once a floating mirror had your head turning seeing Novem and his shadow fox buddy both bristling at the battle they darted off into to aid in shuffling the students back to safety. Racing off trying to shield students in their battles yourself you blasted R’s and Death Eaters alike out of the school between thick colored smoke screens from floating jack-o-lanterns before they could see who had cast the curse with those too terrified to keep fighting being led after Draco to safety.

Down the steps you raced into the growing battle in time to keep a chunk of a wall from collapsing on Dean sending the R member flying into it. All the Aurors and DA kept their eyes peeled for any snakes as you had mentioned for them to do so and it seemed that Neville had taken that task seriously, as in a clear swing of Gryffindor’s sword mid jump apparating from who knows where lopped the head off of Nagini.

In his landing he caught sight of Flitwick grabbing your side when your knees buckled as you gasped harshly. All at once in your mind the image of a shriveled body flashed, though blinking back to the battle in another shattering wall your eyes locked on Bellatrix and the curse she shot at Neville.

“Neville-,” You whispered and mentally pulled him to your place taking his and the curse Bellatrix had fired off that dropped her jaw in its sending you through the wall behind you. Harshly and painfully you slammed into the ground and rolled to your knees with a glare meeting her gaze in your rise stating tauntingly through the clench of your stomach knowing how Riddle might take her attacking you as it would leave her 19 day old daughter without a mother. But you had eased right into a clear shot of having someone casting the final Killing Curse taking you out as the last Horcrux leaving Riddle vulnerable. “What did I tell you Bella, about attacking my cousin?”

Every step you took had her wide eyed staggering backwards knowing that she had kicked the proverbial hornet’s nest even through her delirious hatred and loathing of you. Parting around you the crowds in her try at a fleeing attack watched the barrier of sparks you cast in front of you rebounding into the crowds aiding the Aurors around you as you rushed after Bellatrix.

Into the courtyard you stepped feeling Riddle’s attention on you instantly with a snarl as Bellatrix fired another curse at you that you easily swatted away. The closer you drew the more desperate she grew trying to rebound and block your own attacks trying to keep you far away from her preventing another bashing like you had unleashed on her years before. Desperate enough to fall right where you wanted her, in the sea of curses your faked shriek cried out and stabbed into the chest of wide eyed Riddle now panting watching your faked collapse to your knees in Bellatrix’ Cruciatus curse.

Flinching at the cries of pain in the continued pride building attacks she fired at you bending you more backwards in the walls forming of your allies inside the castle behind the barrier you were holding to keep them at bay. “Do something!” Harry harshly whispered to Sirius, who was holding him back teary eyed flinching at another of your cries which started to lull the dark forces from fighting amongst themselves.

Sirius gripped Harry’s arm tighter, “We can’t.” Flinching again at another curse.

Bellatrix tauntingly stepped closer as you panted to exaggerate how badly her practically painless curses, due to your constant exposure to the curse, whispering in a musical tone she said, “Yes, My Queen? You were saying, My Queen?!” Another curse jolted out and you could feel Riddle stepping closer and caught a glimpse of the fake Elder Wand in his hand.

Softly in Parseltongue you let slip in barely a whisper, “Uncle-,”

That seemed to be enough as he shouted out in the next attack from Bellatrix splitting the forces blocking him from the both of you, “Bellatrix!”

In her try to release the curse your shut eyes hid the silver shade in them and she muttered, “No!” In your forcing her to double her attack on you.

All at once gasps seemed to fill the courtyard as in his casting the Killing Curse your body flung up almost like a rag doll blocking the view of the silver eyed Witch behind you, shakily you whispered so only she could hear in Riddle’s agape stare at you, “I’m sorry Bella.”

Closing your eyes you missed the curse rippling around your body with the forceful rage behind it that sent your bodies to fall and roll to a stop on the rubble coated courtyard.

Closing the gap between you an inhuman scream erupted from Riddle in his collapse at your side with trembling hands reaching out to ease them across your chilled skin shifting your awkwardly positioned body off its side revealing in a brush of your hair from your face as your scar oozed black liquid smudging across his skin in his move to cradle you against his chest.

The barrier had still held strong to the shock of those looking on as Bellatrix found her feet adamant you had made her do it. You had hoped he would spare her, though in his raging glare he rose up leaving you on the ground, screaming again as he fired another Killing Curse at her.

Stepping over her crumpled body he began to shout for Harry, who those behind your barrier held behind a pillar keeping him from rushing out, though Neville approached the barrier and called out, “It doesn’t matter!” At that Riddle fell silent, “It doesn’t matter that she’s dead!”

Warm and golden a breeze rippled around you as in your trot up a tall hill you chuckled to yourself and raced faster up to the top reaching the summit right as the sunrise erupted across the sight in front of you. Just like in your favorite picture with your parents you were at that same hilltop and turning your head to your right your lips quivered at the tears pooling in your eyes breaking free in a tight hug you stole from your mother, who hugged you back even tighter.

Soft and broken she said, “Go back.” Another tear rolled down your cheek in burrowing your face in her shoulder holding back a sob, “Your father needs you, as does your baby girl.” In her pull back your chest began to tighten not wanting to breathe in her step away from you fading into the golden light taking the area around you with her leaving only the light.

A blink was all it took and steadily on your back in a sharp inhale the courtyard flashing in various shades from curses in the fighting picking up again between the Dark Wizards the allies all turned their gazes to you in the lifting of your left shoulder in a test of gaining control of your body again. All at once the curses you had received burned and froze with the familiar dull spreading ache of the poison turning your veins a bright blue shade in the restarting of your heart again matching the shade of your hair shifting back from black.

Stunned Death Eaters behind you froze at your legs and arm sliding in your rise to your side shakily climbing to a knee when your gaze fell on Riddle raising his wand at Neville, who noticed your rise over Riddle’s raised arm. Shaking his head again, he said, “You’re nothing without her! You are nothing without love! With nothing to fight for! To die for!”

Riddle fired back, “And without her, Longbottom, I have no use in protecting you!”

Inhaling sharply you gathered your strength in the unsheathing of your wand from your back pocket, seeing both Alberforths standing behind your father open mouthed watching your apparating between the pair with your wand firing out a yellow Anaticula spell matching his Killing curse.

Wide eyed with tears rolling down his cheeks he kept his gaze on you watching the pooling of your hair into your face in the forceful burst of wind from the spells racing at one another causing your curls to stick in the liquid seeping from your scar still.

All at once the wave of green from his Killing Curse was tugged back at the approach of your yellow glimmering spell and wrapped around him. His body never fell, it merely disintegrated to nothing as the fake wand in his hand burned itself to nothing in his last moments of being solid.

In the moment he was gone a glass orb with metal bands around it was drawn from your pocket you dropped in your body collapsing. Folding you in his arms Neville pulled you back behind your barrier.

All at once the ball lit up and began to float shooting out streams of lightning between frantic spins of the bands making Alastor laugh at your use of his favorite capturing device. Hundreds were held in painful limbo the Aurors captured all they could while hundreds began to flee from the device while Neville raced with you in his arms through the crowd of parting Aurors and students.

Spotting your telling blue veins Minerva shouted, “Alastor! Alastor! She’s been poisoned again!”

Turning on his heel he trotted after you while your family and the Weasleys raced after you while Barty cleared the debris along the way. Hall by hall until inside the roofless Hospital Wing full of dust and warped debris righted itself to Alastor’s charms. All around the bed he summoned for you to be laid out upon.

On your side in your groggy state Barty cupped your face saying, “You stay here!” Wiping the black liquid drained from your scarred half of your face with the sheet under you while your father held you on your side tugging out the tail of your shirt exposing your scarred and bleeding back in search of the source of the poison. “No one is touching you.”

Sirius, “I don’t see it! It’s not on her back.”

Tonks in her grip on your ankle she glanced up at your face when you whimpered in her grip on it making her look closer and say, “Here, just above her knee!”

She moved aside and Alastor nodded to Madame Pomfrey, “Give her the dose now so I can retract it.”

A tear rolled over the bridge of your nose in the parting of your lips for the knockout brew, and she said shakily trying to withhold her tears, “Just a nap, and we’ll have you all mended.”

At the foot of your bed the Professors gathered watching as Alastor removed the broken pen knife coated with poison from your leg then added the antidote. With ultimate care your father and uncles with wands extended began to summon streams of water to wash the blood, dirt and black ooze off of your body and hair. Inch by inch your outer layers were removed around a pair of towels to ensure that no injury was left unattended. Mild scrapes to gashes and blackening bruises all across each limb, your torso, neck and face only had your family wonder at how long it might be required for you to rest to return to peak health to think up plans to help you in doing so.

Barty behind them while your skin was dabbed dry with the towels covered you with a tank top and a pair of cutoff sweats to keep you comfortable and your wounds easy to reach while you were on bed rest. The act was laced with tears and followed by a cradle of your cheek in the tender press of his lips to your forehead that came before he summoned a chair to sit down at your side taking hold of your hand to hold onto for the long wait until you would awaken.

Harry, Hermione and Ron arrived with Draco not far behind after hearing from Dobby that the battle was over.

Panting from the run Draco asked, “Is she hurt bad?”

Madame Pomfrey answered, “No worse than she’s been hurt before.”

Barty’s eyes met hers asking, “She can still nurse? Em needs Morpher milk.”

She paused then answered, “She may have to wait a day for the antidote.”

Barty, “But, Em-,”

Tonks stepped closer and blurted out, “I’m pregnant.” All eyes shifted to her and her hair flashed orange for a moment then back to pink, “I, can nurse her, for a day or so, until the medicine wears off.” Haltingly Barty nodded then looked to you again finishing fixing your hair.

Around her shoulders Remus draped his arm while Regulus stroked Barty’s back as Narcissa entered the doorway and walked to Draco’s side looking you over and saying, “The loyal are gathering up those we cannot trust.”

Alastor smirked saying, “Handy, that.” He looked her over after confirming the glowing blue of your veins had darkened to a midnight blue, “Lucius rounding them up?”

Narcissa, “No, he is currently trying to find out where Bella stashed her daughter Delphini. Rudolphus doesn’t have her, he’s been captured.”

Alastor straightened up, “She had a child?”

Narcissa, “Unfortunately.”

Behind her Albus strode in with Alberforth, the latter looking you over saying, “If I am not mistaken, this is not the school we are standing in.”

Fred, “Swapped it last night.”

George drew his wand with his brother and they gave them a swish dropping the illusion of the castle replacing itself with the real one. After, Molly said with a pat on their shoulders sending dust from the now vanished rubble of the restored castle into the air, “Best swap out from your doubles, young ones first, we’ll go in groups.”

They nodded and did as she said turning from you to the enchanted doorway they called to head down to their bodies in their room at home, behind them Harry, Hermione and Ron were nudged on by Draco with Ginny, Bill and Percy with them. Soon the twins had returned and the adults began to switch off with Barty and your father being the last to go.

All through the night they kept watch as the students were called back into the still heavily guarded school until an hour after your groggy awakening through the front gates strolled a band of Aurors not from the fight but from the Ministry behind the now awakened Pius from his Imperius hold.

Clammy with the dark veins still visible, clearly wounded badly and unable to fully fight back you floated between the band of Aurors trying to remind yourself to keep breathing to avoid passing out at the sudden spike of your heartbeat in the growing shouts filling the school.

Apparating at once in the group you were suddenly in the main hall of the Ministry under the watch of stunned Aurors and shielded Death Eaters alike watching your path being led off to the inquisition hall.

A flash of red had your eyes darting to Percy in his dart to blend into the crowding hall mentally tapping your mind that he’d escaped before the Aurors holding you could block those in the school from following them. Subtly he remained with you all the way into the audience watching as the Wizengamot sat and you were magically shoved into the seat in the middle of the circular seating.

In a squirm you tried to right your position flinching your feet off the cold floor onto the mildly cool wooden chair legs fighting the sting of the marble on your bare feet.

“Miss Black you sit before the Council accused of being a Death Eater, the greatest follower and second in command of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, wielder of hundreds of cases of Mandrake misuse and kidnapping, How do you plead?”

For a moment as he spoke your eyes had dropped to your bare forearm seeing the Dark Mark topped with a crown of roses fully visible and bright red in Riddle’s death breaking the shielding spell. “Guilty,” you whispered.

“Speak up!” Pius ordered and your eyes rose to his.

“Guilty.” You repeated louder stirring up comments from the audience and clearly torn Council on what to do.

“Let me make this clear, you are admitting that you knowingly abused mandrake roots to make doubles of students to fight as your army?”

“Yes.”

“You knowingly kidnapped dozens of people, families even, including Muggles-,”

“Hundreds,” his brows inched up, “I’ve arranged kidnappings for hundreds of people.”

“You knowingly pledged your allegiance to the Darkest Wizard of our age!”

“Yes.” You replied weakly starting to feel your legs and feet prickling through the chair from the chill coming from the floor.

“Raised yourself to be his second in command?!”

“Yes.”

“WHY?!”

Flatly you replied feeling the heavy gaze of the Council on you, “I did what had to be done for Riddle to die, to protect the Muggles-,”

Pius scoffed, “DO NOT LIE IN THIS COURTROOM!!”

Weakly you smirked and said, “Then if you will not hear my answer explain my actions yourself.”

“You did this for greed!” argumentative shouts grew and he continued, “Greed for power, to raise yourself up to better standing than you could ever possibly be.”

“Ah, my sentence then, since you are so decided?”

“YOU WILL STAND FOR YOUR SENTENCE!”

With a nod you gripped the arms of the chair and in a trembling rise found your footing on the sting from the ice block of a floor and struggled against the sway happening in your aim to stand still peering up at the pompous man.

“Jaqi Black, for your actions and allegiance to the Dark Witches and Wizards compounded by a blatant disregard for this Council and Ministry that defends our corner of the Wizarding world I sentence you to LIFE IN AZKABAN-!” The roar of the now standing audience drew his eye after he shouted, “YOU WILL NEVER SEE YOUR CHILD AGAIN!”

Slams of the gavel sounded into the cries and shouts of those looking on in and off of the Council muffled to the thundering of your heart and rasp of your breathing only to come back to focus while Percy’s leap over the dividing rail widened his eyes and silenced the audience in his wand being drawn and path to stand between you. “No!”

Firmly and clearly Percy had spoken and in his move in front of you he stood straighter feeling your hand on his back to help you support yourself in remaining upright. “No?” Pius asked condescendingly, “Just what power do you imagine yourself to have here, Weasley?”

“I speak for reason, for my sister, when no one else will! You sentence her to life and I say no! She has spent her entire life answering and bending and scraping to everyone’s path but her own and now that she’s done what you all were too scared or pitiful to do yourselves now you want to cast her away under some rock somewhere, well I say no! There is nothing she has not done for the world at her own expense to see this war end and I will not let you lock her away again! You want to take her down you’ll have to go through me! The Wizarding World has spent far too long hiding behind her and Harry Potter’s backs! Come and take her, if you dare!”

The sneer on Pius’ face dimmed in the hop of another pair of Aurors, parents to students of yours with wands raised at Pius making him look between them and the others joining the moment including more than half of the Council making Pius shrink back in his chair. Heavily the doors to the hall shot open and a warm tear streamed down your cheek in a wavering inhale now gripping Percy’s coat in the back to remain standing as you watched Albus, Alberforth and your undisguised father stroll in with Rufus Scrimegeour stirring up gasps in the room.

Rufus eyed the hall saying, “It appears I am late to my own Wizengamot hearing, and some Death Eater puppet is currently in my seat!”

Pius, “But, your body-,”

“A fake, clearly not the only one.” Nearing you he looked you over seeing you were ready to drop and he patted your shoulder, “Have a seat Dear, won’t be a moment.” Turning around he caught Percy’s eye asking while your father helped you back into the seat, “What are the charges?” Percy repeated them as Rufus nodded in Pius’ being escorted out of the ministry to be questioned for his own trial later, “And the sentence?”

Percy, “Pius was aiming for Life in Azkaban.”

Rufus eyed those standing with wands now lowered and nodded with lips pursed, “I take it those opposed are standing,” his eyes lowered to you in his turn to do so. “Miss Black, you have pled guilty to all charges,” you nodded and kept your eyes on his fully expecting him to sentence you the same only to hear him say, “Miss Black, selflessly you have defended thousands of creatures, Wizards and Muggles alike, deserving or non deserving, myself and Dolores Umbridge included with the likes of Albus Dumbledore. For the rest of your life,”

His finger rose to hush the growing murmurs, “You will continue to defend and guide our future generations as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor until you reach the standard age for retirement. Furthermore, should one, of the fellow Death Eaters, whom you shall disclose to me by Saturday, who will be pardoned as your accomplices to bringing down You-Know-Who, should they ever commit a crime against another Wizard or Muggle alike or dare to rise up again you will be sentenced to life in Azkaban Prison. While all others must be named and handed over for trials. Is that clear?”

With a nod you replied, “Yes.”

“Then go back to Hogwarts and rest up, minds to mold, families to resettle. For which I would like a full roster of all rehoused and set for ‘rebirth’ by Monday morning at the latest.” In a sharp turn he stated, “Oh, and Mr Weasley, puppet or not threatening the Minister of Magic is subject to at minimum a suspension. Four months.” His head ticked to the side, “Go.”

Percy nodded, “I only ever joined to protect her from Fudge.” Then he turned to scoop you up in his arms smirking to himself at your arms draping around his neck and shoulders in a tightening hug.

Lowly in the path through your enchanted doorway you summoned in the hall that closed behind you leading you back to the Hospital Wing you said, “You didn’t have to do that Perce.”

“Yes I did,” he said without a pause, “We all did. No less than you deserve.”

Into the crowded Hospital Wing again you were carried with everyone listening to Sirius on what had happened. Freedom yes, but with a catch, a lifetime tether to the school you loved and would gladly defend, though now it was by force not by choice. It still stung and as you were laid back again into Regulus’ chest to help prop you up for the food tray Severus set out above your lap. “Thank you,” you whispered softly.

A pat of his hand on your knee had your eyes flinch to his and he said voicing your concern, “Bellatrix was ordered to remain behind, to tend to the child, you are in no fault she disobeyed orders and still came after a chance to harm you and our allies.”

“What if we can’t find the baby?”

He exhaled and Regulus said, “As painful as it sounds, we have to protect who we can,”

Remus, “Besides, the child of two mass murderers? No amount of love from us could erase the blood of her parents and how she would be treated for it.”

“I just want to know if she’s safe. She never asked for this.”

Barty sat beside you saying with his hand on your thigh, your eyes meeting as he said, “We will do all we can to sniff her out, at least for a safety check, for now, eat and rest.”

Looking up at Albus Harry asked, “Are you upholding it then?”

Gaining the Headmaster’s eyes on him, “Upholding?”

“The life sentence?”

Albus let out a breath, “Harry, there is little I can do.”

Harry turned to look at you as you said, “I expect you three in class on Monday.”

Harry, “You’re not serious? Why can’t I just stay home?”

Hermione, “I’ll be there,” She looked between the guys saying, “It will be nice, having a calm year for once.”

Ron, “Doubt it’ll be calm,” his eyes shifted to Molly fixing a loose seam around Percy’s shoulder on his jacket with her wand, then he said, “We should finish it out, Mate.” Nudging Harry’s side, “least to try for the cup again.” With a nod Harry agreed and went to sit on the bed beside yours asking about your next lesson.

Pt 68

#War at Hogwarts #Trial at the Ministry

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belmontsfate · 5 years

Text

Day 8: Gift - Dracul & Alucard

- The Year 2103 -

The castle that had stood for over a thousand years, serving as Dracul’s home, as well as the prison of his enemies, was now in ruins. Without Dracul’s presence, it had crumbled into a pile of rubble. Free from the castle’s influence a few of his previous servants had returned to his service, not knowing what else to do with their lives.

Though the castle was destroyed, some of the underground chambers remained, serving as hideouts for his remaining servants. Navigating through the winding tunnels, Dracul searched for the hideout of one servant in particular. Under normal circumstances, he had no trouble finding who he was looking for, but it would appear that this servant of his did not want to be found.

He had tried asking some of the other servants. The Gorgon Sisters were the first he had gone to, seeing as they seemed to know where everyone and everything was, but even they did not know of his whereabouts. No one knew where he was. So, with little choice, Dracul went in search of him.

His search led him down to the very depths of the tunnel, the place where once the prisoners of Walter Bernhard had endured torture unlike anything ever imagined. Eventually, he came across a chamber glowing with light. Pushing the door open, he found the toymaker seated on a wooden stool, polishing the wood of his favorite puppet. It was the very same puppet that had hidden the toymaker’s heart for many years.

The toymaker was so focused on the puppet that he didn’t even hear Dracul come in. That soon changed as Dracul cleared his throat, alerting the elderly man of his presence.

“Oh! M-My lord!” The toymaker exclaimed in surprise, his wrinkled eyes widening at the sight of the vampire as he slowly got up from his stool. “T-To what d-do I owe this p-pleasure?”

Dracul sighed. Out of all the servants, the toymaker was probably most frightened by him. You could tell that he feared him, even now that he was no longer lord of the castle, he still referred to him as such.

“I require your services, old man,” Dracul stated.

“A-And what is it you want, may I inquire?” the toymaker asked, his hands shaking as he reached up to adjust his spectacles. “I-I should warn you now that I have retired from my days of creating death traps and bringing beasts back to life.”

Dracul shook his head. “No, that is not why I have come.”

“Have you come to k-kill me then?” the toymaker gulped.

“I have not come to kill you either,” he assured the frightened old man. “I need you to create something for me, as a gift for my son.”

Once the toymaker calmed down a bit, assured that he would not die at Dracul’s hand, he started to approach him, a look of curiosity written across his face.

“Oh? Well, I can certainly manage that. What is the occasion? If my mind is not mistaken, the closest holiday is Halloween, and that isn’t exactly a day to give presents.”

To most people, October 24th was just another day, overlooked by the upcoming holiday, but to Dracul, it marked a far greater event …

“It is for his birthday, which is in only a few short days.”

As horrible as it was to think about, this would be the first time Dracul was present to celebrate the day with him, having missed all the others, including his actual day of birth. He wanted to do something special for his boy to make up for all the birthdays he had missed.

The toymaker nodded his head in understanding. “Did you have anything in mind that you would like to give him?”

Dracul lowered his head slightly in shame. “That is part of the problem. I haven’t the slightest clue what he would want,” he explained. “I have had such a short amount of time to get to know him. I fear that I shall never know him like a proper father ought to.”

“You love him, don’t you?”

Dracul looked down at the elderly man in confusion. What kind of question was that? “Of course I love him. He is my one and only son. I would do anything to make him happy.”

The toymaker smiled with satisfaction, pleased with the answer he had received. “Then allow me to give you a piece of advice,” he said. “Rather than having me make him something, you should give him something personal … Something from the heart … The size of a gift does not matter, but rather it is the memories contained in the item that matters most.”

Dracul considered the old man’s words. He had to admit that the old man was wise. It was good advice. However, what could he possibly give his son that would mean something to him? To get an understanding of what he may like, he tried to put himself in his son’s shoes.

It didn’t take him long to realize that his son’s early years must have been a lot like his own. Raised as an orphan, whose parents were presumed to be dead, Dracul had often felt alone, wondering what his parents were like and what had truly happened to them. He imagined that his son must have wondered the same things as a child.

That was when it hit him! Dracul had very few possessions dating back to his human life, seeing as he didn’t have many possessions in general at the time. However, there was one trinket in particular that he had retrieved before embarking on his quest to defeat the Lords of Shadow. For the last thousand years, it had served as a memento of his beloved …

A part of him didn’t want to part with it, but at the same time, he thought it to be a perfect gift for his son. It was the kind of gift that the toymaker had described. After a few moments of contemplation, he made up his mind. If this gift would bring happiness to his son, then it was more than worth it. Besides, Alucard would take good care of it. Of that, he had no doubt.

“You have been of help,” Dracul complimented the elderly toymaker. “Your words are wise. I shall take your advice.”

The toymaker merely bowed in reply.

Dracul turned and started to leave, but stopped as he reached the door. “I have heard that many families lost their homes as a result of the attacks on the city. My son claims that there are many parents with children who remain in the underground camp. I’m sure they would appreciate some toys.”

Dracul could not see the old man’s face, but he was sure there was a big smile on it.

“Thank you, my lord. I shall get to work on that right away.”

Then Dracul was gone.

~~~

A few days later, Alucard awoke to find a note left on the ledge of his stone coffin. Letting out a small yawn, he sat up and examined the note’s contents, immediately recognizing his father’s handwriting. It read;

‘Alucard,

Come find me in the library when you wake up. I have something for you.’

Alucard couldn’t deny that he was left curious by the strange note. What was his father up to? What could his father possibly have to give to him? Usually, his father came to speak with him in person. The fact that his father had left a note requesting that Alucard come to him was quite odd. He puzzled over it for a moment, but shrugged it off, unable to come up with any ideas.

Without delay, he climbed out of his coffin and quickly dressed, donning a green button-down shirt and a pair of simple black trousers before leaving his room. Stopping for a moment to see if he could sense his father’s presence, he realized that Dracul was indeed in the library just as the note said, and much to his surprise, he wasn’t alone. He could both sense and smell many of his servants in there as well.

He debated over whether he should wait for the servants to leave before going to see his father but in the end decided to go anyway, figuring that they would leave shortly after he arrived anyway.

The soft patter of bare feet against the cold stone floor filled the otherwise silent hall as he made his way to the very end of it. The cathedral itself wasn’t that big, especially not when compared to the former castle, but it was big enough for the two of them. Though, it would probably get bigger before his father was finished. In addition to the renovations being done, his father had also mentioned the possibility of adding onto the building, giving both of them bigger bedrooms.

Pulling open the door, he was surprised to find all of the servants standing there waiting for him. “Happy Birthday!” They shouted all together.

Alucard froze in shock. To say that he hadn’t been expecting this was an understatement. He hadn’t celebrated his birthday in centuries. He hadn’t even fully realized it was his birthday until that moment. Clearly, his father had remembered. The library was heavily decorated with balloons scattered about and streamers dangling from the bookcases. There was even a punch bowl filled with monster blood.

He was speechless … absolutely speechless … He had seen humans throw birthday parties like this for their loved ones, mostly younger children, but he had never had one thrown for him before. A part of him thought it strange to throw a birthday party for a vampire who had lived for over a thousand years, but at the same time, it felt nice. It made him feel a bit less like a vampire and a bit more human, minus the punch bowl filled with blood.

Eventually, he managed to stagger forward, looking around in awe. The servants smiled at him as his eyes passed over them, however, there was one face in particular that he was looking for.

Just then, the servants parted, revealing Dracul behind them. Crossing the distance between them, Alucard went to meet his father.

“Happy birthday, son,” he said, a smile spreading across his face as he held out a small neatly-wrapped box. “I hope you like it.”

Raising a brow at his father, Alucard took the box and carefully unwrapped it, pulling the lid of the box off. Inside was a dainty silver pendant with a flower detailed on the front. He was initially confused as to why his father would give him such a gift, but then he flipped it over and the significance of the gift dawned on him. Engraved on the back of the pendant were two names … Gabriel and Marie …

“This pendant belonged to mother,” he stated.

Dracul nodded his head, motioning for the servants to leave. It was only after every last one of them was gone from the room that the elder vampire spoke again.

“When I was but nineteen years old, I saved up what money I had and purchased this as a gift for your mother, to show her just how much she meant to me,” he explained. “I have kept it to remember her by all these years, but now I want you to have it, as I realize that you got even less time with her than I did.”

Alucard didn’t know what to say in reply to that. He felt happy … happier than he had felt in a long time … He had always wished he had something to remember his mother by, to remind him that she really had existed and wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. Not only did the pendant prove his mother’s existence, but it also proved that his father did love him, even if he wasn’t always the best at showing it.

Knowing that no one else was in the room to see, Alucard reached out and wrapped his arms around his father, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, father,” he said. “I love it.”

“I’m glad,” Dracul replied, returning the hug.

#Castlevania #Castlevania: Lords of Shadow #Castlevania: Mirror of Fate #castlevania fanfiction #Alucard #my precious alucard #gabriel belmont #eu sunt dracul #Dracula #31 days of writing #writing challenge

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imagine-darksiders · 5 years

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Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 7 - Diamond in the Rough.

Summary: It's the age old adage that transcends species; Our hero doesn't believe in love at first sight until he sees 'The One.'

Karn had always considered himself to be the hero of his own story.

But then, you came along.

---

Far off in the western corner of the Forge Lands, beyond a ravine known to most as Charred Pass, where the ground has been burned black by a never ending barrage of fireballs spewed from the belly of an active volcano, is a lone maker, caught up in the rush of a heroic battle.

Or at least, he imagines it must look very heroic and extremely brave. Perhaps even the bravest a maker has ever looked.

Karn; by far the youngest maker in Tri Stone – if not the whole realm – has taken it upon himself to single handedly battle an army of Corrupted construct warriors; immense creatures of living stone that have been stitched and stuck together by thick, winding strands of Corruption, the inky substance seeping deep into their calcified bodies and connecting every boulder together like writhing, ebony veins.

Surrounded by a moat of molten lava, the maker whirls gracefully across the Cauldron's stone courtyard, swinging left and right with one arm behind his back and the other clenched tight around his trusty, double-faced hammer,,

Well.. Graceful might be a bit of a stretch.

There has to be dozens – No! - Hundreds of the reanimated golems, and he's ploughing through great swathes of them as if they were little more than glass figurines and he, a raging stalker.

The young maker bellows out a whooping battle cry and brings the flat head of his gigantic hammer down on the eighth construct that hurtles towards him.

...So, he might have to embellish a few of the facts a little when he returns to the village. After all, a good story just isn't worth telling unless the hero – that's him; Karn – is pitted against perilous odds.

Why, by the time he's finished regaling the others with this epic tale, they'll be singing his praises for centuries to come, no doubt.

Head shaking to flick away the beads of sweat trickling down his furrowed brow, Karn raises a thick, metal boot and stomps it over the back of a downed construct, grinding the stone-fleshed warrior beneath his heel.

That is....if the others even believe him...

Not that they ever do. Even when he is telling the truth.

'Unreliable,' is what Alya called him once, among other things. And that was to his face! Maker knows what she's said behind his back.

Like air rushing out of a popped balloon, Karn visibly deflates, his ears drooping and face falling as he tries to swing at another construct on his left. But in light of his momentary lapse in concentration, he overshoots, misses, and the beast is able to duck beneath the hammer's handle, bringing it close enough to pound a vicious stone club onto his gloved knuckles. Despite the added protection of hardy leather and the construct's much smaller stature, those things can pack one hell of a wallop.

With a yelp, he recoils sharply, shaking out the bruised hand and shooting his assailant a snarl, lips pulled back to show off a pair of gleaming fangs.

Luckily, although numerous and fiercely relentless, the reanimated constructs aren't particularly fast. Or bright, for that matter. Releasing a prematurely triumphant gurgle, it lunges at his leg, this time aiming for an unarmored tendon on the inside of his knee.

Having pre-empted the move, Karn lets out a derisive snort, and simply steps aside.

The stone warrior flies past him and lets out a bewildered grunt as it crashes to the ground in a heap. Wasting no time, the maker swiftly dispenses righteous justice for his hand, raising the hammer high over his head and plunging it into the struggling golem with the force of a falling meteorite, garnering no small amount of satisfaction from the way its body explodes into smithereens, scattering rock fragments all over the courtyard.

“Oof! Bet that hurt!” he mocks, slinging his hammer over a shoulder and puffing out a rough exhale. Muscles twitching from the lingering adrenaline, he turns in a wide circle to survey the damage.

Covering every inch of the hard ground are the splintered remains of a dozen or so ex-corrupted constructs, freed from their tainted bonds only by the cold embrace of death.

Heaving a weary sigh, Karn stretches out his back and grunts as several of his overworked joints click and pop in protest. Briefly, he laments being so thorough in his swathe of destruction and mayhem. There isn't a single, recognisable piece left intact that he could have taken back with him to the village as a trophy. A nice head or two would have definitely added to his story's authenticity.

“Ah well,” he announces to the lonely courtyard, “Can't be helped.”

Glancing around in the vain hope that one of the other makers had inexplicably turned up to witness his glorious victory, Karn’s ears prick forward, only to droop again when he realises that, no, he’s still on his own.

As usual.

All of a sudden, motion from the corner of his silvery-grey eyes catches the maker's attention and he tenses, fists coming up to curl around his hammer and hauling it back into two hands. Lips curling and arms quivering with pent up anticipation, Karn wheels about to face the stone steps leading up onto the entryway.....

...and is promptly sent tumbling head over heels in love.

There's a girl standing at the edge of the courtyard, staring up at him, her eyes bright and wide and curious. On her feet, she wears a pair of big, brown, clunky boots which aren't at all in keeping with the rest of her tidy clothes. The hair on her head is a dishevelled, windswept mess, as though she'd been running flat out for hours on end and has yet to find the time to flatten it down. But by far the aspect that holds him utterly spellbound is her open face, beset just slightly by a shadow of nervousness and fatigue that lingers around her eyes and lips, but otherwise bursts with wonder. And the fascinated, inquisitive expression she’s aiming at him is no doubt a direct echo of his own.

Karn watches, dumbstruck, as her delicate lips give a twitch, then a cautious smile begins to lift her cheeks and as a result, his stomach does an involuntary somersault.

Incidentally, having never actually been in love before, he can only guess that this must be what it feels like – stepping off the edge of a cliff in the pitch black of night with absolutely no idea what's waiting for him at the bottom.

In fact, falling in love doesn't seem at all like Eideard described in his tales. He never mentioned this sensation of tumbling into plummetless uncertainty.

Thousands of years ago, when younglings were a frequent sight in the forge lands, Karn – too old and too proud to count himself amongst them - would linger within earshot as their elder parked himself on one of the stone ledges in Muria's garden and regaled the littlest ones with stories of grand adventures, world-ending battles and doomed paramours.

The latter stories interested Karn the least.

They just seemed so farfetched. All that nonsense about legends like Halldora and Eda, two of the most powerful shield-maidens in maker folklore whose eyes met over a blood-soaked battlefield and they knew – in a single glance - that they were destined to be together.

Karn remembers vividly scoffing at that one.

How could they know they were in love with just one look? And if that were the case, how did they manage it without their palms sweating and breath catching in their throats?

Now though, staring down at the vision treading carefully in through the courtyard's entrance, he sends Eideard a quick, mental apology because evidently, the Old one had been right. Love at first sight isn't such a preposterous notion as Karn had originally thought.

So here he is, standing with his elbows pressed tight into his sides and feeling a lot like a deer in the headlights, rooted to the spot by her resplendent gaze. Suddenly, he blinks.

He hasn't got the first clue as to what she is.

He could almost mistake her for an angel, were it not for the obvious lack of wings, a total absence of self-righteous superiority and her face isn't schooled into that permanent, supercilious scowl the birds constantly seem to wear.

She's certainly not a demon, that much is undeniable. What’s more, she still has her skin, hair and she's surrounded by a healthy, radiant glow. So that ticks undead off the list.

Karn may not be the most intelligent of makers, by his own admission, but there are a couple of things he's almost certain of: Her face is etched with a story he's never heard, her eyes haunted by hidden nightmares and he is hopelessly, ridiculously smitten. Whatever she is, she’s got him. She’s got him good and all it took was one glance.

She continues to regard him, a shy grin playing at the edges of her mouth until a moment later, his ears are perking up at the sound of her voice, vibrant and musical and chock full of so much ingenuousness, his heart gives a noticeable throb. “Wow,” she breathes, “Dude, that was amazing!”

To his rapidly increasing distress, all Karn can muster up in response is a doltish, “I – Er...Whu?” and almost instantly, he wants to go off, dig himself a deep hole and bury himself inside it.

But her friendly, open-hearted eyes only shine with mirth at his stumble and she gestures towards the piles of rubble strewn about his feet, growing increasingly more animated as she speaks.

“Ah, sorry. S'just that we saw you fighting those things on our approach! When that last one nearly got you, but you just moved out of the way and pummelled it like it was nothing?” She emphasizes her point by smacking a fist into her open palm before looking up at him again, grin widening. “That was amazing.”

“A-...Amazing?”

'Oh Maker have mercy, now she's gone and done it.'

Karn has been many, many things in his life, but he's never once been amazing. He's been a 'pest,' a 'loudmouth, 'in the way,' and 'a danger to everyone around him.' But never amazing.

The young maker isn't prepared for the unexpected lurch as his heart throws itself against his rib cage presumably in an attempt to get closer to the object of its newfound affection. He actually has to discreetly slide a hand over his chest in case she notices the organ thrashing against his skin. Hell, he's half convinced she can already hear it.

Karn's tongue peels away from the roof of his mouth and he clears his throat to try and repair a remaining scrap of dignity. However, at that moment, a new voice twitches his ear and makes him jump, solely because he hadn't realised that anyone else had even been there.

“Not another one...” it grumbles brusquely.

Karn gives himself a quick shake to clear the fog that had settled like a warm blanket over his mind and finally manages to roll his mystified gaze from the woman to a much larger, much more ominous being at her side; one that he recognises almost instantly. The sight of a mouthless, bone-white mask snaps him out of his stupor and he breathes, “A rider? Here?”

No sooner had the words left his tongue than a rumble suddenly moves the ground underfoot and the strange woman throws her arms out, steadying herself on the horseman and exclaims, “Good god! What on Earth was that?!”

Any lingering wonderment falls from Karn's face. He recognises the rumble's significance first and groans aloud, eyes darting around the courtyard. “Ah, maker’s bones. Thought I took care of you lot already!”

As they had done before, the thick slabs of stone begin to shake and rattle as constructs burst through the cracks between them, scrabbling away at solid rock to force their own, vitrified bodies inlaid with ink black tentacles up and out of the ground.

Karn's eyes narrow, only to widen again moments later when a soft, gasped whimper leaps from the mouth of the little being beside the horseman. He glances down, ears flattening against his skull at the sight of the girl’s body turning rigid, her tiny chest heaving up and down as she fumbles with something at her side. He doesn't get to see what it is though because the next thing he knows, he's meeting Death's burning glare and a silent understanding passes between them, unmistakable in its meaning.

A shadow creeps over the maker's eyes, his brows drawing together into a tight, determined frown. Giving a hasty nod, he shifts, turning away and taking a few, gigantic steps backwards until both the girl and Death are bathed in his immense shadow. At the same time, the horseman whips out his formidable scythes and angles himself towards the outer wall. There's a small noise of protest from the girl that sends a beat shooting across Karn's chest when she suddenly finds herself being shoved, bullied and prodded backwards, crowded between the maker and horseman who stand fast and face the slowly approaching wave of corrupted constructs.

Chest puffed out and jaw set, Karn bends his head around to swiftly throw the petite thing a cocky smirk. “Stay behind me!” he winks, “I'll take care of this.”

The young maker can hardly believe his luck! Finally, a chance to prove he can be a hero. Heroes protect the small, don't they?

Just then, the boldest of the golems raises its stone club into the air and bellows out its gravelly rallying cry and the rest of them follow suit, pounding their fists against rock-hard chests and lumbering forwards all at once, straight at the trio in the centre of the courtyard.

“Come on then!” Karn stamps his metal boot on the ground a few times, hoping to intimidate, while the horseman merely rolls his eyes and plants his feet more firmly. As the first of the constructs charge within swinging range, Maker and Nephilim alike explode into murderous action.

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

The new maker had to be the youngest you'd seen so far, though he's no less enormous than the others. Not from where you're standing, head just a few inches shy of his knee. Unlike Eideard and Thane, this one doesn't sport an impressive, luxuriant beard. Rather, any hair that might have adorned his face has been shaven close to the skin, leaving a dark dusting of stubble on his head and chin, sweeping along his jaw to the base of his ears. Around his neck is a striped cowl of deep viridian, the same colour as his tunic which is nipped in by a wide belt, strewn with all sorts of pockets, pouches and satchels. A heavy, leather backpack is strapped to his robust shoulders, both of which are littered with long, pale scars rather than the forge burns you'd seen on Alya and Valus. On your approach to the Cauldron, you'd spotted him stampeding across a round-walled courtyard and flattening a vast throng of constructs with a gargantuan hammer, somehow larger than Thane's axe.

Even from a distance, the display was – as you'd said – amazing.

In fact, you'd much rather be watching this fight from a distance too, not sandwiched between the Grim Reaper and a literal giant.

You stand stock-still in place, half crouched and gawking as the horseman's arms whip through the air in an impressive whirlwind of motion. He hurls his twin scythes outwards, sending them spinning in a wide arc to cleave the heads from two of the golems before they curve right back into their wielder's hands, not dissimilar to a pair of deadly boomerangs.

He barely moves his feet, tilting on his heel every now and then which gives you the impression that he isn't used to fighting stationary like this. Three more corrupted constructs burst out of the ground a little too close to him, shifting one of the stone slabs he's balanced on and forcing him to jump to one side. The first grabs at his boot before it's even pulled itself free of the rock and Death's shoulders grow tense, rooted to the spot by one construct as the other two throw themselves into him at the same time, no doubt hoping to bring their opponent down by overwhelming him.

One of the remaining brutes that had been patiently hanging back from the carnage, waiting for the best opportunity to strike, realises that Death's attention is momentarily elsewhere. Its cumbersome head pivots slowly over to you and you watch as it tilts to the side, assessing you before attacking. The most unnerving aspect of the motion is that it implies this one is smarter than the others.

The construct has spotted its enemy's weakness within seconds, zeroing in on the soft spot, the vulnerability of the group. Even though it lacks any visible eyes, you still shudder, feeling rather than seeing its hateful gaze cut through to your soul, sharp as a knife. It stalks around to Death's right, allowing its corrupted brethren to feel the sting of his blades instead, until it lingers in the gap left bare between horseman and maker, your exposed flank. Realising its sinister intent, your jaw drops open around a scream, but it's as though your tongue has been coated in lead. All that comes out is a pitiful whine.

Like a gravelly bullet, the construct bounds into sudden motion and you blanch, frenziedly pulling your sword free of its scabbard and trying to bring the blade level with the creature's chest. It raises it's boulder of a fist into the air above you, ready to pummel you into an early grave.

Sucking in a gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and wince as a rush of air whizzes past your nose....

….An earth-shattering boom lifts you clear off the ground, only to crash back down again with a startled yelp. Blinking your eyes open and staggering for a moment, you glance up to see that in the few seconds between your gasp and the construct's blow, the young maker has swung around and smashed his hammer down hard on top of it. The hard, metal face of the weapon rests flat against the stone, mere inches from the toes of your boots.

Gobsmacked, your heart trembling away in a dark corner of your chest, you watch as he lifts the hammer again, chunks of debris falling like dry rain on your head. When you twist to meet his gaze, you're surprised even further to see that worry has replaced the confident smirk he'd tossed your way just minutes ago.

“You alright?” he pants, ears pinned back against his head.

On autopilot, you gulp loudly and offer a shaky nod, opening your mouth to reply, but movement behind him snaps your attention between his legs. Another construct, bigger than the rest of them with dark tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, is lurching straight for his exposed back. Instead of a club, this one wields a long, rusted blade in its oversized hand – a blade that's aimed straight at the base of the maker's spine.

For someone who tends to overthink a lot of her decisions after they've been made, you don't put a whole lot of thought into your next one.

An eerie feeling – the same you'd felt back in Father Michael's church – washes over you. You'd felt it when you saw Death, at the time who you thought was a fellow human, and you can feel it now. At a speed you hadn't known you could reach, you've gripped the sword in your hands and dived beneath the maker's cloth hauberk. “Oi! What're you-”

You're vaguely aware of a startled shout rumbling from the body above and the horseman barking your name, but you're already too far gone, too focused on the corrupt warrior to register the tight edge in Death's voice.

You burst out from between the giant legs and lift your sword, pointing it as steady as you can at the first vulnerability you find.

The neck.

Thick, oily tendrils dig into the golem's torso, stretching up and wrapping around its boulder head to keep the two connected together. It's into that stoneless gap between the body and face that you bury your blade up to the hilt, letting out a very unimpressive, garbled yell.

The golem, startled at the sight of a tiny, fleshy something barrelling towards it from under a maker's tunic, slows and all of a sudden jerks to a stuttering halt, finding a small sword sticking out the back of its neck. If it had any eyes, it would have blinked them, hard.

The sword and its wielder, though neither are at all daunting to look at, managed to sever the crucial strand of Corruption tying the head to its body and if the construct wasn't utterly brainless to begin with, it might have taken umbrage to meeting such a humiliating end. As it is, with nothing but a solid hunk of stone where a brain ought to be, it merely shudders once, teeters forwards and releases a final, rumbling moan. The heavy load brings it crashing to its knees, forcing you to stumble back and tug the sword out as you go, gaping dumbly as the golem's head wobbles, then tumbles down from its shoulders, bouncing off the huge chest before it drops heavily to the ground and cracks clean in two.

The volcano chooses that moment to give out a bellowing rumble, as if your impromptu slaying of a monster thrice your size had warranted a round of applause.

Gulping down desperate lungfuls of air, you hesitate a further second before exhaling loudly, your body folding in half as you rest your head on the pommel of the sword, tip stabbed into the ground for stability.

Corruption however, robbed of its host, is less inclined to suffer such a defeat.

All of a sudden, your head snaps back up as the black ooze begins to wiggle and squirm, a high pitched screech ringing out of an unseen mouth. It moves as a whole, coagulating onto the shoulders of the construct before it slips and pools into the depression where a head used to be like a sentient, bubbling puddle of viscous tar.

And then, it rises as one, stretching from the neck up and elongating into a thick, wet tendril, rearing back like a snake ready to strike. There are no eyes to meet, but you stare up at the rounded tip, knowing that it's staring right back, filled up with hate and malice as opposed to your horror and alarm.

You have all of a second to realise what it's planning before it suddenly strikes, moulding its head into a piercing spine that it aims directly at your vulnerable chest.

There isn't any time to think. Your hand remains frozen around the hilt of your sword, instinct screaming for you to move but your brain remains empty, a husk awaiting instruction from its host, and you have none to give it. There isn’t even the time to scream but you give it your best shot. However, as soon as your jaw drops and you suck down half a breath, a familiar, rawboned hand clamps around your shoulder and wrenches you backwards.

Death hurls you to the ground, out of his way and out of the rogue corruption's reach. You land painfully on your arm and cry out, dropping the sword with a loud clang.

Behind you, the horseman's scythes make short work of the liquid ooze. He drives them clean through its host's body until the rancid stuff gives out a final shriek, shudders and collapses in thick globules, splashing to the floor and seeping through the grout, finally silent.

Placidity settles over the courtyard, save for the occasional hiss and spit of the lava flowing around in the burning lake far beneath your feet.

After a minute or two, a slow whistle to your left breaks the silence. “By the Stone!” the maker breathes, “That was....was-”

Suddenly, Death cuts him off, rounding on you with eyes brimming with explosive rage. “Foolish!? Idiotic!? Blindingly stupid!?”

Startled by his sudden ferocity, you try to back-peddle along the ground but he marches over to you and roughly grabs the scruff of your jumper, jerking you onto your feet, taking hold of one of your arms and lifting it away from your body, eyes narrowed suspiciously as they inspect you from head to toe.

“Death!” you try to protest, more embarrassed than nervous at this point. However, he puts one of his cold hands on your forehead and tilts it back, peering unscrupulously into your wide eyes.

“Death!” you bark again and grab his wrist, pushing it up to duck out from beneath it. Retreating to a safer distance, you brush yourself down and shoot him a wary frown. “What was that for?!”

His fingers twitch and he narrows his eyes back at you, thoroughly displeased. “That corruption came damn well near enough to touch you,” he retorts sharply, “I thought I told you not to let it close!”

“But-!”

“What if you'd been corrupted?” he continues, blatantly disregarding your attempted objection, “You know, difficult though it may be to believe, I wouldn't actually enjoy putting you down if that were the case.”

“If you would just listen-”

“You may well be the last human left alive. What were you th-”

“WILL YOU LET ME FINISH!”

The shriek that bursts from you without warning smacks the horseman square in the jaw, knocking any more words of anger off his tongue and startling him into silence.

Meanwhile, staying wisely out of the argument, the young maker winces at the volume, his ears twitching in time to your echoing voice as it bounces and reverberates around the mountainside.

You stick your chin out and tilt it at Death, chest heaving and glare hardening. “I was trying to stop it from corrupting him!” You jab a finger at the startled maker. “He didn't see it because he was busy saving me from a different one! What was I supposed to do? Just let it stab him first?”

Right as Karn opens his mouth to claim that he knew the golem had been there all along, Death's head snaps in his direction and he balks, glancing away from his fierce stare.

For several, tense moments, the horseman switches his focus from your timid face to the young maker, then down at the dead construct until eventually, his whole body seems to deflate. Eyeing you warily, he mumbles, “You're certain? You're certain it didn't touch you?”

You shake your head.

The horseman's chest swells and shrinks with a slow breath, aiming his harsh glare at the construct's severed head before his expression softens a little, barely enough to notice, and in a voice so gentle you can scarcely hear it over the distant rumbling from the volcano, he says, “Well done,” appraising you coolly.

Bowing your head, you rub sheepishly at one arm and turn to the maker, only to find him already staring down at you with a senseless smile pushing at the corners of his lips. When he notices you watching though, his titanic shoulders tense and he subtly snaps his head back to look up at the sky, eyes following the movements of a random cloud. “Oh – would you look at tha'....” he mutters distractedly.

Tentative in the face of a stranger now that the greater danger has passed, you stoop down, retrieve your discarded sword, pause to straighten out your jumper and venture a little closer, stopping once you're several feet from his metal boots.

His gaze roves down from the sky and he blanches at how much closer you've moved, looking up at him with those big, curious eyes. “Hello,” you chirrup.

“Uh...Hullo.” Drawn by a dull glint, he absently glances down to your hands. The moment Karn registers what you're holding onto, all the colour rushes back to his face, with a little extra it would seem, given the flush that tinges his cheeks and ears a soft rouge.

Rocking back on your heels, you force yourself to stand a little straighter so as not to betray your nerves and try to meet his eye, a difficult task considering he's no longer looking at you. “Hey, thanks for saving me back there.”

The maker doesn't say a word, only continues to stare at the sword in your hand.

“Um. You okay?” you ask, half as a general inquiry and half because he hasn't blinked yet.

Ever so slowly, mouth hanging slightly agape, he shakes his head from side to side. “No, no. I'm....M' Karn...”

You blink at him, thrown for a second before your lips quirk up and you snort.

At the sound of your amusement, he finally tears his eyes off the sword, realising what he'd said and immediately shakes his hands through the air, stammering, “Oh! N-No, I mean – I'm okay! You're Karn! Ach, no! I meant-” Mortified, he pinches his broad, flat nose between thumb and forefinger, slowly sighing, “I'm Karn.”

Your smile has been replaced by a full blown grin.

It feels good, having your mouth stretched open wide like that again.

“Well, it's very nice to meet you Karn. I'm Y/n.” Saying his name out loud clicks something together in your brain and you suddenly gasp. “Oh, you're Karn!”

“Ye'v heard of me?” he chirps, blinking in surprise before shaking his head and swiping a thumb beneath his nose. “I mean, course ye'v heard of me!”

“Yeah, Thane mentioned you. It's nice to finally meet you in person,” you reply warmly.

A pang of jealousy slugs him unexpectedly in the gut - jealousy that he hadn't been the one to meet you first.

Hesitant, your hands wring around the hilt of your sword until you finally hold it up for him to see. “Um, I think I found something of yours.”

“Heh. Yeah....yeah, you..you did.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he gestures at it with his chin, coughing softly. “How – er. How'd you find that then?”

“Oh, well, Thane wouldn't let me leave the village without a weapon, so I dug around in a crate and just....sort of found it, I guess.”

The maker's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Ol' Thane kept that? Huh. Thought Valus'd melted it down for scrap.”

Taking a breath, you're about to tell him that that's exactly what the warrior had said, but decide against it when you see Karn's pleasantly surprised expression. Instead, you purse your lips and shrug. “Welp. Apparently not!”

He falls quiet and gazes at you for several seconds whilst you chuckle awkwardly. It occurs to you that he might be waiting for you to give the blade back. After all, he did craft it and supposedly thought it lost. Now, he probably wants it returned.

Hurriedly unclipping the sword belt, you ask, “Oh, do you want it back?” and hold it out for him to take only to jerk back a moment later when the enormous man suddenly raises his burly hands and shakes them frantically in front of you.

“Oh no! You can keep it, s'yours!” As he speaks, he takes an involuntary step forwards, freezing with a grimace the instant you stumble away from him, worry etched between your brows.

“S-sorry!” he stammers and retreats again, tugging at the scarf around his neck, “Didn't mean to scare you! M'just..surprised!”

You quirk your head, heartbeat slowing. “Surprised? Why?”

“You could've chosen any weapon out of Thane's arsenal, and you chose that one?”

Frowning, you turn a quizzical squint onto the sword. “Yeah? What's wrong with it? You made it, didn't you?”

He gives you an incredulous look and glances from side to side, as though he's waiting for you to reach some sort of conclusion on your own. When you still look as lost as ever, he bobs his head and carefully drawls, “Aye, that would be what's wrong with it.”

Without missing a beat, you harrumph and take a step closer, brushing his self deprecating comment aside easily. “Ah, no artist is ever happy with their own craft. I happen to think it's great.”

Behind you, Death crosses his arms, sporting an expression that falls flatter and flatter with every passing second. 'If this maker turns any redder, he'll explode.'

Oblivious to the horseman's inner monologue at his expense, Karn audibly gulps. “You do?”

Tutting, your grin widens. “Yeah, course I do. It killed that golem, didn't it?”

“Aye-” He laughs breathlessly, glancing over at the pile of rubble. “-Aye, it did.” From the ground, you watch his face go through several different expressions as he stares at it, working a tusk between his upper lip before he looks back at you and simply blurts, “Can I ask you a question?”

Death has to resist the urge to throw his head back and groan.

A little self conscious under his sudden, excited gaze, you rest your hands on your hips and shrug. “Okay, I guess?”

Once again, he seems to struggle through another couple of expressions, from ecstatic to nervous, doubtful and back again, until at last, he drops to one knee so heavily, you have to throw your arms out for balance when the ground shudders beneath your feet. “What are you? Exactly?”

Now it's your turn to be surprised. “Oh! Well, I'm...I'm just a human. You've never seen a human before?”

“Ach! A human! Of course!” He thunks a hand against the side of his head. “That makes more sense, sorry.” Resting one forearm over his bent knee, the young maker gives you a slow once-over, starting at your boots and ending at the hair on top of your head. “No, I've never met a human, heard about you though. Probably should have connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your ignorance doesn't show. At all,” Death grumbles, at last electing to break up whatever odd little greeting is happening here. He steps up next to you, eyeing the maker boredly for a minute before declaring, “You're different than the others...” Then, leaning back and placing a hand on his cocked hip, he adds, “Less pleasant on the eyes, for one.”

You shoot the horseman an exasperated glare whereas the maker simply huffs through his nose, brow drawing together. Not wanting to lose face in front of the first human he's ever met, he retorts, “Feh! I could say no less for you.”

“Death,” you interject before someone decides to take real offence, “this is Karn. He made my sword!”

Death casts his calculating eyes up and down the giant and hums dismissively. “So I gathered.”

Karn plasters a grin back on his face as he pushes himself upright again and stretches his arms up towards the sky, biceps flexing imposingly. Peeking one eye open, he's put out to discover that you're too busy trying to stuff the sword back into its sheath to notice his impressive display.

Faltering for just a second, he quickly drops his arms, hoists the thick, leather belt up higher on his waist and clears his throat, effectively getting your attention. “Aye, you've probably heard folks around town calling me 'Pup,' or 'Lad.' But, uh...” He scratches his chin stubble and sends you a shy smile. “But I prefer my own name.”

'S'pecially the way you say it,' he thinks to himself.

“Pup it is then”

Karn blinks, then shrinks.

Sparing the smug horseman a dirty glare, he stuffs his hands under his armpits and shrugs. “As you will. Matters not to me.” The dark scowl falls away as soon as he catches your eye again. “So, what're you two doing here?”

“We took a wrong turn,” Death quips, “Now it seems we're stuck here with the rest of you.”

“No, I mean - what're you doing here, at the Cauldron? Didn't you hear? It fell to Corruption fair long ago.”

A fleck of burning ash flutters out of the sky to land on the horseman's shoulder. He watches the feeble embers flicker and die as they touch his cold skin before raising a hand and nonchalantly brushing it off. “I'll take my chances. Your elder seems to think that I'm the best hope you have of restoring the mountain's fire.”

“That's why I'm here!” Karn exclaims and taps his chest enthusiastically, “I came here for that self same purpose!”

“Really?” you chirp.

The young maker practically glows under the warmth of your impressed stare. Lifting his chin and hooking his thumbs into the backpack's straps, he sniffs, “Oh, aye. Figured I'd pop the cork, so to speak. You know, be the hero.”

“So why haven't you?”

“Whassat now?”

Karn falters, his focus moving back to the horseman, who blinks languidly up at him and repeats, “Why haven't you then?”

“Oh..I – er...Well, I..” He trails off into an awkward silence, painfully aware of your curious eyes peering up at him. “Well, I tried!” he insists eventually, “But the Cauldron is locked up well and tight, and the way through is swallowed by fire!”

Just then, Karn's ears perk back up and he sweeps a proper look over the horseman. “Say...You look capable enough. Perhaps you can find a way. I'll wait here with...with Y/n and guard the entrance.”

An explorer at heart, first and foremost, Karn's natural curiosity has been gnawing away at his belly from the moment he first laid eyes on you and he'd be lying if he said he hasn't been itching to learn as much as possible - although the prospect of spending time alone with you sets his heart thundering and causes the palms of his hands to grow slick with sweat. Still, this could be the perfect opportunity to-

“Oh, I'm going with Death.”

Now, as most people do, Karn would like to consider himself a fairly composed maker, definitely not the kind that chokes on their own spit and has to thump themselves in the chest several times while a radiant human and glowering horseman watch on.

Coughing and spluttering, he eventually manages to blurt, “You what?”

Casting him a bemused smile, you repeat, “I'm going with him.”

“Are you now?” the horseman muses beside you.

Your fists clench and flex for a moment, glancing tentatively between the Cauldron's ominous front doors and back to him several times until your mouth sets into a firm line and you give him a tight-lipped nod. “Yup.” To stay behind means to be still. To be still means to think and to think means to dwell....You dread the stillness, dreaded it more than you dread whatever lies in wait within the Cauldron.. It leaves you no protection from your ghosts. You'll have to face them eventually, of that you have no doubt. But not yet.

“Are you sure?” he presses, turning to face you, peering down into your darting eyes, his own unblinking. It suddenly occurs to you that you might be undergoing some kind of test. “I never said you couldn't change your mind,” he continues, tone unreadable.

At your back, the maker shifts noisily, worrying at his lower lip. 'No, no, no! We've only just met! Don't leave now!' In a ditch effort to sway your decision, he pipes up. “It's dangerous in there!” Inquisitively, you swivel your head around towards him as he stammers, “S'pecially for a little feller like you. You thought that last fight was bad? It – It'll be ten times worse inside!”

“I know, but I said I'd help Death.”

The horseman snorts. “It's far more likely you'll be a hinderance. Particularly,” he emphasizes, raising his voice, “if you go haring off on your own to tackle something that's almost triple your size.”

Wringing your hands, you swallow down on your fear, insisting, “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Skeptical, he quirks a brow and peers down at you. “So, you'll stay close?”

“Yes Death.”

“But not so close that you'll get in the way?”

“No Death.”

“And you'll do precisely what I say, when I say it?”

Squashing down the urge to groan and roll your eyes, you mumble, “Within reason.”

One of the horseman's eyelids gives a volatile twitch.

“I mean, yes Death.”

The stern Nephilim scrutinises you for another long moment. Finally, he uncrosses his arms and nods slowly, the hard edge vanishing from his tone. “Alright then.. Good.” Jerking his head for you to follow, he spins on a heel and marches for the square, stone doors set into the mountain, calling, “Because I do not want to have that conversation with the Old ones if I return to Tri Stone without you.”

A little taken aback that he’d conceded, you stare after him dumbly.

“You've already failed the first step!”

You jump, shaking yourself and hurrying to catch up whilst throwing Karn a tentative wave over your shoulder. “It was nice to meet you by the way! See you around?”

Karn, for his part, wants to scream.

Instead, he can only seem to stare helplessly at you as you jog further and further away from him. His hand raises of its own accord to reach out while his heart, mind and soul shriek at him to just snatch you from the horseman and retreat back to the safety of Tri Stone.

But he doesn't.

Because he's a fraud, too ashamed for wanting to remain outside where it's safer while you – a human – willingly head inside, armed with nothing but the shoddy sword he crafted almost five hundred years ago.

Once you've crossed the long portcullis and made it to the entrance, Death throws the door open and ushers you through.

Quite abruptly, Karn's feet come unfastened from the ground and he finds himself stumbling several, heavy steps after you, thoughts of just going with you leaping to the forefront of reason. If you can go and try to help, then why can't he?

As he reaches the foot of the bridge however, the young maker suddenly lurches to a stop, another, unwelcome thought springing up and cutting through the rest.

He already has tried...

He'd gone in another dungeon with someone before; Alya and her brother, guided them through a place known as the Shattered Forge.

And in trying to 'help,' Karn had almost cost the twins their lives.

His hand drops to hang limply at his side, mouth twisting into a dejected grimace as he watches the doors slide shut in Death's wake, sealing you inside and leaving him alone in the courtyard.

Perhaps...it would be safer for everyone if he did remain behind.....

As usual...

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

“That...is a big cork.”

“Very perceptive.”

Standing in front of you, rising from the hard floor of the Cauldron like an oversized bath-plug, is the very obstacle that needs to be shifted if Death is to restore fire to the maker's forge. The 'cork,' as Karn had dubbed, is about the size of a small house, made entirely of thick, dark metal and shackled to the bale on top are the most impressive chains you've ever seen, bigger and wider than the ones that cargo ships drop to weigh anchor.

You gawk at a pair of immense weights hanging from the ceiling while Death scouts out the room, eyes landing on an unassuming door in the closest right hand corner.

”How're we ever gonna shift that?” you wonder aloud, “No way you're that strong.” Then, after you feel the horseman's terse stare hit the side of your head, you flatly point out, “Death, I refuse to believe you have the same upper body strength as a maker.”

Giving you his best 'offended' glower, he scoffs and shakes his head, starting for the door. “Be that as it may, I doubt the ancients intended for this ‘cork’ to be removed....manually..”

“What're you saying, there's a button somewhere that can do it for us?” you ask, hopeful.

“Perhaps. We just have to find it first..”

“The solution's never in the first room, is it?” Blowing out a sigh, you trail behind him through to the next room, sweat already beginning to pour down your forehead. “Whoo boy! It is hot!”

“Is it? And here I thought we'd found ourselves back in the Crowfather's realm..”

Suddenly, Death tenses at the feeling of your fingers brushing against his tricep, a soft gasp pushing your lips apart. “You might as well be, how're you still so cold!?”

Groaning, the horseman thinks back on the days where he could travel in and out of dungeons like this one without the sound of inane chatter filling the silence. Conversation and Death have never gone hand in hand, a fact you seem to be blatantly unaware of. As you remark upon how lucky he is not to be suffering in this stifling heat, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “This will take some getting used to...”

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

For the better part of the next, Earth hour, you and the horseman traipse, traverse and fight through the Cauldron's depths. Well, Death does all of the fighting and most of the traversing whereas you handle the traipsing.

Vast, twisting corridors stretch from chamber to chamber, their ceilings caved in or crumbling to reveal the blue sky above, rays of sunlight falling in through the gaps. Tiny specks of volcanic ash flit around in the air, perpetually lifted by the warmth underfoot. Every now and again, in the more cavernous, lava-choked rooms, you hear the call of strange birds echo from the leafy foliage and vines growing in and along the roof. Sometimes, Dust even issues an answering caw from his various perches. Once or twice, he's hopped from Death's shoulder to yours, then from you to the head of a statue resembling a strangely familiar maker.

Thirst tickles at the back of your scratchy throat every time you swallow, though you push through it, knowing that while Death may be a perfectly adequate line of defence against the beasts of this dungeon, you can't afford to lose focus for a second. Not in here.

The air is thick with heat and it had taken nearly ten whole seconds for you to peel off your thick jumper and tie it around your waist. Clad in a skirt, black tank top and the boots Valus made, you pad after Death beneath a stone archway into a rectangular room that falls away on one side into a deep pit filled with broiling lava. Your path continues on the other side but so far as you can tell, there isn't a way across, unless you fancy trying to jump and grab one of the thick, rusted chains that hang from the ceiling high overhead and extend down, disappearing into the lava.

To the left, a strange type of what you assume is the local flora grows on the wall, bursting out of the stone work and your eye is caught by a spiked, black ball with sickly-green light pulsating from several, deep cracks running along its surface. “Hey, what's this?”

Death turns from where he'd leant over the side to peer into the river of lava and starts to ask what you're talking about when his body suddenly freezes.

“Y/n!” he snaps, “Don't!-”

But it's too late. You've already pulled the otherworldly football from its nest of sticky webbing and glanced over at him. “Don't what?”

If he had any time to spare, Death would have smacked a hand over his mask.

In three seconds flat, he marches over, snatches the growth out of your hands, spins on his heel and pitches it across the gap, not a moment too soon. It soars in a graceful arc before sticking to a long, metal bar set against a round platform unindented from the newel post at the bottom of a stone staircase.

A beat passes in which you open your mouth to protest. Then -

'BOOM!'

The spiked ball hisses once before exploding in a flash of blinding light.

Death pivots his head around stiffly to glare at you and he raises his forefinger, pointing it warningly at your stunned expression. At that moment, a grinding sound echoes throughout the chamber and you both look across the gap to see that the metal bar that had suffered the brunt of the explosion is slowly sliding into the newel, shrieking in protest against the tight confines of the stone notch. It slots into place with an audible click, and seconds later, a steady rumble jerks you on your feet as the heavy chains begin to clank and creak, raising up out of the lava and pulling something heavy up with them. In no time, a long, blackened metal bridge lifts into view, fitting perfectly across the wide gap and screeching to to a noisy stop.

You glance over at Death, just in time to see his scowl darken. For a moment, thick, impenetrable silence hangs over the hallway, until a grin brightens your features. “Ha, ha! You can't be mad at me. I solved a puzzle!”

He grumbles something under his breath and stalks across the new bridge. “It wouldn't have been difficult to figure out. Your idiocy just beat me to it.”

Put out by the harsh term, your smile fades and you kick at a loose stone, sending it tumbling off the bridge into the lava below. Death gives you a sideways glance and heaves an exasperated sigh. “Just...don't go grabbing any more shadow bombs. Emphasis on the 'bomb' part.”

Nodding sheepishly, you reach the other side and find your attention immediately snatched by something else.

“What about that? Can I grab that?”

He follows your line of sight to a small table, tucked away in a dark corner behind the staircase, illuminated by a lonely wall-sconce. Resting on the slab of wood is a round object about the size of a bicycle wheel. It glitters prettily in the fire's glow and casts tiny freckles of light all along the wall. Before he can tell you to leave the mystery object, you've veered off towards it.

“Y/n, no. We cannot afford to keep stopping to investigate every piece of rubbish you find,” he gripes, huffing as he's promptly ignored.“Honestly, you're worse than Dust.”

He receives an objectionable hiss from the crow perched on a finial by the steps.

“What is this thing?” you murmur, grabbing a pair of handles sticking out on either side and heaving it into your arms. Though made entirely of a green metal, inlaid with a coppery trim, it's surprisingly light. “It...It's a platter!” you exclaim to a thoroughly uninterested horseman.

“Marvellous.”

“It is!” you insist, running a hand over the inside of the bowl, your warped reflection gazing back at you from a solid silver interior. Curious, you flip it over to look at the back as well. Intricate, golden patterns circle the outer rim and scribed in the centre is a pair of hammers, one crossed over the other.

“I..I think this might be Karn's.”

Pausing midway up a step, Death's face twists behind his mask. “How in the world did you come to that conclusion?”

“S'got hammers on it.” Keeping a tight grip on the golden handles, you trot up the stairs after him.

Scoffing, the horseman continues the ascent. “Most makers have used a hammer at one point or another. It's crafter is probably long gone by now. Leave it.”

Instead, you hug it tighter to your chest. “I will not. What if it is Karn's?”

“So what if it is?”

“Well, he'd probably want it back! I know I would.”

Death's face refuses to drop its incredulous expression. He shakes his head and strolls off the top step into a huge, empty room. “You don't owe him anything.”

“He saved me from that construct,” you point out.

“And then you saved him. So, you're even.”

“You ever think about doing nice things for people without expecting something in return?

“....Quiet.”

“I'm just saying - Mmph!”

Without warning, Death has spun around and pressed a gentle finger to your lips, eyes narrowed in concentration and head cocked, listening. Pulling a face at the proximity of his grimy wrist wrappings to your taste buds, you pull away and throw him a questioning glance. In a flash, his hand moves from your mouth to his scythes, drawing them and spinning around in a slow circle, head darting in every direction, searching for an unseen threat.

Unseen, but not unheard.

You can hear it now, a low, steady hum, growing louder and louder until the tiny pebbles at your feet begin to dance and jump, skittering across the ground. Heart in your throat, you stare at them, whimpering quietly, “Something's coming!”

He growls, hackles raised. “Something's already here.”

But where? The acoustics in the room throw any sound around sporadically, rendering it nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact origin of the odd humming. Keeping his back to you, the horseman strains his sensitive ears and grits his teeth.“We need to move towards the middle of the room. We're too close to the w-”

Without warning, an explosion of dust and stone detonates just metres away and you're thrown forwards, letting go of the platter and landing in a heap on your stomach, cracking your jaw painfully on the hard stone.

Over the ringing in your ears, from somewhere nearby yet strangely far away, you become aware of Death's gravelly voice repeating, “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

Coughing up a mouthful of dust and grit, you push yourself onto shaking elbows, rolling over with a strained grunt and blearily squinting up at the out-of-focus shadow towering over you. Another slow blink or two and your vision clears, revealing the source of the explosion.

What little moisture is left on your tongue instantly evaporates at the gruesome sight.

A colossal construct has burst out of the wall behind you. This one...this one is bigger, much bigger that the rest you've encountered so far. It's covered from the dark barbute helm on its bulky head to stumpy feet in jet black corruption which rises in thick, wobbling globules from its back, breaking off when the strands are pulled too thin and sinking again like the world's most sinister lava lamp.

Patches of moss grow all over it's body, between the cracks in the stone and the massive spikes jutting out from the shoulder pauldron, blunt and weathered from age. It has an arm held aloft threateningly, the entire forearm made up of a rigid sphere of solid rock where a hand should be. Thick prongs of corruption stick up all over the rough surface, reminding you of the medieval maces they keep in museums.

The giant construct rumbles low and menacing before it rocks back on its heels, spreads its arms wide and bellows out a sound that could be a name if it weren't so warped and garbled. “GHARN!” Several corrupted tendrils roiling between 'Gharn's' joints peel away from the stone flesh and begin extending down towards you.

All of a sudden, a flash of grey and brown obscures the golem from view.

“D-Death!?”

You stare up at the horseman's sinewy back, pale skin stretched so taut over his vertebrae, you're surprised it hasn't split around the bone. He's dropped into a low crouch above you, one boot braced on either side of your knees and a scythe poised behind his back, ready and waiting to be brought forwards at a moment's notice. The construct groans, confused for a second as its dull intellect races to register the new opponent.

Slowly, Death stalks forward and circles around it, making sure the huge brute swings around as well, keeping it's 'gaze' fixed on him instead of you.

The tension is so tightly drawn, you could pluck a finger in mid air and hear a chord play. Then, just when it reaches snapping point, Death lunges.

Gharn flinches at his unexpected burst of speed but recovers almost immediately, throwing its mace-fist down into the space he'd occupied just milliseconds before and letting it spin like a buzz saw, grinding the floor up into rubble.

Death ducks beneath its arm and strafes behind the immense construct, forcing it to yank it's still spinning hand from the ground and make a tight turn, teetering on its struts. From behind, Death slashes at it, pulling an enraged bellow from the depths of its body and as it tries to land another devastating blow, he leaps right for it and slides between its legs, righting himself on the other side and carving his scythes across the width of its back again.

Belting out another infuriated roar, the golem heaves its bulk around. With impossible grace, Death jumps straight up into the air and gives its head a few, sharp strikes with his blades. To defend itself, it brings its arms up to cover its head, the corrupted tentacles on its shoulders screeching raggedly.

Dropping to the ground, Death spares a few, fatal second to turn to you, pointing towards a door at the far end of the room. “Go!” he orders, “Don't just stand there! Mo-”

He hadn't expected the golem to move so fast. Neither had you, to be honest, and you'd been looking right at it, saw it pull back one arm and thrust it at a startling velocity, connecting with the horseman's ribs and knocking him into the wall on the far side with a resounding 'smack!'

“DEATH!” you screech, a swell of terror pinching your voice while ‘Gharn’ marches after him.

From across the room, Death's eyes flutter open and closed and he groans, glancing up a mere fraction too late.

The construct's fingers close around his skull, enveloping his entire head in its stone fist and lifting him up off his feet before it slams him into the wall again and again, even as his hands come up to scrabble at the immovable arm.

“Put him down!”

Either it doesn't hear your frantic shriek, or it simply doesn't care.

Sweaty, trembling fingers take hold of your sword but you pause. Against a monster that size, what good will a blade do? What about your gun?....No, even more ineffective...

Looking wildly around the room for something, anything else that could help, your eyes eventually settle on the discarded dish resting several metres to your right. Jaw set, you scramble over to it and snag one of the handles, lifting it into the air and grabbing a loose chunk of brick that had once been part of the wall in your other hand. Holding both in the air in in front of you, you will your legs to stop quivering, face contorted in abject fear. “I said, LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

Fuelled by panic, you swing the rock and platter together with all your might. The resonant clang produced by stone on metal rents the air asunder, loud as a gong, shrill as an alarm. It sets the teeth in your skull rattling and finally, finally draws the construct's attention away from Death. Sluggishly, almost leisurely, its head slowly swivels around to find you.

Corruption senses life, not from the body dangling from its fingers, but from the audacious little creature challenging it from the other side of the room.

Parasitic, discontented with its body of heavy boulders, it puppeteers the construct, dropping Death in an undignified heap on the ground and trundling in your direction.

You watch it come, blood roaring in your ears as tendrils of dark ooze stretch from its body, swaying hypnotically before they cluster together into one, thick tentacle.

The gentle sigh that slips out between your lips is resigned and quiet, worlds away from the shout that had preceded it.

The stone giant trudges to a lazy stop several feet from you, its head angled down, corruption sliding an little rivers along its bulky arms before lifting from the cold rock and stretching, reaching out towards you.

Holding the silver platter close to your chest, you gulp and take a single, stiff step back. On shaking limbs, you fight to remain as upright as possible, grinding out through clamped teeth, “I'm not afraid of you...”

A blatant lie. Not even a very good one.

The hatred pouring out of the putrid substance is as tangible as the stone it clings to. You can feel it. A thicker, wetter heat than the Cauldron's atmosphere. From this proximity, it sticks to your skin like a feverish sheen and invades your throat and nostrils with its stench of rotten meat.

And then....the fear, the ubiquitous dread....vanishes, like it had never been there at all.

A heavy weight droops over your mind and lays there, lazily swelling and bulging outward to push everything else aside. All that exists in these few moments is you and the Corruption.

Dimly, you have to wonder if you'll even be aware, if it'll hurt, if you'll hurt anyone else...

...If it would be better this way...

You don't even notice that your legs have stopped quaking, nor that you've lowered the metal dish, exposing your shivering heart. You are very tired. What if you just....L̴et́ it̀ ͢h͢a̡p͝p̵e͝n̶?

You could just.....L̶et͡ me in

Yeah.

Yeah, why not?

Aren't yo̡ú t͟ir͟ed of f̵̶͡ig̢̛͏ht҉i͝n͏g̀͞?

The fog grows denser. Even the voice in your head sounds strange, as if it isn't your own anymore.

Out of nowhere, your brain explodes when a howl – deep and powerful – rips right through it, forcing you to drop the platter and clutch frantically at your ears, watching through squinted eyes as the Corruption recoils, flaring up above you and thrashing wildly through the air. With a pop, your mind abruptly clears and you let out a scream of your own, an influx of terror flooding back into your body. 'Where the Hell had that gone?'

Prying the hands out of your hair, you crane your neck back to look up at the construct and gasp.

Death has leapt up onto its back and in one, swift motion, he's hooked his scythes beneath its chin, braced his legs against the solid trapezius and pulled.

A sickening squelch curls your stomach when he wrenches the head clean off its neck and severs the corruption's connection along with it. The Construct begins to teeter backwards on its struts, so Death kicks off its back, somersaulting forwards to land expertly in front of you. He merely regards you, still as a statue whilst the rest of the giant golem collapses to the ground, its body crumbling now that corruption no longer holds its pieces together.

Only when the room settles, when the walls have stopped shaking and the booming vibrations have dissipated into the regular murmur of the volcano, do you dare risk meeting Death's irascible eyes.

He's angry, that much is obvious. But it's different from of anger he'd expressed outside with Karn. This anger is cold and dangerous, a jagged edged sword that he holds - not pointed out - but in.

The horseman's chest doesn't move around rigid breaths like yours does, he doesn't blink or shudder from adrenaline. All he does is look at you and ponder. Oh, he's enraged, of course. He's livid at you for intervening....Yet there's something else mingled into the mix, something that reins in his temper and curbs it in another direction.

He hadn't expected the blasted construct to move so fast. He had gotten complacent, and it almost cost him dearly.

It's the same sensation he gets when he considers his little brother's predicament, of laying chained before the Charred Council and subjected to all manner of cruel punishments.

War can endure, he's tougher than the rest of them, but that doesn't stop Death from doing as older brothers often do. Not even the Reaper is an exception to that universal rule.

He worries – is worried - about a human.

The moment he places the familiar, uncomfortable prod at his gut, he squashes it down, letting his eyes slide shut at last. 'Three times,' he growls internally, 'Three times she's done that. Three times she's rushed to the defence of someone else, but failed to defend herself.'

Troubled, Death's eyebrows furrow even further, casting dark shadows over his luminous eyes. The first time had been on Earth, where she'd bolted into a horde of demons to help him – a stranger. However, when those same demons turned their attention to her, she froze.

Again, outside the Cauldron, a construct had been mere inches away from pulverising the jittery human, yet her feet remained stuck fast to the ground until that maker, Karn, saved her life. Then, as soon as she realised he was in trouble, she didn't hesitate to intercept his attacker.

And here, moments ago, she drew Gharn away from him, even though it meant risking her life, a life that she then seemed ready to cast aside all too easily.

It's a pattern he recognises all too well, having walked a similar path himself. The path to self destruction.

'Survivor's guilt,' the Keeper of Oblivion had said to him once eons ago, mere months after he and his siblings had purged the Nephilim from existence once and for all. The wizened old maker had received a cutting retort for his observation, and a new, unsightly hold in his front door.

It took a full century before the horseman was ready to admit that the Keeper had been spot on.

Death has never once regretted what he did to the Nephilim. What happened was necessary. Necessity however, did not grant him immunity from guilt. And guilt is as far from regret as angels are from demons.

This mindset would need to be nipped in the bud if you're to stop almost getting yourself killed every five minutes. 'But how?' Challenging you about your behaviour now would only prove counterproductive. The Cauldron is neither the time, nor the place. And he is probably not the most qualified person to be confronting you to begin with. No, deft though he may be, you're in a frame of mind that even he's too heavy-handed to fix. As much as the proud horseman is loathe to admit it – he may have to consult with Eideard about this. Death barely suppresses a groan as he resigns himself to the long, uncomfortable conversation he'll be sure to have upon the return to Tri Stone.

Peeling his eyes open again, he catches your grimace, and frowns.

You're cowering - down and back - submissive, as though you're expecting him to lash out.

He supposes that's fair, given his initial reaction when you were attacked outside. He might have to blame that one on an eternity of being the eldest brother of four.

Willing his hackles back down to their rightful places on either side of his spine, Death expels a steadying breath and lowers himself onto one knee in front of you. Even at half his height, you barely stand a few inches taller than him.

Gradually, your grimace falls at the un-horseman-like motion, replaced by cautious curiosity that escalates after he murmurs, “Are you alright?”.

Uncertainty plaguing your expression, your eyes dart left and right before finding his again. “Y-yeah. It...it didn't touch me,” you utter, hugging your sides, “You're not angry?”

The skin under his eye sockets crinkles, moved by a hidden smirk. “Why would I be angry?”

“Beeecause you were before?” you cautiously point out.

Death blinks. Then, quite suddenly, he ducks his head low, shoulders quaking behind silent laughter.

A little affronted, your face twists into a frown. “What? What's so funny?”

“Ah, forgive me,” he chuckles, waving a pacifying hand through the air, “I just - ahem -That was quite endearing, you assumed I was angry? Because I raised my voice at you outside?”

“Isn't that what angry people do?”

“That wasn't anger, that was-” Death falters, jaw clacking shut around the word that almost escaped him. Clearing his throat, he instead veers the conversation in another direction. “You haven't seen me angry, girl. Not yet, at least.”

“Oh...” You bite your lip, focused on the ground. After another second, you raise your head again, some of the tension gone from your shoulders and tone. “Well...You let me know if that ever happens, okay? I want a good head start.”

Telltale smirk creeping back into place, the horseman nods,“I'll do that.”

Glancing back at Gharn, he gently adds, “By the way, good thinking with the dish. It was starting to get claustrophobic in there. That was rather brave, on your part.”

At his words, you perk up. “It...It was?”

Hands twitching sporadically, Death begins to reach out for your arm only to hesitate halfway there. Then, clearing his throat, he draws it back, fingers curling in on themselves as he drops them across his bent knee instead. Whatever tenderness had been present in his tone is promptly flushed by a gruff cough as he pushes himself back onto his feet. “Yes. Brave - but it was also foolish. You're only lucky that my recovery time is so impeccable.”

“Yeah,” you hastily agree, “Yeah, I guess I am...Thanks, Death.”

Humphing, he spins about face and makes for the door, though not without gently murmuring over his shoulder, “Thank you, Y/n.” Just like that, his regular tone returns, gruff and business as usual. “Now come. We should move on before any other surprises decide to burst through the wall.”

In higher spirits, you pat straighten up, pat down your skirt and jog after him. “Right, good pla- Oh! Hold on a sec!”

Death throws a cursory glance around and finds you back-peddle a ways, bend down to pick up the discarded platter and brush it free of stone chips. “Okay, got it!” you chirp and scamper back towards him, prize in hand.

“Still keeping that thing are you?” he remarks as you fall into step on his left.

“Yep. If it weren't for this thing doubling as an excellent gong, that construct would never have let you go.”

You pass underneath the low, door frame into a grand, ruinous hallway. Urns, pots and ceramic vases lay scattered all along the sides. Death places a hand on his chest and splays his fingers wide in mock surprise. “The dish made that sound!? I thought that jarring noise came out of your mouth!”

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

The two of you continue walking down the corridor in companionable silence for a while.

Something appears to have shifted out from between the two of you. Just a small thing, a sort of wall that had been thrown up haphazardly upon meeting each other. Oddly enough, you don't feel quite so alone walking next to the Grim Reaper anymore.

Unbeknownst to you, his piercing gaze has turned subtly to one side, roving up and down your figure before it flicks forwards again.

Perhaps it was just Death's imagination, but in that rapid glance, he would swear he noticed you walking a little straighter, steps a little longer and surer, and beneath his bone mask, the horseman's lips stretch a little wider.

After a few more minutes, you step through another doorway and emerge out into another high-walled chamber, finding yourselves standing on an overlook, affording you an impressive view of the floor below. Meanwhile, sitting in the middle of the overlook, on a raised dais surrounded by circular, crumbling steps, is a sturdy capstan winch, set upright into the stone.

“Hey!” you suddenly pipe up, springing over to the dais and round the small staircase, skidding to a halt before the drop off. Leaning over and blowing out a shrill whistle, you swipe a hand through the sweat gathered on your head. “There's the cork!” Indeed, stretched out before you is the entrance to the Cauldron, and the colossal plug keeping the Fire of the Mountain under a tight lid. From up here, you can see steam built up under pressure escaping through the tiniest gaps in the metalwork. “All that work and we end up back to square one? Boo.”

On the other hand, Death is busy casting his eyes over the dais and humming thoughtfully. “Perhaps not. Look there.” He rubs at his mask's chin. “I think this might be the solution to our problem.”

Spinning about, you follow his line of sight and smirk. “Famous last words,” you pant, stretching out your back and wincing at a series of loud pops and cracks following the motion. “You said that about the last lever.”

Turning his mask to give you an uppity glance, he promptly scoffs, “Yes, well when I'm wrong, it's never twice in the same day.”

The sound of your stifled snort reaches his ears, no matter how quickly and firmly you slap a hand over your mouth to disguise it.

Grumbling halfheartedly under his breath, he stalks up the stairs and stops to stroke a palm over the winch's handle. “Perhaps I should let you do the honours?”

“I mean....I'll try if you want me to. Wouldn't want to steal your thunder though.”

“Of course not,” he rumbles, getting into position.

Bracing his hands on the horizontal lever, he gives it a shove to get it moving. At first, the metal cog wheels screech objectionably, fused to each other under years of rust but with another, firm push, they bow under the horseman's might and finally begin to turn. You watch, spellbound as he throws his whole body into turning it, leant forwards, arms tense and steady on the bar, he digs his toes into the ground with every step, forcing the winch to turn in a tight, concise circle around its pivot.

There's a loud clang behind you, and upon whirling about, you realise that the two monumental weights that dangle from the ceiling above have begun to gradually lower as the chains connected to the plug raise higher, pulled taut by their burden.

Death's movements come to a jarring halt once the weights hit the ground and shoot resonant tremors throughout the whole chamber. He stands, swiping his bandaged hands together and makes his way down the steps to watch next to you as the 'cork' gives an almighty groan, and then, it shifts, twisting a foot or so to the right before sluggishly lifting up and out of the hole it had been slotted into, tugged free by the gargantuan chains.

“You did it!” Bouncing on your toes, you point excitedly down into the pit that slowly fills with molten lava and pours down a carved, stone trench, disappearing underneath the Cauldron's front entrance and no doubt flowing its way through a subterranean tunnel into town.

Your shoulder is unexpectedly bumped by the horseman's elbow. “I think you participated just enough to consolidate this a 'we' situation.”

“Seriously?” you ask, turning an owlish stare to his mask, “I helped?”

Cocking his head, Death makes a big show of considering his answer while you watch, that dull glimmer of hope refusing to die out. Eventually, he looks at you again, holds up a hand and curls his thumb and forefinger together until the pads are almost touching. “Just barely.”

The grin that breaks like sunshine across your face is so immeasurably wide, he nearly tells you to stop it, lest you hurt yourself.

Instead, he rolls his eyes and places his knuckles on the base of your spine, giving you another nudge towards a door on the far side of the overlook. “Now don't go getting too cocksure. You're still as breakable as a porcelain doll.”

Even his dig at your fragility can't quite extinguish the tiny flutter of elation in your stomach. It won't last, of course. You're sadly aware of that. So you plan on riding the precious feeling for as long as you possibly can.

With your hands still clasped safely around the silver and gold platter's handles, you mosey alongside the horseman, glad to finally be leaving the oppressive heat.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #cold hands warm heart #death x reader #fluff #karn #love at first sight

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trashpandaorigins · 5 years

Text

The Body Keeps the Score Chapter One: Among Friends

"You said it yourself bitch, we're the Guardians of the Galaxy." Gamora is finally a part of something. But the past always follows you, eats at you and she must come to grips with her deeds as she tries to build a future. Meanwhile Rocket has never cared much for anyone or anything. Together the two of them discover they are more alike than different and try to heal themselves by befriending the other.

*Content Warnings: Mentions of child/animal abuse, trauma, character death, physical torture/pain*

Title of this fic is taken from the book of the same title "The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma," by Bessel van der Kolk

"I am done with my graceless heart

So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart

'Cause I like to keep my issues strong

It's always darkest before the dawn”

Shake it Out - Florence + The Machine

--- Up, down, right left, blindspot, turn, negative. Ship compromised. Escape pods? Destroyed. The assassin’s eyes glanced around the chaos of the observation deck aboard the Dark Aster. Gamora tossed her head to the side trying to shake the hair from her face. Wind howled through the shattered windows, dulled in sensation only compared to the fires that burned all around them. She coughed through the smoke glancing around. Threats? Eliminated. For now. To her right Quill scrambled through the debris towards the ravager ship that had just crashed into the main bridge of the ship. Behind her the solid presence of Groot standing dumbly among the wreckage. Ronan. Where was Ronan? Her eyes skirted the perimeter of the room. A dead soldier lay under a heap of metal. Another lay crushed several feet away. Yet another...no, that was no lackey of Ronan. Gamora made her way across the bay, shielding her eyes from the rubble. Stopping only to get her balance as the ship lurched forward.

“Drax! Drax can you hear me?” The large man’s head lolled back and forth with the pulverized movement of ship. Terrible ripping metal screeched in Gamora’s ears and she bit back a curse as the ship. She hooked her arms around his, yanking him back to where Quill stood. “Rrrr…..Drax, c’mon!” Gamora pulled again, his dead weight dragging on the metal floor. She coughed again, ducking and letting out a scream of shock as a fiery piece of debris fell just to her left, crashing and echoing. Plumes of fire and smoke billowed with the force of the mighty wind and Gamora tensed, pulling Drax along. She dropped him beside Quill and hunkered down over his unconscious body, ready to shield him if need be.

At least I did it. At least I got free. I am not his daughter.

Her thoughts rang louder than the crashing around them. Her chest heaved involuntarily with panic.

Breathe, just breathe. Slowly. In...out. The Dark Aster pitched forward. Gamora clenched her fists, stomach pressing upward into her chest with the movement of the ship. Control yourself she admonished against her trembling breath. In...out...she leaned over Drax, still unconscious. She blinked back the dust and flakes of debris, turning over her shoulder. The tree like creature sat behind her, his arms thrown wide. Branches broke and cracked and still more branches grew from those, wide and expanding around them. Quill’s bewildered eyes met hers, looking for answers she couldn’t give. The ship gilded with speed now towards Xandar. Gamora gazed upward at Groot his branches now fully encompassing around them, face resolute. Hair streamed across her face from the wind streaming through the wood.

Tears filled the rims of her eyes:

It would be an honor. To die among friends. Golden spores drifted around them, a welcome distraction from the helter skelter of burning metal and sickening velocity. Gamora glanced down at the feeling of strong branches wrapping around her waist. She stole a glance at Quill, who opened his arms for Rocket to stumble out of his hold. Behind her Groot stared forward with determination.

“Mmmmhhh,” Drax moaned as Gamora watched Groot’s branches wrapped snug around him.

Breathe, she cursed the ship free falling downward. She sucked in a breath, hands gripping the branches in a vice grip. Rocket was saying something but her mind couldn’t process the words. Tears leaked from her eyes, Quill’s too; she could see them from across the cocoon. He managed a smile she could not bring herself to return but she made a mental note of it. How could he have managed a smile in the midst of all this? Endearing or infuriating? Well, it wasn’t like she would get the chance to decide. Her stomach leapt into her throat as the ship rushed towards the surface. It would hurt she supposed, even though this nest might provide some reprieve. Besides, she’d felt worse pain than whatever was about to come.

Breathe, breathe.

“We. Are. Groot.”

She closed her eyes against the fear. Her whole body crashed against the branches with the sudden impact. Her hands clamped over her head.

Among friends, among friends, among friends, among…

Thin snapping and cracking of branches splitting apart sounded in her ears, snapping and cracking.

White pain flashed against her head, dragging her down into darkness.

---

Ronan. Was. Alive. Gamora sucked in a painful breath, watching as Quill did his best to distract the man with some odd movements of his legs and pelvis. If Ronan survived he’ll tell Thanos…..if Thanos knows...I...he’ll send them after me. Proxima and the rest of them. Nebula was bad enough. The image of her sister plummeting to the surface of the ship flashed through her mind. Nebula wasn’t dead. She’s too clever for that. She looked at Ronan with trepidation and rage. To think she empathized with the man. Another tool of Thanos being manipulated by their rage against innocent people. Gamora reached for her sword and suddenly felt her legs levitate off the ground hurled against her will into the crumpled wreckage of metal and branches. Purple light streamed across her blurry vision. The stone. With a grunt she pulled herself up burning hands wrapping around a piece of metal rebar in order to stand against the omnipresent force of the stone Peter was trying to contain. Hot pain flashed through her arms, expanding under her skin through her body.

Cybernetic implants surging with stinging barbs. She grit her teeth against it, pull yourself up. Good, one step, two step. Concentrate on the physical. Smell: charred metal and wood. Touch: Hot metal and...energy...power. Taste: Ash. Sight: Shadows through the light. Hear: Crying, Screaming. Peter...Peter screaming. Gamora lumbered forward, mastering control of her aching limbs to reach out.

“Peter! Take my hand!” He turned to her, hearing somehow over the booming echo of the stone’s power. His eyes full of tears, face full of…..she didn’t know. His hand clamped down on her’s before she could prepare herself. Electrifying pulses of energy zapped up her hand, through her arm and throughout her body. Eyes squeezed shut she could still smell the metallic burning of her own skin and muscle. Breathe...breathe... a mantra she’d learned long ago. When Thanos modified her limbs and enhanced her skeleton. Breathe. After the eight round of combat that day. Breathe. The power of the stone shifted, lessening the weight against her. Somewhere to Peter’s other side Drax let out a blood curdling shout. Gamora squeezed Quill’s hand. She could do this. She could defeat this. She was better than this. A moment later the power of the stone loosened its grip upon her only just. An animalistic yelp cut through the torpor of the wind.

“You said it yourself bitch,” Peter’s voice cut through the pain. She cracked an eye open, turning to him. His eyes a dark clouded purple. “We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy.” The Guardians of the Galaxy. A part of something.

“....How?” Ronan spluttered. Gamora watched his horror stricken face and allowed herself a cruel satisfied smile as the power of the stone took hold of his body, blowing it to disintegrated bits. A fitting fate. Slowly the agony ebbed, draining out of her, bringing her back to reality. The Ravager Yondu emerged some untold time later, speaking with Peter about the orb. Words were exchanged, words Gamora could barely make out and object to as Peter handed over the orb. But she couldn’t believe he’d truly hand it over to him, her trust only confirmed later when he revealed the truth. She allowed herself to smile, even admit a laugh for the first time in...in a long time.

“Guardians of the Galaxy,” a light prim voice turned Gamora’s attention to Nova Prime, crossing casually over the destruction flanked by four guards on either end. “You have saved Xandar,” she praised. “Come, we will get you cleaned up and well fed. You must be exhausted.”

“Thank You, Miss Nova Boss Lady,” Quill fumbled.

“Prime.”

“Yes! Prime! Mrs. Nova Prime.”

Gamoa allowed herself to be escorted from the scene, towards Nova headquarters. She shuffled through the doors, instantly eyeing the guards, four Hsvar knives. A 89 grantiv gun and smaller concealed rifles hidden at their belts. Down the white hallways they were led, up sixteen floors in a hoverpod. The doors opened up into a large brightly lit hallway.

“Your rooms, for now.” Nova Prime stopped before an orange door. “A change of clothes, showers and a bed. You are welcome to rest up until the medical examiners are ready for you. Your wounds will be treated and we will get you a good meal.”

“Oh good,” Drax grunted. “I am starving.” Nova managed a polite nod, opening the door for him. Rocket was shown to his room next, two down on the left from Drax. Then Peter,

“Sweet! This is way better than the dives on Contraxia!” He stood in the doorway, then looked at her with that same uncertainty. That tentative gaze she’d seen before. He wanted to say something.

“Gamora….” Peter whispered.

“Your room is a little further down this way.”

Let it go, now is not the time. Though there were a thousand words on the edge of her tongue. Gamora forced herself to look away, following the last of the guards.

The room was spacious, bright. Natural light streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows that bent outward. Gamora watched the guard with keen eyes and waited until his footsteps and those of Nova Prime drifted away. Alone at last. Safe. No. Never safe. She easily made out the security cameras in the far upper reaches of the room. Four of them, one in each corner. Gamora picked up the clothes they’d laid out for her on the bed and changed in the bathroom, (no cams in there-she'd checked). It was good to slip out of the filthy bloody garments. Refreshing to step into something new. A new start, she allowed herself to think as she fiddled with the skirt around her waist. The cool water ran down her face, she dabbed lightly at her wounds as she had done so many times before. Her mind flashed back to backwater planets, combat arenas, the houses of country officials and the murky lairs of criminals. The Dark Aster.

“Gamora?” A voice tore her from the memories,

Peter?! She sprinted to the door in surprised delight only to have it dwindle. Another Nova guard stood before her.

“Yes?” She straightened, masking emotion.

“Nova Prime has requested your presence.” Her stomach churned, its alright. Starting over. This is starting over. She forced a pained smile and nodded, walking with him down the hall, down six floors and through four sets of doors before coming upon a nondescript doorway. Another guard stood at attention. She eyed them carefully under their helmets. The one beside her had two guns, the one at the door had only one. Without a word he opened the door, into a single room furnished with a table and two chairs, windowless. She spun on her heel as the door clanged door shut. The table is heavy enough to break down the doors if possible, and the chairs…

The door opened again, then shut.

“Gamora, How are you settling in?”

“Well, thank you.”

Nova Prime offered a superfluous grin.

“I am glad to hear it,” the woman chirped then let her face fall serious. “Let me start out by expressing our deepest gratitude to you for saving Xandar.” Gamora nodded in appreciation, waiting for the caveat. “But someone with your...unique history must understand we cannot allow you to go free.”

There it was. Gamora tensed. “Please, sit,” Nova Prime gestured to the linoleum seat.

“I’ll stand thank you.” The other woman nodded, sitting down and gently tapping the surface of the white table. Blue and yellow holograms leapt up. Her photo from the line-up just days ago.It seemed like a lifetime. Under that, a list of her crimes she tried not to read.

“I have been in this business for a long time, but these crimes,” Gamora watched the woman’s eyes go wide with horror as the hologram scrolled down through murders and massacres.

“I have changed!” She snapped, heat alighting in her limbs, reaching impulsively for her sword only to pause when its hilt was absent. Nova Prime’s mouth opened a jar.

Damnit, wished the words back in, shaming herself for the outburst. “My associates can vouch for me,” she attempted to regain her composure. Nova Prime regarded her with a thin smile that previous Gamora would have sliced off her face with a ready blade.

“Your associates are a petty criminal, a masochistic maniac, and an escaped lab experiment.”

And a Flora Colossus, Gamora finished completing the team even though he’s...

“Their words mean nothing.” The assassin swallowed, trying to force down the instincts that told her to kill.

“I betrayed Ronan,” she reminded Nova Prime. “And I will convince Peter…” she cleared her throat, “Quill to give you the orb.”

The woman blinked, leaving the hologram and coming to stand before her. Keen eyes looking her over with blatant doubt. The same doubt that churned within her. Gamora’s lips drew into a frown, setting her jaw. “Do you really think I would have risked Thanos wrath if I was not completely certain? I am no daughter of his.” The silence between them strung like a bow, taunt with apprehension. Gamora looked at the woman intently.

“A single act of morality does not absolve you a lifetime of treachery,” Nova Prime hissed. Gamora swallowed back the intent to attack, clenching her fists.

“You may go dine with your companions. I will meet with the council and tomorrow we will decide if you are fit to be released into society.”

“So I’m your prisoner now?” The woman only pushed past her, pushing the yellow button for the door. “You are dismissed Lady Gamora.”

---

No Wechelian smok is this runny, Gamora examined the red slob on her plate. She hadn’t been hungry these past few days, thanks to her ...previous training, she was able to discipline her body to go days, sometimes weeks with limited sustenance. None at all if the mission required it. But it was gratifying to be able to eat. She proceed quietly down the line of other Nova officers and Xandarian officials through the cafeteria line. Something clinked beside her, small black claws scratching against the counter. Rocket’s small paw stretched over the lip of the counter fumbling for the utensils that lay just out of reach.

“Look at that,” a man behind the food dispenser elbowed his buddy, “what is that?

“Hey move it rodent,” the man behind him sneered.

“Looks like a flarken!”

“Nah, too big.”

“Not big enough to reach the spoons,” the laughed, watching Rocket trying to balance on his tail, stretching forward.

Gamora watched him make another attempt and subsequently fail.

“Your holding up the line! Where’s your owner?”

More laughter rose from the line of people behind them. Rocket only cursed, making another attempt to grasp the spoon and subsequently failed to do so. The Xandarian man who had jeered before now moved the spoons within Rocket’s reach. Gamora watched him make a grab for it, only to have it yanked backward further from his grasp, provoking another round of laughter.

Grab his wrist, twist to the left, demand he hand over the spoon. Threaten him if he does not...no. No. Gamora bit the inside of her tongue as the man now rapidly moved the spoons in and out of Rocket’s reach. The raccoonoid made no outburst at the bullies, nor did he simply walk away. Instead he tried again, and again only to be denied and mocked.

Like Nebula. At that Gamora angled her arms outward and turned swiftly, elbow knocking the container of spoons to the ground in a clattering mess.

“Sorry,” she lied to the workers, kneeling to pick up the spoons. Rocket was quick, yanking one up from the floor in a flash, keeping his gaze low and moving past her with a flick of the tail. She placed the container back on the counter, stalking onward to tables.

So many faces, species... she surveyed the swarm of the mess hall. Xandarians, Askavarians, Contraxians, Yrrsh, Upek, Pliemans and more. Thanos eyes are everywhere. She felt her skin prick in tension, rapidly watching every face she could. Memorizing their features, who they were sitting with. There must be hundreds of...

“Gamora!” The woman rounded towards the voice in a flash, arm raised to…

“Peter!” She dropped her hand, a nervous laughter overtaking her. “You shouldn’t sneak up on assassins.” He grunted something through a mouthful of smok.

“Have you tried this stuff? It’s delicious!” She shook her head, smiling as he gestured to two empty seats. They sat across from each other. “They say they can fix the ship!” He explained through mouthfuls of food. “Won’t be as good,” he paused, sucking juice from each finger, “but close! Can’t wait to get off this planet!”

“You and me both,” she put in.

“So, how have you been? Did you know the showers have real Yttanian mist?!”

“I’ve been detained.”

“The mist reminds me of these sprinklers back in Missouri...on summer nights I’d run through the...wait what?” He suddenly dropped the smok. Face going from wistful to angry.

“I can’t really blame them,” Gamora admitted shoving the smok around on her plate. “As the lackey of a genocidal maniac.”

“Psshh is that what Rocket said? He’s so full of shit. Wait so are you like...detained detained?”

“Nova Prime is meeting with the council,” she continued. “They will decide if I am allowed to go.” Peter’s frowned deepened.

“That’s ridiculous! I’ll talk to them. Or we’ll break you out if they don’t let you go. You’re the most dangerous woman in the galaxy. They can’t detain you!” Gamora shrugged. “Well figure something out,” he offered warmly. She nodded, his earnestness was promising if not idiotic.

“I’m sure.”

There it was, that word again. We.

#my writing #gotg #the body keeps the score fic #Guardians of the Galaxy #gamora #starmora #peter quill #star lord #rocket raccoon #groot #drax #Drax The Destroyer #gotgvol1 #gotg fic

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the-everlasting-dream · 5 years

Text

Trembling - Drake x MC

Summary: After a second incident at the royal palace, Drake realises that something’s not okay with Elizabeth.

A/N: The whole explosion affair in Book 3 was handled too quickly for my liking... I find it hard to believe that Elizabeth wouldn’t be much more shaken. She’s human after all and there’s only so much she can take before breaking...

Word Count: 3300+

Warnings: Slight mentions of death, violence, gun violence.

Permanent tags: @chantelle-x0x , @choicessa, @meeraaverywalker , @drakewalkerwhipped , @quartzandarrow , @mfackenthal , @srawesleyghuewrites , @topsyturvy-dream , @enmchoices , @gardeningourmet @debramcg1106 , @alesana45 , @meladoridarcy, @blackcatkita , @tmarie82 , @annekebbphotography , @lizk77 , @jayjay879 , @tornbetween2loves , @akrenich , @theroyalweisme , @likethetailofacomet , @sleepwalkingelite , @littleblossom-18 , @ooo-barff-ooo

TRR only: @speedyoperarascalparty , @carabeth , Drake: @fairydustandsarcasm

The moment he heard the explosion, Drake immediately rushed towards Elizabeth, calling out her name as he jostled through the crowd to where she had been standing, talking to the royal family. She was his first priority, she always was. Ever since the attack at the Homecoming Ball, looking over his shoulder had almost become second nature, especially when Elizabeth was concerned. While he couldn’t protect her from everything, he would damn well try because he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to her.

Where was she? His eyes scanned the frenzied mass, frantically sifting through to find her bright orange dress.

'C’mon, c’mon,’ he mumbled under his breath. 'Richmond where are y-‘

Finally his gaze landed on her, standing unmoving, her back ramrod straight. The ballroom was utter chaos as the crowd around him surged, trying to fight their way towards the exit while he pressed onwards towards her just as the ceiling near Liam threatened to collapse. Soon he was close enough to hear her gasp of alarm as Constantine pushed his son out of the way, taking the impact of the ceiling. Shoving through the last few members of the crowd, Drake's hand finally closed on her frozen figure, reflexively pulled her to him as he coughed in the dust from the rubble.

‘Elizabeth come on,’ he told her, looking into her unfocused eyes that were quickly filling with tears. ‘We have to get out of here now.’

‘Drake… H-he…The ceiling..’ Her voice was soft and breathy and he knew, he just knew at once she wasn’t okay. She’d just watched someone, Constantine, die, of course she wasn’t okay.

‘Drake.. I-'

As much as he wanted to comfort her, Drake knew he had to get her to safety. The longer they stayed the more at risk they were and he wouldn’t have her in harm’s way for any longer.

‘I know, I know baby,’ he replied, his tone gentle but urgent, his senses dialled to eleven, painfully aware of the crumbling ceiling above. ‘But we gotta get out of here. You gotta come with me first. You can do that can’t you?’

Eyes brimming with tears, lower lip wobbling, she nodded vacantly and he arranged his features into an encouraging smile.

‘That’s my girl.’

It wasn’t until they were back at the safe house that Drake realised something was wrong. During their escape and for the entire journey from the palace, Elizabeth been deathly quiet. Her usual bubbly demeanour, one of the many things he loved about her, was replaced by a stark silence, hidden in the dim lighting of the car. He'd been so busy talking to Bastien on the phone, helping with coordination of the evacuation, getting instructions about the safe house that he'd missed how she had been staring blankly at the leather of the driver's seat. At first he assumed, it was the shock after all and maybe she just needed a moment for it to sink in — she’d just seen the king get crushed by the ceiling of his own home, of course she wouldn’t be okay.

Liam was in the royal safe house with his mother, their friends had been taken to a different one to avoid suspicion so it was just him and Elizabeth that night. Mara and Bastien left after seeing them settle in, they had a million other jobs to do right now.

Wait here Drake. We’ll come get you two when its safe, they’d said.

Drake never could stand waiting. It ate at him, crawling under his skin until he itched to do something, anything that would give him the illusion that he was doing something useful. He was so preoccupied with his own thoughts —because a million of them seemed to be turning about in his head — that he’d completely missed Elizabeth. When Drake went into panic mode, he did things. When Elizabeth went into panic mode, it was like she'd completely shut down.

She was always there in his periphery and as long as she wasn’t saying anything, his mind reasoned that she must have been okay. A simple glance told him that she was seated on the couch but if he’d looked closer he’d have seen her eyes downcast, her movements were small and deliberate as she gingerly lowered herself into a chair, perched on the edge, unmoving, almost like she didn’t want to be noticed at all. Her silence stretched longer and longer and mistaking it for tiredness, he bustled through out the underground apartment, checking the generator, the fridge, food and water supplies, anything to calm his nerves.

After double — no, triple — checking the locks, making sure they enough bottles of water in the fridge, locating the first aid kit and spare changes of clothes, when he had done all he could, Drake finally turned his attention to Elizabeth. His thoughts quietened for a moment as he realised that this was just like that night after the coronation, it was just the two of them. He mentally shook himself, he didn’t want to think of that… It was simultaneously the happiest and scariest day of his life. She’d agreed to marry him, yes, but he’d also been on the brink of death, having the possibility of everything he’s ever known ripped from him to be abandoned to the great oblivion.

Elizabeth was the one thing that would always centre him, to pull him back from the edge and he swore to himself that he would do anything to protect her. Right now, he needed her. He needed to hold her, to feel her warm body in his arms, feel the beating of her heart pressed against his to reassure himself that she was okay. That they were okay. It was only when he sat down beside her, that Drake realised that something was desperately wrong. The air between them crackled with tension as he sank into the couch beside her, arms instinctively reaching for her but she shrunk away from his grasp. A cold fear clamped around his heart and he was unable to stop his mouth from dropping open. What had he done to make her pull away from him? Not knowing what to do, he just sat there, for a long time and he was quiet too, hoping she’d talk first and save him the misery of breaking the suffocating silence.

'Richmond, whats the matter?’ He began tentatively, unable to take it anymore.

'I’m fine Drake,’ Elizabeth replied, her tone unreadable, face turned away from his.

'You’re obviously not, whats wrong?

‘Nothing.’ The same, closed tone again.

'Bullshit, you can’t fool me Richmond.'

'I said nothing Drake,’ she repeated, rising to her feet, eyes fixed to the carpet and he noticed she was trembling. ‘Can I just go to bed now?'

Every fibre of her posture was pleading for him to let it go, to stop talking but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand to just remain silent while the woman he loved was obviously hurting.

‘No,’ Drake argued, desperation deep in his voice. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me whats bothering you. And I know something is.’

‘I’m fine Drake. Just drop it.’ ‘No I’m not.’ He grabbed her arm lightly to pull her back to him. He wanted to hold, her to comfort her, to show her he was-

'Fucking hell you just don't know when to quit do you?!’

It was like a switch had been flipped suddenly. Eyes flashing with anger, Elizabeth wrenched her arm from his grip. ‘I said I’m fine! Leave me alone Drake.'

And Drake could do nothing but gape as she stormed off towards the small adjacent bedroom, the door slamming thunderously behind her.

Drake remained rooted to the spot long after the echo had faded, shocked to his core as emotions built in him, shock, alarm, sadness, confusion, guilt, some he didn’t fully understand, seeming to grow and grow until they were too much for him. He sank down onto the couch, as if overwhelmed by the weight of them all, head resting heavily in his palms. His mind raced, searching, thinking, contemplating where had he erred, what he could have possibly done to exact a reaction from his usually composed fiancee. He’d never seen Elizabeth like this… Usually their roles were reversed, that she was the one to pull him out of his bad mood, she would have detected that something wasn’t right, she would have known immediately that something was very, very wrong for her to snap like this. But what?

Eventually Drake eased himself off the couch and tiptoed towards the bedroom, wincing at the slight squeaking of the hinges as he inched the door open. Facing the wall, Elizabeth was lying on the bed, presumably asleep by the steady rise and fall of her chest but Drake didn’t trust himself to believe that she was really sleeping. After all he had misjudging everything else tonight so why should he trust his senses now? Still something tugged in his chest. He needed to be with her, to be next to her, to feel her warmth to reassure himself that she was alive and so was he. He gingerly approached the bed, lifted the covers and slid in beside her, the vast amount of space between them not lost on him. He wanted to hold her badly, so, so badly but he did not want to create another scene like before. Simply being next to her would have to suffice for now and though a thousand thoughts still swirled in his brain, Drake clamped his eyes shut and forced himself to get some rest.

His consciousness alerted him before his brain could wake up - something was not right. His eyes remain closed but his hand travelled over to her side of the bed, to make sure she was there, to make sure she was safe. When his fingers brushed on the empty mattress, his eyes snapped open and he shot up in bed, searching frenetically for her, heart stopping until he saw a crack of light spilling from the tiny space between the door and its frame.

Going out into the main room, he found Elizabeth standing with her back to him, silhouetted against the dim emergency lights, standing so still he could have mistaken her for a wraith in the night. He couldn’t see her face but her posture alone was enough of a warning. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go back to bed and carefully he crept forwards, feet treading lightly as if the carpet were mad of eggshells, not wanting to break the fragile spell she’d wrapped herself in. He stood there at her side for a long moment, aching to touch her but at the same time knowing he shouldn’t lest he drive her off again. After losing count of how much time had passed, she turned to him. Elizabeth looked up at him and in the pain he found in her dark irises, something shifted in him. It was like he was looking at her with new eyes. For the first time he saw all of her: the foreigner, the duchess, the friend, the fiancee, the woman he loved was struggling and he had no idea.

Emotional connections had never been his forte and for the first time in his life he felt completely useless. He’d been so caught up in his own doubts and thoughts about the wedding that he’d failed realise she might have doubts of her own. She was human after all and she battled with her own demons too, she was just better at hiding it than he was. She talked and laughed a lot but never once thought did Drake think that she talked to avoid talking, talking about the things that mattered, the things that really affected her, that kept her awake at night when all she wanted to do was sleep.

From the pain in her eyes, he realised that even though she put on a brave face every day. She bore the look of a woman haunted, haunted by things she should have never seen if he had any say about it. Drake was painfully reminded of his own mortality in that moment. This was the life she’d been thrust into, being a noble now had painted an angry red target on her back and try as he may, he would never be enough to protect her.

The concept of time was irrelevant as they stood side by side and when she eventually spoke, Elizabeth’s voice was little more than a haunted whisper.

'Do you know what tonight reminded me of?'

Drake shook his head, not wanting to break the spell.

'It felt like I was living through that night of the homecoming ball.’ She clamped her eyes shut and swallowed hard, her voice wobbling just a little. 'The explosions, the sounds, people scrambling over each other to get out, the panic... I don’t think I can go through that again. And I…’ She released a noise of frustration, as emotions built in her throat, rendering her unable to continue.

'I’m here baby, I’m here.’ His arms surged forward, eager to comfort her, to hold her and reassure her that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her safe but she shoved off his attempt at an embrace, her voice like ice when she replied.

'Please don't touch me.'

Drake recoiled as if she’d slapped him, feeling the sting of her words sinking into his skin. He swallowed hard, his inner stubbornness urging him not to give in while his conscience ordered him not to pursue it. Torn between the two, Drake finally choked out a desperate strangled response.

'Don't do that Richmond. Talk to me. I'm here. Don’t shut me out. Talk to me please.'

Her gaze strayed off into the middle distance, gaining that faraway look in her eyes. 'I’m not sure Drake… I’m not sure about anything…'

That stunned him into silence. What did she mean anything? Even… them? He was about to open his mouth with a fickle response when she spoke again, her voice carrying louder against the winds that whipped loudly around their bunker

'What if this is the universe's way of telling us we shouldn't be together?’

A cold hand of fear clenched around his heart as Drake struggled to formulate a reply, his mouth opening and closing over and over but no words came out. Elizabeth noticed his speechlessness and swallowed thickly.

'Everything I've known since I've come here is chaos… The scandal at the coronation, the photos, the attack on the Homecoming ball, everything from schemes against me to assassins pointing guns at me, wanting me dead and then tonight… How can I ignore all of that? How many bad things need to happen before I realise what should have been glaringly obvious? I don’t want this life Drake. If it means I’m going to constantly have to watch my back, to look over my shoulder. If that is what life in Cordonia holds for me… then maybe I…'

She cut herself off and internally his mind was screaming at her to continue, to finish her sentence.

'I should have never come to Cordonia...’

Her words hit him with a devastating finality as if it was the final nail in the coffin for him. At once his mind flashed to a possibility in which Elizabeth indeed had never come to Cordonia. Liam would have married Madeleine, Hana would still be under the cruel regime of her parents, tensions more fraught than ever between the Brothers Beaumont and as for himself. He’d come so far from that sullen, lonely bastard that sulked in the shadows, resenting the nobility in all its forms and if not for Elizabeth’s catalysing presence, Drake shuddered to think where he would be now.

Finally finding his voice, Drake surged forward, gripping her shoulders and making her face him, not caring if she struck him for real this time or not. He needed to say this and he needed her to hear it.

‘No. Don’t say that. I refuse to believe it. You took the country by storm, creating a change that no one else would ever be able to.Your presence in Cordonia has only made everyone’s lives infinitely better. Hell, you’ve made a better man of me when even I had given up on myself. Yes, terrible things have happened and there are some truly evil people out there trying to send us all to ruin but you are a shining hope to them. To us all.’

‘And I swear,’ he reached forward and grasped her hands tightly in his. ‘I swear on my life that I will do anything and everything in my power to protect you Elizabeth Richmond. Because I could never live with myself if something… if you were…’ His voice cracked and he dropped his head down.

Voicing it aloud only made the possibility more real and more painful to bear and right now he was scared. Drake was scared beyond words at the prospect of losing her. He knew his promises were nothing more than empty guarantees, like a straw house in the wind that was their enemies and the inevitable danger they were facing but he had to try, he’d try until his dying breath to protect her from everything that was to come and if it came to that, so be it.

'Do you love me?’

Drake picked his head up at the sound of Elizabeth’s trembling voice. 'O-of course. More than anything,’ he scrambled to reply, caught totally off guard by her question. 'More than I’ve ever loved anyone before.'

She nodded, seeming to process the response and something in her eyes prompted him to turn the question on her.

'D-do you love me?’

At once her gaze dropped to the floor and his heart clenched tightly in anticipation and the knot of despair was just beginning to unravel behind his sternum when she pressed her lips against his and he could taste her tears in the desperate kiss they shared. Drake almost moaned at her touch, his hands coming up to finally embrace her the way he’d been aching to do so. He encircled his arms around her, rejoicing in the opportunity to just to be with her and hold her, to feel the steady beating of her heart against his chest reminding him that she was alive, that they both were. It wasn’t until they parted and the breeze from the open window cooled the water from her tears that has fallen onto his cheeks that he realised she’d side-stepped the question..

Pulling back, he looked carefully into her dark eyes, hoping so ardently to find an answer to the question she was so obviously avoiding but Elizabeth refused to hold the gaze. At this, Drake knew this wasn’t over, that one kiss wouldn’t magically resolve all her inhibitions. The thought frightened him but still he allowed her to lead him back to the bedroom where they settled back under the covers. This time she allowed him to hold her, wrapping his arms around her slim form and as her breathing even out into soft deep breaths, he struggled with sleep.

As the sun rose on the horizon, Drake glanced down at the love of his life who lay sleeping in his arms. He knew he couldn’t fight her demons for her but he would never stop trying.

#drake walker #drake x mc #trr drake #Drake x Elizabeth #elizabeth richmond #The Royal Romance #trr #trr3 #choices #playchoices #choices fandom #choices fanfiction

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broken-hearted-but-brave · 5 years

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Knight Au: Virgil’s Recruitment

It’s the first official recruitment of one of the sides and it’s a bit sad, but I promise there won’t be to much. I can’t handle angst very well anyways. Let me know if anyone's interested in more. Even for one person I would continue, but if there isn’t anyone then I guess I will just stop here. (Maybe)

Warnings: Non-descriptive violence, drug mentions, ill, and mild language. (If I missed anything let me know)

Virgil found himself living in the worst location of the Sanders kingdom. He lived as close to the middle of Veil as one would be able to without relying on a large scale gang to back you up. Only the rich and powerful underworlders could call the center of Plague home. Those beings, more likely then not, being a form of demon.

He’d lived there since he was born and has long ago given up on getting out. The city was essentially a maze, and while that might help in hiding, it also covers the monsters in the city. For those outside of Veil they called it Plague. Both names made a sick sort of sense to everyone. Entering the city was like hiding behind a veil. No news traveled to or from the city and you were luck to be seen again with out any permanent physical damage. The mental damage was certain. The walls were the veil to keep those outside safe from the horrors that plagued anyone or thing that lived within the city. If you can call what happens there living, and those who came out with the mental scars were considered plagued as the things they did would drive them back to that city.

Virgil truly did hate his home. Every bone in his body told him that this was where he would die and he believed it. Unfortunately for him, his sharpened senses kept him alive and for the most part safe. It’s not that he wished to die, no, death here was not a good thing. You can’t rest here when your dead. The only reason he hated his senses was for the fact that he had to cover his body as much as possible, so that he wouldn’t have a meltdown do to over stimulation. None of those helping with the anxiety he developed due to the masters of his youth. Honestly his hatred ran so deep that........

“S... Si... SIR!”

“Quiet. We can’t have anyone hearing us right now.”

“But...”

“No, be silent. If you really want to see your mother again and do so alive, you will remain silent. Understood?”

The child nodded, holding back her sobs with the rags she wore. Honestly, he should have know better then to help this girl. He will get nothing from it, but at least he wouldn’t be at fault for the small child’s death.

They continued to take turns and twist that appeared to back track through almost claustrophobic passage ways. The passages made even smaller by the filth that covered the entire city's inner levels. Between not getting lost and the filth that could very well be hiding bodies, Virgil’s attention was completely taken due to the addition of the girl as well. So, when a rat ran over his foot and climbed the walls in an unholy manner to reach a window that had long since lost its glass. It took everything in him not to bolt.

An enemy right in front of him was easy but place him here close to hyperventilating and stressed over the area they were heading to did not help to keep his fear of rats hidden. If it weren’t for the child he would have been long gone and resting in his hideaway for when he needed to hunt down his next meal.

They soon came to the edge of an open space, with a broken fountain in the center. If it weren’t for the obvious man made parts of the area it could have been easily mistaken for a cavern.

Searching the perimeter, Virgil noticed many things that others would miss. Doors hidden almost to the point where they looked like part of the wall, dotted the area. Pathways like their own, appeared closed off, except for two or there far across the area. Most importantly the area was clean.

No filth that looked like it could be alive. No rubble or shattered glass scatter about other then the parts from the fountain. Something was wrong and Virgil was so close to leaving, but the child.

“Hide in one of the piles. Somethings not right here.”

The girl nodded and crawled through one of the piles. As she did so she chocked on the stench that came from deep in the pile. The cloth masked did nothing for her against the stench and so she pocketed it as she turned to look out at what Virgil would do.

Knowing that this was a trap for him, he scoured the area looking for the best point and exits for him to go and defend from. The fountain was most likely his best bet and so he crept over, keeping low as to not trigger the ambush just yet.

Upon reaching the fountain he stood slowly, keeping an eye out for any arrows, darts, and other projectiles. Having none come his way he steeled his nerves and called out.

“Jade, come out I have your daughter. I don’t need any trouble.”

Nothing responded back, not even his echo that should have been there, nor the enemies that should have come out as well. It was far to silent. Even at the quietest times a scream and rats could be heard. So, where were they. Then he heard it, or more like them.

The muffled breathing and a laugh.

They were waiting for a signal, but from who? It should only be him, the girl, and whoever refused to come out and attack.

“What are you guys waiting for? An open invitations? If so, know that I have none.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

“He said after this I owe him nothing! If I gave you to him then he would let me and mother go! I’m sick of waiting for him to sell me! I’m sorry”

The child broke down and fled the scene. That’s fine, honestly, Virgil would have done the same if he was in her position. Owning a debt to someone, even your own parent is the same as a death sentence here.

“How pathetic. That daughter of mine truly is studied. As soon as I finish up with you, I will be selling her and that cow to the demons. Honestly, does she really think that bring you here would be enough to payback me giving her life?”

A short stature, large build man exited from one of the doors hidden from the wall. He effectively earned a glare from Virgil.

“You bastard. I should have know it was one of your children, Darrian, when I smelt the Artmum on her.”

“Oh enough. Honestly killing you will bring me quite a lot a reputation. My group will be able to take down gangs thanks to that alone. Though I must say you appear much slower the normal.”

“Have you seen yourself? You give my name far to much credit. It would take you killing thousands to gain any reputation other then the horrifically, ugly, disgust...”

“How DArE YoU! Boys get out here and kill him already.”

“Can’t even take a little teasing fatty?”

With that about fifteen boy entered from the doors and passages. There ages a wide range but none over eighteen. That be part of the sad truth of Veil. I were luck to make it to twelve here. More likely then not you were dead due to either a debt you owed or paying of someone else’s by ten.

The boys charge at Virgil, and he began his defense. Using rocks around him he kicked them towards the boys slowing some down and tripping a few more. While they got up, he headed towards Darrian. Swipes came in left and right. Most boys used heave pipes and boards, but the few older held swords. Still none of them land a single blow to Virgil. On the other hand Virgil had landed several and knocked out as many as he could on his way to Darrian.

It was obvious that the boys owed Darrian. Most likely all of them being his son. So with his death the would all most likely run away. Free from there debts. So Virgil did what he could not to harm them severally. They were children after all and not loyal to anyone. Even blood meant nothing here other then a debt to be paid.

Five feet from Darrian, the boys managed to circle Virgil. The continued to swipe and miss him as he tried to find an opening. After several moments and angry yelling by Darrian to hurry and finish him, an opening showed its self. The Boy directly in front of Darrian moved his hip ever so slightly as to reach Virgil at a better angle, and Virgil leapt for that moment.

He threw his dagger at Darrian, hitting him in his jugular. Quickly Virgil yanked back. A steel thread pulling his dagger to him and ripping the man’s throat with it’s barbed edges. He quickly hit the ground and died quickly.

As expected, the boys had been waiting to hear Darrian fall, instantly taking off when he did. Virgil, however, did not go unscathed. In his left shoulder the boy had managed to embed his short sword during Virgil's throwing.

Knowing that staying here would mean his death drove Virgil to stay up. The wound coupled with the illness that he had caused his legs to tremble. Why on earth did he agree to help the girl Artmum in her veins? This would be his end. He knew the likelihood of him getting to a one of the building here would be near impossible, let alone all the way back to his base.

His knees gave out and as he attempted to crawl to one of the doorways rushed footsteps could be heard. No not now! Why come back and finish? He was so close but the loss of blood and the lack of his dominate arm caused him to give in. This was his end and he knew it. Whoever’s footsteps those were, showed that they were close and closing in quickly, undoubtedly having spotted him. All he hoped for now was that it wasn’t one of the demons from the inner city.

“Your... But your Highness... No, never!.. But... Understood.”

“Hey... Kid...!”

Virgil’s strength had left him and his Vision was beginning to as well. However, he saw one last thing that confused him as he slipped under. The royal colors flashed in his sight, and he was out.

Virgil woke to his entire body throbbing in pain. Most of which was originating from his shoulder, but it did not drown out the pain that came from his head and stomach as well. He lurched forward at the pains in his stomach and hands quickly reached for him.

Normally he would have fought off any contact but the pain was to much. The arms around him guided him to a bucket where he dry heaved into. Having had no food and little water made for having nothing to give to the vomiting and instead ruined his throat.

After collecting himself, he turned to the owner of the hands and arms that had guided him. To his left sat a small, middle aged healer. Round glasses taking up most of his face and had it not been for the heavy concern that showed on his face, it would have obviously been a large, bright smile if his laugh lines where anything to go by.

“I’d ask if you were alright, but it’s quite obvious your not. My name is Emile. I managed to patch you up, though I am sure you still feel pain from your wound. as for the stomach and head pain, that is an unfortunate side effect of rushed healing. I...” “Where am I? Why did you help me? There shouldn’t be any healers in Veil. Not any free ones.”

“Well your right in the fact that your not in Veil anymore. Your actually in the royal palace Valor. As for why I helped you... Well, why did you help that child? I’m sure you knew she was lying.”

“Wait the girl! Is she alright?”

Panic began to set in. The girl had to have gotten away. What did the person mean by Valor. He couldn’t leave Veil. He was supposed to be dead there and now he’s in Valor? Does that mean he owes the King a debt? Someone else? As his thoughts spiraled his hands reached for he’s hair and began to pull. Hard.

“Shh calm. It’s ok. Your safe, she’s safe. You don’t owe anyone anything, we merely wanted to help you. Now breath with me. In for four. Good. Hold for seven. That’s it. And out for eight. Great, lets do it again.”

After going through the breathing for several minutes, Virgil was finally calm enough to listen to Emile’s explanation.

“His Highness, me and a few guards went to check out what was going on in Veil. It had been some time since a kings visit there and we had wanted to see where it had gotten to. Really it was the Thomas’s idea. We knew it would be bad to just go in there so we kept the party to a minimum...

“Thomas are you really sure about this, I mean...”

The spy originally sent to check out Veil had come back claiming that one of the mobs in Veil had gained a forbidden spell book that once belonged to the royal family and needed help getting it back.

“For the hundredth time Valarie, yes I am sure. I need to make sure we get this book back and I have more reasons then that to go to Veil.”

“But Thomas, it’s not safe. People come back like they have the plague and quickly return there.”

“Look we are basically there already. Besides why do you think I brought you, Emile, Joan, and Tayln along? We’ll be fine. Now quiet we can’t have anyone noticing us.”

Huffing, Valarie stopped her complaining and fell back in line with the other guards. It really wasn’t normal for the King to go on a book retrieval mission. Especially somewhere so dangerous with so few personal guards.

“You know she’s right, Thomas. We should do this quickly so that we don’t attract to much attention.”

“Yes, Emile, now Alex said that the book was located deeper in the city then we are now. With the map they gave us it should only take about three hours to reach the location. So lets get going.”

Thomas cheered and lead his rude...

“Hey!”

Upset, guard, through the winding streets. Not much occurred between entering Veil and getting to the location marked, but Emile did get a fright from some giant rat fighting for some sort of shiny item.

“It wasn’t even food! Why do rats care for a shiny piece of metal?! Do they plan to use it like a life or something?!”

“Calm down and continue please.”

“Right, right! Anyway...

“Thomas stay out here with Emile please. Joan too.”

Thomas huffed wanting to help with the retrieval, but understood that it was better for the royal to remain at a safer location. Though the safety of this area was really questionable. They where fairly close to the center of the City after all. the rest of the guard followed Valarie and Tayln in to the building to recover the stole items kept there and face down any enemies.

Then they heard a child crying out from an alley way. They all rushed over to the sound and found a small child sobbing her eyes out in a large pile of trash.

“What’s wrong?” “I... I b-betrayed the only per-person to ever offer me help!”

The child broke down even more the events that she had been through obviously to painful for her to explain more. Thomas wanted to help her immediately but Joan pulled the two a side.

“We can’t help that child Thomas. We don’t know if this is a trap or not!”

“What do you mean that ones just a child! No older the eight at the most!”

“Emile even the children here will gut you the first chance they get. We. Can’t. Help. Them.”

“We have to at least check it out!”

“N...”

“Where going to help her.” Thomas said interrupting the dispute his friends were beginning to have. Marching past the to Thomas knelt next to the child.

“Now...”

“Rose, She/her.”

The girl sniffed. Having heard them discussing what to do, she was hopeful for some one to save the person she had mentioned.

“Now, Rose. What do you mean you betrayed someone who tried to help you?”

She grabbed Thomas holding tight, almost like she was afraid that if she let go that person was as good as dead.

“He... he said he’d help me get back to my mother when I had lied to him saying I was lost. I then lied and said that she always waited by a fountain in the middle ring of the city. Really that man was there with an ambush in order to kill him. H.. he said if I brought Anxiety to him weakened then he would let me and mother go.”

Then she broke down again repeating over and over that they had to help Anxiety. That she had poisoned him, and he would need help quickly in order to live.

“Alright, if you lead the way we can help.”

“Thomas!”

“Not now Joan. Someone is dying and needs our help. Alright Rose, lets go.”

As soon as he gave the go ahead the child ran. She ran so quickly back to where she had left the man she called Anxiety. All the while she repeated

“Thank you! Thank you! He has to live! He’s going to live!”

When they reached the end of an extremely long and thin passage way the child held them up. From the passage they saw a kid crawling toward one of the doors with a sword embedded in his left shoulder. A ways across lay a few unconscious boys and a dead older man.

“That’s him! That’s Anxiety! He’s still alive!”

Thomas went to run to the kid crawling, but was stopped by Joan.

“Your Highness you can’t just go in there!”

Thomas whirled around somewhat angry with his friend.

“I know your worried, but that kid needs help. If this was a trap I doubt he would be the one still alive!”

“But your Highness...”

“You would have me leave a kid to die? You would stop me from helping someone who obviously needs it?!”

“No never! But he could be...”

“ Joan I know your only trying to protect me, but right now your in the way, now get out of the way!”

“Understood.”

With that he rushed over to the kid on the ground. Noticing that he was no longer trying to crawl and looked to be right at death’s door.

“Hey, wait! You need to hold on kid! We’ll help you so stay awake!”

Thomas threw himself down to pick the kid up. Just as he got both himself and the kid up, Anxiety was out.

“Emile, grab Rose and her mother with Joan and met me by the others! As soon as you get back to me, we run and set him up at the camp I’ll need you and the other healers to perform rushed healing spells on him. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir!”

Both Emile and Joan sprung into action in order to do as the King had commanded.

“I don’t know what happen between that time, but his Highness was desperate. We had Rose take us to her mother and then we went and meet up with his Highness and the rest. From there it was a blur of rapid healing spells, blood stabilizing and getting back to Valor.”

Emile wrung his hands. The experience was very shock. To have so much happen on a trip that should have been a quick go in, grab a book, and leave turn into a rush against time to save Virgil’s life. He wasn’t prepared for that mentally.

Virgil reached over cautiously, not used to anyone caring for him or needing to comfort another, and placed his hand on top of Emile’s.

“Thank you. I know if it weren’t for you or the King I would be dead. No one else would have left with that girl to help someone. Not when she out right said she betrayed them. Now I have to ask, how long have I been out and what do I do now?”

Emile looked up a smile place precariously on his face. A poor testament to the smiles he usually showed. While he did not mention it he had seen the scars and other mark that littered Virgil’s body. The clear signs of being half demon and something else. The abuse he no doubt went through. Emile couldn’t begin to understand what living in that place for so long had to be like, and for a child of this boys age.

“Yes well, its been three days since we found you and you recovered fairly quickly. Even with the rapid healing magic, it was still quite fast. As for what you do now? It’s up to you, but I am sure his Highness will want to talk to you a bit, and that may affect what you want to do.”

Nodding, Virgil thought his options through. He could run away, but then that would be rude to the King and he had no clue about anything outside of the Veil. Emile’s story made the King appear kind, but that could just be his point of view. After all some people saw the Kings as God-like beings. However, he seemed to treat the King as more of a friend and equal, rather then a God.

“Alright, if it’s alright I would like to see what the King has to say to me.”

Emile’s smile grew to a near blinding point and went to say something when he was interrupted.

“I’m glad you are willing to hear me out Anxiety.”

Both Emile and Virgil jumped at the sudden new voice. Virgil had to repeat the breathing exercise to keep call, but when he looked up he saw that it was the King. Right there, waiting for him, no time for preparation at all. Virgil wasn’t even properly dressed to meet with a royal. Not that he had any other clothes any way. All of a sudden needing to do his breathing exercise again. Though this time much more rapid and less successful.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry here lean against me!”

Thomas rushed over and pressed Virgil’s head to where his heart was trying to keep a steady rhythm in order to give Virgil some thing to follow. Normally this would have set Virgil’s panic off even worse, but something about Thomas was very calming and helped him rather then causing him more panic.

“I’m... I’m ok now, you can let me go.”

“Mmm, well now I’m fairly comfy so I think I’ll stay like this. Plus your hair after the wash feel really nice. Un-unless this is really uncomfortable for you!”

“No um, its really nice actually.”

So Thomas sat there for a bit just holding Virgil’s head to his chest with one hand and the other brushing threw Virgil’s hair. Virgil himself was really surprised by how much he enjoyed this, that he forgot that Emile was still in the room.

“Sorry to interrupt your Father-son bonding moment, but didn’t you have somethings to talk about?”

Both pulled back quickly, red with embarrassment that they had so quickly gotten comfortable with the positions, that they had forgot who they were and where they were. Though Emile was right, it really did feel like they were a family reunited.

“Right business. It was quite obvious that you have some amazing skill. From the looks of it you took on multiple enemies in a weakened state, with a home field disadvantage, and managed to not hurt a single child while they were attacking you, but also managed to kill the leader. While I don’t know the details, it is obvious that you are quick and skilled. You’re exactly who I have been looking for to join my permanent personal guard. While I would like to offer you that right now, I am still setting it up and can not randomly appoint someone no matter how much I want to. Regulations and all that. So... would you be willing to join my Spies and learn things outside of the Veil? The choice is yours, Anxiety.”

Virgil’s head was spinning. The King just asked Virgil to join his spies and later be one of his permanent personal guardsmen. This guy hardly knew him, and what he did know for sure was that he came from the Veil. A place of horrible people and horrifying stories. He had already healed him and now was offering him a place in the world. How kind of a man was this King? How trusting was he? There was no way he could live this kind man alone. What if he stupidly let an enemy in his ranks o-or worse yet an assassin with the sole intent to kill the King?!

“Yes! Yes! Please, if you mean it I want to help you. You saved me and the child from that awful place and even healed me. All while not know a single thing about me other then my nickname. I would hate myself for leaving such a person behind.”

“Them I am glad to have you on board Anxiety.”

“You guys can call me Virgil.”

Thanks for reading and let me know if you wanted to be @’d.

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#sanders sides #virgil sanders #thomas sanders #story #knight au #drama #art #artists on tumblr #emile sanders

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faeratil · 6 years

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Faeratil Samuels - A Destiny Fanfic (part 2)

@morticia-4 this one is a little longer and probably one of my favorite parts

I’ve been here for six months. Ikora, my mentor, has been getting on my nerves about being exactly like her. I’m a Warlock, apparently, and she says I’m her most promising protege even though there are thousands of others under her wing. I’d almost rather be a Titan and work with Zavala except that I have more opportunity to do what I love under Ikora’s wing.

I do research and tactical planning for the Vanguard like I had done in the army. I used to study an alien race that we had only ever speculated after sending probes to other planets and seeing strange robotic creatures with fan-shaped heads and odd-looking stomachs. In that time, we hadn’t learned much more than that they had portals and were much more technologically advanced (one of my probes had wandered through a portal on Venus and reappeared on the radar in an unknown sector of the galaxy map; and then they shot it…) Imagine my surprise when Ikora told me they were called “Vex” and they’ve already sent teams out to study and fight them for years starting with whoever the mysterious ‘Osiris’ was.

I found a box full of books about Osiris and the Vex hidden in the Tower Hangar, and have been reading through them in my spare time to try and figure out how close our predictions were back in the 2250’s. A lot of the books on Osiris have pages missing or are blacked out, and Ikora doesn’t like to talk about him that much. Today, I’ve been reading a journal about the Vex by someone named Pahanin. He’s mentioned another Guardian that extensively studied the Vex called Asher Mir, or something like that. I’ll have to ask Ikora about him later if she’ll actually answer.

“Fae, Fae, Fae!” I hear across the hallway, pulling my attention from Pahanin’s journal. It’s my friend Kadi 55-30. She’s an AI in training at the post office. I don’t know if it’s a glitch or the result of her many reboots, but she tends to say things three times.

I wave her over to my perch looking over the Last City. “Hey, Kadi,” I say as she sits down next to me. We usually spend our breaks hanging out and gossiping about the other guardians.

“Have you met Cayde-6? Cayde-6? Cayde-6?” Kadi asks me out of the blue.

“The Hunter Vanguard?” I ask.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“I’ve heard of him, but Ikora and Zavala usually take up most of my time. Why do you ask? Do you like him?”

Kadi stutters a bit before answering. “No! But I think you would, you would, you would.” I laugh at the idea that Kadi is trying to set me up. “It’s true,” she says, the tone of her voice showing her embarrassment but still determined.

I stop laughing and give her a small smile. “Kadi, I know you want me to find a guy to make me happy. It’s just… Samuels. His death may have been centuries ago, but as far as I remember, it was only six months ago that I last saw him… He was my husband. I… I don’t even have the ring anymore…”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…” Kadi says quietly.

“FAE!” I hear a man’s voice yell, almost scaring me off my perch. A big, tall guardian with a white crest and a Viking helmet walks toward us. “I am Lord Shaxx, guardian! I am the Crucible Vanguard, and Ikora has told me all about you! What do you say? The next match is in fifteen minutes!”

I stare at Shaxx, trying not to laugh. Kadi’s giggling. “I don’t know,” I start. “I’d have to ask Ikora if she needs me for a lesson today.”

“Shaxx,” Ikora says, coming up behind him, “I need Faeratil to practice her Void skills today. Her vortexes are weak.”

I know I’m not the greatest Voidwalker, but her words upset me. I look at Shaxx and say, “Keep me posted on the Crucible?”

“YES!” he booms. “I can’t wait to see you perform, guardian. Fight forever!”

Ikora turns to me. “Faeratil, come with me. You still have work to do.” I look at Kadi and make a face before following Ikora to the usual training room.

***

“Focus, Faeratil! You’re sloppy!” Ikora yells at me. We’ve been practicing for five hours, and I am ready to quit. “You have mastered being a Sunbreaker and a Stormcaller, so what is your problem with being a Voidwalker? You haven’t even created a nova bomb yet outside of your journey inside the wall. Was that a fluke? Are you really just a failure?”

I hurl vortex grenades at the dummies, getting more and more worked up with every insult she hurls at me. I watch her from the corner of my eye as she walks closer. She gets right up next to my ear and whispers, “I don’t know how you were a lieutenant at 24. You can’t tell me it was for skill. And your husband? The Traveler didn’t choose him, but I’d bet he’d make a better guardian than you. What did he see in you?”

I can feel more power growing inside me as I get angrier and angrier. Ikora is still at my ear. “How did you get him to fall for you? A liar? A weak woman who pretends to be a good leader? Was it a threat? Did you pay him? Oh, I know. He’s weaker than you and you just wanted a charity case. I’ll bet he never really loved you.”

I whip around and glare at Ikora. Void energy is pulsing through my body like it’s my own blood.

“Your husband never loved you,” she says with a snide smile.

“Shut up!” I scream, releasing all of the pent up energy in a nova bomb that engulfs the entire room, knocking Ikora through the wall. The bomb explodes into the two training rooms on either side. When the energy subsides, I’m standing in a pile of rubble staring at Ikora on her back.

“Oh. My. God. You beat Ikora? This is the greatest day ever!” an Exo male says walking in to what’s left of the room. He looks like a Hunter. He comes over to me and puts his arm around my shoulders. “How did you do it? Was it fun? How much power do you think it was? I’ve gotta tell Zavala about this.”

I stare at him, notice the horn on his head. It suits him, for an Exo. “Who are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” I say, moving out from under his arm. “Oh, right. We haven’t met. Cayde-6, Hunter Vanguard. I’m guessing you’re Fae?” So this is Cayde-6.

“Faeratil Samuels. But, yes. Fae,” I say, reaching out my hand for a handshake.

“Good to meet you. I’m going to call you Faerie though. Let’s go tell Zavala!” Cayde says, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of the rubble toward the Titan training rooms.

***

“Harder, guardian. Discipline and focus are your tools,” Zavala says to the Titan he’s training. Cayde keeps trying to get his attention and tell him about my nova bomb.

I climb on the nearest railing and start circling the room trying not to touch the floor. Zavala’s student keeps stealing glances and breaking focus. Cayde starts to laugh, so I see how far I can walk on my hands before Zavala stops the lesson short.

He turns to me. “Fae, how many times have I told you to stop climbing the railings?” I hop onto the table and take a quick bow before assuming a perch atop Zavala’s chair. He lets out a sigh and turns to Cayde. “I see you finally found Fae. Have you corrupted her focus for recklessness yet?”

“What? No!” Cayde defends. “I heard a big boom when I was trying to find Ikora and then she blew up and it was awesome!”

Zavala turns to me for clarification. “It wasn’t on purpose,” I say so quietly that I’m not sure he hears me.

“What happened, Fae?” Zavala says, stepping up to me.

“I… I lost control and—“

“She threw a nova bomb at Ikora and destroyed three training rooms! Oh. Now that I think of it, I wonder if Ikora’s okay,” Cayde interrupts.

Zavala rubs his eyes in exasperation. “You threw one of the most deadly attacks at Ikora and then just left?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” I shout, jumping onto the table above him. “She was talking shit about my… about Samuels, and the energy just burst through me. I didn’t mean to destroy everything around me. And if she’s hurt badly, I’ll help take care of it.”

Zavala backs off a bit and Cayde slowly comes to stand by me. “If she was slandering someone so important to you, I do not blame you, guardian,” Zavala says. “However, if Ikora is hurt, I will hold you responsible for taking care of her recovery.”

He walks toward the door and, before leaving, turns to Cayde. “I hope if I leave Fae in your hands you can help her?” Zavala leaves and Cayde offers me a hand to get down.

“So… Wanna drink?” Cayde asks.

“I didn’t know Exos could drink.”

“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. How ‘bout it? No offense, but you look like you could use it.”

I give him a weak smile and agree.

***

About 3 bottles of whiskey later

“So why are you stuck here?” I ask Cayde, my words slurring from the alcohol.

“I lost a bet. My lucky pants weren’t so lucky and now I’m stuck with Kiora and Valaza and paperwork,” he replies, messing up the Vanguards’ names. I think he may have fried a circuit to get drunk with me, but I’m glad for someone to talk to so I don’t ask him if he’s okay.

“You know, Cayde, your horn is really beautiful,” I blurt out leaning closer to him and laughing. “Beautiful, beautiful horn.” I tap his horn and lean over to kiss it, but instead end up falling off my stool.

Cayde and I can’t stop laughing. He tries to help me up but ends up falling on top of me. “Bartender! My woman friend and I need help up. And maybe an escort home for her,” Cayde yells at the first person he sees. “Where do you live, Faerie?” he asks, patting my forehead.

“Russia, I think,” I say, but my head is too foggy to remember anything else. Cayde pushes himself up and pulls me into his arms to carry me like a baby. “Faerie, you can come over tonight,” he says softly, stumbling out of the bar and towards his place. I smile and curl into his chest before I pass out.

#destiny warlock #destiny #cayde 6 #my oc is married to cayde in my au #fanfic #fanfiction #faeratil samuels

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thosewhoruleegypt · 6 years

Text

For Love of Pharaoh and King (Chapter 4)

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Characters/Ships: Puzzleshippin/Blindshipping (Atem/Yugi); Gemshipping (Thief King Bakura/Ryou Bakura); Atem, Yugi, Thief King Bakura, Ryou Bakura Rating: M (WARNINGS for steamy fade-to-black moments, mentions of past abuse, very brief mention of dub-con in a flashback, and talk of contemplated suicide) Length: Chapter 4 / 4; 4000 words

Summary:

Yugi Mutou enjoys wearing decorative chains—for both their aesthetic appeal and their irony, considering his recent transition from slave to Betrothed of Pharaoh Atem.

Ryou Bakura, meanwhile, appears to serve both his Pharaoh and exiled Thief King. But neither the Thief King nor his servant counted on the involvement of the Royal Husband-to-be in their plans.

Part One of the Those Who Rule Egypt series. Can be read separately.

Read on AO3 Previous Chapter – Next Chapter Part II of the series begins here~

AU side-story (alternate backstory for the Thief King) begins here~

Chapter 4: The Pharaoh

“Bakura!”

The first thing Yugi heard was a voice calling out a name—Ryou’s voice, it seemed, calling out his own surname.

“Bakura! Bakura!”

No, not his own name—someone else’s name. Someone else was called “Bakura.”

Yugi forced his eyes open; struggled to inhale and immediately fell to a coughing jag as he choked on dust and debris. He struggled to push himself up, the pain more intense than even what he had experienced as a slave. Still, with the memory of overcoming such obstacles in the past, his mind triumphed over his badly bruised matter. He succeeded, at least, in getting to his elbows, then looked toward Ryou’s voice.

Ryou’s streaming eyes met his, huge and desperate. His hands were tangled in the tattered clothes of the Thief King, who lay unmoving among the rubble.

“Yugi…” Ryou moaned—begged. “He won’t wake up, Yugi…! What do I do, what do I do?!”

Yugi dragged himself forward, feeling one of his legs twist unnaturally beneath him. He wondered, objectively, if it was broken or only dislocated.

“Ryou…”

“He won’t wake up!” Ryou repeated, his hands knotting more insistently in the Thief King’s robes. “I can’t find his pulse, Yugi!”

Yugi felt a cold shiver run through him as he dragged himself over to where Ryou and the Thief King lay. When he was near enough, he reached, almost unthinkingly, to the shackle around his left wrist—to another hidden compartment, and another card.

“Trap: Miracle’s… Wake…” he whispered—his voice, otherwise, seemed to have gone missing.

Ryou’s breathing hitched, and he snatched the card. Then he paused; seemed to check the reaction, and held it back out. “What if Atem needs it…?”

Yugi shook his head. “I… I can feel Atem… nearby. He’s not… He has a pulse, still.”

Ryou drew a shuddering breath, then nodded. He stretched out toward Yugi; paused, hesitant, and Yugi closed the gap to embrace him. They held one another tightly for a moment, then Ryou drew back. He pressed the card to the unmoving chest of the Thief King and whispered, “Trap, activate: Miracle’s Wake.”

There was a soft glow—magenta, among the omnipresent violet of the Shadow Realm—and the card dissolved into Thief King Bakura’s chest. The man drew a deep, shuddering breath; his eyes snapped open, and a moment later he began to cough and wheeze and curse weakly.

“Bakura!” Ryou clung to his chest, even as Yugi scooted backwards. “Gods, Bakura, thank the gods!”

“Ryou…” the Thief King rasped, looping one arm weakly around the smaller man. He closed his eyes. “Ryou… no, not the gods… thank you, Ryou…”

Yugi felt himself smile, then looked up at the crunch of feet through the debris. “Pharaoh!”

Pharaoh Atem didn’t look at him. His clothes had been torn further, and he was bleeding somewhat severely from scrapes along his arms and exposed chest, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. “Just a moment, Yugi,” he said, striding toward the two thieves. Ryou lowered his body defensively over the Thief King’s; Bakura could only watch with tragic, resigned eyes.

“Well, Pharaoh, it comes to this…” the Thief King murmured, making some feeble attempt to brush Ryou away. “You’ve won, it seems. Do your worst. Just do be sure to kill me, this time, or I may be forced to do it myself.”

Atem nodded, drawing a dagger from a sheath hidden among the decorative belts slung across his hips. “One way or the other, this will end your suffering, you miserable—”

“Atem!”

The Pharaoh faltered; turned, and met Yugi’s imploring gaze. “Yugi?”

“Isn’t it enough, Atem?” Yugi asked, and Atem’s eyes widened.

“What are you saying, Yugi?”

“I’m saying it’s enough.”

“Do you honestly think they would show us the same mercy you’re suggesting I show them?” Atem asked, his thoughts dripping disgust and suspicion.

“I honestly think that I would do exactly the same thing for you that Ryou is doing for Bakura. And that you would do the same for me that Bakura is trying to do for Ryou.”

Atem drew physically back, looking stung. "Yugi...”

"If our positions were reversed, Atem. This would play out just the same. I’d bet my life on that.”

Atem scowled, then looked back at Ryou and Bakura. The Thief King had closed his eyes again, both his arms wrapped around the servant boy.

“What are you waiting for, Pharaoh?” Bakura rasped, unaware of the silent conversation. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve? You’ve killed me once before, haven’t you? Can’t do it with your own hands, this time?”

Atem’s grip on his dagger tightened, and Ryou lowered his eyes. “I didn’t kill you,” the Pharaoh spat. “Besides the fact that calling yourself the King of Thieves was your own choice, and the consequences should be yours to face, you’ve never felt the despair of true death. You always thought you could get to me, that your time would come again. You… seduced this boy, here,” with an angry gesture to Ryou, “into doing your bidding, to that end! You destroyed him in some sick attempt to resurrect yourself, and worse—you somehow presented that warped connection as love.”

When Ryou drew a breath, Bakura gave him a gentle squeeze to silence him. The Thief King chuckled weakly, eyes still closed, as Ryou looked questioningly at him.

“I told Ryou to go to the palace, to seek work there… yes. Why did I do that?”

“To lay the groundwork for your attack,” Atem said. “Your revenge.”

“I did it so he’d be safe!” Bakura’s voice rose, then immediately dropped again. He tightened his grip on Ryou, keeping his eyes shut. “I never thought in a thousand years he’d actually come back to get me.”

“You…?” Ryou whispered, and Bakura shook his head.

“Listen, Pharaoh. Those in my line of work don’t have many friends. You, you get all the adoration. You get the praise and the accolades. And if you can tell me with a straight face that I had a fair shot at the type of life you have, you’re an even better liar than I am. I’m not that deluded, and I have made my choices. So all I ended up with, in this whole shitty world, were some worthless jewels and this priceless kid right here. That’s it. When you took my jewels away, he was the only one who stuck with me. He was willing to destroy himself to stay with me. So I made up a story. I lied. I’m good at that. I said I had a plan, and that all I needed was for him to infiltrate the palace.”

At last Bakura opened his eyes, as nothing more than slits. He continued: “I holed up and got ready to die. I didn’t think he could possibly love me, the way he said he did. I thought that, once he realized he could live comfortably in the palace, under your care, Pharaoh, he would forget about me. So I got ready to die. For five months I tried to scrape together the courage to just end it already, telling myself that he wouldn’t come back, that he shouldn’t come back, and that he’d be safe.

“But then he proved me wrong.” Bakura closed his eyes again; gripped Ryou, who had begun to cry quietly. “He came back to me, Pharaoh. And I thought maybe he could love me that much, after all, and if he loved me that damn much… then I could do anything. Even keep living. Even bring you down. Even be worthy of loving him back.”

For a beat, there was only silence and soft sounds of Ryou’s sobbing. Then Atem scoffed; curled his lip, and said, “Nice story. Did you think it all up on the spot, or have you rehearsed that speech?”

“Atem…” Yugi objected, and the Pharaoh rounded on him.

“You don’t believe all that, do you?” he demanded, and Yugi gave a small shrug.

“I think you do, too. I can feel your thoughts.”

Indignation made Atem’s face flush, and he turned back to where the Thief King lay. “I don’t. I don’t believe a word of it.”

“I’m a great liar, Pharaoh, but at least I never lie to myself,” Bakura said, with a slight curling of his lips.

Atem bristled, but didn’t move one way or the other. Instead he shifted, uncertain, from foot to foot; flicked his dagger back and forth. “I don’t believe you…” he muttered again, and then looked at Yugi.

“Atem… help me up, please? My leg is hurt.”

The Pharaoh’s scowl deepened, but he sheathed his dagger and obeyed. Yugi was fairly sure the injury was only a bad sprain or pull, since the limb could support some amount of weight without giving out. Ryou watched the pair of them carefully.

“… You hurt my Yugi. And you destroyed my palace,” Atem growled at last, and Bakura shook his head slightly.

“Your palace is fine, Pharaoh. What happens in the Shadow Realm pretty much stays in the Shadow Realm. That doesn’t go for us, of course—any damage done to us transfers over quite literally.”

Atem scowled, but only scooped Yugi up more totally into his arms. “Fine. Get us out of here. Then we’ll see how I feel about you.”

Bakura’s smile widened, although his eyes remained closed. “As my Pharaoh commands.”

The violet light swelled to encompass the four humans, then faded out until it vanished; around them, the palace halls appeared in their rightful colors, and unmarred by the collapse. Atem glanced around and, seeming satisfied, nodded. A moment later, a group of palace folk came pounding around the corner.

“Pharaoh!”

“Pharaoh Atem!”

“Lord Yugi!”

“It’s fine…” Atem called out, to soothe them. With a glance at Ryou and Bakura, he asked, “Have the Shadow Fires been dealt with?”

“They were put out some time ago, Pharaoh, but when you didn’t reappear…” One of the magicians came forward. “Pharaoh, we feared the worst. Are you and the Lord Yugi truly alright?”

“We’re scratched up,” Atem said, with a hint of exasperation. “But we’re fine.�� Again he looked down at the two on the floor; Ryou was exchanging strange looks with the other servants, who knew him well. “Have these two taken down to the dungeon. Make sure they’re given medical care, but lock them up with every bolt and chain we have.”

Bakura chuckled, startling several servants who had approached. “The merciful Pharaoh… the legends don’t do his generosity justice.”

Atem pointedly ignored him, addressing one of the servants. “Have my healers meet me in my chamber. Yugi’s injured his leg.”

As the woman hurried off with a word of assent, Yugi gave Ryou an encouraging smile; Ryou repaid it with a more nervous one, and his grip on Bakura tightened.

Atem looked up at the ceiling, an exasperated sigh leaving him before he said, “Put the two of them in the same cell. They’ll be less likely to try anything, then.”

As the servants muttered understanding, Ryou’s smile eased. “Thank you, Pharaoh,” he said, and Atem’s lip curled.

“None of this is for your sake, so don’t thank me for anything.”

“Thank you, Pharaoh,” Bakura mimicked cattily.

Atem bristled. But he was in the presence of palace-folk, now, and kept his composure. He did, however, indulge in saying, “Put some extra chains on that one. Shackle him. I don’t want him able to move about more freely than a shuffle.”

The servants nodded willingly, then hurried off to do their Pharaoh’s bidding. Ryou and Bakura were taken away—Ryou on his own feet, and Bakura carried—while Atem made his dignified way up toward his chamber with Yugi in his arms.

“That was a nice touch, letting them share a cell,” Yugi said, stretching his neck up to nuzzle Atem’s cheek.

“I meant what I said,” Atem retorted. “They’re less likely to get up to anything if they’re together. I’m not foolish enough to try to keep them separate.”

“You did a very good thing, Pharaoh.” And Yugi kissed his cheek.

“Only because I can’t tolerate disappointing you,” was Atem’s frosty reply. “I’d just as soon have slit that Thief King’s filthy throat.”

“And Ryou, too?”

“Ryou…” Atem began agitatedly, and then seemed uncertain of what else to say.

“Don’t be so stubborn,” Yugi chided, kissing Atem’s cheek again. The Pharaoh didn’t soften, but he kept his peace until they arrived in his chamber. There the healers saw to both their wounds—to Atem’s lacerations and to Yugi’s badly torn hip. Atem was annoyed that they couldn’t take a bath—as it would wash off the salve slathered across his wounds—but managed to stop complaining by the time they were cuddled together in the warm, soft bed.

“… I love you, Yugi.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“All I want is to protect you. If this turns out to be a mistake—”

“It’s not a mistake,” Yugi said gently, and kissed Atem on the lips.

The Pharaoh murmured some incoherent response, returning the affection. Then Atem was on top of Yugi, mumbling, “Is this okay?” while being very careful of Yugi’s injured leg.

“This is fine,” Yugi replied, wrapping his good leg around Atem’s waist. “This is perfect.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Pharaoh.”

… … …

“Yugi!”

Yugi smiled as Ryou approached the bars; Yugi crouched down outside the cell, and Ryou mirrored him. Yugi glanced at the shadowy figure sitting near the back of the cell, on the bed, but didn’t focus on it and addressed Ryou directly. “How are you doing? Are your injuries healing well?”

“They are!” Ryou replied. “Thank you! And yours?”

“Good as new,” Yugi said, setting down the tray he carried and pushing it beneath the barred door. “I heard that Pharaoh ordered you guys kept on standard prisoner rations, but that’s just him pouting. I think it’s pretty ridiculous.”

“Yugi…” Ryou picked up the bottle of wine sitting beside the food, his cheerful smile turning tender. “This is… Thank you, Lord Yugi…”

“I can see why little Ryou’s so fond of you,” came a deeper voice, and Yugi looked up to see that the Thief King had materialized, soundlessly, just behind Ryou. Though imposing in physical appearance, his posture and attitude were relaxed. He stooped down when Ryou held up the bottle of wine. “An eastern import!” he exclaimed. “I’m impressed! The little Pharaoh’s getting more adventurous!”

Yugi noted the telling lack of chains on the Thief King’s person, despite Atem’s blustery orders when they had first arrived back from the Shadow Realm. Similarly, despite the supposedly austere rations, the bed looked unusually large and comfortable for a prison cell, and there was even a private bathing chamber off one side of the room. Prison cells were very rarely used for long-term holding, but this one had obviously been outfitted otherwise.

Ryou reached through the bars and grasped Yugi’s hands, drawing his attention. “Thank you, Yugi. You’re a great friend.”

“I hope he’ll agree to let you out, soon,” Yugi said, and jumped when Bakura laughed heartily. The Thief King reached through the bars; nudged Yugi in the shoulder with a fist, and Yugi was surprised by how light the touch was.

“You’re a little fool, eh?” Bakura laughed again—an unexpectedly warm sound. “Clearly Pharaoh isn’t going to let us out any time soon, and clearly he shouldn’t.” The Thief King flashed a toothy grin. “Just because we’re on neutral enough terms right now doesn’t mean it wouldn’t delight me to strip him of the title of ‘Pharaoh.’”

“But not kill him!” Yugi chirped, and Ryou sniggered.

Bakura blinked. “What?”

“You just said, ‘strip him of the title of Pharaoh,’ but didn’t say a word about killing him,” Yugi explained. “Or me, for that matter! That’s progress, see?”

The Thief King chuckled; shook his head, and sat more comfortably down. “If you want to see it like that, go right ahead. I’d break that Pharaoh’s graceful little neck first chance I got, with pleasure. But as far as killing you is concerned? It’s bad etiquette to kill someone who feeds you.” As if to demonstrate his point, Bakura picked up a slice of melon from the tray and took a bite, heedless of the juice that drizzled down his chin.

Ryou leaned over to wipe at his mouth with one sleeve. “Don’t be sloppy,” he chided, and the Thief King laughed.

“But it’s so much fun to get all dirty…”

Ryou blushed, but didn’t bite. “Table manners,” he chided. “It may be the dungeons, but you’re still in the palace. And we’re in the presence of Lord Yugi.”

“I’m still not ‘Lord Yugi,’” Yugi said patiently.

The Thief King grinned; asked, “That bothers you? To be called ‘Lord?’”

“I mean, Ryou is my friend,” Yugi tried to explain, and the Thief King chuckled.

“Ryou’s practically my husband and he still calls me ‘King’ all the time. And I love that about him.”

Ryou’s eyes lit with humor. “Practically your what? I’ve never gotten a proper proposal from you, Bakura.”

The Thief King’s eyebrows arched. “Really? How terribly neglectful of me…” With a flourish, he produced a lapis lazuli scarab ring, and Ryou gave a surprised gasp. “Marry me, Ryou?”

“Where in the gods did you get that?” Ryou demanded, even as Yugi looked down in astonishment at his hands. The lapis lazuli ring—selected somewhat carelessly from the jewelry box on his vanity, that morning—was indeed missing. Ryou looked over; caught Yugi staring at his hands, realized what had happened, and chided, “Give it back, Thief King.”

“That’s okay…” Yugi murmured, even as Bakura held it back out through the bars. “I have way too many to ever wear, anyhow…”

Bakura grinned, closing his hand around the jewelry again. “I’m not called the Thief King for no good reason, pharaoh-ling.”

“Please. You gave yourself that title,” Ryou said, but tolerated it when Bakura took his hand and slipped the ring onto his finger. “Kauket… so embarrassing…”

The Thief King laughed—something he seemed to do quite a lot, Yugi noted with appreciation. “I’m serious, though, Ryou. Let’s get properly married once the Pharaoh lets us loose, what’d you say?” And he kissed the back of Ryou’s hand.

“Yes…” Ryou breathed, and Yugi applauded dutifully as Bakura looked around for a suitable stone to break the neck of the wine bottle. When he found one, he hefted it experimentally in his palm, then cracked the ceramic with practiced precision.

“Have a drink with us?” the Thief King asked, offering the bottle. Yugi took a polite sip before passing it back through the bars.

“When is your wedding happening, Yugi?” Ryou asked.

“In spring,” Yugi replied. “Pharaoh is still trying to navigate a few foreign rulers who are supposed to attend, too, with their availability and travel-time. The whole thing is a little too political for my taste, but I suppose that’s the nature of marrying a pharaoh.”

“Eyy, why don’t you stab the bastard one night? Then you’ll be pharaoh yourself,” Bakura asked, and Yugi couldn’t tell from his grin if he was serious or not. “I’d back you a hundred percent, and so’d little Ryou.”

“Don’t tease, Bakura…” Ryou murmured.

“I’m not teasing!” the Thief King exclaimed. “I’m as serious as I am in love with you!”

“Don’t tease…” Ryou repeated crossly.

Bakura picked up a sweet from the tray; held it beneath Ryou’s nose. “Sorry, love. Forgive me?”

Ryou regarded him for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, then opened his mouth obligingly. Bakura slipped the treat inside, then turned to Yugi while Ryou was momentarily gagged by the fluffy cream pastry.

“I owe you, really, for saving him. I’ve never seen much need to repay my own life debts, but I’ll suffer being in your debt for saving Ryou’s life. One unconditional favor, little pharaoh-ling; anything. Call it in any time.”

Yugi lowered his head slightly. “Thank you. I do realize what that’s worth.”

“He’s a smart one, Ryou!” Bakura said, nudging Ryou—who, still happily preoccupied with the cream-puff, only nodded. “Easier to take you seriously when you’re not all strung with chains,” he added to Yugi, who shrugged. “Does the Pharaoh like that type of thing?”

“I’m sure he does. And I’m quite fond of them, too. It makes other people squirm, which is fun.”

“I like you, kid,” Bakura said. “In another lifetime, we might’ve been good friends, you and I!”

“Why not this lifetime?” Yugi asked honestly, and the Thief King softened.

“We’ll just have to wait and see about this lifetime.”

… … …

“You smell like thief and you taste like wine,” Atem observed, pulling back from the kiss. Yugi’s arms wrapped around his neck kept him from going far, though.

“Tell me, Pharaoh, what does ‘thief’ smell like?”

“It’s that murky, dirty, untrustworthy smell shared by vagabonds. It abounds in places like taverns and dungeons,” Atem growled. “You need a bath.”

“I would much rather make the scent rub off on you, Pharaoh.”

Atem sucked in a breath as Yugi’s hips ground up into his, closing his eyes as he fought to keep his focus. “I don’t want you going down to the dungeon, Yugi.”

“Why pick now to try to scold me, Pharaoh? Your sense of timing is poor, at best.”

“Because you smell like thief, and I can’t get that cursed Thief King out of my mind because of it.”

“That doesn’t seem to be affecting your performance. Should I be jealous, if you’re only thinking about King Bakura right now?”

Atem nearly got out of bed at that, but Yugi clung to him. Atem couldn’t quite get free, and so let himself be physically dragged back under the blankets. After wrestling him down, Yugi crawled up to lie on Atem’s bare back, effectively pinning him down.

“Ryou is still my friend, Pharaoh. Friends visit friends when they’re locked up in dungeons.”

“It isn’t Ryou I’m worried about…” Atem muttered, his voice muffled by the mattress.

“Worried that that dashing Thief King will seduce me, then? I’m for you only, my Pharaoh, forever.”

Atem sat up at that; Yugi looped his arms around the Pharaoh’s neck, so that Atem was virtually choked when he straightened fully. Together, in a somewhat disorganized heap, they both flopped backwards on the bed.

“Can’t you be serious for two minutes, Yugi? This is serious. I’m being serious.”

“Hard to be serious when we’re both naked, Pharaoh.”

“Yugi…”

“We did a good thing, so stop pouting about it.”

“And where did your scarab ring get to, exactly?”

“Bakura swiped it. Gave it to Ryou.”

“See?”

“He offered to give it back, though.”

“After he stole it!”

“He is the Thief King, Pharaoh.”

“And since when is it acceptable for a King and a Pharaoh to exist, simultaneously, in the same kingdom? How is that reconcilable in any way?”

“It’s not like ‘Thief King’ is an official political title,” Yugi said reasonably. “Bakura made it up himself.”

“One of us is going to kill the other, eventually. This just isn’t sustainable.”

“Stop being so melodramatic.” Yugi climbed atop the Pharaoh; stared somewhat plaintively down, when Atem avoided his gaze. “You’re above this sort of squabbling, aren’t you?”

“Try me,” the Pharaoh huffed.

“I’m more important than all this petty argument, aren’t I?”

That got Atem to glance up, at least. “You’re the most important thing in the world, to me.”

“Then forget about the Thief King and Ryou and politics and the whole cursed kingdom and just pay attention to me, for a while,” Yugi appealed, and then kissed his Pharaoh. He gave the kiss every scrap of concentration and passion he could muster, and when he drew back Atem’s face was somewhat blank.

“You are making it very hard to pay attention to anything else, that’s for sure…”

Yugi grinned. “Good.” And he kissed the Pharaoh again.

Atem wrapped his arms obligingly around Yugi’s narrow shoulders as their impatient hips met and locked together. It was impossible, then, for either of them to think of anything besides the warm glow that swelled between their two bodies, growing to envelope them before pitching them both, violently and tenderly, into something resembling true ecstasy.

When Atem and Yugi lay, side by side and hopelessly short of breath, Atem managed to say, “If it made you happy, Yugi, I’d lie down in the mud and call myself a stinking thief. I’d give up my throne a thousand times.”

“That’s going a bit far,” Yugi said, with a faint chuckle. “I rather like the perks of your throne, Pharaoh.”

“Then every perk of my throne is yours to enjoy. And I’ll suffer the filthy thieves in my basement. Without a word of complaint, too.”

“That’s just the afterglow talking, and we both know it.”

“Then let’s be quiet and enjoy it while it lasts, shall we?” Atem asked, pulling Yugi close and holding him. And Yugi did as the Pharaoh commanded, snuggling into Atem’s chest with only a contented sigh.

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