#once they realise how powerful they are when miracling together it's over for heaven and hell

[danshee]

I'm in hysterics over the fact that both Crowley and Aziraphale are objectively aware that together they performed a miracle powerful enough to bring 25 people back from the dead, all while only using the tiniest fraction of their power and yet... neither of them actually realise the implications behind it. Like neither of them actually realises what it MEANS for no reason other than that they share one fucking brain cell they probably lost somewhere around 1941

[sad-chaos-goblin]

About WHY the Metatron made the job offer

I have been thinking about what the Metatron's motivations could be for promoting Aziraphale. Since I am currently quite convinced by the Lie Theory (here is the meta that converted me) I am certain the true purpose of the "promotion" was to separate Aziraphale and Crowley.

But why?

Many reasons. Here's what I've thought of so far:

- "Makes it look like there's an institutional problem." The Metatron may have actually been quite disinterested in A/C up until the Beelzebub & Gabriel incident. But, now that it's happened once, he can't allow it to happen a second time. (Specially as Beelzebub & Gabriel defect and run off together. Their happy ending is a direct challenge to both the concept of "hereditary enemies" and the unrelenting loyalty Heaven and Hell demand).

- The Metatron canonically knows all about Crowley and the questions that caused his fall. Aziraphale has already shown that he is much more of an independent thinker than the other angels. It's easy to infer that this is partly due to Crowley's influence leading him to question Heaven's actions. Metatron would want to stop this before it gets any further and get him back in line (although I think we all know our angel is well past the point of no-return).

- They are EXTREMELY powerful together. Their "tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle" was anything but. Imagine how powerful their combined miracles would be if they performed them without holding back. The Metatron is afraid of this, it is too huge a power to be wielded by two beings that are proving to be very defiant of the status quo. (I realise the huge miracle thing could just have been caused by Gabriel being connected to them when performing it, but I am not convinced by that theory. I strongly believe that them being incredibly powerful together is going to be a Thing in S3).

- Getting Aziraphale to return to Heaven as Supreme Archangel means the Metatron is once again his Superior. It restores his control over the rebellious, demon-fraternising angel. It's a show of Heaven's power and dominance.

- And one more reason: the Metatron is an absolute DICK.

If anyone has any additional input or comments about this theory I'd love to hear it.

Additional thoughts:

Yes, Crowley is a huge influence on Aziraphale but the only reason he can be of such influence is due to the angel's pure innate goodness + his willingness to break the rules when necessary (going as far back as when he gave away his flaming sword). It's a goodness that pushes him to accept Crowley challenging his beliefs, to not follow Heaven's mandates blindly, a goodness more complex and nuanced than the intransigent and unforgiving concept of "goodness" espoused by Heaven. A goodness that understands the importance of shades of grey.

The Metatron may have got Aziraphale to go back to Heaven but he has absolutely not regained "control". He may have the upper hand right now but the angel is not being submissive, he is being strategic. He knows this is the only possible course of action right now in order to eventually have a safe future with Crowley. I'm unsure if he has realised yet that the system needs to be completely brought down, or if he still thinks he can fix it. But he's definitely going to eventually fuck some shit up and it's going to be so satisfying to watch.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 16 - Stage Two.

Summary: The storm breaks and it all comes crashing down...

Warnings: Angst, whump, hurt/comfort, blood, red mist of rage, graphic violence, explicit language

---

The resounding thumps of Karn's boots pulse rhythmically through your chest as you charge after him across the bridge, each step drumming along to the beat of your heart until you can hardly tell whether it's the organ that thunders in your ears, or the youngling's footsteps.

Even the heavens themselves seem to be urging you along. A snarl from the storm-laden clouds chases you towards Tri Stone with icy pellets of rain nipping at your heels. Every breath leaves you harshly and raggedly, and were it not for the steady presence of Death at your back, you might be tempted to slow down and surrender to your burning lungs.

To say that you're afraid would be the biggest understatement this side of a century. With every boom and crash you hear from the village, the pit opening up in your stomach grows wider and wider until it feels as though your heart has plummeted straight down inside it, lost amongst your roiling guts.

Teeth grit, you push yourself to run on, clumsily leaping over cracks and fissures that now litter the weathered stone underfoot. It would seem that hardly an inch of the bridge has been left intact after bearing the full weight of a rampaging guardian.

Large segments of the structure break off and your ears pick up the telltale rush of air as they whoosh down into the endless chasm far below you. It'll be a miracle if you all manage to make it to the other side before the whole thing collapses out from under your feet, but the bridge's stability, though certainly a worry, is hardly at the forefront of your priorities right now.

'The makers have to be okay,' you tell yourself, feeling not even the slightest bit reassured by your own thoughts, 'They have to be.'

They're good people.

They're your friends.

Christ, when you really think about it, they're probably the closest thing you've got to -

- A sudden bolt of lightening streaks across the sky like a whip-crack and illuminates Tri Stone's outer wall, and the thought that had lingered just beyond the reaches of your mind is flung haphazardly out of the proverbial window when you spot the mountainous figure looming at the far end of the bridge.

“Warden!” you cry out, swiping rainwater from your eyes.

The mighty construct gives no indication that he's heard you, nor does he look your way even when you all stampede onto the grassy plateau. He's collapsed onto one knee before the Makers' Forge, his blue gaze fixed upon the door as he clutches at an arm that looks as though it's just lost a fight with a wrecking ball. More disturbingly, his gargantuan slab of a shoulder is almost entirely gone – smashed into oblivion, leaving chunks of stone scattered about in the grass all around him.

Karn is the first to reach him, and you can tell that he's just as perturbed by the old construct's condition as you are.

Ears pinned back against his head, the youngling staggers to a halt and gapes in abject horror at the fragments of dust and stones that cascade down from the Warden's jaw when he opens it to speak. 

“I could not stop him,” he rumbles dazedly, more to himself than to any of you, “I could not even slow him...”

Sliding up beside the maker, you absently cover your mouth with a hand and take stock of the construct's injuries.

“Oh... Warden..” you breathe and blindly stretch your arm out sideways until your fingers find the strap of Karn's boot and wrap around it, keeping you upright even when your legs threaten to buckle out from underneath you.

The construct's heart stone sits dimly inside his chest, its once dazzling, blue light now barely visible through the rain. 

If Death hadn't heard him speaking aloud, he would have marked the giant as... inactive.

At your side, Karn stares up at the Warden for another few seconds before he lowers his eyes and glares hard at the ground, his hands curling into tight fists. “I...This is... is...” he tries, but falls silent, unable to think of anything more substantial to say. Instead, he swallows thickly and shakes his head. Then, without another word, the youngling whirls around, and the motion pulls his boot from your grasp as he kicks up his heels and stomps hurriedly towards the Forge, taking the steps three at a time until he reaches the doors and throws them open, thundering inside.

Wringing your hands over one another, you tear your eyes off Karn and return your focus to the Warden, taking a slow step towards the colossal figure. However, before you can take another, you find yourself tugged to a stop by cold fingers that suddenly fall upon your shoulder, startling your focus to the Horseman who appears next to you, silent as a ghost. “Come,” he utters, nudging you away with no real force, “There's nothing we can do for him now.”

“But, Death, he's hurt,” you argue, gesturing up at the Warden and pulling out of the cold grip.

The Nephilim's scowl darkens behind the sockets of his mask and he aims to say something reassuring, but misses by a mile. “He's a construct. It'll take a lot more damage than this to put him down.”

Well... He certainly doesn't miss the disapproving frown that turns your expression sour like curdled milk.

You manage to swallow down any retort you might have summoned and shake your head at him as you start picking your way around the remnants of the construct's shoulder until you reach his shin.

Without really thinking, you rap your knuckles against the stone to get his attention, only to immediately regret your hasty action when bone strikes the hard surface and a jolt of pain goes lancing up through your hand. “Ah! Shit,” you curse, flapping your wrist about to lessen the ache. Undeterred for long, however, you use your other hand to place a firm pat against his leg instead, raising your voice and calling out, “Hey! Hey, Warden! Down here!”

You can't begin to imagine whether or not he'd even felt your touch, yet the construct surprises you by finally dragging his azure gaze off Tri Stone's walls and turning his head down towards you, his eyes flickering several times until they at last turn strong and solid, brightening with recognition as he's pulled from whatever state of shock he'd been ensnared in.

“Little ones?” he rumbles, his voice beset with a breathlessness that stone shouldn't possess, “You are alive?”

“Despite best efforts,” you chuckle without a trace of humour, your expression wan, “Are you okay?”

In response, the construct groans and raises an arm to his face to inspect the missing chunk as pieces of detritus fall from the limb and into the grass around you.

“I will.. recover... But, the makers...” Trailing off, he lowers his arm and twists his head towards the Forge, silent.

He doesn't have to say anything further to make it clear that he's worried. You can already imagine how helpless he must have felt to see the Guardian tear through Tri Stone and know that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

It wasn't so long ago that you'd watched a colossal, bat-like demon smash through the roof of Father's Michael's church to get at your fellow humans sheltering inside whilst you watched from the Horseman's shoulder, helpless to help.

Lips pressing into a thin line, you raise a hand once again and pat the Warden's shin, far more gently this time, for your own sake, if not his. You hope the gesture of comfort translates across the mile-wide species gap - and it must, because he soon gazes down at you, his jaw somehow raising into the stiff rendition of a smile.

“You just... sit tight, okay, big guy? We'll go and make sure they're all right,” you tell him softly.

Behind you, Death silently observes the interlude with his head tilted and his eyes transfixed on the hand that you've rested against the Warden's stone, as though you really believe your fingers might hold just the right sort of power to stick his broken pieces back together.

However, his skepticism is quashed when he lifts his gaze up to the construct's pulsing heart stone and finds it shining clear and bright through the gloomy rain.

Hadn't it... been much duller only moments ago?

He's pulled from his ruminations when a sudden weight lands on his shoulder and something dark and feathered squawks miserably next to his ear. Turning his head, Death casts an eye lazily over the sopping-wet crow, who's beak is pointed very deliberately towards the forge doors and the promise of dry warmth beyond them. The Horseman grunts and faces you again, belatedly realising that you too, are utterly soaked to the skin. So, with a soft huff, he strides up behind you again and this time, his hand is firmer as it lands upon your shoulder, more insistent.

Once your eyes find his, he jerks his head towards the forge and vehemently resists the niggling tickle of relief when you nod at him, giving the Warden a final, parting wave and then allowing yourself to be pushed across the plateau, up the slippery steps and through the wide, stone doors.

It would've probably perturbed Death if he ever realised that it hadn't once occurred to him to simply leave you out in the rain.

------

As soon as you set foot inside the makers' forge, your skin is hit by a wave of comforting warmth that emanates from the nearby fireplace and chases away your goosebumps, returning some feeling to your tingling fingertips.

Grateful for the brief respite from nature's wrath, you gather up a section of your top and wring it out, following Death towards the raised dais where you can hear a familiar maker complaining. Loudly.

“Ach! Away with you both! It's not as bad as it looks.”

Alya...

Although she sounds far from happy, you can't bring yourself to care, not when her complaints indicate that she's alive.

Relief seems to plough right into the backs of your knees, causing you to stagger forwards, earning a swift and searching glance from Death.

“M'fine,” you mumble, straightening up again and forging ahead.

Dust flaps off the Horseman's shoulder as you brush past him on the steps up to the dais, just in time to see Alya shoving herself out from underneath her brother's steadying hand.

Karn is already there with them too, but he, perhaps wisely, is keeping his distance, eyeing Alya's wrist.

All three makers are standing around the anvil. Valus is wringing his hands and uttering soft, indecipherable sounds from under his visor, earning a glare from his sister, who's arm, you note with no small degree of alarm, is clutched protectively to her chest.

“Alya!” you call out, breathless, “Valus! Are you two okay?!”

As one, the makers' heads snap down to face you.

“There you are!” the forge sister exclaims, her taught expression collapsing under the weight of relief, “We've been worried sick! When we heard the Guardian wake up, we feared the worst!”

You open your mouth to ask about her wrist, but you never get the chance. Valus is upon you in seconds and you let out an embarrassing squeak of alarm as you're promptly swept up off the ground by one of his gigantic, soot-stained hands.

“Oh put 'er down, you big baby,” Alya scolds him, “You can see she's fine.”

Evidently, Valus disagrees.

He ignores his sister's words and instead lifts you up to his visor, beneath which you spot the flash of a soft, green eye as he begins to inspect you for injuries, turning you this way and that, deaf to your squawks of protest and Karn whinging for him to be careful with you.

Rolling his eyes, Death turns away from the fussing maker and gestures to Alya's arm. “What happened?”

She scowls down at the offending wrist, giving it an experimental roll. “Piece o' the ceiling broke loose when the Guardian passed over. Damn boulder struck my arm as it fell. S'just a bruise but-” She pauses to huff, jerking her chin at Valus. “-You try tellin' him that... He's been on edge all day since you three left for the Foundry.”

Her brother snorts indignantly at the accusing tone but he does relent in subjecting you to his scrutiny and places you gingerly back on the ground once he deems you unharmed, but not before giving the top of your head the gentlest of pats, his armoured shoulders clanking as he slumps forwards, relieved.

Frazzled, you readjust your skirt and offer him an exasperated smile. “Yeah. Good to see you in one piece too, Valus.”

“Where are the others?” Death presses.

Lowering her eyes back down to him, Alya drops her scowl and replies, “Muria and Thane are still out in the village. Everythin' happened so fast – I... I don't know even know if they're okay yet!”

“Meet me outside! I'll go and see to the Shaman,” Karn announces suddenly, turning on his heel to march for the village-facing entrance. Alya and Valus are, for the most part, unharmed, and with everyone in the forge accounted for, he's anxious to determine the fates of the others for himself.

“...And Eideard?” you ask, dragging your gaze from Karn's retreating backpack and returning it to the forge sister, compelled by a knot of concern that winds tighter and tighter in your belly and only grows worse when she glances down at you and pulls her lips into a thin, troubled line.

“Don't know. He's not in here, and if he's not outside... then, m'afraid he may have gone after the Guardian by himself.”

A rush of air is sucked out of you and you sway slightly on your feet, having to widen your stance to prevent an unnecessary fall. “But if he does that, then he...” Hesitating, you reach up and card your nails roughly through your hair. “- Oh god, he's gonna get himself killed!”

Unbeknownst to you, the Horseman's eyes are glued to your overwrought expression, his own, as always, unreadable beneath his mask. You look as though you're teetering right on the verge of tears.

Death isn't quite sure why, but no matter how badly he wants to hold onto the comforting familiarity of apathy, he strangely finds that he just... can't.

Inwardly, he recoils and growls a swift warning to himself.

'Not. One. Step. Deeper.'

He's just... frustrated that he'd been wrong about the corrupted heart stones. That's where the disquiet in his chest is stemming from. The fact that he just so happened to feel disquieted as soon as he spotted the glossy sheen over your eyes is sheer coincidence.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Without a word, the Horseman turns on his heel and stalks between the makers, heading down the steps in a bee line for the entrance.

Alya doesn't bother to stop him, but the very second you try to follow, you suddenly find a large, brown boot slammed down in your path, causing you to jerk backwards with a gasp. “Wha-! Alya!?”

“You're not goin' after him!” Alya barks, backed up by Valus, who shakes his head in aggressive concurrence, “It was bad enough Eideard let you go to the Foundry. Now with the Guardian's runnin' wild, it's not safe outside the village!”

“Not like it's really safe inside the village either,” you retort, flicking your gaze pointedly to her arm.

The maker's jaw snaps shut and she narrows her eyes at you, whilst her brother emits another, unhappy hum from underneath his visor.

“Look. I only want to check on Muria and Thane,” you urge, clasping your palms together, “I promise, I won't leave Tri Stone.”

The makers don't look convinced. They share a knowing glance, Alya's eyebrow raised in question, and although you can't see Valus's expression, you can only imagine that it mirrors his sister's perfectly.

Finally, Alya heaves a sigh and turns her head to scrutinise you, one eye squinted shut. “You swear it?” she demands.

You open your mouth and hesitate for a second before you manage to say, “O-of course, I swear.”

To you, the falter is glaringly obvious, but Alya and her brother don't seem to notice.

The next solemn look that passes between her amber gaze and Valus's invisible stare is brief, but after a minute or two, they both break eye contact again and Alya reluctantly lifts her boot from your path and steps back, still clutching her wrist. “All right. Go on with you now, we'll stay here a bit. Holler if you need us, aye? We have to start reinforcin' this forge in case the Guardian decides to come back and.... and finish the job.”

Hearing it said like that, your stomach clenches with the need to purge. Swallowing hard, you send the twins a quick smile of thanks, then shoot off after the Horseman, barely slipping through the door as it swings shut behind him.

------

Another booming growl of thunder greets you when you burst out into Tri Stone and come to an abrupt stop, very nearly swallowing your own tongue at the sight that you find yourself so cruelly faced with.

Though the rain obscures a little of your vision, it does nothing to hide a scene that's so, entirely familiar that it thrusts you violently back in time to the home you'd left behind, and there isn't so much as a second to prepare yourself for the onslaught of images that flash through your mind's eye like an awful, traumatic slideshow.

Buildings crushed and left as smoking ruins, the pavement underfoot torn up by an impactful force that it was never meant to withstand, the stench of blood in your nostrils, an inescapable fog of dust that you're certain will choke you with its density, and the... the screaming -

You can barely even hear the monotonous drone of your parents' answering machine above the people howling like animals as they're torn apart just metres away from the alley you've ducked into.

'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now. Please leave a-'

Click! You try again....

'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now-'

Click! Again...

'We're sorry-'

“Y/N!”

Fingers of ice suddenly latch onto your shoulder and jolt you back to the present.

“Stay here!” a voice barks into your ear and you flinch, whipping your head sideways to see Death's bone-white mask mere inches from your face.

“W..wha...?” How did he know that your mind had wandered elsewhere?

“Keep your promise to the makers,” he says gruffly, “Stay here, in the village!”

There's an unspoken 'or else,' tacked on to the end of his command as the fingers on your shoulder clamp down even harder, their pressure increasing the the point where you almost wince, but not quite. You recognise the gesture for what it is – a warning, the promise of consequence simmering in his hostile glare.

He waits for your shaky nod, and after a further sliver of a second passes, his grip at last disappears, leaving pinpricks of cold in the wake of his fingernails where they'd dug lightly into your skin.

“But, where are you going?” you blurt out.

The Horseman's reply is to turn his head towards the end of the village, past the destroyed walls and over the cliffs where a flash of lightening illuminates the distant silhouette of the towering Guardian as it moves away from Tri Stone.

He glances back at you, his eyes cold as steel despite how they burn with the colour of smouldering embers.

His intent immediately becomes clear.

He's going after it.

Squinting up at him through the pouring rain, you shake your head, incredulous. “Okay, Death! I know you've pulled off some pretty insane stunts so far,” you protest, stepping after him as he pulls away and begins to stalk across the lower courtyard, “But this is – It's just -  Death!”

The Nephilim doesn't stop.

“Wait a second! Will you listen to me!”

He ignores you outright, at least until you jog up next to him and slide your hand around his elbow, trying to tug him to a halt. But Death doesn't allow you to hold onto him for long.

Giving his arm a jerk, he rips himself out of your grasp so viciously, you stumble forwards and barely manage to find your footing again before you hit the ground.

Meanwhile, his step never once falters. “Stay with the makers,” he growls out dangerously through clenched teeth.

The sound of your footsteps splashing after him slow, then die, and once he reaches Thane's arena, the compulsion to glance back grows overpowering and although he soon wishes he hadn't, he twists his head around to catch a glimpse of you over his shoulder.

Death has seen many a sad sight in his long un-life. He's seen demons blubber and beg for mercy on the tip of his scythe. He's seen angels cry out for a Creator who will never save them.

But nothing has ever gnawed at the old bones in his chest like the sight of you staring after him in the midst of a torrential downpour.

Straggles of hair lay plastered to your face, your flimsy clothes are already soaked through with rain and there's a slight tremble that begins in your arms and ends in your legs, no doubt from the cold, stinging water that beats mercilessly down on top of you. He makes his second mistake then, of looking you in the eye, and he lets a redundant breath slip from beneath his mask at what he finds.

The old Horseman wracks his brain, trying to remember when, if ever, he's been looked at like that before – like he's unfathomably important, like whatever happens to him matters to you greatly. He hopes you'll never look at him like that again, even if the softest whisper at the back of his mind insists that it isn't as bad as he'd like to think it is.

With a rapid shake of his head, Death tears his eyes off the soggy human behind him and breaks into a run, making for the boundary of the village.

Yet again, you watch the Horseman leave, frustrated and anxious that this routine of being left behind is starting to become more and more repetitive, of late. As he dashes up the steps to Tri Stone's entrance and out of sight, your heart – which has already sunk as low as your shoes – falls right out the soles of your feet and into the ground below, disappearing so rudely as to leave you feeling empty and hollow, but most of all afraid.

All of a sudden, a mass of ebony feathers fills your peripheral and the sharp bark of a crow rings in your ear.

Startled, you twist to the side just as Dust lands heavily on your shoulder.

“O-oh... Hey,” you sniff, reaching up to run a knuckle down the front of his breastbone. You keep still whilst he settles, fluffing himself up and regarding you carefully with one, beady eye. Sniffling again, you blink back at him, casting your gaze over his glistening, black feathers and the water droplets that drip from the tip of his beak. His throat trembles as he emits a low, gentle warble.

Then, without warning, the bird promptly presses the side of his sooty head against your cheek, rubbing against it a few times before he swiftly launches himself into the dismal sky once more, offering you a final, parting squawk.

Bewildered, you silently watch him disappear after the Horseman.

Although you're still weighed down by the unshakeable heaviness of dread, the crow's gesture of affection is appreciated, and you allow yourself a long, slow inhale, holding the breath within your lungs until they start to burn.

It feels good when you exhale, like you're trying to parody the sensation of relief.

“Okay.” Your jaw sets and you begin to cast your gaze around the village, forcing your eyes see it as Tri Stone and not... not home. Turning to the right, you take in the vast gazebo that had served so faithfully as Valus and Alya's forge has been knocked down by some, mighty force and half of its domed roof has collapsed inwards and filled the space with rubble and dust.

A glance up the stairs to Muria's garden shows you that Karn has already made it to the Shaman, and he's leading her by the arm down the steps, her trusty staff seeming to be nowhere in sight. Seconds later and your heart squeezes sympathetically when you notice that the youngling is carrying what remains of it, splintered into pieces so small and numerous, it looks like it could only be used for kindling.

Still, you're glad to see that the Shaman is alive.

Trailing your gaze past them, you could weep anew as you take in the ruins of her gazebo, now utterly destroyed beyond recognition, her garden and plants and herbs lost somewhere beneath rubble and immense piles of stone.

Feeling nauseous, you tear your eyes away and face north.

Half-dazed by the destruction around you, you find that your feet have begun to carry you forwards of their own accord down the length of the village towards Thane's arena whilst you continue to sweep your eyes across the path ahead, anxious to catch sight of Eideard.

You can only pray that Alya had been wrong and he hasn't gone after the Guardian alone.

It isn't just Death whose safety you're concerned about, after all.

“Fleshling?”

You almost trip over your own feet at the sound of your name being called by a familiar, gravelly voice.

Squinting against the rain, it takes you a moment to find the source, and once you do, you wonder how far out of your own head you must have been to miss the figure melting from the long, dark shadows of the arena walls.

“B-Blackroot?” you sputter, letting your jaw hang shamelessly to the ground.

Against all odds, the old, moss-coated construct is indeed here, in Tri-Stone, stumbling towards you on stumpy and unsteady legs that still don't seem used to the motions being asked of them.

Giving him a quick once over, you soon determine that whilst he certainly looks startled, he's otherwise unscathed.

You just can't stop yourself.

With staggering urgency, you lurch into a run and close the distance between yourself and Blackroot in a matter of seconds, clinging to the modicum of good news like a mollusc clings to oceanic rocks.

The construct suddenly freezes as he's struck in the torso by a human-shaped bullet. His luminous eyes flicker and he drops his chin to peer down at the top of your head, surprised to find that soft, fleshy arms have been thrown as far as they can reach around the lumpy boulder that serves as his waist. You hardly even seem to care about the rainwater cascading down the crevasses in his rocky body and pouring onto your head.

There is, however, something strikingly familiar about having the warmth of another body pressed against him, something so achingly known and yet, when he tries to grasp the memory, it slips away from him like smoke through his blocky fingers.

A curious part of him wonders what might happen if he reciprocates, if he returns your gesture, and then he wonders whether he's even supposed to. Ultimately though, his hesitancy costs him that answer, because moments after his hands begin inching towards your back, your grip on his waist goes slack as you withdraw your arms and step away to peer up at him, squinting heavily through the falling rain.

“You're here!” you blurt out, perhaps a touch needlessly given that he's standing right in front of you, “How – I... How?”

The construct's lower jaw lifts into what you recognise is a smile and he wordlessly curls his hand around an object dangling from his belt and lifts it loose, holding it out to you in an upturned palm.

Two familiar, button eyes peer back at you.

“Eideard,” you chuckle wetly, reaching up to brush your fingers down the patch of white felt that has been stitched into a beard for the doll.

“My master,” Blackroot nods, “He was sad that he had not returned for me sooner. He thought I was lost to Corruption but I was just happy to see him again. He found me. He said you told him where I was, and he found me.” Stopping to peer at you thoughtfully for a moment, the construct's jaw lifts even further and he abruptly declares, “You are very kind.”

Flustered, you wave his compliment aside and reply, “Oh, well I don't know about that. I'm not the one who got you out of that fjord, Eideard is.”

“But he would never have found me, were it not for you, fleshling.”

Somehow, despite his eyes being little more than a pair of glow-stones set inside his skull, Blackroot manages to look utterly start-struck.

“Well, I, Um...” More than a little bashful, you clear your throat and step back, throwing your hands out towards his feet in the hopes that a distraction will stop him from staring at you like you're some kind of hero. “Hey! You're walking! Your roots - They're gone!”

The yellow lights of his eyes blink once and he shifts forwards to look down at himself, the tree on his back creaking ominously as he does. “Ah! Yes. The magic my master used to free me was very old and powerful. It did not even hurt when he severed my roots and sealed the cuts so my life force would not leak out.”

“Well, whatever he did and... however he did it. I'm just glad you're here now. And that the Guardian didn't... well. You know.”

The construct fiddles with his belt for a while before he manages to fasten the Eideard doll back to it. When he returns his gaze to you, it's filled with gratitude. “I am glad as well.”

You return his clumsy smile, until your eyes start to wander and you find yourself glancing anxiously around the arena behind him. “So, uh, have you like, seen Eideard? A-Around here, maybe?”

Slowly, the construct's rocky brows scrape together and a soft gust of air shoots out from the gap in his jaw.

His answer, when it comes, is the one you'd been dreading. “He has gone. He left to follow that monster out into the valley.”

Your stomach begins to tie itself into knots all over again and what little elation you'd regained from seeing Blackroot swiftly evaporates. Licking your lips, you try to keep the shaking from your voice and ask, “What... what about Thane? Have you seen Thane?”

As though summoned by the mere mention of his name, a rough voice calls out, “Over here, Lass.”

Under your feet, the ground shudders with the familiar and unmistakable footfalls of an approaching maker. Craning your head around Blackroot's side, you cast your gaze towards the back of the arena, only to blanch and slap a hand over your mouth at the sight that emerges from the shadows.

The old warrior hobbles eagerly towards you, dragging one leg behind him as though it's nothing but a hunk of useless, dead flesh sitting inside his boot. Belatedly, he hopes you'll assume that the water trickling down his face is merely from the incessant rainfall and not from his eyes watering thanks to the sodding, great bruise that's already sprouted across the bridge of his nose. Yet, in spite of the blurry vision and the aggravated pain in his fractured shinbone, Thane's relief at just knowing you're alive temporarily overrides the agony from his injuries... 

...Injuries he forgets to hide until he sees your hand fly up to your mouth.

Wincing at the frozen, wide-eyed stare you’ve locked him in, Thane lets out a strained grunt and forces himself to walk a little straighter, placing the weight back onto his wounded leg and plastering on a smile that hardly makes the rivers of blood that pour down his face any less noticeable. 

Blackroot moves further aside to make room for the warrior, who at last staggers to a halt and collapses heavily onto his good knee in front of you, his sturdy chest heaving.

“You're alive,” he sighs wearily, more for his own reassurance than yours, “You're alive... The others... are they...?”

Trembling, you lower your hands from your mouth, determined not to make him wait for the answer. “E-everyone's alive, Thane,” you tell him with your eyes glued to the bruise blossoming over his nose, “A little beaten up, but... they'll be fine.”

Bowing his head, the maker lets out the enormous breath he'd been holding onto. “Thank the Stone... When the Guardian ploughed through the village, I.... I thought, you might've been...” Trailing off, he averts his gaze to emit a low grumble from the back of his throat before he looks at you again, causing you to gulp when something fearsome and chilling sparks to life in his stormy eyes. “That stone bastard didn't hurt you, did 'e?” the warrior growls.

Lightening flashes above you and you stare up at his glowering face in a daze, the world around you cold and quiet whilst crimson rivulets trickle steadily and relentlessly out of a gash in his temple, pushed by every pulse of his immense heart. 

Not even the rain can wash the blood away fast enough.

You have to squeeze your eyes shut after a few seconds, fighting to regain your composure when the coppery stench permeates your nostrils and conjures up memories of crimson streets utterly saturated with life's most precious liquid.

Thane notices that you've begun to sway on your feet and, without thinking too hard about it, he reaches out a hand, curling his fingertips around your torso and effectively propping you upright. His heart-rate spikes in the meantime, now more concerned than ever that you've suffered in some, unseen way. Before he can bare his tusks and promise to tear the Guardian limb from limb however, your eyes flicker open again and you swallow thickly, glad that the rain is disguising your tears.

“No, no,” you sniff, wiping at your eyes to banish the terrible memories vying for your attention, “The Guardian... he didn't hurt me.”

The hand that isn’t holding you upright moves to his chest and he splays his fingers out over it, mumbling, “Stone be praised...” 

“But – shit, Thane – Look what he did to you!” you continue, pressing your hands earnestly to his glove.

“What, this?” The warrior glances down at himself and gives you a tusky smirk. “Ach, nothin' wrong with a few more battle scars. Ain't like they'll make this mug any uglier, eh?”

He allows a glimmer of satisfaction to ignite in his chest when the attempt at humour is rewarded by your weak, wet bark of laughter, although the humour fades almost as swiftly as it had come and you suck down a hitching breath, turning away from him and looking towards the intact staircase.

“Eideard and Death...” you begin hesitantly, “They'll need help.”

Following your gaze, Thane's face drops and he shifts uneasily. 

Though it's a loathsome thing for the proud warrior to admit out loud, he grits his teeth and gruffly says, “I'm in no fit state to assist. Reckon I'd only get in the way n' give the old man somethin' else to worry about.”

Your only response is to let out an evasive hum whilst you continue staring at the path ahead. 

You never said that it needed be Thane who went to help.

Gradually, your brows knit together until they form a hard, determined line.

The old warrior casts glances between you and the direction your eyes are pointed, his expression becoming more and more incredulous with every turn of his head. He doesn't like stormy cloud that's growing on your face. It's similar to the look Karn gets whenever the youngling is about to make a stupid decision.

“Lass,” Thane growls warningly, “Whatever’s goin’ through that head of yours, knock it off. You’ve done enough...”

Have you? 

If it weren’t for you and Death, the Guardian wouldn’t have even woken up to wreak this havoc on Tri Stone and the makers. If you’d have just stood your ground and stopped the Horseman from putting that damn corrupted heart stone into the construct, nobody would be in this mess. You could have found another way... 

Huh... Is this your fault?

‘Well,’ you say to yourself, eyeing the blood oozing from Thane’s nostrils, ‘I’ve certainly done enough to make things go wrong... Maybe it’s time I helped do something right.’

You take a breath and begin sidestepping around him, shaking your head apologetically. “I'm sorry, please don't be mad. But I – I have to go!”

At once, the maker’s face grows several shades paler. He’d been so sure that you had the sense to avoid the Guardian now that you’ve seen the damage it can do to a village full of adult makers.

Evidently, he's overestimated the intelligence of humans. 

“You don't have to do a bloody thing!” he barks, swiping a hand out after you and growling when you deftly slip around his reaching fingers, “Damn it, girl! Get back here! Don't you dare leave this village! You hear me!?” 

He's too late in shoving himself up off the ground and hobbling after you. On any other day, he'd manage to catch you in just a few, short strides, but with the injury to his leg, he doesn't have a chance of keeping up. The first step he takes is too sudden, too vicious on his battered limb and he stumbles immediately, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the training dummy nearby. He raises his head and his expression contorts, eyes growing wide when he sees that you're almost at the top of the steps.

Huffing like a frantic bull and woefully out of options, he tries for rage instead, hoping that he could frighten you into returning. 

So, sucking down a lungful of air, he roars, “HUMAN!” and uses the dummy to desperately drag himself upright. However, when you still don't turn around, and instead hop over the lip of the staircase, he peels his lips back, bares his teeth and all but howls, “Y/N!”

......

Sadly, his efforts prove to be in vain.

You don't return to the steps, you don't even turn around, you simply break into a jog and vanish inside the waiting tunnel, followed by a foreboding snarl of thunder.

---------

Frigid winds hit the bare skin on your arms and face as soon as you burst out into the Stonefather's vale like a bullet shot from a gun. Your lungs are on fire, burning up every ounce of oxygen that you manage to suck down a swiftly-closing throat.

You've pushed yourself – are still pushing yourself – to your limit, and the wear and tear is beginning to show in the way you trip over your feet every few steps, the bruise from your run-in with Karkinos throbbing to a loathsome beat that threatens to bully you into giving up and turning back to Tri Stone.

But your threshold for pain, whilst certainly nothing to brag about, is at least high enough to keep your feet pointed defiantly on the path ahead, despite your brain screeching in protest.

The soles of your boots hit the sodden grass underfoot and you raise a hand to shield your eyes against the pouring rain, focused entirely on the figure standing in your path up ahead.

Death's pale back is to you, but his awareness of your presence is more than obvious, given that his head twitches in your direction and his hands snap into vice-like fists when you slow to a stop several metres behind him. He’d had an inkling - given your track-record - that you would find a way to return to his side eventually, despite his best efforts in trying to keep you at arm's length.

“Oh, well isn't this a surprise!” he scoffs, “And there was me hoping you'd have learned your lesson by now.”

You wonder how much more upset he'd be if he realises you haven't even paid attention to a word he'd just said.

As it is, you manage to remain relatively undaunted by the Horseman's animosity, namely due to being faced with something far, far more terrifying than his ire.

Further down the valley, towering like a living monolith into the storm-blackened sky, is the Guardian, its heart stones aglow with that same, putrid, yellow light shared by the gigantic eyeball swivelling manically behind it.

Just then, a flash of lightening brightens the dark valley and your eyes drop to the ground next to the Guardian's cylindrical feet.

Of its own accord, a strangled gasp leaps out of your throat. “NO!”

Eideard stands close – much, much too close – to the behemoth, with his arm raised high above his head and a blue brilliance radiating from the tip of the staff he has clutched in his powerful grip.

Even after all you've seen, the visible presence of magic still sends a rush of goosebumps along your arms. There's no time to marvel over magic's existence though, because all of a sudden, the Guardian shifts, drawing your gaze up to it once more, and in an instant, your heart takes a flying leap into your mouth.

“EIDEARD!” you scream, darting forwards, though for what reason, you couldn't really say. The old maker is halfway across the valley, and the impossibly immense pommel of the construct's hammer is hurtling down on top of him with enough force to split the earth in two.

Even Death takes an involuntary step towards the old maker, stretching out his hand and shouting, “NO!” over a particularly vicious thunder clap.

But it's too late.

You can already tell that it's far too late.

Nothing that you or the Horseman do could ever stop the fall of that terrible hammer.

The blunt end of the weapon's handle comes down on top of Eideard just as you collapse to your knees and unleash a shrill scream that cuts clear across the valley, hair gripped tightly between your clenched fists.

This can't be happening.

This cannot be happening!

You know without a shadow of a doubt that you won't be able to keep going if you lose Eideard. Not on top of every other loss you've already suffered.

Not him.

“Please,” you hear yourself gasp, “Please, god, don't. He's not – He can't be...!”

You really don't want to look, too afraid to lay eyes upon his mangled corpse laying there in the dirt, but you can't tear your eyes off the spot he'd disappeared behind a plume of debris and dust kicked up by the hammer's impact. It feels as though fingers have closed around your throat and cut off the air supply to your lungs. All you can do is let your mouth flop open around a silent, horrified scream.

Unstirred by your anguish, the Guardian grips its hammer in one, colossal fist and gives it a vicious twist.

You're waiting for it to hit you, for your mind to catch up with the world around it and send you spiralling down into a bottomless pit. In fact, you're certain you can already feel it happening. Grief rushes towards you, a tidal wave that crests high above your head, but just as it threatens to come crashing down and drown you under its overwhelming pressure, the Guardian lifts its hammer.

Through a steady mixture of rain and tears that blur your vision, you manage to catch sight of a real impossibility.

Somehow, through force of will or magic or just plain old luck, Eideard is standing upright in the spot where the Guardian's hammer had slammed down on top of him, and curved above his head like a transparent shield is a dome of shimmering, blue light.

The air that rams back into you tastes like mana from heaven.

“He's alive!?” you croak.

The Guardian seems far less pleased by Eideard's survival.

Its stone jaw drops open and although entirely solid, the construct manages to pull its rocky features to form a deep scowl as it roars indignantly, rearing back and this time swinging its hammer up over a shoulder, egged on by the murderous corruption guiding its hand. It brings the weapon's head down on Eideard again.

And again, the magic shield flares angrily in response to its vicious assault, but although you almost swallow your tongue when the hammer crashes to the earth a second time, you soon feel the ember of hope rekindling to see Eideard's forcefield still in place once the gigantic hammer is removed and its wielder steps back, evidently perplexed by its small, yet mighty opponent.

Wincing, Eideard shakes his head, flicking away the droplets of blood that have begun to trickle from his nose and mouth. Magic, for all its uses, can often be just as much of a hinderance as it can be a help. Using too much isn't unlike overexercising a muscle. Continuous strain can eventually lead to injury – predominantly of the mind, and many a delver into the mystical arts has fallen victim to exertion by trying to accomplish feats of magic that are far more powerful than their bodies can withstand. Feats such as blocking two, devastating blows from a four-hundred foot construct, for example.

“Maker's bones...” the Old One pants, staggering backwards on unsteady legs, “...that hurt.”

Frustration crawls up his spine at the prospect of having to back down from this fight. He has a home to protect, after all, and a family. It goes against every fibre of his being to stand aside. However... he wouldn't have survived to be so old if he hadn't learned how and when to pick his fights.

If his magic alone is not enough to subdue the Guardian, then perhaps the raw, unbridled power of a Nephilim will have to suffice. The old maker had heard Death's shout, had wondered what in the world he'd done to earn the Horseman's concern, and then, he'd heard a smaller and shriller voice, one that subsequently sent his heart into a dizzying frenzy, wailing out like some wild, distressed animal.

What in Stone's name do you think you're doing here!?

Exhausted, yet determined, Eideard raises his staff and focuses his mind, drawing on the subtle magics that are woven into the very air around him, feeling the atoms in his body resonate and tremble in kind. Comforting, blue light seeps from the end of his staff, swelling and growing in size and intensity until the old one's eyes snap wide open and then, with just a single thought, an explosion of energy erupts from the staff and ripples outwards through the vale, an after-effect of the sudden displacement of an entire maker. One moment, Eideard is standing directly in the path of the rampaging Guardian, then next, he's disappearing into thin air, earning a bewildered hum from the construct, who lowers the hammer it had drawn back in preparation for a third strike.

Meanwhile, you're nearly hysterical as you whip your head around in search of the old maker, dropping your mouth open to blurt out, “Wh-where did he-!?”

All of a sudden, you're interrupted by a blinding flash of light.

Before the spots have even faded from your vision, you find yourself wrapped in a firm but gentle grip and you let out an embarrassing yelp as you're lifted off the ground. 

Startled, you even call out for Death, though after another few moments pass, you start to recognise the fur trim of a sleeve and the angular, protruding knuckles that belong to the hand clasping you against a heaving chest.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wriggling yourself around in his grip and getting nothing but a face full of white beard for the trouble.

When the maker speaks, his voice booms all around you. “He's beyond my help, Horseman!” he calls, keeping his gaze trained on the Guardian as he retreats backwards towards the tunnel's entrance, “Do your worst...”

It shouldn't have surprised you to hear Eideard's voice lined with bitter regret. You'd almost forgotten that the Guardian isn't just another naturally occurring phenomenon in this mystical, ever-changing realm. For all intents and purposes, the beast is man-made. Well, maker-made. And one of those makers is currently having to witness his creation destroying the very home it was built to protect.

Bracing your hands against his thumb, you lean back to peer up at the old one, perturbed by the way his head drops in defeat. Another blink, and suddenly, you let a horrified cry pierce the air.

His face... It's a mess.

Worse than even Thane's had been.

Blood – a lot of the stuff – streams from the maker's nostrils and dribbles onto his lips, staining the ivory beard around his mouth red. His eyes too, are blood-shot and sunken, older, wearier than you've ever seen them before, like all the life has been sucked out of them and left deep, dark shadows underneath.

All it takes is one glimpse at the old one's stricken face, and you find yourself wishing your shoulders were even half as wide as his so that you could take the weight of at least some of his grief.

You're pulled from your thoughts as the rain stops falling on you, and suddenly, a chilling realisation occurs as you're carried backwards into the tunnel; Eideard is leaving Death to fight this battle alone.

You find yourself torn between relief that that the old maker isn't putting himself in harm's way anymore, and distress that Death is facing down a construct the size of Big Ben. Grunting with the effort of twisting about in such a protective grip, you strain your neck to see over Eideard's fingers, your focus zeroing in on the billowing, green mist that heralds Despair's arrival.

At least the Horseman won't be tackling the Guardian on foot.

Though that's of little comfort, from where you're standing.

Helplessness once again rears its head and sinks its teeth into your stomach.

“Eideard!” you wriggle impatiently in his grasp, “You have to put me down! Death needs help!”

The maker's immediate silence unnerves you, but you're pleasantly surprised when he lowers himself onto a knee and places you carefully back on your feet, his once patient gaze now frantic with worry as he inspects you for injuries, his fingertips lingering bare inches from your shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” he exclaims, taking one of your arms between his massive fingers and lifting it from your side, regarding your face for any sign that the motion causes you discomfort. You, on the other hand, are far too preoccupied with his own, very visible injuries. With the maker looming so close, you can see the blood welling up inside his mouth as it begins to ooze out from between his tusks and teeth, spilling down into the dip of his chin.

“Eideard...” Hesitant, you reach a hand up and touch your fingers gingerly against his cheeks.

Shaking his head, the maker wheezes, “Are you hurt?” The insistent desperation in his tone catches you off guard and you find yourself shakily replying, “Uh I – I'm okay! I'm okay, Eideard!”

Your confirmation seems to knock all the air out of him at once and he sags forwards, releasing your arm with a sigh. “And... Karn?” he asks after another moment.

“Karn's okay, too. He's taking care of Muria and the others,” you assure him.

He nods slowly, taking in a lungful of air as your words finally start to sink in. You're okay. His makers are okay. Things could have easily turned out so much worse... So much worse. Shakily, he pushes himself back onto his feet and sways a little before he manages to plant his staff on the ground, clinging to it with a white-knuckled grip as he frowns down at you and prepares to give you a stern lecture for frightening the life out of him. “You should not be here,” he starts, drawing himself up to his full height, “I am glad to see you unharmed, but I must insist that you return to Tri Stone at once.”

“But - The Guardian!” you protest, “There has to be something I can do to help!”

“You can help me by returning to the village and staying there.”

Picking anxiously at a fingernail, you avert your gaze from Eideard and peer out across the valley, your eyes landing on the Horseman, just a speck of grey facing off against a mountain of stone and rage. “But... What about Death?”

“Y/n, please...”  The maker pauses to expel a hot breath, his frown softening before he continues, “The Horseman has faced great odds before. It's my makers who need you now. Karn will be beside himself once he realises you are gone, and I'm not sure how much more stress Valus can take, the poor lad.”

You don't... not want to return to the village. There are so many ways you think you can help the other makers, and your heart gives a guilty twist for breaking your promise to Alya and Valus.

And yet...

You can't bring yourself to tear yourself away from the valley.

-----

Despair rears back onto his hind legs and Death swings himself gracefully into the saddle with the practiced ease that only a millennia will teach, unwittingly baring his teeth at the roaring Guardian and noting that its attention has shifted down and landed upon him now that he's the only idiot still foolish enough to be in the vale.

Sharp talons squeeze into his shoulder and Dust aims a particularly jarring squawk right in Death's ear.

“Thank you for that,” he drawls, giving the crow a filthy look, “You know, I was so hoping to go into this battle deaf, as well as out-sized.”

The ground trembles when the Guardian takes a very deliberate step across the valley and heaves its weapon into both hands, causing Dust to flap madly back into the sky with a caw that could have meant 'it's been nice knowing you,' or, 'good luck!'

Just this once, Death decides not to call the bird out on his cowardice.

At least Despair has managed to retain the proper amount of dignity.

The Horseman's fingers lower to brush against the snorting animal's muscular neck. “Easy, old friend,” he murmurs, scanning the Guardian's bulk.

There has to be something that will play to his advantage, though admittedly, his odds are underwhelming.

But then... when has that ever stopped him before?

A bitter smirk tugs at the Horseman's lips and in response to some, unspoken command that's felt rather than heard, Despair rears back onto his powerful hind legs before surging forwards into a headlong gallop, ears pricked forwards in anticipation of the upcoming battle.

Obviously, size and strength are not going to be tools in Death's arsenal, so they'll have to rely on the horse's speed to keep the distance between themselves and the Guardian whilst he searches for an opening.

Gritting his teeth, he twitches the reins and Despair reacts less than half a second later, turning his nose to the left and letting his body follow suit, galloping in a wide arc around the construct. Death almost breathes a sigh. In spite of the astronomically impossible odds, there's little to no denying that he's always felt better going into a fight astride his trusted companion. Despair's powerful hoofbeats pound with a sure and solid rhythm against the ground, an adequate stand-in for the beat of a heart, and it's in moments such as these that Death feels at his most 'alive.'

The Guardian's challenging roar is quick to bring his mind back to the coming battle.

With slow, unhurried movements, it swings itself about to keep the comparatively tiny creatures in its line of sight.

Death's teeth grind together as he pushes the horse into a wider arc that takes them both further down the valley's Eastern side, drawing the enormous construct from Tri Stone and allowing for a larger window of time to think of a battle plan.

The goal itself is clear: Sever corruption from its host by removing the heart stones. That should cause enough damage to put the Guardian out of commission, even if only for a little while.

The execution of such a plan, however, will not be as easy in practice as it is in theory.

Death exhales, and through an understanding built on a sturdy foundation of trust, Despair responds without missing a stride.

Skidding to a stop in the slick mud, he rears up and twists himself about all in the same move before bombing forwards into a break-neck gallop, heading straight for the Guardian.

Emitting a thundering growl, the construct raises its hammer high into the air, so high that the head nearly disappears into some of the lower-hanging rainclouds. Seconds later, the weapon abruptly begins to fall.

Despair suddenly lurches to the right mere moments before the pommel comes crashing down into the mud.

Even from halfway up the valley, you can feel the ground shudder violently from the impact.

When the horse stumbles trying to gallop over the shockwaves, your heart leaps up into your throat and almost falls out of your mouth as Death stands up in the saddle right as his steed dashes between the Guardian's legs.

“What the Hell is he doing!?” you blurt out.

Seconds later, you get your answer.

Just as the duo pass directly beneath the construct, Death springs from Despair's saddle and throws himself at one of the towering pillars of stone, latching onto it determinedly.

Despair – now riderless – bursts out on the other side of the construct and gallops around and away from it in a wide arc, leaving a trail of green wisps in his wake.

Unfortunately, though you assumed that the Guardian's attention would remain on the horse, you soon realise that the corruption driving it must have some semblance of a brain after all, because it abruptly tips its head down and the searing, yellow gaze flashes dangerously when it peers past the hefty bulk of its torso and catches sight of the Horseman clinging to its ankle.

Palpable indignation explodes from the construct in a terrible roar and it wastes no time in raising its leg and stomping it hard on the ground in an attempt to jar the Nephilim loose.

But the Guardian's efforts fail to dislodge its unwarranted passenger, and Death starts to climb, and climb, and climb, hauling himself up the mountain of stone, inch by nail-biting inch.

“He's climbing it!?” you blurt out suddenly, gripping your hair when the Horseman narrowly avoids getting crushed by a gargantuan swipe of the construct's hand, “Has he got an effing screw loose!?”

At your side, Eideard's brows are so furrowed, they nearly form a neat, fluffy line across his forehead. “He has to reach the stones,” he calls over another earth-shattering bellow, “Unless he can remove them from their casings, Corruption will never relinquish its hold of the Guardian!”

As he speaks, Death's ascent takes him up to the construct's hip, where he disappears from view for a moment behind the stone thigh guard.

Your stomach sinks as you fully comprehend how much of a climb ahead he has ahead of him.

Outraged, the construct tries to twist its immense body around and as it does, it bends one of its arms backwards to try and swat the Horseman off.

It's only by doing so that you happen to chance upon a blessedly familiar sight.

Corruption has stretched like a dark blanket all along the underside of its host's arm, oily tendrils holding the limb fast to an immense shoulder socket like a terrible, oozing spiderweb.

But spread about inside the writhing blackness, hidden deep between the strands of corruption, are faint, golden flecks of light, each glowing just enough that you can spot them through the gloom and rain.

“Shadow bombs,” you breathe.

Whatever hand is guiding your fate has apparently got a thing for explosions...

----

Death is fairly confident that he'll have no fingernails after this.

Flattening himself against the rock, he barely avoids the Guardian's wall of a hand as it passes by him, close enough that even the ensuing rush of air buffeting him is enough to have him jamming his fingers and the toes of his boots into the slippery, wet stone.

Scaling a rampaging Guardian is difficult enough. Frankly, he could do without the rain adding to his troubles.

Casting a heated glance up at the sky, Death braces his feet and prepares to launch himself another few metres up the torso.

Another bolt of lightening takes a stab at the valley, the Horseman kicks off, swinging an arm overhead to grab a segment of rock above him and the Guardian's colossal fist rushes towards him once more...

He could have sworn he'd had the timing spot on...

Death is hit from the side by a force so great, his vision goes white upon impact and his world turns upside down as he's knocked out of the sky by the construct's blow, thousands of receptors screaming in pain even though he bites down hard on his tongue and refuses to utter a sound.

Well... at least the fall is short...

Far sooner than he expects to, the Horseman collides with the soggy ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and he rolls over and over through the mud until eventually coming to a halt on his back about a hundred yards away from the Guardian's feet. Stunned and staring stiffly up at the cloudy sky overhead, he blinks against the raindrops that manage to pelt his eyelids through the sockets of his mask.

Somewhere far away from his ringing ears, he picks up the trace of a scream, dimly registering how familiar the sound is.

“Death! Please, get up!”

Yes, he will. Of course he will. He doesn't need a distant voice to tell him that laying motionless in the mud is a terrible idea.

Curling his fingers until they're squeezed into tight fists, the Horseman pushes himself into a sitting position and gives his head a shake, his senses returning to him all at once.

That had been your voice. For an unsettling second, he pictures you doing something stupid – like running out into the valley towards him.

“Human!?” he rasps, throwing his gaze about wildly until he at last spies you still standing in the entrance to Tri Stone’s tunnel.

He only refrains from heaving a sigh of relief through sheer willpower alone.

Moving his head to the right, he catches sight of Despair galloping madly in his direction, hoofbeats swallowed up by the thunderous, booming footsteps of the Guardian as it approaches Death's flank.

The Horseman is on his feet in a flash and takes several, loping strides towards his steed, who doesn't slow for a single beat, not even as he tears past Death's side, confident that his rider will be safely back in his saddle with hardly a crumb of effort.

And of course, a pale hand shoots out as the horse passes, snagging the saddle horn and Death hauls himself up and onto Despair's back as though they'd practiced it a thousand times.

Which, upon the insistence of a figure from their past, they have.

“Now then,” the Horseman grumbles, snatching up the reins and turning his steed in another wide arc, intent on coming at the Guardian from another angle, “Let's try that again, shall we?”

------

“He's not seriously gonna try that again, is he?” Watching the spectral duo thunder towards a now increasingly belligerent construct, you clap a hand to your forehead, staring out from underneath it with your mouth agape. “Oh my god, he is.”

“Tenacity is sometimes one of the only tactics that will work,” Eideard puts sagely.

Letting out an incredulous scoff, you squint an eye shut and gape sideways at the Old one. “Tenacity? What the Hell does he think will happen if he -!....Wait a minute....” Suddenly, you cut yourself off, frowning hard at the grass by your feet. “...Tactics...”

The gears in your head grind faster and faster as you try to recall a far-off memory, holding up your hand to hush the maker when he draws a breath to speak. “Wait, wait, wait. What about... Yeah, what about uh, if we use the Hammer and Anvil?” Snapping your fingers together, you raise your head again and shoot Eideard an eager look.

He, on the other hand, appears entirely lost, turning to peer over his shoulder in the direction of the village for a moment before he returns his gaze to you, one eyebrow raised. “A hammer and anvil? What use would those be in this fight?”

“No, no, it's the, um... the name of a military tactic!” you explain, chewing your lip anxiously, “So, I took History for GCSE, and I think, I think, I remember learning about it there. So, one group, or I guess, one person, is the anvil, right? They pin down an enemy, and then somebody else – the hammer - moves around to the flank and -” You firmly thump your fist into the palm of your opposite hand for emphasis.

In spite of himself, Eideard's eyes gleam with barely-concealed pride at your insight. He hadn't realised you'd once been a Historian. Seconds later, he gives his head a firm shake to dispel the fog of intrigue.

“I remember it because it sounded cool,” you say wistfully, “And I was going through my phase of wanting to be a blacksmith to make swords and stuff at the time...”

The Old one raises his eyebrows in surprise and you chuckle wanly, adding, “Yeah, I know. Don't tell Thane. Think it might break his heart.”

Eideard is inclined to agree. It would certainly pain the warrior to know that he might potentially 'lose' you to Alya, who has a very likely chance of combusting on the spot if she learns about your interest in her profession.

Blinking, the maker looks down at you and realises that you're still peering back at him expectantly, and it takes him a further moment to work out that you're actually waiting for him to offer approval for your plan. “Well... Whilst it may certainly be a useful strategy, in theory,” he enunciates, subjecting you to a pointed stare, “have you taken into consideration the size of the enemy in this fight? How could a construct so large ever be pinned down long enough for the Horseman to reach the heart stones?”

You fall silent beside him, and at first, Eideard assumes that you don't have an answer for him, when in truth, your focus has simply returned to the underside of the Guardian's dominant arm.

You know precisely how you can pin the construct down.

All it will take is a well-placed shot... and every last ounce of courage you have left in reserve.

Heaving out a shaky sigh, you tug the little handgun from your waistband and thumb the cylinder's release latch, swinging it open and peering down at the chambers.

Three cartridges left.

Three empty chambers... One for the demon general you'd slain to save Death.

One for the demon in the graveyard...

...And one for the gun's original owner.

A shudder prickles up your spine at the memory of the dead man staring at you with wide, terrified, but unseeing eyes as you pried his means of salvation right out of his hands.

Then, the moment passes and you shove his expression to the back of your mind, flicking the cylinder into place with a purposeful snap.

You have to do this. The Guardian has to be destroyed, even if it means you've come all this way for nothing, and the Corruption blocking your path to the Tree of Life will remain where it is.

You'll just... have to find another way through.

There's always another way.

When you look up towards Death, you see that he's circled Despair away from the Guardian again and they're skirting dangerously close to the swollen, yellow eyeball that tracks their journey across the valley.

“I'll be the anvil...” You take a step forwards, your voice soft, though not soft enough that it goes unnoticed by Eideard.

The old maker tears his gaze from the construct currently hammering holes into his valley and fixes you with a suspicious glare. There are certain instincts that elders tend to accumulate after a near-eternity spent just being alive, none of which are more potent than the instinct to simply know when a youngling is busy concocting some terrible, ill-judged and outright dangerous scheme in their heads.

Striking before the seed can take true root, Eideard lifts his staff and plants its narrow end on the ground right in front of you, a less-than-subtle barrier that both breaks you from your thoughts and stops you from making further advancement towards the tunnel opening.

Understandably, you're startled by the sudden shaft of solid metal appearing in your path and you whip your head up to shoot a glare at the old giant, only to find that he's giving you his own, similarly stern look.

Holding your gaze for a few moments, he eventually expels a sigh and lets his expression ease into a more solemn frown. “Not this time, little one,” he utters.

“Not this time?” Your hands ball slowly into fists. “What do you mean 'not this time?'”

He opens his mouth to tell you, to explain every, complex thought that's been on his mind since you followed Death into the Foundry. He wants to tell you exactly why he can't bear to watch you run into danger again – that his old heart aches to see Muria wring her hands so much more often these days, or Valus pacing anxiously back and forth across the forge while his sister tries to coax him into crafting something that might take his mind off you. It had even hurt more than he'd care to admit to hear Thane explode at him after the warrior learned that you'd gone inside the Foundry.

Likewise, Eideard had hardly been able to think straight for worrying whether you'd come back out again...

His soul, of late, seems as though it's pulling itself in two, very different directions. One half of him knows that you're your own person - an adult, so far as humans are concerned – who is more than capable of making decisions without needing the input of an interfering old maker. But then, there's the other half of him - the half that has spent eons being a teacher, a leader and a protector. 

That half wants nothing more than to keep you safe and nurtured, to see what you could become as a human among makers.

How can he possibly make you understand that watching you run out into the valley would be the final nail in his coffin?

However, he doesn't get the chance to even try and explain as you misinterpret his pensive silence for surrender and you press, “It could work! You know it could! I could be the anvil, if I can just... get close enough to-”

“-Absolutely not,” he interrupts, his eyebrows pinched with concern, “It's far too dangerous.”

You aren't entirely sure where your sudden spark of irritation comes from, but it's there before you can think to extinguish it. “What, so this is too dangerous, but you let me go into the Foundry?”

“Against my better judgement, yes, I did,” he retorts, “And the Drench Fort, and the Cauldron. Time and again, I have stood by and allowed you to follow the Horseman into danger-” 

“You've allowed me?” you scoff, recoiling.

“-But I'm afraid that this is where my leniency ends,” he continues as his voice steadily grows louder with every passing moment, “This is where I have to draw the line, if not for your sake, then for the sake of the others. They've suffered enough loss to last them a lifetime, and I will not allow them to lose another friend!” Breathing hard, he swallows down a painful cough and rasps, “I will not lose another friend!”

If only you were ten feet taller, you'd grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into the sentimental old giant.

“If Death doesn't manage to beat that thing, you're gonna lose a whole hell of a lot more than just a friend!” you argue, hardly noticing that the maker's knuckles have turned bone-white around the handle of his staff, “Eideard, I am trying to help Death save this place! You can't stop me from helping!”

The soft-eyed maker's gaze narrows to something uncharacteristically sharp and he replies, “I can. For your own good!”

You wrinkle your nose as indignation rises through your chest like smoke from the fire in your belly, swelling into a ball of heat and anger. “My own g-!? You're not my dad, Eideard-!”

“- I AM TRYING TO BE!”

The force of Eideard's shout punches through your chest like a gunshot and you stagger back a few steps, your eyes growing wide with alarm. You aren't sure what's more disconcerting, what he'd shouted, or the fact that he'd shouted at all. It's the first time you've ever heard him raise his voice at you...

Staring up at the old maker, you slowly draw your hands close to your chest, clasping them together and pulling in a hitched breath.“...What?” you utter, voice small and uncertain.

Just like that, the giant blinks and his eyebrows twitch out of their frown as the realisation of what he'd just admitted aloud catches up with him. A pit in his stomach opens up and everything above it drops.

He stares back at you in muted horror that he tries desperately to disguise as stern sincerity.

Stone's breath... He swore he'd never... You've only just lost your family, and now here he is behaving as though he intends to replace one of the most critical figures in your life. He has no right. No right at all...

Even beneath the ivory beard, you can see his jaw clench after he snaps his mouth shut.

Not even the rain that cascades from overhead is loud enough to drown out the rigorous pounding of your heart.

"Little one,” Eideard croaks, fumbling over his words for the first time in centuries, “I-”

Suddenly, from across the valley, the Guardian unleashes a triumphant bellow and your eyes rip away from the maker for all of a second, just long enough to see Death take a hit.

Just like that, the whole world grinds to a screeching halt.

---------

Despair is in the middle of a charge, heading straight for the Guardian's legs, no doubt intending to bring his rider in close so that he can make another attempt at climbing his way up to the infected heart stones.

The construct, however, doesn't move to meet them as they expect it to. Instead, the colossal beast takes a few, booming steps backwards, seeming as if it’s on the retreat to the valley's eastern cliffs.

Seconds later, Death realises its intent.

The mile-high hammer that it grips in its fist has a reach that practically extends halfway across the valley, and only by putting some significant distance between itself and a target does the Guardian stand any chance of landing a devastating blow.

And Death has just galloped directly into the firing line.

As the hammer begins its downward swing, Despair lets out a whinny that's carried off on the wind until it reaches your ears, filling them with the sound of shrill, animalistic fear and you turn your body around to stare out at the valley just in time to see the Horseman fling his steed's head to the side with a brutal tug on the reins. Obediently, Despair follows his lead, hoping to escape underneath the side of the rapidly-descending hammer.

You know in your heart of hearts they'll never make it.

You can hardly bear to watch.

Then, at the very last second, right when the hammer's shadow utterly engulfs both horse and rider, you notice that Death's hand lifts from the reins and he does a wild gesture and before you can make sense of what it means, without warning, Despair's solid outline seems to collapse in on itself and the horse erupts into a cloud of sickly, green mist.

Bellowing out a final, lingering scream of righteous indignation that's soon lost to the wind, he disappears completely and his rider falls to the ground, tucking himself forwards into a haphazard roll.

Not half a second later, the monolithic face of the hammer connects with the dirt just inches behind him.

Another flash of lightening coincides poetically with the impact, burning an image into your mind's eye – of mud and rocks exploding outwards in every direction, a seismic shockwave that flings Death away from the epicentre. He lands hard in the wet earth and tumbles for several metres before he finally comes to a stop, face down against the grass, unmoving.

You barely even register that you've ducked beneath the maker's staff and hurled yourself into a clumsy sprint until you emerge from the tunnel and your face is suddenly struck by ice-cold rain. At your back, Eideard shouts something frenzied, crossing the line into panic, but his words are drowned out by another clap of thunder. You don't see the desperate horror sweep across the old maker's face. You don't see his eyes illuminate with the ensuing lightening strike. You don't see the Guardian peeling its hammer from the earth and slowly turning towards you.

All you can see, all you care about right now, is the Horseman in front of you.

Shaking off his daze, Death pushes himself onto his hands and knees and immediately becomes irked by the rainwater dripping in through the sockets of his mask again. He gives a few, hard blinks and twists his gaze to one side, trailing it all the way up the Guardian's legs columns.

The great beast flares the plates around its neck and a low, rumbling growl trickles from its throat and travels all the way down into the ground, causing Death's teeth to rattle in his head.

Dimly, his eyes rove up to the hammer, now raised once more into the sky high above the construct's head.

“Damn you,” he hisses at it through a clenched jaw.

If he hadn't banished Despair when he had, the horse may well have had its hind legs crushed. He'd felt his steed's rage once it realised what he planned to do, but frankly, he'd rather deal with an angry Despair than see the stubborn beast get hurt.

He's in the midst of heaving himself up onto one knee when all of a sudden, from across the valley, there comes a familiar cry that would have turned his blood to ice, should his veins carry any.

“Death!”

The Horseman jerks his head over one shoulder, eyes widening when he sees you haring across the valley towards him. “No,” he growls, voice rising into a ragged shout, “NO! Stay back, you fool!”

However, rather than heed his warning, you very nearly end up crashing into him as you hit the brakes and skid to a halt in the sodden grass just in time to avoid a collision. 

Somewhere unbeknownst to the Horseman, a wild and familiar presence rears its sleepy head.

Meanwhile, with all the grace of a bungling drunk, you wrestle your pistol from your skirt's hem and aim it at the clustered web of corruption that stretches across the construct's raised forearm.

The Guardian is so vast, each movement carries with it the illusion that time has slowed right down to a crawl.

Gripping the handle of your gun between two, quivering hands, you don't even spare a second to think or to worry about what'll happen if you don't make this shot.

You only have this chance. There will not be another.

There's a storm raging around you, a giant hammer rising above you, Death's incoherent bellow rings in your head and Eideard's distressed calls tug at your heartstrings.

You've never been more terrified in all your life.

But you still take aim.

And with blood and wind howling in your ears, you draw in one, deep breath...

… and pull the trigger.

It's strange, you realise with a blink, that until now, you've never really put much thought into whether the dice of life rolls in your favour. You wouldn't say that you're especially lucky, nor would you claim to be naturally unlucky either.

At this moment however, when the tiny bullet from your pistol sails straight and true towards its target, you finally begin to consider the scope of your luck. Then, the bullet hits its mark and you feel like the heavens have just aligned in your favour.

The shadow bomb explodes, setting off a chain reaction among the other bombs embedded in the webbing. Each of them erupts in rapid succession of the one before it, and the Guardian is instantly thrown off balance by the ricochets, roaring in pain and staggering back a step as its entire arm is quite suddenly blown sideways and asunder.

Whatever elation you might have garnered from the success is short-lived though, because Death is abruptly towering over you and snatching you up by the arms, holding you so that your feet dangle several inches from the ground.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?” he bellows, shaking you for good measure.

You open your mouth to reply, but just then, a dark shadow falls across Death's mask, prompting you both to whip your heads back and look to the sky.

It appears that while the explosion has blown the Guardian's arm to smithereens, some of those 'smithereens' are still absolutely enormous and haven't been blasted quite far enough to render you safe should they come crashing down to the ground.

Which is, of course, precisely what they do.

The familiar presence that had awoken deep inside the Horseman's psyche suddenly starts to go bezerk.

Barrelling down towards you at a rate of knots is a stone slab the size of a bus.

Instinctively, you fling your arms over your head and slam your eyes tight shut, hardly caring when Death drops you onto your backside and you topple over, your skull cushioned by the wet earth.

Pressed your spine into the grass, you brace yourself for impact and spare the last second of existence cursing at how bitterly unfair it is that you can do something right and still have everything go so wrong.

The slab falls, the air grows cold and still. And then...

WHAM!

The sound is loud enough to blow out your eardrums and smack your heart up against your sternum. It's deafening, it's terrifying... But it isn't painful.

'Why isn't it painful?.... Am I dead?' The rain seems to have stopped falling on you, at least.

Bewildered, you peel open an eye and tentatively lower your arms a little to peer up at a dark, shadowy mass looming over you.

Two, empty eye sockets stare right back at you, pinpricks of light sitting at the centre of each as a rattling breath as cold as winter washes over your face.

“Death?” you utter in a tremulous whisper.

The monstrous form of the Reaper towers above you, its exposed ribcage heaving up and down in the face of its agitation. Long, skeletal arms are raised above its head and when you roll your eyes past the indigo hood, you let out a gasp to find that the creature is holding the gigantic, stone slab aloft, keeping it from crushing you flat.

How a beast with no visible muscle can be so strong is utterly beyond you.

The Reaper stares down at you for a moment longer with an unreadable expression before its arms suddenly flex and it lets out a soft wheeze as it hurls the enormous slab sideways and out of the way.

The stone hasn't even rolled to a stop before the gigantic skull is lowering down towards you.

Sprawled out on your rear and immensely mindful of the beast's fangs, you lift your arms up and hold them out in front of its approaching face.

“Woah – wait a second! I – I know you're mad, but I just!-”

You're interrupted when the Reaper's nose bumps into your palm and continues to advance, despite the meagre resistance you try to put up. For one, horrible second, you grow sick at the thought that the beast's teeth are so close to your vulnerable hands.

But then, with a gentleness that contradicts its size, the skeleton forces its skull through your raised arms and, to your astonishment, pushes its nasal bone firmly into your chest and stomach – as though it isn't supposed to be a monstrous reflection of the fabled Grim Reaper, as though there isn't a stone giant gathering its wits behind it.

Too startled to react, you close your eyes and raise your chin away from the beast, unable to swallow a whimper as it nuzzles gently into your torso with a warbling croon.

'It's only Death,' you have to remind yourself, 'Death won't hurt me.'

Your fingers twitch and you gulp, hesitating for another second before you finally gather the nerve to press your palms flat against the skull's cheekbones, earning a gush of frigid air against your belly in response. Cracking an eye open, you find yourself blinking straight into one of the Reaper's softly glowing pupils. It surprises you with a sudden, insistent nudge to the stomach, like it's trying to push a sound out of you. Hardly daring to disappoint, you swallow around your dry tongue and breathlessly stammer out, “Hah, yeah, I'm... I'm all right.”

The vertebrae on the beast's neck clack together when a croak rattles up from somewhere deep inside its chest.

It almost sounds relieved.

A little more boldly, you sweep your trembling fingers underneath the curve of its cheekbones and try not to ponder on how utterly absurd it is that you're talking to a creature that wasn't even supposed to exist this time last week. Regardless, it's a hard truth to deny when said creature currently has its skull pressed up against you.

After another moment, it gives you a second bunt to the stomach, this one short and sharp and accompanied by a whuff of air through its nasal cavity as the malleable bone above its eye sockets draw together to resemble something vaguely displeased. You're beginning to recognise more and more of Death in its expressions.

The Horseman is still in there somewhere, and it takes you a moment to register that your plan, as foolish and risky as it was, had actually worked. You don't even care that an angry monstrosity's fangs are sitting flushed to your abdomen.

“Hey. I'm glad you're okay too,” you mutter weakly, trailing your fingers down a sturdy mandible.

It's ensuing rumble of contentment is interrupted by a sudden, booming roar that rips the sky apart and you jump, feeling the Reaper's teeth scrape against your belly as it lets out a furious growl and draws back at the sound.

Using one hand to shield your eyes from the rain, you squint up at the Guardian.

It would appear the the colossal juggernaut has already mourned the loss of its arm and is now raring for vengeance.

It tears its gaze off the rubble scattered around its feet and aims a furious growl down at you and the Reaper, the promise of retribution evident in the corrupted tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, whilst its heart stones shine through the gloom like terrible beacons of fetid yellow.

“Wait.. .The heart stones!” you realise aloud.

Skeletal fingers suddenly cut you off as they snatch you up by the collar and hoist you onto your feet, and then you're rudely shoved in the direction of Tri Stone by a snarling Reaper.

Stumbling backwards, you stare after it as it whips around and puts its back to you, flapping its bony wings menacingly up at the Guardian - as if anything it does could deter a construct that size.

The corrupted behemoth takes a threatening step forwards, bringing it far too close for comfort. In response, the Reaper's wings flare even wider across its back and it issues another hiss.

“Death! The Heart Stones!” you cry out again, “We have to destroy them now!”

Your gaze travels to what's left of its shattered arm that lays in the grass like the ruins of an ancient building. There, sitting unassumingly amongst the debris, is a familiar, pulsing glow.

Your hand curls around the grip of your sword.

Without wasting another second, you burst into a break-neck sprint and hurtle towards the first heart stone, immediately hearing the alarmed hiss of the Reaper behind you. Throwing your head over one shoulder, you point frantically at the Guardian's head and shout, “I'll try and deal with the one on the ground! You have to deal with the other two!”

The Reaper's half-buried instinct to snatch you up out of danger and bundle you away somewhere quiet and safe is almost overpowering, but there's just enough of Death lingering below the wild and primal nature of the beast that it recognises the sense in your words.

Eliminate the heart stones, eliminate the Guardian, eliminate the threat.

...Threat.

The Reaper snarls, its spinal column quivering as it finally cuts through the haze of protective anger and focuses on the solution. 

Eliminate the Guardian, and you'll be safe.

The goal is clear.

Teeth snap together in a warning and the Reaper gives its wings a tremendous beat, soaring into the storm-choked sky and making a bee line for the Guardian's left shoulder where the second heart stone lays in wait.

Responding instantly, the construct roars its defiance with the force and volume of a thunderclap as it raises its remaining arm, aiming to swat the Reaper out of the air like a bothersome gnat.

But whilst the Guardian's size might have leant to its advantage on the ground, it proves a hinderance to a creature as adept at flying as Death's spectral counterpart.

Swift and nebulous like a shadow, the Reaper flits higher and higher, skirting close to the construct's arm and either diving or spinning easily out of the way if it swings too close for comfort. By the time it reaches the heart stone, you've slid to a halt beside the one on the ground.

Whipping your sword from its scabbard, you barely hesitate to catch your breath before ramming the tip of the blade underneath the stone's edge.

“Oh, I hope this sword is stronger than I am!” you worry aloud, taking a firm hold of the weapon's grip and heaving backwards with all your might, your feet slipping in the mud underneath you. Something gives and the blade sinks a little deeper, and you're struck by a renewed burst of desperate urgency. “Come on!” you gasp, shaking rainwater from your eyes and readjusting your grip before throwing yourself backwards again, and again, and again, each time levering the sword a little further underneath the stone.

You're only lucky that the heart stone had fallen at the angle it had: tipped forwards towards the ground. There's no chance you'd be able to dislodge a stone so large without a lot of help from gravity.

The relentless downpour causes your feet to nearly slide out from under you, but step by agonising step, you manage to haul yourself backwards, never once giving back an inch of what you take in the way of progress.

Overhead, the Reaper hovers just above the second heart stone.

A flash of lightening illuminates the sky behind it so that for just a second, a gigantic shadow is projected onto the Guardian's body, ominous and foreboding, a billowing cloak and skeletal wings contrasted in black against the pale, sandy stone.

Then, the spectre draws its scythe.

The curved blade gleams as it's raised over the Reaper's shoulder, and with a startling ferocity, it brings the weapon down hard, driving the pointed end deep into the stone like a knife through butter before heaving its scythe back again, wrenching the stone from its place in the Guardian's shoulder and allowing it to fall into the mud far below with a wet, unpleasant 'thwump!'

You miss it hitting the ground, because right as it does, you throw yourself at your sword's hilt with everything you've got, one, final time. There's a moment of resistance, and then suddenly, you're toppling face-first into the mud as well when the heart stone finally comes loose and thumps down just inches away from where you’d been standing.

There's no time to celebrate though.

Scrabbling up onto your feet again, you immediately have to clap both hands over your ears when the construct throws its head back and howls, the terrible cacophony of noise mingling with Corruption's wretched screeching.

The inky substance, separated from its source of power, withdraws like an octopus whose tentacles have been burned by fire. The tendrils tear themselves away from the construct’s stone body and in doing so, they leave every slab without an adhesive to keep it all together.

The resulting carnage isn't unlike witnessing a building being demolished.

First, the hammer is dropped to the ground as its fingers fall apart one after the other, followed swiftly by its entire hand and before long, both of the Guardian's arms are laying strewn about in pieces on the ground, the heavier pieces sinking into slick mud.

All that remains now, is the third and final heart stone.

High over your head, the Reaper rolls its shoulders in satisfaction and turns in the air, scanning the ground below for any sign of the human. It finds you soon enough, a speck of colour almost hidden amongst the rubble, waving your arms madly at something behind it. Cocking its head to one side, the Reaper spins about again and looks up, its eye sockets growing wide.

With two heart stones down, the Corruption's hold over its colossal host has weakened significantly. One leg tries to take a step forwards, but with nothing to keep its stones adhered to one another, the entire construct begins to collapse underneath its own weight, its legs buckling and breaking and its enormous torso teetering forwards...

… It's only once the sky above you is blocked out by falling debris that the Reaper realises why the construct's collapse is not necessarily a good thing.

You're standing directly underneath it.

It seems to register your predicament at the same time as you do, and the valley is suddenly ringing with the sound of its feral shriek.

Angling itself straight down in your direction, the Reaper raises its wings and is just about to break the sound barrier with a single flap, when all of a sudden, a dome of familiar, azure light arches over you like a cresting wave.

In the throes of alarm, it had clean forgotten that there is another in the valley who's protective instincts are just as strong as its own.

You yelp, not even noticing that there's a shimmering barrier that has appeared over your head.

Throwing yourself forwards into the mud again, you curl into a ball and shake as the Guardian's detritus slams down all around you. The din is ear-splitting, drowning out your screams.

Hours seem to pass before the noise finally dies down.

It takes you longer than you'd care to admit to realise you haven't become a stain on the valley floor.

It feels as though you need a crowbar to pry your arms from their position over your head, yet somehow, you manage without and push yourself up onto your rear, mouth dropping open once you spot the destruction all around you. Small stones and dust skitter down the side of an invisible force arching over your head, washed away by the pouring rain as you twist yourself about in a daze.

Suddenly, your eyes land on a familiar figure standing just beyond the Guardian's remains.

“E-Eideard?” you cough.

Blood trickles in a steady stream from the maker's nose and his mighty chest rises and falls with every, spasmodic breath he takes. Rolling your eyes up, you notice the crackling staff that's pointed in your direction and then the hazy wall of shimmering, blue light that stands between you and him, and at last, the pieces click together in your brain.

The old maker had just saved your life.

Only when he sees you moving does he exhale the rigidity from his spine and lower his staff, effectively dispelling the magical barrier from over your head. Deep in his chest, the maker's heart finally stops thrashing like a wild beast.

You're still alive.

He meant what he'd said in the tunnels. He won't lose you, not so long as there's still life in his old bones.

But what relief Eideard feels is abruptly superseded by dread when the rubble before him starts to shudder.

His gaze snaps up, travelling past you and zeroing in on the Guardian's head that has landed in the grass just metres away from you, and he blanches when swirling, yellow light bursts to life in its eye sockets.

A gust of rancid air nearly bowls you over and invades your nostrils, threatening to drown you under the stench of sulphur and decaying flesh.

Whirling your head around, you let out a cry and try to slide backwards through the mud when, from the Guardian's mouth, a writhing, squealing mass of tentacles spews forth, each one as black as night and all flailing wildly for just a moment before they whip out in every direction and begin to snatch up the fallen pieces of their host's body.

Every tendril, that is, except for one.

A single appendage remains poised above your head whilst you stare up at it, incapable of tearing your eyes away as it sways hypnotically from side to side, like a snake waiting to strike.

Behind you, Eideard hurries to raise his staff again.

But it's too late.

The Corrupted tendril snaps forwards, lightening flashes in the sky and renders you momentarily blind, there's a loud, metalling 'shing!'...

… And suddenly, the Reaper is just... there, hovering between you and the Guardian like a protective wall of enraged bones and prickling wings. Peering around its cloak, you can make out a severed portion of the tentacle flopping around uselessly in the grass.

For a brief instant, everything is silent.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The Guardian's disembodied jaw splits open wide and Corruption screams its outrage for all the realm to hear.

Around you, all of the stones that had once made up the construct's body start to roll across the valley towards its head, drawn by whatever hateful power still exists within the last heart stone.

“It's trying to repair itself!” you cry, feeling your chest hitch when fear cups your heart in its icy fist.

At the sound of your voice, the Reaper snaps its skull to one side, focusing a soft, white pupil on your form, huddled on the ground, shivering, afraid.

Its enormous fingers tighten around Harvester until its grip is crushing.

Eliminate the threat. Keep you safe.

The mantra surges to the forefront of its mind and it squares its shoulders, returning its attention to the Guardian's head. The air is alive with dark, oppressive magic that spills from the heart stone like a physical current, and as if by invisible strings, the head is pulled up into the air like a marionette, its neck plates slotting back into place underneath its jaw.

All too soon, it's staring hatefully down at both you and your skeletal guard and emitting a low growl as it waits for the rest of its body to arrive.

With all the viciousness it can muster, the Reaper hurtles towards the heart stone and draws its weapon back, gliding effortlessly to a halt just before the construct's skull, scythe drawn high over its shoulders where, using the momentum of its flight, it hurls the blade forwards, and rams the tip straight into the centre of the stone.

Corruption's screeches turn to wails of terror.

It's a satisfying sound to the Reaper's nonexistent ears.

With a grip like iron on its weapon, the beast braces itself and lurches away, pulling the third and final stone from its casing.

The result is instantaneous.

A howl explodes from the Guardian's gaping maw, loud enough to rival the tempest raging all around you and causing the whole valley to shudder with the force of it.

Letting out a scream, you slap your hands over your ears and grit your teeth so they stop rattling inside your skull.

After several, long, deafening moments, the lights in the construct's eyes begin to flicker weakly until finally, they're extinguished altogether, and its parted jaw thuds shut, no longer pried open by corruption. Without a source through which to power their host, the flailing tendrils slip uselessly down through the construct's mouth until they fall to the grass below and start to sink, still squirming about in the slick mud like fat, overgrown worms.

Your eyes land on one that doesn't seem to be dissolving quite as rapidly as its brethren, and with a sudden rush of horror, you realise that it's wriggling its way towards you, as if it had a sinister goal in mind, as if it had a mind at all.

You try to scrabble backwards on your rear, kicking out, but find no traction in the mud, and instead, you're helpless except to look on in horror as the vile tentacle closes the distance in seconds, until there are only a few, pitiful metres between you and it. Trembling arms wrench the sword from your side and swing it up to point at your adversary.

You almost needn't have bothered. You should have known that with the Reaper nearby, Corruption would have a hard time getting at you.

The colossal spectre drops from the sky out of nowhere and hits the ground in front of you, wings hoisted high over its skull and its scythe gripped between two, bandage-wrapped hands.

At once, the tendril draws back and gives a violent shudder. Without a host, it is dying, fast, and the monster hovering over it menacingly is far from a suitable replacement. Too dead. Too cold. It longs for the tiny speck of warmth the lays sprawled out on the grass just a few, tantalising feet away. Perhaps, if it had been faster...

A low hiss crawls out of the Reaper's hood and it raises its weapon, braced to slice the last tangle of corruption asunder. But, if there ever was a master puppeteer driving the putrid tendril towards you, they must have decided to cut the strings, so to speak, as one might sever an infected limb. The tendril stiffens and goes utterly still, poised like a cobra on the verge of striking.

Cautious, the Reaper narrows it eye sockets at the tendril. Waiting...

Then, slowly, almost anticlimactically, it starts to... melt. Thick, oozing globules fall from its body, splattering to the ground and dissolving into nothing more than dark stains on the grass, and those too, are soon washed clean by the torrential downpour.

Only once every trace of the corruption is gone and all that remains are the pieces of construct that lay scattered about the valley, does the Reaper lower its scythe.

Resonant footsteps pound through the earth below the spot where you sit, and for a gut-wrenching moment, you're certain that the Guardian has once again started to pull itself together.

A hasty glance over your shoulder soon puts that fear to rest.

Emerging from the haze of mist and rain, steps a vast figure, neither his stilted gait nor his age detracting from the staggering power with which he lumbers towards you, pale eyes wide and swirling with agitation.

You can't tell which expression suits him worse – his current one, or the look of hurt he'd worn in the tunnel.

Worry or pain... Somehow, you'd managed to put both of them on his face.

You don't think you deserve his concern.

Twisting yourself about to face the maker properly, you begin pushing yourself up onto your feet.

But just when you get your trembling legs in order, a shadow falls over you and you're suddenly bowled onto your hands and knees again, splashing mud up into your face and cutting off a panicked bleat that makes its way up your throat.

Like a hulking, hissing shield, the Reaper all but throws itself on top of you and smashes its bony fists into the ground between you and Eideard, warding the maker off, its jaw dropped open in the most vicious snarl that such a rigid skull could possibly achieve.

Some, faded voice deep inside its head tells it that the maker is familiar. But in the wake of the Guardian's threat, there's a red mist that has descended over the Reaper's eyes, clouding its ability to reason and blinding it to everything except the little human nestled underneath its ribcage.

The Old one promptly stops in his tracks.

Peeling yourself up out of the sticky mud, you try to stand again, but the spectre is bent so low to the dirt, your head bumps into its sternum before you can even get onto your knees.

Its pupils are just a millimetre away from being nonexistent as it snaps at the maker and curls its phalanges loosely around you.

Horrified, you barely even register that you've reached up and grabbed a fistful of the billowing, indigo cloak, yanking on it sharply and crying out, “Death! Stop! It's Eideard!”

The Reaper's hood buffets against you, thrown by the thunderstorm that still howls through the valley.

Slowly, the maker ahead of you raises one hand into the air, fingers splayed, whilst the other remains wrapped around his staff to maintain his balance. “Easy, Horseman,” he wheezes gently, blood trickling down into his mouth and staining his tusks red, “You've done well. The Guardian is destroyed. The girl is safe.”

As though it had just blinked, the colossal spectre's pupils flicker, softly blooming to larger pinpoints of light, though a low, continuous growl still rattles the bones above you.

Eideard doesn't miss the change, and he slowly bows his head to the Reaper, reassuring, deferring. “She is safe,” he repeats.

Gradually, a low hiss slips out of the phantom's hood and you can feel its pressure lift from your back, the suffocating aura receding until you're able to sit up properly without bashing into a heaving ribcage. As soon as it retreats, you whirl yourself over onto your backside and lock eyes with the beast, your heart pumping a mile a minute.

It's only once you're facing it that the Reaper takes in the state of you.

Muddy. Shaking.

Frightened?

It roves its gaze down to the deep furrows that it had clawed into the grass just metres in front of you. Had it... done that?

Its pupils dilate, and just like that, the rest mist lifts and it can suddenly think beyond its basest instincts.

Hesitant, it backs away a little further and feels it’s control of the ghastly form slipping as its Nephilim counterpart begins to press forward with an insistence that borders on desperate.

Then, right before your eyes, the Reaper's corporeal forms starts to collapse in on itself, indigo mist spilling from its eye-sockets, nasal cavity and parted jaw, a billowing smokescreen that swiftly conceals the enormous skeleton's bulk. In no time at all, you're staring up at the familiar, bone-white mask of Death.

With that amber gaze trained on you, his shoulders quiver once before he straightens up, his eyes trailing from your head all the way down to your toes and back up again.

It occurs to you that he's checking for injuries.

He must have found nothing too untoward however, for he soon averts his gaze and glares off at a piece of the construct's shoulder. “Are you... still in one piece?” he pants gruffly.

Uttering a scoff of disbelief, you reply, “I'm fine. It's Eideard you should be checking on.” You fling one hand up and out of the mud, gesturing wildly in the maker's direction. “I mean, look at him, Death! Christ, I thought you were gonna kill him!”

To the maker's credit, he doesn't take offence to your vague comment on his condition. You are correct, after all. He probably looks about as terrible as he currently feels. But neither you nor Death need to know that...

He catches the Nephilim's gaze and holds it, patient and calm. There isn't an ounce of blame in the old maker's face.

He knows not to expect an apology, which suits Death just fine.

The Horseman doesn't plan to offer one.

Grounding out a rough sigh, Eideard closes the distance to you and stops, taking a brief moment to watch with a mixture of fondness and exasperation as you attempt to pick yourself up off the ground once more, only to slip and collapse back into the mud with a 'splat,' utterly spent.

All too readily, the maker's exasperation draws back a little and he reaches down, circling your waist with his thumb and forefinger and lifting you back onto your feet.

“You, my young friend,” he begins with a huff, gently dusting you off with the pads of his fingers, “are getting far too bold for my heart to withstand. Reckless, I might even venture to say.” His piercing glare seems to bore straight through you like a diamond drill. “Of all things, a human running towards the Guardian at full-tilt, armed with nothing but a sword and a pistol! Why, that has to be one of the most harebrained things I think I've ever witnessed.”

Your throat bobs at his scolding and you drop your eyes to the ground, shame-faced.

All of a sudden though, you find yourself flinching when the rough pad of Eideard's forefinger slips beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, coaxing you to look at him again.

Startled, you blink into the maker's gentle face, noticing that his glare has softened to something far less disdainful and there's even a smile that pushes at the wrinkled corners around his eyes. “..And I could not be more proud of you if I tried.”

The valley, the remnants of the Guardian, even Death all fall away for the briefest few seconds as the weight of Eideard's words slugs you right in the chest.

He's proud of you?...

For what?!

For shouting at him? Disobeying him? For scaring him?

He should be angry, frustrated, annoyed. He should be outraged at worst and disappointed at best. He should be anything! But not proud!

Shamefully inelegant, you sputter, “Huh!? But.. but I-”

“-You were willing to face down the Guardian to protect your friend and save my home, and you’re both still alive,” he interrupts, smiling down at you with a tender gaze, “How could I be anything but proud?”

Baffled, you find it harder and harder to meet the sincerity radiating from his face, so you cast your eyes about instead like a coward, taking in the rubble surrounding you. “I.. I'm sorry -”

'Say it.'

“-a-about the Guardian,” you utter hastily, giving yourself a vicious, mental kick as punishment. There are so many things you want to say, but you don't quite know how to yet with Death lingering behind you watchfully. And you are sorry about the Guardian. In spite of the destruction it had wreaked across Tri Stone, it was undeniably a magnificent beast. But there are certain apologies that are meant for the maker's ears alone. You want to ask him about what he'd said in the tunnel, but more than that, you want to say you're sorry for what you'd done to provoke his admission in the first place, and then... 

God, you just don't know. How could you possibly begin to tell the giant that his words had inadvertently wrapped your heart up in warmth and safety and made you feel wanted again, even after you'd been so cantankerous with him?

Right then and there, standing in the rain before the remnants of his greatest creation, you make a silent promise to the maker that you will tell him, just as soon as this whole ordeal is over and you're all safely back in Tri Stone.

Forcing yourself to meet Eideard's gaze, you stiffen your upper lip and try your best to convey the intent of that promise in just a look, hoping that he'll glean an understanding from two, simple words uttered by a sheepish human. “I'm sorry,” you whisper again.

Perhaps it's only your imagination, but you almost think you see Eideard's gentle smile widen as he offers you an understanding nod. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Somehow, he gives you the impression that he's referring to more than just the Guardian.

Awkwardly, you start to fidget with your hands and twist yourself about to look back at the skull of the construct behind you. “So... what happens now?” The whole point of awakening the Guardian had been to let it destroy the Corrupted mass that guards the path to the Tree of Life. “Without the Guardian, how will Death get to that tree?”

Eideard is silent for several seconds, but his expression could not be broadcasting his intentions any louder. His pale eyes meet the Horseman's fiery gaze and he sighs tiredly, a sad smile forming underneath his moustache.

In your peripheral vision, you see Death stiffen.

“What?” you ask, turning your head between them, unable to catch either of their attention, “What is it?”

Wordlessly, the maker steps past you, moving closer to the Guardian's head where he stops just in front of it and raises a withered hand, placing his palm fondly against the construct's intact jaw. Then, turning slightly to peer at you over one shoulder, he answers, and his words send a jolt of panic up through your spine.

“I have no choice but to bring him back...”

A beat passes in silence.

Then, the soundlessness is broken as you blurt out, “What!?” whilst at the same time, Death scoffs, “How many times would you have me kill him?”

“Corruption fled from the heart stones,” the old one explains, peering down at his wrinkled hand and closing it into a fist, “But the makers' souls within should still be intact... I can put them back.”

“I-I don't understand, the Guardian's destroyed,” you pipe up as your hands knead firmly into the hem of your shirt, “How can you put them back if there's nowhere for them to... go...?”

Eideard turns a little to face you and tries to give you his most reassuring smile, one that doesn't quite touch his eyes.

You can see right through it.

It looks...

..sad.

At your side, Death's brows knit together beneath his mask and he scowls accusingly up at the maker. “You intend to rebuild it yourself.”

Silent, the Old one turns away, prompting the Horseman to growl, “You understand that's suicide, don't you?”

Deep in your stomach, a pit of dread opens up into a chasm and you feel your heart plummet straight down inside it. “What!?” you cry again.

“The restoration of a beast that size will consume more magic than he has,” Death explains, never once shifting his glare off the Old one, “Maker magic is inextricably bound to their hearts. The amount of power required will quite literally burn straight through his.”

Thinking hard, you clench your hands into such tight fists, the nails pierce the skin of your palms. “Well then. He... He just won't do it. Will you, Eideard?”

The maker still maintains his lonely silence, whilst overhead, the sky rumbles ominously.

“No.” You shake your head defiantly from side to side. “No! I mean, there's another way, right? We could...  we could go and get the other makers? They can help-”

“-When we built the Guardian,” Eideard interrupts, “construction was slow. Even with all our efforts, the process took nearly a year until it reached completion.”

“So we wait a year!” you blurt out. The idea sits wrongly in your gut, yet if it means Eideard doesn't have to do anything rash, you can be patient. Rationality has long since departed from your head.

Sighing, the maker heaves himself around to face you and Death. “We do not have the luxury of time, little one,” he rumbles with a patience that serves to infuriate rather than reassure you, “Every day, we lose more of our home to Corruption. I will not wait for it to claim another of my people. I-” He stops to take a shuddering breath and his knees begin to buckle, yet his grip on the staff remains strong, keeping him standing upright in spite of his old bones. When he looks to you again, his face is set but calm. Accepting.

It's that acceptance that frightens you the most.

“I cannot,” he utters softly.

Then, to your horror, he turns back to the Guardian's head and raises his voice to be heard over the storm. “Both of you, stay back!” To himself, he adds, “This will require more than a small effort.”

“Eideard!” you cry out, starting forwards.

Inevitably though, Death's long fingers curl into the back of your shirt and he roughly spins you away from the maker and into his torso, grasping one of your forearms with his free hand. Blunted fingernails dig into your skin as you try to wrench yourself unsuccessfully from his grip.

“Let. Me. Go!” Desperate, you beat your fists against his pale, broad chest and strain with all your might to reach Eideard, but you may as well be trying to shift an osmium statue. Not even redoubling your efforts causes Death to sway. Like a boulder in the wind, he remains utterly still and steadfast, looking over your head at the old maker.

Eideard's staff is raised high into the air and held between both hands, striking the very posture that bears an eerie resemblance to a headsman, poised to bring his axe down on the neck of his latest victim.

What cruel irony, the Horseman thinks with a bitter sneer to the Universe, that the victim is to be his own executioner.

With a strength that contradicts his gentler nature, Eideard hammers the pommel of his staff down on the ground, producing a tremor that must have rivalled even the Guardian's earth-shattering footsteps. From the point of contact, old magics explode outwards in a whirlwind of blinding, blue light that forces you to slam your eyes firmly shut, your retinas stinging against the onslaught. The air whips up all around the valley and crashes into you with enough force to send you staggering backwards until your skull connects with Death's broad chest. Wincing behind gritted teeth, you pry your eyes open, your free arm thrown up as a shield to help dull the brilliant intensity of Eideard's power and through squinted eyelids, you see the maker hold unsteady ground against his own magics as they erupt relentlessly from the ground to form a perfect circle of roaring, azure flames all around him.

You're suddenly alerted by movement to your right and you throw your head sideways, struggling to see through the coagulation of icy rain and biting wind that endeavour to force your eyes shut again. You probably shouldn't have worried about trying to see– there's no way in Hell you could missed the house-sized boulder that rolls past just metres from where you stand, making a clumsy bee-line for the Guardian's skull.

The grip on your shoulders suddenly tightens when an immense shadow cloaks both you and Death in an eerie darkness. Craning your neck back tentatively, you can't help but duck further underneath the shelter of Death's chest as the Guardian's detached hand sails over your head, raining dust and slops of mud down on top of you and the Horseman. Mouth agape, you watch on in awed horror as the gargantuan piece continues its journey through the air until it joins several other clusters of stone anatomy, all twisting about and slamming together like pieces of the realm's largest and most terrifying jigsaw puzzle.

And below it all, his head bowed against the storm, tusks bared and legs seconds away from giving out, stands Eideard.

With every part of the Guardian that fits back into place, his hands slip further down the staff, his shoulders drop another inch and every ounce of the powerful maker seems to disappear, replaced with someone desperately fighting to keep himself upright.

“Death! Help him!”you cry, whipping around to face the Horseman and meeting his glare at the same moment as a lightening bolt stabs a line across his blazing retinas,“You have to do something! Please!”

He glances down, peering at the tears that mingle perfectly with the rain streaming down your face.

You look downright terrified.

Ignoring the thunderous growl overhead, Death's brows start to draw together, his gaze staying firmly anchored to yours until he pauses, and then lowers his eyes to the ground at your feet.

It's a silent, solemn and damning admission.

There's nothing he can do.

Death's quiet confession hits you harder than a slap to the face. In fact, you almost wish he'd done the latter, it might have stung less.

“No...” You shake your head in disbelief. If not even Death can do anything, then...

With one wrist still clenched in the Horseman's hand, you can do little more than give it a sharp tug and hurl yourself away from him, stretching out your free arm towards the maker and pulling against Death's hold with all your might. “Eideard, NO!”

You don't expect him to react to you, weak as he is, blood clinging to his eyelashes and staining his teeth crimson. But he does. Somehow, he manages to turn his head over a shoulder to look you right in the eye, the corners of his own crinkling around their edges, and it takes you a moment to realise that he's smiling at you. 

It's that gentle smile of his that shows more through the eyes than the mouth, reassuring and comforting - the kind of smile that tries to convey without words that everything will be okay.

That you'll be okay.

But the old maker is wrong.

“STOP!” you beg through sobs, growing only more desperate when his eyes slip shut and he turns away, “NO-NO-NO! DON'T LEAVE ME!”

Still fiercely contesting his fate, you yell his name over the deafening collisions of stone limbs and ligaments fitting together, but your scream is stolen from you, cut short by a large, bandaged hand that suddenly appears in front of you and slides around the top of your face, so large that it covers both your eyes and nose. Startled, you shout in protest and try to push at the Horseman's wrist, only to find yourself spun about and yanked painfully into him, locked against his chest by two, sinewy arms.

The split halves of the last heart stone reach the apex of their height, hovering before their original home in the Guardian's skull. Eideard's pinched eyes burst open wide, wisps of blue magic swirling out of them like dancing smoke and he draws in a breath, focusing every last inch of willpower into the heart stone floating high above him.

The pieces shimmer with that familiar blue light, standing stark against the blackened sky.

With not a second to spare, Death curls himself over you and ducks his mask into your hair, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The valley around you goes eerily quiet for little more than a beat of your clamouring heart.

Then, all of a sudden...

'W H U M PH!'

Even from behind Death's hand, the light that explodes from Eideard's staff is damn near blinding, searing across the vale as if the suns had just tumbled out of the sky. You feel the Horseman brace himself just milliseconds before a wall of air slams into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and sends both of you sliding several steps backwards through the mud. Were it not for Death's preternatural weight, you fear you might actually get blown right off your feet.

Then, as promptly as the squall had arrived, it just...

...stops.

The wind suddenly dies down to a far less suffocating strength and the rain no longer stings when it hits your skin.

Cautiously, Death cracks his eyes open and raises his head to look around, letting the hand around your face fall to his side once more. As soon as the Horseman's formidable presence no longer boxes you in, you fling your eyes open and this time, he allows you to pull yourself free from his grasp and turn towards Eideard.

Your searching gaze immediately lands upon the maker and your heart stills as though it were just a rock in your chest.

The colossal, old giant has collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving up and down like a vast ship bobbing lazily on a choppy sea.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wading over churned-up ground towards him.

It doesn't even occur to you to notice that the rain has let up somewhat as the storm that carried it here begins moving north.

Sticky mud clings to your boots and weighs you down, making each step feel as though it might be the one that saps the last of your strength and brings you to your knees, yet you keep going at an awkward and clumsy run, followed closely by Death, who seems to glide effortlessly over the destroyed terrain.

You all but collide with the maker's head when your foot slips out from underneath you and you're forced to catch yourself on his shoulder, all the while uttering, “No, no, please! No – fuck!”

Your rain-slicked hands hover over his face and you try to take in the extent of the damage, your eyes darting between the blood gushing from his nose and the milky white gaze that rolls towards you. Standing so close, you can make out the even paler pupils as they attempt to focus, eventually landing on you and dilating with recognition.

“Y/n...” Your name topples off his lips in a breathless whisper and if you weren't right beside him, you doubt you'd have even heard it.

“I'm here!” you tell him urgently, placing one hand on his cheek and sliding the other frantically underneath his heavy beard to the flesh of his neck in search of a pulse. You suddenly wish you'd asked Karn a bit about maker biology, because you have no idea whether you'll even find a pulse. You know they have hearts – you've heard those beat close enough to your head to be sure – so it stands to reason that the giants should have pulses.

….There!

It turns out to be rather difficult to miss. As you probe around underneath his jawline, your fingertips and rocked by a fluttering beat and you feel your own heart jump in response.

It's definitely a pulse, but oh so terrifyingly weak. Not at all one that should belong to a giant.

He's fading.

Fast.

The knowledge settles like a weight in your chest, as though someone has tied a cement block around your heart and it's dragging you down, threatening to pull you onto your knees unless you keep them locked tight.

“No!” you whisper. Then, clenching your jaw, you firmly repeat, “No.”

Eideard's misty eyes follow you as you pull away from his face and turn towards his shoulder instead, wasting no time in throwing your hands over the lip of the leather pauldron and hauling yourself up onto his shoulder.

Amidst the chaos, none of you notice that high overhead, the newly-rebuilt Guardian's eyes slowly flicker to life.

Behind you, Death gives a start and calls your name, but you ignore him, crawling onto Eideard's vast chest and bloodying his beard with your hands as you lean forwards over his face, your right knee resting directly above a fluttering heart.

Raindrops fall from the ends of your hair and splatter onto his lip, and every breath he exhales washes over you and warms the chill in your bones.

“You-you're gonna be okay!” you reaffirm, shuffling back and placing one hand on top of the other, linking your fingers together to press the heel of your palm over the giant's sternum. You've never performed CPR in your life, at least, not on anything that wasn't a crash-test dummy, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the method is never going to work on someone as large as a maker.

Death knows it too.

He knows that one human simply isn't strong enough to keep the blood flowing around Eideard's body, you'll never be able to do it fast enough or for long enough to get blood to his brain and keep it there....

But Creator, you plan on trying, don't you? Because in your addled state, you can't help but to fall back on what you know, even though you also know that this can't possibly work.

It's an awful contradiction, another facet of humanity, to try and change the unchangeable, to challenge an immutable fact. 'What's the point?' he wonders, 'of prolonging a lie, just because you're afraid to accept the truth?'

Eideard will die. No amount of human persistence will change that.

The old Reaper watches in silence, a mellow resignation haunting his gaze. Several raindrops gather at the bottom of his masks's eye socket before they eventually spill over the edge and trickle down his bone-white mask.

If you'd have chosen that moment to look at him, you might have done a double-take, thinking perhaps that it wasn't rain falling down the Horseman's mask at all.

But you don't look at him.

Your eyes are instead fixated on your own hands as they shove uselessly at Eideard's chest. “One! Two! Three!” Numbers fall from your lips in rhythmic succession. “One! Two! Thr-!”

But movement suddenly cuts you off as Eideard's enormous hand slides weakly up his side until his fingertips press into your ribcage ever-so gently. 

Blinded by tears, your gaze snaps to the hand, then to the maker's face and you squeeze your eyes open and shut several times, determined to see him clearly.

“It's all right,” he whispers in a gentle breath, as though it's taking everything in him just to summon his voice.

Gritting your teeth, you untangle your fingers from one another and slip them tightly around handfuls of the maker's robes, croaking, “No! No, it's not all right! You're-! You can't just-!”

You freeze when Eideard's arm shifts again and he raises his thumb towards your blotchy cheek.

There, with the utmost tenderness, he sweeps the digit beneath your streaming eye, a fruitless endeavour to brush away the tears rolling down your face. Blurting out a wet sob, you suddenly reach up with both arms and grab the maker's thumb, holding it against you even as the rest of his hand falls heavily against your back.

Makers, as a species, are seldom known to shed a tear, and those that do are careful to conceal it from their fellows, if only to avoid the inevitable gossip that would follow. If a maker is known to have cried, the general understanding would be that something utterly and immeasurably cataclysmic must have happened to them, and that's if their tears are ever witnessed.

Now, here you are, not only crying, but doing so openly, in front of an audience.

“You're crying...?” he breathes, awed. It breaks his ancient heart to realise that he's your cataclysmic event. Yet there's also something so, incredibly moving about it, that he means enough to you that you're willing to bare your heart so readily in front of both he and a Horseman.

Amidst frigid pellets of rain, he can still pick out the warmth of your tears against his clavicle.

He wonders if this is how humans let each other know that they're loved.

You cling to his thumb even harder, as if letting it go will be what kills him. “Of course I'm crying,” you choke, “look at you. Why did you do that! You're dying!”

But Eideard can't look at himself. And even if he could, he wouldn't, because you're here, so why in the world would he want to look anywhere else?

A blissful smile blooms across the maker's lips and he exhales, emptying his lungs of air even as his heart swells with affection and pride for the little human on his chest. From the edges of his vision, the valley around him begins to fade into brilliant, golden light, but he still gazes at you while it does, and in a single breath, he manages to utter, “A small price to pay... to protect my... family.”

For you, the valley remains dark and dour, a perfect reflection for the state of your sorry soul.

Something brushes past you... No... through you... something that you mistake for another of Eideard's warm and steady breaths.

Using the back of your arm, you make a vain attempt to scrub the frustrated tears out of your eyes. How can he even think that he's worth sacrificing? A very raw sort of ache claws at your throat and it only hurts more when you try to swallow past it. Sniffing hard, you shake your head, hands curling until your fingernails bite into the skin of your palms.

“Your life is not a small price to pay! You think the other makers would want this!? You can't just – just do something like this, Eideard! You sure as shit can't do this to them!” you plead with him, hitting a fist repeatedly against his chest, as if for a second you truly believe that such an ineffective force could somehow bully his stuttering heartbeat back to its former strength, “They're your family! You don't leave your family, Eideard! You don't offer them a home an-and then just.. just leave!”

The maker doesn't respond, and the rain on your eyelashes makes it hard to see his face as the thumb you're still clinging to begins falling from your grasp with the rest of his hand, sliding off your back and trying to fall to his side once more.

Realising that holding on will only drag you down with it, you reluctantly let it go and the appendage lands on the ground again with a dull, wet squelch.

He must be weaker than you realised.

“Everything will be fine, okay? You saved my life, now I'm gonna save yours! They need you, they need you.” Babbling deliriously to the maker, you're completely unaware of the Horseman calling out your name behind you.

Slowly, as though he's trying not to spook a wild animal, Death approaches Eideard, stopping next to the Old one's neck and reaching up towards you. “Come now, you're soaked through,” he murmurs, gentler than the usual gruff and surly timbre, “Let's -”

“Get away!” you bellow, reeling your arm back and whipping about to face him with a sudden ferocity that raises the Horseman's eyebrows, “He's just gonna leave them! It's not fair, Death! It's not fair, he can't leave me, not like everyone else has! He can't!”

“He already has.”

Death's detached reply cuts cold and swift as a blade across your chest.

“Wh..? No, he hasn't.” You shake your head, your voice so, unjustly small, barely audible.

The Horseman falls silent.

He doesn't need to say anything further. He can see the realisation sweeping across your face, wiping away any semblance of a human expression and replacing it with a blank-faced stare, as expressionless as his own mask. He knows that look all too well. You're trying to go numb. Perhaps in preparation for what you'll see as you slowly twist your neck back towards the old maker's face.

Eideard's gentle, white eyes peer straight through you, unblinking even though the wind tugs at his wispy eyelashes. His lips are parted and tilted at their corners ever so slightly, just enough that he could be smiling at you, and yet, though you wait in utter silence and stillness, not a trace of warmth slips between his tusks to chase away the cold on your skin.

Wordlessly, Death watches you inhale and let the breath out again slowly, never once looking away from Eideard's face.

Only when the silence grows heavier than stone, you utter, “Oh,” nodding once, pretending to acknowledge what you can't bring yourself to believe, “Oh, I... I didn't realise -”

From the ground, Death has a perfect view of your face when your jaw sets..

And then, sooner than he expects, he sees it utterly and completely crumble.

Your lips and brows twist up and you suck down a shaky breath that only catches in your throat.

“I think I forgot to say goodbye...,” you bleat, lifting your arms in a useless shrug before you look over at the Horseman and offer him a tragically delirious little laugh. Stoic, he watches you in silence as your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth, muffling the rattled sob that works its way up your throat.

Behind trembling fingers, you wheeze, “Oh my god.. I didn't – I didn't even say.. I didn't say goodbye, Death! I didn't even say goodbye!”

… Just like you hadn't said goodbye to your mum and dad, or the rest of your family, nor to your friends.

You've never really thought about how important that one, simple word could be, as less of a statement, and more of a means to gain closure.

Looking back... had you even bade farewell to Father Michael?

It's happening all over again, but what's worse now is that you'd actually had the time and a chance to say goodbye to Eideard, but you just... hadn't. And now, some of the last words you said to him had been impatient and unkind, a fact which you know in your heart of hearts will haunt you for the rest of your sorry life.

Sitting back onto your haunches, you fight to keep your face neutral, but the seconds that tick by are interspersed with moments where you allow ugly, angry sounds to burst between your gritted teeth. Not quite sobs, not quite screams.

You're unaware that you've dropped your hands into your lap, fingers tightening around fistfuls of skirt as you're promptly struck by an urge to squeeze something so tightly that your arms begin to shake with the effort.

It feels...

...relieving, actually, to expend some of the pressure building behind your eyes and in your chest.

High overhead, through the clouds, a ray of sunlight bursts through and makes the valley glow marginally brighter. Somehow, that one ray of light feels so much like a betrayal. 'Where has the storm gone?' you wonder bleakly, 'It should still be raging? Eideard is dead! Why the fuck is the rain moving on!? The sky should be mourning!'

What you really want is for it all to stop, for the world and everything in it to just pause for a while, long enough for you to get yourself together and come to terms with grief until you're eventually ready to move forwards once more.

But sadly, the world is rarely so generous.

On the ground beside Eideard, Death kneels and leans over his head. Something comes over him, pushing him to lift his hand towards the maker's eyelids in the same way that he's seen humans do to one another in the past, on battlefields and in the wilderness when their clothes were crafted predominantly from the pelts of animals. He always thought it a strange thing to do, but now, he finds something inherently unsettling about seeing Eideard with his eyes open, staring up into nothingness. In a rare moment of indulgence, Death takes the time to pass his palm over each of the maker's eyes, sliding them shut before pulling away once more and heaving a sigh.

'You're getting soft,' someone tells him, perhaps the voice of one of his siblings, perhaps his own subconscious. But whether it's his or not, he's swift to vehemently tell it that it's wrong.

All of a sudden, a deafening cacophony of stone grinding against stone ruptures the air and Death is on his feet again in seconds, instinctively drawing his scythes and whipping about to face the gargantuan construct with a low growl.

He'll never admit to losing focus, not for all the riches in Heaven, but he can certainly reprimand himself with an internal barrage of curses that would make a demon blush. Amidst the shock of losing Eideard and witnessing the distress of his human charge, Death had entirely forgotten that the Guardian was even there.

Hidden beneath his mask, he peels his lips back and his hackles shoot up when it turns its baby-blue gaze onto you.

'Wait...' Pausing, he blinks and looks again. 'Blue!'

It's eye-sockets are indeed filled with a blessedly familiar, cerulean blue light, just like the light shining out of the three heart stones embedded within its shoulders and head. There's not a trace of yellow to be seen.

It's bending down slowly and – to Death's surprise – hesitantly, a far cry from how it was conducting itself only minutes ago. Tilting its head like a curious child, the beast continues to lower itself until one of its colossal knees hits the ground and sends a quake rumbling across the valley.

“Y/n,” he hisses at you through his teeth, flaring his scythes like terrible wings to his left and right. He isn't taking any chances. “Come down and get behind me. Now.”

You barely even raise your head to acknowledge his command.

The valley around you falls silent, and it's peaceful, in a way. Now that the storm has moved on, there's no sound save for the Guardian's stone joints that creak and groan as it bends its torso a little nearer to you and lets out a rumble that sends even more shockwaves out across the vale, felt more than heard. For a beast so vast, it exhibits a surprising degree of hesitancy as it shifts its arm and reaches out for you and Eideard, causing Death to plant one boot firmly in the mud, braced to launch himself towards you at a moment's notice.

He's not about to leave the makers with two corpses to mourn.

On some, unbidden instinct, the muscles across his back and shoulders tense and bulge before he registers with a jolt how absurd it is to try and appear larger to this particular threat, especially given that, as of right now, it hardly seems to pose much of a threat at all.

As the Guardian's hand draws closer and its shadow passes over Eideard's face, you finally lift your heavy head and roll your neck back to watch the gigantic appendage descend, not unlike witnessing a meteorite come barreling down on top of you.

And yet, for a reason that you're sure Eideard would gently admonish you for, you don't flinch, you don't even move. Wholly unafraid of whatever fate might befall you, you just sit there on the maker's chest, waiting until the appendage slows down and comes to rest just beside you and your old friend.

Even if you live to be a hundred, you don't think you'll ever be able to explain where your terror of the beast had fled to, especially when it had been so prevalent before. Its hand, longer than a boxcar, hovers so close. A few hours ago, you'd probably have fainted on the spot. Now, you almost want to peer curiously inside your own soul to see if you can discover the whereabouts of any trepidation.

Using the very tip of one, enormous finger, the construct nudges the maker's shoulder, jostling you both slightly before it pulls its hand back and waits, staring down at its unresponsive creator with bright, expectant eyes.

You register a tug at your heart strings to see those eyes dim as the seconds tick by without a response.  

There's a sound that could have been a whine, or perhaps the simple passing of air through the gaps in its gargantuan jaw, and though its head doesn't move, you can feel the moment when its eyes rove from the elder to you, no doubt seeking some kind of explanation.

“I'm sorry,” you choke, throat too tight to produce a more substantial sound, “He's... He didn't make it.”

There's no doubt that it must understand you, because the slabs that make up its eyebrows shift and slide towards the centre of its forehead and it glances at the hammer clenched in its grasp. An agitated groan rolls across the valley and suddenly, the construct's gaze darts to you once more, its features squeezed together somehow, so much so that it looks to be in pain. Something about the expression drags a tiny flicker of compassion out of your obtunding heart and you feebly reach your hand out in a mollifying gesture. When the behemoth looks from you to its hammer again, then to Eideard and back only to repeat the strange cycle, you start to realise that it's trying to convey an urgent and desperate question.

“It's... okay...” you say slowly, watching the construct grow very still and focus its attention on you, “You didn't do this...”

It would be so easy to lay the blame of Eideard's death at the Guardian's feet.

Easy, yes. But you're still somehow lucid enough to know that it would also be wrong and unfair.

The poor beast never asked to be corrupted, just like you'd never asked to be here.

“It wasn't your fault,” you tell the Guardian as it slowly rocks back onto its stone struts, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the writhing, black hillock behind it. At the sight, one of your eyelids gives a brief and imperceptible twitch. “It wasn't your fault...”

Death, playing his part as the silent observer, stands astounded by one of the most unusual exchanges he's ever witnessed.

Angelic scholars would forever attest that humans are, and always have been, ruled by one, core instinct - that being fear.

Death would have been labelled an outlier had he ever bothered to say that he disagreed.

He would have attested that there are two.

Fear, most definitely, is the first. It's a strong instinct, one that has kept your ancestors alive and safe from danger for billions of years. The other, in his opinion, is compassion.

Fear might do well to keep an individual human alive, but it was compassion for their fellow man that ensured the continued survival of communities.

However, even if, several days ago, someone had asked the Horseman which of the two he believed would always, always trounce the other in a life or death situation, he'd have bet his scythes that it would be fear.

So it's tremendously baffling, if not a little refreshing, for Death to discover that fear can be quite easily overridden by something so unorthodox as concern for another.

To think that you, a little human, are offering genuine reassurance to a Guardian who could crush you flat with the tip of its finger, Death can't help but feel begrudgingly impressed. Even in spite of all you've faced these past few days, the beast should have been the ultimate symbol for everything that scares and horrifies you. Your fear of the monstrosity should have absolutely crippled you. It posed, by far, the largest threat.

That you're instead communing with the very construct that had been trying to kill both you and the Horseman only minutes ago is... frankly, nothing short of astounding.

In spite of himself, Death lets his expression turn a little less sharp underneath his mask.

He wonders whether humanity would be proud to have someone like you representing them as a whole. Were he a human, shuddersome as the thought may be, he thinks... he would be proud.

Which makes it all the more jarring when, seconds later, you remind the Horseman that for all the soft-heartedness you've demonstrated, you're still descended from the same species who used to tear one another to pieces for sport, for fun, for a concept or a king.

Your gaze slides around the Guardian's bulk and your eyes lock with a sudden fierce and startling intensity onto the corrupted mound behind it. Death had forgotten, after several days spent watching you stitch your heart firmly to your sleeve, why other species are so quick to label humans 'savage.'

As you stare up at the corruption, the Nephilim looks hard into your eyes and sees all the rage and hatred and depravity of your ancestors boiling like a supernova inside them, as though each eye is a star on the very brink of exploding and casting all that dark matter out into the world around you, wiping out everything in its path.

Thousands of years and billions of souls' worth of wrath packed into one, single look.

What choice does Death have but to balk?

Distantly, he hears himself muse, 'By The Creator... War and Fury are going to love this human.'

Drawing in a shuddering breath, you peel yourself away from Eideard's chest and push yourself off him, dropping to the ground noiselessly and taking a step towards the corruption with the most hateful sneer you can muster. “It's that fucking stuff's fault!” you hiss, pointing a shaky finger at the eyeball glaring back down at you. Raising your voice to be heard, you squint up towards the Guardian's head and shout, “You hear me!? That's what killed Eideard! That! The corruption! Right there!”

You feel as if you're egging on a dog, trying to get it to attack, to bite.

The Guardian half turns to look behind itself before swivelling back to you once more, something low and sonorous rolling up from its chest and falling out of its parted maw.

There's a searing heat in your belly that hurts like you've swallowed burning coals, compelling you to turn your murderous glare back onto the eyeball. You meet that terrible gaze and find yourself unafraid for the first time, because how could there be any room for fear when absolutely every single last inch of you is consumed by an unquenchable thirst for revenge? 

You don't care that the Grim Reaper is watching, you don't care that the construct's swirling, blue gaze is fixed upon you either. There is nothing consolable about you now. All you are - all you know – is frustration and pain and rage. Rage that you wield like a sword, pointed out towards the world around you, but most specifically, at the writhing mass of corruption that still blocks your path to the Tree.

You hardly recognise your own voice as you drop open your jaw and unleash a shout so loud and haunting, even Death is caught off guard by the force.

“KILL IT!”

At once, the Guardian throws its arms back, raises its chin to the heavens and, just as you had, bellows out a gut-churning, earth-trembling roar that shakes the very mountains around you, only this time, you don't feel as though you're going to tumble off your feet. In fact, you've never felt steadier.

“KILL THAT THING! FUCK IT UP!” you holler, spittle flying from your lips. Although your voice breaks and hurts to scream so loudly, you hurl your fist out at the corruption like you're throwing a punch, “FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!”

Fuelled by anguish that's barely its own, the Guardian slams its hammer into its free hand and hauls itself around to face the mass behind it. Your furious screams might as well be a powerful set of bellows that feed all that hatred and fury into the Guardian's soul, turning the fire there into a raging inferno, swelling and surging through its body like lava trying to burst from a volcano.

There's the immeasurable power of three, ancient makers' souls thrumming through the air, accompanied by the raw, physical strength of the Guardian, and Death is almost certain that he sees the swollen, yellow eyeball grow wide, its pupil shrinking with alarm.

How satisfying.

The Guardian reels its arm back and you feel your heart give an approving jolt when the enormous beast suddenly launches its hammer forward and down, driving it straight into the eye's squelching centre and pulling forth the most blood-curdling shriek you've ever heard. It's near enough deafening, but you don't cover your ears this time, instead letting the sound fill you up and thrum through the blood in your veins.

You're glad the corruption is screaming. You've never wanted something to suffer so much in your life.

The Guardian draws its hammer back again and reveals the eyeball, now resembling little more than a concave pustule on the inky wall of undulating, oozing filth.

Blackened spatters of ooze spurt from the wound like a disgusting rain and shower the grass around the cliffs, and a closer look reveals the tendrils that had made up the eyelids have been decimated and lay still and unresponsive, unlike the rest of the mass, sadly.

When the Guardian tries to bring its hammer down for another blow, several, gigantic tentacles suddenly shoot out and adhere themselves firmly around its arms whilst a fatter, larger one collides with the construct's chest, blasting out a large segment of stone as its smaller counterparts shove their slimy, wriggling tips as deep underneath the armoured plating as they can go.

Incensed, the construct tries to reel back, tugging uselessly on the insidious vines and belting out a roar of outrage that drowns out your own.

Blinded by hot tears and inconsolable with rage, you start forwards until Death has the presence of mind to march after you and pull you to a stop, his fingernails biting into the bare skin on your arm as you viciously snatch it back. However, you still reluctantly draw to a halt, never once taking your eyes off the battle ahead.

Beneath your feet, another quake rolls across the earth as the Guardian is brought crashing to its knees. Corruption, like the parasite it is, has its slimy grasp wholly and unshakeably fastened to the construct, stabbing its knife-like tentacles into the vulnerable heart stones and pouring its wicked intent into each of them.

For a gut-wrenching instance, something inside Death sinks at the sight of a sickly, yellow glow encompassing the stones, chasing away the soft blue light they'd once emitted.

Corruption is attempting to take control again.

But the Guardian, still hanging onto the final, lingering threads that tie it to sanity, will not go down without a fight.

Summoning the last of its vehemence and contempt for the force that destroyed its home and its creator, the construct braces its neck and pulls back as far as the tendrils will allow it to before they go taut and keep it from retreating further. Amidst the chaos of Corruption's thrashing appendages, the Guardian unexpectedly goes very still and there's an awful second where horror stabs through the red mist in front of your eyes.

No.. No, it can't be corrupted again, surely! That isn't fair! Eideard can't have died in vain! He can't have!

Just like that, your hatred returns in full and with a heaving chest, you scrunch up your face and open your jaw wide.

But just before you can unleash whatever terrible scream is working its way up your throat, the Guardian abruptly raises its head.

From your angle, all you and Death can see is a brilliant, blue light blossoming into existence from the construct's central heart stone, causing your own heart to roar triumphantly at the sight of it. It's magic. But more than that, it's that wonderful, familiar magic that you'll forever associate with Eideard.

The fact may well be that all makers' magic is the same shade, but you don't care.

He'd rebuilt the Guardian with his very essence, literally pouring his own life-force into purifying those heart stones.

There isn't a doubt in your mind.

That's Eideard up there.

Like a flower unfurling its petals, the light swells into a halo of magic that surrounds the Guardian's head and although its hands are still restrained by Corruption, the beast is far from unarmed.

In one, last show of might, it reels back, the plates around its neck shivering and flaring as it glares down at what remains of the corrupted eyeball. Then suddenly, like a colossal, living siege engine, it throws its head forwards into a death-dealing headbutt, smashing its heart stone into the corruption's shrieking core.

Within less than a second, the squirming mass begins to sizzle and hiss like skin under sulfuric acid as the magic encompasses it. The Guardian howls, and you realise that the corrupted tendrils are still tearing it to pieces, even as they dissolve right in front of your eyes until entire waves of it are cascading down to the valley floor alongside great swathes of the construct's stone. The cliffs to the North begin crumbling as well, losing structure as the webs of corruption woven deep inside their foundations melt and die.

The explosion of magic grows bright enough to encompass the entire valley and though the intensity stings your eyes, it doesn't otherwise hurt you. Instead, it lifts the tiny hairs all over your body, dancing and popping across your skin. And it's so warm. 

Warm like Eideard...

As the last remaining strands of Corruption bleed away, you let that tight coil in your belly unwind, collapsing onto your knees as if it had been anger alone that had kept you standing all this time.

In the same moment, the Guardian too falls apart for the last time. Like its creator before it, it had used up all the magic residing in its heart stones, pouring everything it had into one, last spell to save its home.

The magic spend, its body collapses in on itself and implodes like a star, leaving its scattered remains in front of the entrance to a once-obstructed canyon pass. Through the settling dust, you can make out a passage devoid of lushness or frondescence. Only flimsy wisps of grass grow further back, away from the acres of ground that corruption had poisoned.

Your gaze drops to the grass soaking your knees, catching a glimpse of red where your fingers rest against the material of your skirt and you let out a quiet hiss of breath, deflating into something small and tired and very fragile.

“Human?” Death's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he speaks too loudly.

Funny. He might be onto something.

You don't answer, not until his shadow falls over you and he tries your name instead. “Y/n?”

This time, you offer up a grunt in response, hardly more than a huff, really. You're spent.

You're done.

For the living embodiment of death, the Horseman behind you isn't sure how best to get you up onto your feet again. He knows grief well, encounters it in almost every aspect of his journeys. It's more of a companion to him than he ever wanted it to be. But for all his experience with grief and the grieving, he still doesn't know how to ease it with words.

'I'm sorry,' he could say. You seem to say it all the time, how difficult can it be?

Apparently very difficult, he finds upon opening his mouth, only to let it click shut again moments later. But then, why should he be sorry? He's not the one who killed Eideard. The old maker made that decision for himself. Death has nothing to be sorry for, so why say it?

He can practically hear your disapproving reply. 'That's not the point.'

Despite usually being such a fan of silence, for Death, every second that ticks by without a word from you feels empty and wrong, somehow. He chooses not to dwell on how quickly he's becoming used to the sound of your voice. Redirecting his thoughts away from that treacherous area, he stubbornly ponders over how much he despises not knowing what to say. Words, as well as weapons, have pride of place in his arsenal.

So he takes a step back, refocuses on what's ahead. And ahead, he knows, is the Tree of Life, and his brother.

Forwards then, to what he knows.

Looking down at you once more, the Horseman clears his throat. Maybe he can't offer you words of comfort, but he can offer you a distraction. “The way is clear,” he promptly observes, tipping his chin towards the canyon but keeping an eye trained on you, watching for a reaction. After a few seconds, he finally gets one.

“Is that all you have to say?” you wheeze through half-gritted teeth, “The way is clear? What about Eideard?”

Raising a brow, Death twists around to look back at the deceased old one and lets out a sigh. It is always a shame to lose the ancients. All that knowledge and experience lost. “What about him? He's dead.” He hadn't meant it callously, merely as a sad reminder of events. There's nothing either of you need to do. The makers will deal with Eideard's body once they find it.

When you suddenly lurch up onto your feet and round on Death, spitting like a cat, he realises he may have interpreted your question a little differently.

“I know he's dead!” you seethe, swiping away the snot that has gathered above your upper lip, “You're happy to just leave him there? Alone? Dead in the dirt?”`

Death pauses, then cocks his head to the side. “Is that not what one usually does with a corpse?”

His brother, Strife, had once informed him that he had a poor sense of timing.

For a long while, you just stare back at him, a faraway and incredulous look adorning your features. Eventually though, you lick your lips and give a small, dry laugh .”Huh.”

He can't help but ask, “What?”

“I've been hearing you say it all this time,” you admit, shaking your head from side to side, “All this 'I have no heart! I have no soul!'... I never used to agree with you.” Your shoulders droop and you fix the Horseman with a defeated glare that lacks any real bite. “Now, I think I finally see it. Anyone with a heart wouldn't just... leave a friend in the muck for his family to find. A person with a heart wouldn't do that. They'd never do that...”

Perhaps he had been too uncouth, but the Nephilim still bridles at your tone. “I told you,” he mutters darkly, “I don't have a -”

“-Yeah, save it,” you snap at him, cold as ice, turning your back and taking a step towards Tri Stone, “I'm going to tell the others what happened. Why don't you do us a favour and just... just go.”

He almost calls out to you. This parting feels... unresolved.

A flicker of anticipation ignites in his chest when you abruptly stop and twist your head around lightly, peering back at him from the corner of your eye.

“You know something?” you ask softly, “I think, if you'd've listened to me in the first place and didn't put that corrupted stone in the Guardian, then Eideard would be alive right now.”

And without another word, you force your trembling legs to carry you on the long trek back into town, leaving Death to stare after you in the silence he wishes he'd never broken.

[fromparishwithlove]

Nothing But Handprints

[2,663 words, Destiel, mostly canon compliant]

A/N: Hey, hi, it’s midnight and I spent three days writing something and I actually finished it. It’s not that long, maybe 3,000 words but it’s something and I’m kinda proud of that. Ever since Supernatural ended I’ve found myself writing more and more. I’m actually working on a full fic and right now, it’s the most words I’ve ever written for one story, even though it just a shitty first draft. But before I publish that, I wanted to share something smaller, ease my way in so to speak. So this is a lot of Dean Winchester angst and a sort of continuous ‘Oh Shit’ moment in which he processes lots of memories and realises the impact Castiel had on his life, many of which are connected by the significance of the handprint. Ahhh the beloved handprint! Tbh I was kind of inspired by Jensen’s enthusiasm for bringing it back in 15x18 so you can thank him if you like this story. I think I’m going to eventually add this to Ao3 and it may get a sequel but for now, I hope you like it. Or at least don’t hate it.

Cas was gone.

Dean felt the loss as surely as if one of his lungs had been ripped out. Maybe it had. Maybe that’s why it was so fucking hard to breathe. And still he kept dragging in air, each breath a razor blade - Inhale. Exhale - forcing himself to endure the exquisite pain of survival.

Survival, he knew, was its own brand of suffering; barbed with regrets and heavy with the keen sting of memories.

Behind his eyelids bullets ripped through a dusty trenchcoat. A familiar voice admonished him; he was almost out of minutes. The cool press of fingertips brushed against his forehead. The silver streak of an angel blade caught the light. A fist collided with his jaw with a sickening crunch. A huff of involuntary laughter escaped from reluctant lips. Stubble scraped his cheek as he pulled the angel into a hug. Shades of blue crowded his vision - the garish blue of a crappy general store tabard, the endless blue of the morning sky as he wrestled his way out of his own grave, the untamed blue of angel grace, humming with raw energy. And best of all, the solemn blue of that unflinching gaze. There was a discarded cowboy hat on the backseat of the Impala. A game of Sorry pushed across a table and into his hands. A shitty four door saloon the colour of middle-aged misery.

And the brand of salvation burning on his skin - the Righteous Man, touched by an angel. The same handprint that now stained his jacket bloody.

As hard as he tried, all he could do was remember as shuddering breaths turned to wracking sobs.

*

Whatever this thing was, it had marked him. Searing it’s own handprint into the flesh of his shoulder, staking its claim.

Dean couldn’t help but feel... violated.

He looked like a walking advertisement for one of those crappy tourist spots: take nothing but photos, leave nothing but footprints but in his case it read: take nothing but liberties, leave nothing but handprints

He ran a tentative finger over the raised flesh and hissed at the contact. It felt raw, like a burn; still stinging and angry.

He glared at it, hoping the sheer force of his loathing would somehow dissolve it. But it remained, stubborn and resolute.

It looked human. That was the worst thing. To think there was something out there - something monstrous - masquerading in the body of an innocent person... And with enough power to pull him from the pit.

That thought alone was enough to chill the blood in his veins.

And what did that mean for him? He bore its signature on his skin after all. Did that mark him as it’s property?

He belonged to no man. And no monster.

He would rather spend a lifetime in Hell.

*

Getting up off the floor had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. Turning his back on the last place he’d seen Cas near impossible.

What if, by some miracle, he came back? He deserved to know Dean had waited. After all, Cas was the only one he’d ever really had any faith in.

But Dean had given up on miracles long ago.

He let his phone ring out again and again; the sound too harsh in the grief-stricken silence. What if he never answered? What if he let Sam believe he was dead? Cas too. Because in reality, he felt as good as.

*

When she saw the mark on his shoulder, her eyes widened a fraction, her mouth parting in what Dean recognised as wonder.

Dean Winchester is saved.

The words came back to him as she aligned her palm with the echo of Castiel’s, caressing the raised skin with a gentle touch.

Something about the contact made him feel nauseous. Even though they were pressed together, not a breath between their bodies, he felt as though she had dug her nails into an open wound. A shudder of revulsion ran down his spine. He suppressed the urge to shake her off, instead drawing her attention away with a searing kiss.

The feeling of unease was harder to dislodge.

The mark itself no longer bothered him; it had faded somewhat and by the time Pamela used it to make contact with Castiel it hadn’t so much as tingled. This sudden display of hostility triggered by Anna’s touch unnerved him.

Maybe it was because she was an angel. Maybe it could sense her power, reacting with whatever traces of energy Castiel had left behind.

Or maybe it was something subconscious in Dean; something he didn’t want to acknowledge - couldn’t acknowledge - for fear of what that might mean.

But he couldn’t outrun the truth.

He noticed how Castiel turned away when Anna leaned in to kiss him goodbye. Thought he saw a flicker of jealousy contort his features. But only for a split second.

And once again that involuntary feeling of distaste rose up inside him, rearing it’s head, demanding to be heard.

And this time he listened.

And this time he recognised the ceaseless lament of his guilt.

*

Every cell in his body screamed in protest as he staggered out of the bunker. Every step a monumental effort. It was as though The Empty had created a vacuum when it had taken Castiel, and now it threatened to drag him into the same darkness.

He was exhausted; more than once he had to fight the urge to lay down and never get back up. But he knew he couldn’t.

He had to get to Sam, had to confront Chuck and demand he bring Cas back. He pinned all his hopes on it. Because if Chuck - Lord God Almighty himself - couldn’t bust Cas out of The Empty, what hope did he have of doing it himself?

So he dragged himself behind the wheel of the Impala and tried to ignore how normal it felt to sit there, as if he were just heading out on another case. As if the whole world hadn’t shattered apart and been clumsily glued back together in a matter of heartbeats.

He refused to look over at the passenger seat, refused to acknowledge the empty space beside him. Castiel had occupied that space just a few hours ago.

Could that be right? Had it only been a few hours since they’d made the journey to Lebanon, their silence weighted with shared worry yet still companionable? How had he lost so much in so little time?

*

Castiel arrived in the nick of time.

Zachariah had been gearing up to do some serious damage. He might not have been able to kill Dean on account of his status as Michael’s Vessel but he could still make him suffer. And Dean knew he had riled him. But nothing, not even the threat of what was to come would induce him to say yes. Zachariah had simply given him an advantage, a roadmap of what not to do to. He wouldn’t end up a cold, callous, merciless soldier like his future self. He wouldn’t. He refused to believe there would ever come a day when he would willingly sacrifice his friends and family - his fellow comrades - no matter what Heaven or Hell put in front of him. He would rather die than live to see himself become so despicable.

“That’s pretty nice timing Cas.”

“We had an appointment.”

His answer was so matter of fact, so practical, that Dean couldn’t help the smile that broke over his face. It implied that Dean could’ve been minutes away from death or simply completing the crossword and Castiel still would’ve come for him at that exact moment. But there was something coy about the set of his features, something like amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Dean was under no illusion that, somehow, Cas had sensed he was in danger and, despite his apparent ignorance, had slipped in and taken Dean while Zachariah’s back was turned. It was crafty, calculated, almost petty in its brilliance.

And now Castiel stood looking at him, ready to talk, to plan their next move, without even a hint of expectation in his gaze.

He didn’t boast or demand gratitude. He didn’t want Dean’s thanks; he just wanted to be included.

The realisation hit Dean all at once, Castiel’s own words coming back to him as he considered how the balance between them had shifted.

You don’t think you deserve to be saved.

But Cas had saved him. Had been trying to save him for a while now but Dean had just been too blind to see it. When he had freed him from Hell he had been following orders but now, he had simply taken it upon himself to remove Dean from trouble’s path.

Against all odds and the interests of Heaven, an angel had his back.

Dean took a step forward and, placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, he said, “Don’t ever change.”

What he meant to say was: Don’t ever change back. Don’t ever serve the interests of others when you know in you’re heart they’re wrong. Don’t ever become unreachable, unknowable. Don’t ever stop being the angel on my shoulder because without you, I’d die.

There was so much he had meant to say but the words died on his lips. He hoped that Cas understood just from the look in his eyes, the force in his tone, the significance of that hand on his shoulder.

Dean knew that he didn’t always tolerate human contact but Castiel didn’t shrug him off. He allowed Dean to grip his arm, the fabric of the trenchcoat screwed up under his fingers. For a minute Dean held on and when he finally drew away, he half expected to see the shape of his palm imprinted there, just as Castiel’s handprint adorned his own shoulder.

*

He drove on autopilot, trusting his body to react accordingly; his mind was otherwise consumed by bittersweet memories that made his throat ache and his eyes sting.

He replayed every journey they’d ever made together, nothing but open road before them and unsaid words between them.

You changed me Dean.

His tears ran hot, spilling down his cheeks and splashing into his lap.

Dean had immediately recognised the truth in Cas’ words, but they still reverberated through him like the tremors of a distant earthquake. Letting himself consider the possibility that he, an insignificant stain on the Earth’s crust, had changed Castiel, a centuries old celestial warrior, was incomprehensible.

It was like... staring into the sun.

The more he told himself not to, the more he became blinded by its glare. Dean wanted to squint whenever he looked at it, shield his eyes from its radiant sincerity.

Because he had known it this whole time. Known and never admitted it to himself.

He had witnessed firsthand Castiel’s transformation from a finely tuned, emotionless instrument to a discordant orchestra of empathy and feeling and not once had he suggested it was his own influence that had inspired such a change.

Because how could he have inspired such honesty and compassion, gentle humour and tenderness? He was stubborn and defensive, worn down by years of trauma and still so full of anger.

But he was wrong.

Of course he was wrong.

I cared about the whole world because of you.

It felt too big to accept so readily and yet... Dean remembered the first time he’d made Cas laugh, the first time he’d heard doubt creep into his voice, the first time his cheeks had flushed with embarrassment, his eyes had filled with sorrow, his shoulders had sagged with relief. He remembered it all and he remembered his own despair, his exhaustion, his cocky bravado. He had begged and reasoned and joked with reckless abandon. He had unwittingly smothered Cas with his humanity and instead of suffocating, Castiel had simply taken a deep breath, filling his lungs with every human emotion they’d ever dared to beat out of him.

*

His body felt beaten, his mind battered and broken.

Sam didn’t even have to ask as he forced himself out of the car to meet his younger brother’s eyes.

Understanding glimmered there. He might not know the details but Sam recognised the same heartsick anguish that gripped his own soul. The same bone-deep weariness that had settled over him ever since discovering Eileen was gone.

They had lost everything. Everyone.

Details would come later; coaxing out the truth one shot of whiskey at a time. Although, looking at the state of his brother, Sam wondered whether it wouldn’t take several bottles.

*

Dean took another pull on his beer.

He couldn’t understand why he’d done it. Maybe he hadn’t meant to. But sure enough it was gone. Every day the past slipped further and further away, fading as quickly as dreams but still he couldn’t help but reach for those memories.

There was barely anything left to remind him. Sam was... Well, Dean found it hard to think about Sam. And Cas... Dean hadn’t seen or heard from him in almost a year. He was starting to think Cas had removed the mark on purpose; some deluded attempt at helping Dean forget. Perhaps he thought it was a mercy.

But Dean didn’t want to forget. Not if it meant forgetting what it felt like to belong.

Once again he found himself in front of the mirror, beer on the counter, sleeve rolled up, his own hand pressed to the place where Castiel’s had once been.

He could hear Lisa moving around downstairs, glasses clinking, Ben’s laughter loud and jubilant out in the yard. He shouldn’t be here. Not again. Not today. He should be down there manning the barbecue, joking and celebrating with his family.

But he couldn’t seem to tear himself away. There was nothing to see and yet he kept on searching.

Mary had always said that angels were watching over him but his angel had abandoned him, leaving no trace behind.

Dean’s grip tightened, nails digging into his flesh. He relished the pain but it was not enough.

*

“You’ve got to bring him back.”

He’d ground out the words with deliberate force, still reluctant to admit Cas was gone, to admit that he alone couldn’t save him.

But Chuck had merely shrugged off their surrender. Apparently he was happy to simply watch them flounder. With no one left to fight for and no monsters left to fight, the brothers would be effectively made redundant. Just Sam and Dean and an eternity of suffering stretching out before them. How could that be the end?

In Dean’s opinion it was shitty, lazy writing. Surely Chuck would grow tired of their struggle soon enough and then what?

Stripping him of his power, his divinity, his immortality had been deeply satisfying. Dean relished the moment he turned his back on him, refusing to expend the effort it would take to kill him. That was, after all, not who he was. Not anymore.

For the first time in his life, he was going to carve his own path - without destiny or prophecy or some omniscient douchebag shoving him around on the chess board.

The thought terrified him. Did he even know how to live a life when his every movement wasn’t being dictated by someone else?

He supposed his first move would be the obvious one. But it was the only one he really wanted to make. With Jack taking on the role of God, his task of liberating Cas from The Empty seemed fractionally less intimidating. They would find a way.

Dean swore to himself that no matter how long it took, no matter the lengths he would have to go to, he would see Castiel again. And when he did, he intended to drag him out of the darkness and cover his soul with his handprints.

[jounetsunosymphonia]

Sympathy for the Angel (Mankai Stage Autumn & Winter 2019 translation)

translation for the stage version of winter’s debut play! the song can be listened to in full here.

woooo sympathy time. i decided against putting the stage directions in like i did for lucifer because like...they’re less detailed since we kinda know how sympathy is supposed to go anyway? yeh.

cast list

Tsukioka Tsumugi (Aramaki Yoshihiko) as Michael Takato Tasuku (Kitazono Ryo) as Raphael Mikage Hisoka (Ueda Keisuke) as Uriel Arisugawa Homare (Tanaka Ryousei) as Metatron Yukishiro Azuma (Ueda Kandai) as Philip

-

All Feelings that cannot be A sorrowful destiny A song of lament For an angel who fell in love with a human

Metatron This is Heaven, where the angels reside High above the land of mortals There, three wonderful angels lived—Michael, Raphael, and Uriel.

Raphael: You've fallen for a human woman?

Michael: ...yes.

Uriel: Eh. So that's why you've just been looking down there lately.

Raphael: Don't be stupid, Michael. If you fall for a human, you're only going to get yourself hurt.

Michael, Raphael, Uriel I want to keep her safe I want to offer my protection

Michael My beloved, so fragile and fleeting

Michael, Raphael, Uriel Even if all that awaits is a miserable fate where I'll only become unhappy

Michael: Even then, I—

Uriel: I won't stop you, but...her death is soon approaching.

Michael: Eh…?

-

Raphael: Uriel is the angel who carries the souls of the dead to Heaven. The list of deaths is definite. You should just give up on her.

Michael: You're worried about me, aren't you, Raphael? Even if it leads to my own misfortune...I want to make her happy.

[winter telepathy time part 1]

Tsumugi: (Isn’t it strange, Tasuku? All my other thoughts until now have just vanished.)

Tasuku: (Yeah. All that going around in circles before finally arriving here must’ve meant something after all.)

Tsumugi: (In this moment that we can only have onstage...I don’t want to let a single second slip by.)

Tasuku: (It’s cause you say things like this, that you’re the one I want to act with.)

-

Metatron: Hm. Interfering with a human soon to pass is forbidden.

Michael: Just watching over her would be enough. Please.

Metatron: You’re going to lose your abilities as an angel as every day passes. And yet...you want to go, don’t you. I understand.

Michael: Thank you, Metatron.

All Feelings that cannot be A sorrowful destiny An angel who falls for a human will only reap misfortune

Raphael: Why did you tell him about her death!

Uriel: Not knowing the truth. Being unable to do anything for someone precious to him. I didn’t want Michael to suffer that pain.

Raphael: But now that you’ve told him, of course he’ll go.

Uriel: I know that! ...since the three of us have always been together.

[winter telepathy time part 2]

Hisoka: (The three of us were always together...it’s only a line in a play, but I know this feeling. Maybe if I stay here, I’ll be able to find them. My real self, and the person important to me.)

Homare: (Their feelings are permeating this heart of mine that cannot understand others. No, even those of the audience. So this is theatre...how truly fascinating!)

Homare, Hisoka: (Now, on to act 2!)

-

Raphael Michael descends to earth, and makes his way to her hospital

Uriel There he meets Philip, the doctor in charge.

Metatron Angel wings are invisible to the human eye

Raphael, Uriel, Metatron Michael earnestly asks about her

Philip: You’re her friend? She’s terribly ill right now. I’d like to cheer her up a little.

Michael: Yes, and I have something to tell her too, but...I can’t meet with her directly.

Philip: It’s strange you can’t meet her even though you want to tell her something, but...why don’t you try writing her a letter instead, then?

Michael: A letter...that’s right! I’ll do that!

Metatron And so, Michael began to write letters day by day

Uriel He was delighted when she began to reply

Raphael But Michael’s wings slowly shrink

Uriel: And a few months pass since Michael first arrived on earth.

Philip Michael, I have something wonderful to tell you She’s recovered. It’s a miracle!

Michael: ...really? Is it true? That’s such a relief…

Philip It seems she was really encouraged by your letters. You brought happiness with you You might just be an angel.

Michael: N-no, I’m just a regular human.

Philip: Haha, I know. But to us, you were an angel.

Michael: ...us?

Philip: Yes...after she’s discharged from the hospital, we’re going to get married.

Michael: ...congratulations. Please give her my regards.

(the two of them stand on opposite ends of the stage)

Philip: That wasn’t a fair way to tell you, was it. ...I’m sorry. Even though I realised how you felt about her, I…

Michael: She recovered from her illness. I can’t make her happy. It’s fine like this...it’s...fine…

[winter telepathy time part 3]

Azuma: (So this is how expressive Tsumugi can be...well done! Since you can understand people’s pain, you’re so kind.)

Tsumugi: (I can’t believe this is your first play either, Azuma-san. Actors can really learn anything from life.)

Michael Even if it’s a love that can’t be

Philip A love carried by an angel

Michael, Philip If you can happily laugh, I’m glad

-

Uriel: He can’t even be with her, and yet he’s still happy. How very like Michael, so noble.

Raphael: Michael can come back, the girl gets to live happily, it all turned out well.

Uriel: Have you forgotten? Angels can’t interfere with humans’ deaths.

Raphael: ...what do you mean.

Uriel: Her name hasn’t been taken from the list. No matter what Michael does, her death won’t change.

Raphael: Huh? Then why did you tell him about her?

Uriel: I told you, didn’t I? I didn’t want Michael to suffer, unable to do anything.

Raphael: She’ll still die, then.

Uriel: But Michael changed her life. He brought her happiness!

Raphael: But isn’t this just too painful?!

Uriel: ...that’s why this time, I won’t tell Michael anything.

Raphael: Why are you telling me this?

Uriel: I think it would be best if you decided whether or not to tell him for his own good.

Metatron: You’re always left with these painful roles, aren’t you.

Uriel: No, it’s...because we’re friends.

Metatron, Uriel Even if it’s a love that cannot be With a voice that cannot reach I’m watching over that path that you believed in

-

(the inst goes quiet as michael and raphael sit together on the stairs in silence.)

Raphael: Are you going?

Michael: ...yes.

Raphael: She has a fiance.

Michael: She does.

Raphael: This time, you’ll completely lose all your power if you go. You won’t be able to come back.

Michael: ...right.

Raphael: ...you fool.

Michael: Thank you, Raphael.

-

Metatron: I thought you were always together. Is this alright?

Raphael: It’s my duty to push him along.

Uriel: Since it’s you, I thought you would choose this.

-

(philip is walking and holding hands with...you, the audience, when michael throws himself in front of a car that’s about to hit them. yeah.)

Philip: Michael! (he pulls michael into his arms)

Michael: Are you two...alright…?

Philip: We’re both fine, but...why would you…!

Michael: That’s a relief...please...be happy…

Metatron: Saving a human...Michael, you’ve achieved the angel’s true desire.

Raphael: Michael!

Philip: Who are you?

Raphael: I’m his friend! Michael? Hey!

Michael: Raphael…?

Philip: Michael saved us from a car…

Raphael: Please take her to a hospital. She might be injured somewhere.

Philip: But—

Raphael: I’m here for him. (more fun comments! in the soundtrack recording he is like, yelling. in anguish. but in the live ver of the finale, he just sounds so calm. and idk what’s worse.)

Philip: Angel wings…?

Uriel: This time, her name has disappeared from the list.

Philip: You’re...you’re really an angel, aren’t you?

[winter telepathy time part 4]

Azuma: (Being connected with everyone through theatre...this is what it’s like, isn’t it. I’m not alone...I’m not lonely!)

Hisoka: (...is it alright for me to be here...this is where I belong…)

Homare: (This singular place where I can stand next to my friends with whom I feel a connection…)

-

(philip leaves, and michael is now cradled in raphael’s arms.)

Michael: She’s...okay now, right?

Raphael: Yes, don’t worry.

Michael: Being able to protect the person I love, having my soul carried by you, my closest friend...I’m...happy…

Raphael: Michael...you fool…

[this is listed as being a telepathy segment even tho the sound cue isn’t there but lbr if they straight up said this onstage very quietly i don’t think it would be that out of place]

Tasuku: (Tsumu...I’m glad I got to act with you again.)

Tsumugi: (Me too...Taachan.)

-

Winter Once more, with feeling From here, with these comrades

and then it goes into don’t cry, you know the drill, from the wiki as always

Michael, Raphael Don’t cry… I'd like to watch over you. That's all I wanted.

Raphael If I could be by your side,

Michael Even if we couldn't meet,

Michael, Raphael That was happiness to me.

Michael, Raphael Don’t cry… I won't regret that I loved.

Raphael Don't go.

Michael Smile for my last moments...?

Michael, Raphael The tears we shed held all our wishes...

[my-soul-sings]

just my luck: chapter 8

Fandom: Wannabe Challenge Characters: Taehee x Reader

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 (pt. 1) | Chapter 4 (pt. 2) | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 (AO3) 

***

Chapter 8 (full)

***

It was love and first sight when he met her back then.

He had been out hunting in the woods to practise his archery, and a flash of movement in the distance had caught his eye. Thinking it was a deer, he swiftly drew his bow and aimed his arrow at the moving target and released it.

However, instead of a deer’s cry, he heard something more human; something like a woman’s scream.

Panic had seized him and he’d tapped the sides of his horse with his feet, snapping the reins in his hands to beckon it to go faster towards the source of that sound.

It didn’t take long to find the owner of the voice: a young woman dressed in a blue hanbok. She was lying on her side next to an overturned basket with collected herbs spilling out of it onto the ground. The stray arrow he had shot lay just a few inches away from her, but it didn’t look like she had been hit by it. Taehee was relieved that she was uninjured, until he noticed that she was clutching at her ankle and wincing in pain.

He had apologised profusely to her, although she hadn’t taken as kindly to nearly being killed while collecting herbs in the woods. She had probably been scared, so he didn’t blame her when she started to scold him for being so careless, or when she asked him to pick up the spilled herbs for her. In fact, it was refreshing in a way. He was used to people being wary and walking on eggshells around him. As the eldest son in the family, people often feared that a single misstep would incur his wrath, even though he had never abused his power as other nobles often did.

Her words, on the other hand, were sharp. She would have been considered rude by any nobleman’s standards. But for some reason it comforted him. She was just a commoner, yet she treated him as an equal. They were simply two people who had met by chance in the woods. Here, he wasn’t the man with an entire family’s expectations weighing on his shoulders; he was simply him.

Maybe that was what made him fall for her that day. Taehee hadn’t even realised he was smiling to himself until she started yelling at him for finding the situation even remotely humorous.

Even in her next life, she was the same: strong-willed, stubborn, independent.

And even now, he loved her.

Although, it seemed that she couldn’t believe it for some reason. And here he thought the most difficult thing to convince her of was that he could see the future. He supposed the upside of it was that maybe she wouldn’t have such a hard time digesting the fact that he and his friends were goblins too. That was another headache he would have to worry about later...

“What’s so crazy about it?” he asked her while he parked the car. Her stare was boring two large holes in his head.

“There’s no such thing as love at first sight.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on, tell me the real reason you’re helping me. Please?”

The car finally rolled to a stop, and Taehee switched off the engine. “I’m not lying to you.”

“Then, you were mistaken.”

“I’m not.”

She huffed, folding her arms across her chest. This was a lot harder than Taehee thought it would be.

“The first time I met you, I’d literally just rolled out of bed and I looked like hell because I was sick. How could you fall in love with that?”

A smile tugged at his lips when he remembered that day—the day he finally found her again. He wanted to say she was beautiful even then, but she might think he was just bluffing and being glib.

It was hard to pick the right word to describe that first meeting. The regret and shame he had felt for the past three hundred years had melded together all at once. But more than that, there was happiness and joy knowing that he now had a second chance to be with her and make her happy like he had promised a long time ago.

“Seeing you that day was a miracle.” There was no other way to put it.

Her strong front began to falter, but Taehee could still see the disbelief in her eyes. Well, he expected as much. It was sort of like this back then too; in her previous life, she had been just as doubtful of his intentions every time he made up a flimsy excuse to meet her again.

“You know what, I prefer it when you’re cryptic,” she finally said, a sigh escaping her. “It’s better than the cheesy lines. You probably flirt with a lot of other girls like this.”

Her fingers curled around the car door, ready to open it, but he placed a hand over hers to stop her from leaving. “I don’t flirt with other women, I promise,” he told her. “I’m serious about you. You might not believe it now, but I’ll prove myself with time.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “With time? It’s not like we’re going to spend that much time together.”

He smiled then. “I was going to bring this up later, but... Stay at my place for the time being, until you manage to sort things out. There’s a free room here anyway, so it’s a perfect arrangement.”

***

“We don’t have a ‘free room’ ! Where is she going to sleep?” Hansol hissed. Taehee smacked the blond on the arm, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door in case they were heard.

The three roommates were currently huddled together in Hansol’s room, while they had left the confused woman at the dining table to eat the breakfast that Taehee had prepared earlier. The older man had planned to discuss this matter with them beforehand, but with everything that happened in the morning he hadn’t gotten a chance to do it. As a result, his roommates were understandably unprepared when she asked whether there was really an available room for her to use for the time being.

Hansol had completely failed to hide the shock on his face, until he received a sharp jab to the side, courtesy of Taehee’s elbow. His attempt to play along was commendable, but still it didn’t stop him from announcing that the three men had something to discuss, before dragging Taehee and Biho down the hallway by brute force into his room for an emergency meeting.

“What were you thinking?” Hansol continued, when Taehee returned his attention to them.

“I was thinking… she could take my room. Then I could share with either you or Biho,” he said sheepishly. “Just for the time being until she has to leave.”

Both of his roommates narrowed their eyes at him. “I don’t think you’re going to let her leave,” Biho pointed out.

“I...” Taehee couldn’t refute it—of course he would try as much as possible to convince her to stay with him. The best case scenario would be if they could live together for the rest of their lives. Just the thought of staying in the same house as her, waking up to see her every morning and going to sleep after making sure she was warmly tucked in bed was enough to make him grin like a lovestruck idiot.

It earned him a hard squeeze on the shoulder by Hansol. That brat was misusing his strength now for things like this?

“Hyung, is this funny to you?” Hansol asked, prompting Taehee to immediately drop his smile and smoothen his facial expression into something more neutral. He cleared his throat. “No, not at all. Sorry.”

“I’m agreeable to letting her stay here,” Biho chimed in then. “She doesn’t have anywhere else to go, right?”

Thank the heavens for Biho’s soft heart. It was coming in handy now. Taehee nodded. “Her wrist is fractured too. There’ll be a lot of things she can’t do on her own, so it’ll be good if she stays with us.”

“I’m on the same page as you guys, but we need to figure out the sleeping arrangements,” Hansol replied with a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair and messing it up slightly. “Why did you even tell her we have a free room?”

Taehee looked away sheepishly. “Because… she would have refused to stay here otherwise. She’s a bit stubborn, and she doesn’t like depending too much on other people for help.”

“You do realise she can count the number of rooms we have in this house and figure it out on her own, right?”

“Yeah, well...” Taehee trailed off, racking his brains for any reasonable excuse, but he couldn’t. Why did his roommates have to be right about everything? In any case— “That doesn’t matter. We should just quickly decide on the sleeping arrangement.”

“Why can’t she stay in the same room as you? Your bed is the biggest— Ow.” Hansol smacked Biho upside the head for that suggestion. “That’s indecent!”

Taehee took offense at the insinuation that he would have tried anything inappropriate even if she slept in the same bed as him. With warming cheeks, he butted in, “I would never do anything inappropriate to her. But anyway,” he cleared his throat, “she’s definitely not going to accept that even if I did.”

Hansol cocked an eyebrow at that. “So you would sleep in the same bed as her if she said ‘yes’?” With exaggerated shock, he smacked his hands on both cheeks as his mouth formed an ‘o’. “Hyung, I’m seeing a different side of you today.”

“Stop that.” Taehee rolled his eyes, suppressing the urge to smack Hansol. He would only receive a harder one in return, no thanks to the younger goblin’s superior strength.

“Then, one of us has to share a room with you?” Biho asked, looking grim all of a sudden. Taehee watched realisation sink into Hansol’s expression, and he swore the blond’s face paled slightly. What was that all about?

“Why do you guys look like that?”

“You’ll get offended if I say it,” Biho said bluntly, while Hansol quietly nodded. “Maybe Hansol and I can share a room instead. You can take one of ours.”

Taehee frowned. He was already starting to get offended and it was even more frustrating because he didn’t understand why they were so reluctant to share a room with him. “What’s so bad about rooming with me?”

The duo exchanged nervous glances, and at Hansol’s nod, Biho sucked in a sharp breath and turned back to face Taehee. “Well… you’re a clean freak. You already nag at us every weekend, I don’t want it to become an everyday thing.”

“Yeah,” Hansol chimed in before Taehee could get a word of protest out. “Sorry Taehee, you know we love you, but the nagging…”

Taehee didn’t know if he should be happy or offended that he would get a room to himself despite being the one to suggest this arrangement. He didn’t have the chance to decide, because all three of them were startled by knocks on the door that came in rapid succession.

“I’m coming in,” he heard her say, and then the door opened. She stepped in, surveying the surprise on their faces before releasing a sigh.

“I heard everything. Look, I can just take the couch or an inflatable mattress if you have one. I’m fine with sleeping in the living room. I feel bad enough for imposing; I don’t want to trouble you guys further by making you switch rooms.”

“You’re not troubling us—”

“Taehee, I know you’re just being nice, but it’s really fine. I already appreciate all the help so far. And,” her eyes came to rest on Hansol and then Biho, “sorry to impose for this period of time. I’ll try to find a new place as soon as possible.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Biho said with a reassuring smile. “You’re injured, it’s not good for you to live alone for now. At least with us around we can help you when you need it.”

“Yeah, and you’re not imposing on us at all,” Hansol added cheerily. “We really don’t mind. You can take one of our rooms, it’s no big deal.”

“No, please. I can’t. I want to sleep on the couch.” Her eyes turned to Taehee, and he recognised the pleading look. She wasn’t going to change her mind, and he suspected if they continued to insist on her taking a room, she would simply walk out the door. She was too stubborn for her own good sometimes.

“Alright,” he said finally, “the couch it is.”

She brightened immediately, sending him an appreciative smile. “Thanks. I really mean it.”

“Looks like you gained some likability points with her,” Hansol whispered teasingly in Taehee’s ear. The older man flushed in embarrassment and stepped on Hansol’s foot to get him to shut up. Unfortunately he must have applied too much force, for the younger man shrieked and hopped away, cradling his sore foot.

“Sorry, there was a bug there,” was Taehee’s flimsy excuse. Then he hurried out of the room with the excuse of looking for a spare blanket and pillows for her.

He didn’t miss the amused look on her face as she observed the exchange.

[jude-walker]

( JESSE WILIAMS, CISMALE, HE/HIM ) ⌇ have you seen JUDE WALKER around icaria? they are the AGE year old child of ASCLEPIUS. they remind me of RHYTHMIC BEEPING OF HOSPITAL MACHINES, CAREFUL BRUSHES OF SKIN AGAINST SKIN, AND UNFINISHED CROSSWORDS. They’ve been on the island for # 1 DAY

WHO ARE YOU BRINGING TO THE ISLE?

FACECLAIM: Jesse Williams

NAME: Jude Sebastian Walker

AGE: 34

BIRTHDAY: 19th of October 1986

OCCUPATION: Emergency & Trauma Doctor

HOMETOWN: New York City

PETS: N/A

POWERS:

Energy Absorption - Jude has a horrific power that if he touches you with his bare hands, he takes away your energy/life force. Obviously. being a doctor that’s a bit problematic, but he wears a thin pair of black gloves constantly to ensure he doesn’t kill anyone accidentally.

BIOGRAPHY:

Jude Walker was born into a poor family in the Bronx, that had seven people living in a two bedroom apartment. His mother Dina Walker had always tried her best, bless her heart, to ensure her children had everything, but it just had never worked out for her. Jude is the youngest of her six children, a mixture of both boys and girls, but he was her little miracle child. Asclepius had met Dina once night when she had been drowning her sorrows in a bar, and it seems that he took pity on her story and blessed her with a son who could actually account for something. With her other children being a mix of criminals and dead beats (not her own words of course), Jude was destined for greatness, from the moment that he was able to walk, that she knew.

Being the youngest of six kids, Jude got bullied a lot by his older siblings, but he never really let it bother him. He knew it was because he was more intelligent than them, because he got better grades than them, and because he didn’t get in trouble as they did. Dina pushed her youngest towards medicine, knowing who his father was, and knowing that he’d get the most potential out of his life if he followed his affinity to medicine. At birthdays and Christmas, he was gifted things such as a doctors kid, a doctors coat, and a toy stethoscope that he enjoyed playing it - but not as much as his mother would have liked. He actually preferred music, and had a pretty good singing voice and affinity for the guitar - but that wasn’t the life he was destined to lead.

Dina pretty much guilted her son into following a career in medicine. Without really trying too hard, his grades were good enough to get a scholarship to John Hopkins university, and once he had graduated as a MD, he’d be able to look after the family more than she ever had been able to. Jude wanted to go down the path of music, he wanted to study music tech at university, and musical performance, but seeing the disappointed look on his mother’s face was enough to make him change his mind. She’d raised him, given him as much as she could, and it was only fair that he did the same for her in return.

It was when he was in medical school of course, that Jude found out what his power was from his father. His father being a god was something that his mother had never hidden from him, and he’d expected something to show itself sooner or later, but nothing like what he had thought. He’d been doing some work experience in a free clinic when it had first happened - when he’d been greeting at patient by shaking her hand and suddenly she could barely breathe. At first, Jude though it was an allergic reaction to something that had perhaps been on his skin when he had been working previously, as she got better once he had let go. After washing his hands profusely, he attempted to shake hands with another patient later on that day, and the same thing happened. This time he had held on too long, and the guy had almost collapsed. It took it happening for a third time for him to head home for the day, to call his father down from the heavens (the only time that he has ever done so) to ask what the hell was going on. He was told that his gifts with medicine came as a price, and that was that his hands could no longer heal, only hurt. Jude was gifted with a pair of thin, black gloves that allowed him to still feel things on a patient’s body, such as their pulse or any abrasions, but he wouldn’t be able to touch them without them on. This didn’t just go for patients, but with anyone. He had to be careful hugging his mother, touching a woman - anything.

Once Jude had graduated from university, he got himself a job in Baltimore at a local hospital, and found himself easily falling into the role as a trauma doctor, even though his mind would sometimes flit to music, and what he could have been doing if he hadn’t been Asclepius’ son. Jude was living his life quite casually and calmly, getting on with things as best he could because of his power, not knowing anything about other demigods, until he met Odessa.

Walking home from work one day, Jude had stumbled upon a crash on one of the main roads, and instantly he had ran over to help. He’d taken his gloves off once he had left the hospital, obviously not planning on touching anyone and that thought barely crossed his mind until he was done getting the man into the recovery position, and the ambulance crew took over. He took in a deep breath as he looked down at his hands, visibly beginning to shake, and spoke out loud “how can I touch people? How is this happening?” Obviously, some people looked at him like he was a mental person, but a red-head stepped out of the crowd and came over to him, laughing about how she had turned off his power.

That was the start of a beautiful friendship, of Jude becoming a big brother like figure (after a few times sleeping together they realised it wasn’t going to work as anything more) to the girl, looking out for her knowing that she would always find herself in trouble. It was a few years later, when she told him that her brother had died and was heading off to an island full of demi-gods that Jude was really shocked. He’d never known her to have any other family, he thought he was the closest thing that she, and where the hell was this island?

After Odessa left, it took Jude two weeks to hand in his notice at the hospital, pack up his life, and move to the island in Greece. He’s not going to let her go off on her own and get herself into all sort of messes, but he also wants to know if he had any siblings that he doesn’t know about in Icaria, and what it’s like living on an isle full of demigods.

[icariahq]

Thanks for applying Dee! We look forward to seeing Jude around the island. Make sure to send your blog in within the next 24 hours or reach out to us if you need an extension. Jesse Williams is now taken!

( JESSE WILIAMS, CISMALE, HE/HIM ) ⌇ have you seen Jude Walker around icaria? they are the AGE year old child of Asclepius. they remind me of rhythmic beeping of hospital machines, careful brushes of skin against skin, and unfinished crosswords. They’ve been on the island for # 1 day

OOC INFO:  We want to get to know a little about you! Pleasse keep in mind for the AGE we need an actual age not just 21+ this is for the safety of all members.

Dee / She/her | 26 | GMT

Only meeeee

ROLEPLAYING EXPERIENCE

Still about thirteen years, unless the past has changed.

TRIGGERS 

Mine are already there, thank you!

IC INFO:

Please know that all of this is to help you get to know your own character better – and to allow for easier plotting with other members! 

WHO ARE YOU BRINGING TO THE ISLE?

FACECLAIM: Jesse Williams

NAME: Jude Sebastian Walker

AGE: 34

BIRTHDAY: 19th of October 1986

OCCUPATION: Emergency & Trauma Doctor

HOMETOWN: New York City

PETS: N/A

POWERS: 

Energy Absorption - Jude has a horrific power that if he touches you with his bare hands, he takes away your energy/life force. Obviously. being a doctor that’s a bit problematic, but he wears a thin pair of black gloves constantly to ensure he doesn’t kill anyone accidentally.

BIOGRAPHY:

Jude Walker was born into a poor family in the Bronx, that had seven people living in a two bedroom apartment. His mother Dina Walker had always tried her best, bless her heart, to ensure her children had everything, but it just had never worked out for her. Jude is the youngest of her six children, a mixture of both boys and girls, but he was her little miracle child. Asclepius had met Dina once night when she had been drowning her sorrows in a bar, and it seems that he took pity on her story and blessed her with a son who could actually account for something. With her other children being a mix of criminals and dead beats (not her own words of course), Jude was destined for greatness, from the moment that he was able to walk, that she knew.

Being the youngest of six kids, Jude got bullied a lot by his older siblings, but he never really let it bother him. He knew it was because he was more intelligent than them, because he got better grades than them, and because he didn’t get in trouble as they did. Dina pushed her youngest towards medicine, knowing who his father was, and knowing that he’d get the most potential out of his life if he followed his affinity to medicine. At birthdays and Christmas, he was gifted things such as a doctors kid, a doctors coat, and a toy stethoscope that he enjoyed playing it - but not as much as his mother would have liked. He actually preferred music, and had a pretty good singing voice and affinity for the guitar - but that wasn’t the life he was destined to lead.

Dina pretty much guilted her son into following a career in medicine. Without really trying too hard, his grades were good enough to get a scholarship to John Hopkins university, and once he had graduated as a MD, he’d be able to look after the family more than she ever had been able to. Jude wanted to go down the path of music, he wanted to study music tech at university, and musical performance, but seeing the disappointed look on his mother’s face was enough to make him change his mind. She’d raised him, given him as much as she could, and it was only fair that he did the same for her in return. 

It was when he was in medical school of course, that Jude found out what his power was from his father. His father being a god was something that his mother had never hidden from him, and he’d expected something to show itself sooner or later, but nothing like what he had thought. He’d been doing some work experience in a free clinic when it had first happened - when he’d been greeting at patient by shaking her hand and suddenly she could barely breathe. At first, Jude though it was an allergic reaction to something that had perhaps been on his skin when he had been working previously, as she got better once he had let go. After washing his hands profusely, he attempted to shake hands with another patient later on that day, and the same thing happened. This time he had held on too long, and the guy had almost collapsed. It took it happening for a third time for him to head home for the day, to call his father down from the heavens (the only time that he has ever done so) to ask what the hell was going on. He was told that his gifts with medicine came as a price, and that was that his hands could no longer heal, only hurt. Jude was gifted with a pair of thin, black gloves that allowed him to still feel things on a patient’s body, such as their pulse or any abrasions, but he wouldn’t be able to touch them without them on. This didn’t just go for patients, but with anyone. He had to be careful hugging his mother, touching a woman - anything.

Once Jude had graduated from university, he got himself a job in Baltimore at a local hospital, and found himself easily falling into the role as a trauma doctor, even though his mind would sometimes flit to music, and what he could have been doing if he hadn’t been Asclepius’ son. Jude was living his life quite casually and calmly, getting on with things as best he could because of his power, not knowing anything about other demigods, until he met Odessa. 

Walking home from work one day, Jude had stumbled upon a crash on one of the main roads, and instantly he had ran over to help. He’d taken his gloves off once he had left the hospital, obviously not planning on touching anyone and that thought barely crossed his mind until he was done getting the man into the recovery position, and the ambulance crew took over. He took in a deep breath as he looked down at his hands, visibly beginning to shake, and spoke out loud “how can I touch people? How is this happening?” Obviously, some people looked at him like he was a mental person, but a red-head stepped out of the crowd and came over to him, laughing about how she had turned off his power. 

That was the start of a beautiful friendship, of Jude becoming a big brother like figure (after a few times sleeping together they realised it wasn’t going to work as anything more) to the girl, looking out for her knowing that she would always find herself in trouble. It was a few years later, when she told him that her brother had died and was heading off to an island full of demi-gods that Jude was really shocked. He’d never known her to have any other family, he thought he was the closest thing that she, and where the hell was this island?

After Odessa left, it took Jude two weeks to hand in his notice at the hospital, pack up his life, and move to the island in Greece. He’s not going to let her go off on her own and get herself into all sort of messes, but he also wants to know if he had any siblings that he doesn’t know about in Icaria, and what it’s like living on an isle full of demigods.

ANYTHING ELSE:

What do you call a magical dog? A Labracadabrador!

[chipper9906]

And Then You Were Gone, In A Rush Of Colors

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 6105

WARNINGS: Major Character Death (Temporarily), Violence, Blood

Status: Oneshot- Complete

Summary: He hadn't noticed, at first. Not until he stumbled back slightly away from Castiels body, eyes fixating on the open wound from the angel blade, and realising with a sickening horror that it was no longer a dark gray.

It was striking, so vibrant that it demanded his attention.

'This is red.'

Set during Episode 3 of Season 9, "I'm No Angel", in an alternate universe where you see colors the first time you touch your soulmate.

* * *

Dean never really liked the concept of having a soulmate. Except, that wasn't entirely true. He ate that shit up as a kid, seeing the happiness that radiated off his parents whenever they were together, his mom ensuring him that "Someday, you'll have that with your soulmate. And you'll be so happy to have found them, that you probably won't even notice the colors."

The colors...

How could he not notice them, if they were to appear? Nearly forty years of living on an Earth that consisted solely of different shades of a muted gray, he was fairly certain he'd take notice of seeing everything in a completely different way, no matter how happy he was feeling.

When he had asked a hunter that had found his soulmate what it was like out of plain curiosity, it was hard not to get frustrated at his attempts at explaining it. It wasn't his fault, of course. How do you describe something that the other person has never seen?

Obviously, it's not all about the colors. No, that was just a side part of what was really happening.

Meeting your soulmate, for the very first time.

Two souls destined to become entwined, finally being joined together. Like the final piece of a puzzle, where everything falls into place.

In his teenage years, the idea didn't appeal to him all that much. Despite being told countless times how his soulmate would be the perfect person for him, the idea that the person he is to spend the rest of his whole life with was already chosen for him seemed completely unfair. It would become such a huge part of his life, shouldn't he get to decide who he loves?

That wasn't the biggest problem, though. The problem was, as much as he hated to admit it, the thought of having a soulmate was terrifying to him. Not when he finds them, but when he loses them.

Because in their line of work, it's inevitable. Getting close to someone is a risky game that almost always ends in death and suffering.

The first time he had seen the effects of losing your soulmate was with his dad. He barely has any memories of his father before Mary was so untimely ripped away from him. He does remember how different his dad felt after. It became a rarity to see him smile, and he became cold and distant, even to his own sons. He no longer had the comforting touch of a loving wife, and now the only respite he found was at the bottom of a bottle.

Dean has already lost people he cared about, was keenly aware of the pain that brought on. But he knew that it wouldn't even begin to compare to the pain he would feel in losing his soulmate, and he just doesn't think he would have the emotional capacity to deal with it. He would fall right into the steps of his father; a bitter, ageing man who no longer had a purpose in his life than that of revenge.

Sometimes, he isn't sure whether seeing what happened to Sam with Jess validated his opinion more, or made him see the other side to having a soulmate. After all, he'd be blind not to see just how happy Jessica made Sam. He could feel it radiating off of his little brother the second he introduced him to Jess, and it had pained Dean slightly to see how happy Sam had been without him.

Once, and only once, when they had both had a bit too much to drink, Dean had asked Sam what it was like to have a soulmate.

"It was kind of like... I don't know, like being with them was as natural as breathing. Like you had already known them your whole life."

Dean had never regretted asking a question as much as when he asked Sam if he had a favorite color, as the smile on his face as he reminisced about his time with Jess dropped from his face.

"Yellow. It was the first color I noticed. It was bright and just... there. Screaming at you to notice. It was..." Sam trailed off slightly, bringing the bottle of beer up to his lips and drinking deeply from it. "It was the last color to go, faded with all the others not long after..."

Dean didn't need to hear the rest.

Seeing other people, strangers, out on the streets with their soulmate, seeing how blissfully happy they were would always ignite a deeply buried part of Dean that yearned for that kind of connection. But it was buried down for a reason, as he had come to accept that the negatives far outweighed the positives, especially for a hunter.

Now, every fleeting touch from a stranger that passed by, every accidental brush of a hand from a witness or an officer, every person he fell into bed with, he hoped that there would be no flash of color, no sudden spark of realization. He hoped that he would live the rest of his life in gray.

Then again, he is Dean Winchester. It seemed that God himself had it out for him, because his worst nightmare came true in the cruelest way that even he couldn't have seen coming.

To say that the past few weeks had been an emotional roller-coaster would be an understatement. First, finding out that the trials of heaven were going to kill Sammy, trying to stop Sam before he finished the last trial, only to realize the damage had already been done. And all at the same time, seeing the angels be cast down from heaven onto earth, feeling the dread in the pit of his stomach that one of them could be Cas.

As it turned out, it would have been easier. It felt like he was being pulled apart by fear. The fear of knowing that without some sort of miracle, that Sam wasn't going to make it. Then there was the other overwhelming fear, the fear that there was a reason that Castiel wasn't responding to his prayers.

Just... Not the reason he was expecting. Human. Castiel was human now. Human, and very alone. He wouldn't be able to zap on over to them in a millisecond as he once did. Metatron had spat him out in the middle of nowhere, and it killed Dean that he couldn't just drop everything to go find him and bring him home. No, he couldn't do that to Sammy. Not when he was hanging onto life by a thread.

If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure why he was praying to Castiel in the first place. It had become a sort of reflex to him how, whenever facing something that seemed out of his control.

Castiel was an angel. A soldier of God. He had fought tooth and nail through hell, to drag Dean's soul out of there. He had patched Dean's soul back together, knitted his ripped apart body back together, and placed his soul back where it belonged.

Castiel was pure power. Almost like a 'fix it' button, where having him nearby automatically made him feel safer, knowing that an angel had his back.

Then again, even if Castiel was still an angel, would he have been able to heal Sam? Castiel had said it himself, the trials were damaging Sam in a way that even he couldn't fix. So if that was the case, what was there left to do? What could he possibly do, to save the life of his little brother?

As he had said, only a miracle could save Sam now. Praying to the other angels was a risky move, considering he had managed to single-handedly piss nearly all of them off by putting a stop to the apocalypse. Who knew that putting a wrench in God's plan would anger a bunch of all-mighty beings whose only purpose was to serve God?

But then, the miracle was received, his prayer had been answered. An angel; Ezekiel, had taken pity on him. Knowing how angels actually were (Especially when he thought back to the way Castiel was the first few months he knew him), having an angel willing to help was... Very un-angel like.

Still, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. If this angel said he would be able to save Sam, he had to take that chance, right? Even if it meant tricking his little brother into letting Ezekiel in, that was just a sacrifice that had to be made. He would take a pissed off Sam over a dead Sam any day.

For the first time in a long time, things were looking up. There was still the stress and worry in the back of his mind that Castiel had yet to find his way to the bunker, especially considering he had no way of contacting Cas. Despite that, Sam was getting better. Sam's coughing fits were now far and few between, and he no longer saw that dark stain on Sam's tissues that he knew to be blood. Once Sam was well enough again, they'd finally be able to go and find Cas, no problem.

Except, it doesn't work that way. Not when Ezekiel is telling him that Castiel is now a wanted man. That now the angels on earth, filled with fury at being kicked from their home, are pinning the blame solely on Castiel. They want their revenge, and Dean would be scared for him even if he was still an angel.

But he's not. Castiel is out God knows where, as mortal as they are, possibly with no idea that there are a group of seriously ruffled angels after him.

So that's how they find themselves where they are now, racing towards the room they had been told where Castiel is, with no clue if they were too late. If the reaper had gotten to him before they could.

There's no time to lose. The two of them come to a skidding halt in front of the door, and Dean brings up a foot to kick harshly at the weak spot beside the handle to the door. The wood splinters and shrieks from the force, flinging open and nearly rebounding into the both of them as they charge through.

Dean was certain he had never had a feeling of relief taken from him as quickly as he had. The few seconds he caught a glimpse of Castiel, admittedly looking a little worse for wear, but alive. Then, his gaze had slipped over to the red-headed reaper crouched over him, angel-blade still firmly grasped in her hand.

"Cas?!"

The relief was yanked away before the blade had even pierced Castiel’s abdomen.

Charging at her doesn't get him far. Well, not towards her, anyway. Her hand is in the air, and then so is he, catching himself on the top of the kitchen counter before slamming into the wall, sliding back down to the floor. Through his disorientation, he sees a flash of movement where Sam tries the exact same thing as him, only to get the same treatment. Sam sails through the air, crashing into the closet on the other side and disappearing into a pile of neatly hung clothes and shattered wood panels.

The reaper kicks away the angel blade he had dropped, and he knows she's saying something, but he isn't listening. He's solely focused on being as quiet as he can, sneaking closer and closer and as she moves towards Sam.

Something shiny glints out of the corner of his eye, and he sees the handle of the angel blade sticking out from Cas. His heart constricts painfully at the sight, but now is not the time.

Now, this bitch has to die.

He yanks the blade out of Cas, holding it tightly in his hand as he approaches. Watching her strike Sam in the face once he struggles to his feet only adds fuel to the fire, making it all too satisfying to see the shock in her face when he pushes that blade right through her stomach, watching the bright flash of light pour from her entire slowly fade away.

He can barely hear anything through the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, staring down at the reaper's body with complete disdain. It's like a painful electric shock when he remembers why they're there, head snapping over to Castiel, hanging onto the foolish hope that he might have survived.

"Cas?" Dean asks, the blade slipping from his fingers and dropping to the floor, racing over to Castiel’s side.

"Cas?" He tries again, this time louder, as if calling his name louder might wake him up. He lifts his arms up, splaying out his hands on Castiel’s shoulders before moving them up to grasp desperately at his face, searching for any sign of life. A twitch of a muscle, the rise and fall of his chest, anything.

"Cas!"

His voice breaks as his throat tightens, the realization he had tried so hard to force away beginning to sink in.

That's when it happens.

He hadn't noticed, at first. Not until he stumbled back slightly away from Castiel’s body, eyes fixating on the open wound from the angel blade, and realizing with a sickening horror that it was no longer a dark gray.

It was striking, so vibrant that it demanded his attention. 'This is red' his mind helpfully supplies as he stared down at Castiel, dumbstruck by what he was seeing.

Castiel’s skin was no longer a light shade of white, now replaced by a tan color that, as he looks down at his own hands in shock, realizes it is nearly the same as his own, if not slightly darker.

In normal circumstances, he would be taking in his surroundings, drinking in all the new pleasing visuals, matching names to colors for the first time in his life.

That's not what he's thinking about right now. Right now, it's the gut-wrenching, heart punching fact that for the past five years, his soulmate was standing right in front of him, unbeknownst to the both of them.

Angels were never assigned a soulmate because, well, they don't have souls. But then Cas became human, and he must have developed his own soul. Or perhaps this was God's plan all along, for Cas to be the exception? The one angel to be given a soul.

After all this time, it was his best friend he was destined to spend the rest of his life with.

And now, Cas was gone.

He had always told himself that he didn't want a soulmate. That it simply wasn't worth the pain. Now, he wished he had known sooner. He wished the world had bloomed into color the second he pushed that blade into Castiel’s heart, the first time they met. Even if it made losing him all the more painful, what hurt more was knowing that all this time, he could have been with his soulmate.

It was too cruel, for him to find out the truth after Castiel had already been taken away from him.

"No..." Dean whispers in disbelief, standing up and taking a few unsteady steps backwards.

Already, the colors were beginning to fade. He hadn't had them for long, and yet, he could still see that his vision had begun to change. They were still there, but not as... Demanding. Not as there, in your face. They were beginning to dull, and Dean knew it wouldn't be long before everything returned to the murky shades of gray, black and white.

Something shuffles around over to the side, and he glances over to see that Sam had managed to get to his feet, staring down at Castiel’s body, laid out on the armchair. Dean's vision is brought back to Castiel, such a painful thing to see, yet he can't find it in himself to look away.

"Sam, he's gone," Dean tells him, and saying it out loud only seems to make it feel all the more real, does nothing but make the heartache in his chest grow stronger.

Sam moves forward, towards Castiel’s body, and drops down to his knees as Dean had, earlier before. Dean briefly wonders if Sam needs the time to mourn as he does, but then looks to Sam in utter confusion when he gently holds a hand over Castiel’s body.

In the commotion of everything, he had somehow almost forgotten that there was an angel taking shelter inside his brother. Watching an angel heal is still such a miraculous sight as it was the first time he saw it, the cuts and open stab wounds seemingly being erased, replaced by smooth, untouched skin.

As the last of the cuts disappear from Castiel’s body, Sam suddenly bolts up to his feet, stumbling backward at the movement and crashing back into the wall, collapsing down to the floor. There's a few seconds where he watches Sam in complete bewilderment before the concern for his brother wins out, taking a few steps towards him with his arms outstretched.

"Dean..."

So many times he had heard that deep, gravelly voice calling his name. He had heard it yelled in fury or in panic, heard it muttered in frustration, and heard it spoken in the most uninterested, monotone angel tone, back when Cas still followed the rules to a tee.

Hearing Cas his soulmate call his name now, had never sounded better.

"Hey... Hey! Yeah..." He spluttered out, rushing back over to Cas side and placing his hand on Cas side once again, letting it slide down to his leg as he takes in Castiel’s confused expression.

Castiel’s eyes go wide as he stares up at Dean, then snapping over to Sam's unconscious form on the floor nearby.

"And Sam." Castiel finishes, looking back to Dean, still with the wide-eyed expression on his face.

It suddenly hits Dean that maybe, Castiel was seeing everything in color for the first time, and he can't even begin to imagine how confused Castiel must be feeling right now, not only having no idea why he's suddenly seeing in color, but also how in the hell he's even alive right now.

Though, judging by the way he's looking at Dean, eyes darting down to the hand resting on his leg, he seems to be starting to figure the former out.

"Cas...? " Sam says in confusion, his expression matching his voice. "You're okay?"

Castiel doesn't seem to know how to answer that, remaining silent as he looks up to Dean, trying to figure out how he was okay after being stabbed through the stomach by April. It happened, he knew it had happened. He felt the agonizing, fiery pain as it pierced through his body, and within seconds, it was gone. Everything was gone.

Castiel couldn't help but feel slightly puzzled when Dean pushes up and away from him, his worried expression changing into a hardened, much more familiar guarded expression he was used to seeing from Dean.

As it turns out, Dean was right. Losing his soulmate had been one of the more incredibly painful moments of his life. And now that he had gone through it, he never, ever wanted to experience it again.

"Never do that again!" He demands, keeping his voice low and scratchy as not to reveal how vulnerable he was feeling right now.

Castiel blinks up at him in bewilderment before answering with a somewhat unsure sounding "Alright."

Not exactly the answer Dean was hoping for, but at this point, he was way too relieved to care all that much. He takes a slight step back, wiping a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the leftover adrenaline with it. There was a lot they were going to have to talk about, especially considering Castiel might not even know that he is his soulmate. It must be quite a shock to Castiel, both coming back to life and suddenly seeing everything in color, especially since no angel had ever had a soulmate before.

Once he drops his hand back down from his face, Dean notices that Castiel is still staring at him, as if he's seeing him for the first time in his life. It was starting to make Dean feel uncomfortable, seeing the way Castiel seemed to be analyzing every inch of him, his eyes frequently darting back to study his face.

"Cas, you... Stupid question, but you alright buddy?"

Castiel keeps staring at him for a few more seconds before he opens his mouth to answer. He doesn't speak right away, instead closing his mouth again and swallowing deeply, not taking his eyes off Dean's face as he finally responds.

"Your eyes..." Castiel murmurs in amazement, the faintest of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "They're green..."

A bark of laughter escapes Dean, relief bubbling from him after all that tension, all that terror. He shakes his head slightly, chuckling fondly at the gobsmacked sounding tone of Castiel’s voice.

His laughter slowly begins to die off, though he still has a small smile on his face, matching the one Castiel was giving him in return. At the same time, he racked his brain to figure out a way to bring up, well, this.

He wasn't sure if it had always been there between the two of them, if he had never noticed or perhaps, pretended not to notice it. But now, knowing that Castiel was his soulmate, it felt impossible to ignore. He wondered if Castiel felt it too, struggling to imagine any kind of situation where Castiel had felt it in the past.

But now, seeing the way Castiel was looking at him, he knew something had changed.

"Dean..."

'Screw words' is what briefly flutters through his mind as he drops back down in front of Castiel, grasping the sides of his face in his hands and kissing him for all he's got. He's well aware of the fact that Sam is still in the room, having seen him struggle back to his feet a few moments before.

Castiel’s eyes briefly widen at this as his hands shoot up to grab at Dean's arms that were still holding his face, feeling quite dumbstruck by what was happening. Something that he never thought could happen between him and Dean.

His fingers loosen their death grip in Dean's jacket, knuckles no longer as tight and wound up, relaxing into a softer hold. He can feel the slight tremor of Dean's muscles under his skin, still shaking from everything that had happened.

A somewhat awkward-sounding cough breaks them apart, and they both look over to a red-faced Sam, who is staring down at the floor as if there was nothing more important right now than the state of his shoes.

"Apologies, Sam." Castiel is first to break the silence, seeing that Dean was trying his best not to laugh at the unapologetic sounding apology, even though he was feeling a little bit embarrassed himself.

"Yeah, uh, sorry Sammy." Dean adds onto the apology.

"It's just uh..." Dean looks out to the window, a new color catching his eye. Almost immediately, he realizes which one it is, and turns back to his brother with a grin. "I can see why yellow was your favorite color"

Dean wished he had a camera on him right at that time to record Sam's reaction. First, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion along with his tilted head, and Dean could physically see the gears turning in his head. Better yet was when it all clicked into place, mouth dropping open slightly, eyebrows no longer furrowed but instead raised up near to his hairline, eyes following his own finger which was switching between pointing at Dean, and then Castiel.

"You... Cas... Is he your..."

"You know Sam, it quite interesting how similar, yet also so different your eyes are to Dean’s. The base color is the same, and yet... I can see Dean’s in them, but at the same time, they're very much your own." Castiel notes, always the observant one.

"Huh," is all Sam can say to that, huffing out a laugh, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. "Guess I owe Charlie twenty bucks now."

Before Dean even has a chance to ask what that even meant, Sam began to sway on the spot, quickly shooting a hand to steady himself on the wall behind. Dean was up from his crouched position in a flash, holding out his own arm for support if Sam needed it. It's only a few seconds before Castiel is by his side, concern on his face as he watches Sam try to blink away his incoming unconsciousness.

"Sammy?" Dean asks worriedly, ready to catch Sam if he was to drop to the floor.

"I'm okay. I'm okay... Just... A little wiped out. Think I hit my head pretty hard when that reaper threw me." Sam reassured them, raising a hand to his throbbing head as he spoke.

"C'mon, shake it off man. Cas got stabbed and he walked it off." Dean attempted to joke, though fails to deliver the line as well as he usually would through his concern.

"Yeah... How did you walk that off?" Sam asked, pushing himself back up and away from the wall, keeping one arm pressed against the wall, just in case. "We both saw it. You looked... You looked pretty dead to me."

"I don't know what happened," Castiel answered honestly, glancing down at his own bare chest and stomach, which was no longer littered with cuts.

"I felt April stab me, and then... Then I was awake."

"Hey, as long as you're alive, and you're you, I'm not going to question it too much," Dean deflected their questions, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulders and giving it a fond squeeze. "You have no idea how glad I am to have you back."

Sam's pained groan snaps the two of them out of their gaze, gentle smiles replaced with worried frowns as Sam rubs at his painful head.

"I think... I think I need to go lie down for a while. I'm not feeling too hot." Sam mumbles to them, already stumbling past them and towards the door.

"Sammy," Dean calls after him, pulling Baby's keys out of his pocket and tossing them to Sam, who had stopped and turned in the doorway.

"Get yourself settled. Me 'n Cas need to talk for a bit." Dean instructs, gesturing at the dead body of April and the mess they had made in the scuffle.

Sam gives him a thankful, but weak smile in response, tucking the keys away in his pocket before making his way out of the room, heavy footsteps leading away through the hall before becoming too quiet to hear.

Now, it was just the two of them. Castiel has a hand on his own arm as he shuffled somewhat awkwardly on his feet, trying to figure out how best to approach the subject and break the silence they had found themselves in. Dean meanwhile was stuck between looking at Castiel and the dead reaper on the ground, a million questions in his head, no idea which one he should ask first.

"So, uh... We gonna talk about this?" Dean asked, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

"We probably should."

"You're gonna have to give me a minute here. It’s... A lot to take in."

"I don't really understand what's happening myself. Angels were never supposed to have soulmates."

"But you're not-"

"Not an angel anymore. But Dean, I'm not the first angel to lose their grace and turn mortal. It’s rare, and usually kept quiet, but it's happened. Never, in any of those times, has the angel been given a soulmate. It just... Doesn't happen."

"So, what does this mean? Do you have a soul now? Can that even happen?"

"I... I suppose I do. After all, it's not possible to have a soulmate without one." Cas summarised, placing a hand on his chest as if he might be able to feel his soul residing inside him.

"Wow. First angel to have a soulmate," Dean said with a small huff of laughter, giving Castiel a teasing shove on his shoulder. "Sorry I was the one chosen for you."

Castiel looked up to Dean with a confused frown, rearing his head back slightly at the insult Dean had just given to himself.

"Why would you be sorry?" Castiel asked

"Eh, well," Dean began awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's not exactly like you were expecting a soulmate, y'know? Must be kinda disappointing to find out it's me."

"Dean... What are you talking about?" Castiel asked, stepping slightly closer to Dean. "I wish you could see your soul as I once could. To see how bright it shines, how beautiful it is. If you could see it, you would know you’re wrong. You're a good man, Dean. I couldn't have asked for a better soulmate."

Dean looked taken aback by Castiel’s words, head snapping up from the ground to lock eyes with Castiel, looking to see how sincere Castiel was being with his words.

"If anything, I should be the one apologizing." Castiel added.

"What?"

"Dean, we both know you never wanted a soulmate. You were quite vocal about it. I'm not an idiot Dean, I know I don't fit into the category of your usual romantic endeavors, so I'm sure I wasn't what you were expecting. Besides, I..."

Castiel trailed off, an ashamed and infuriated look appearing on his face.

"I'm no use to you now. To either of you. My powers are gone, and now... I can barely take care of myself. I've only been human for a few weeks, and I already managed to get tricked and tortured by a reaper.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is... I understand. If you're not interested in... If you don't want me as your soulmate, I'll understand."

Castiel was expecting Dean to look relieved at this, perhaps even happy to hear he didn't have to be pressured into anything. To his surprise, Dean actually looked pained at his words. He could see his jaw shifting in place, and wondered if he was trying to work up the courage to say something, or if he was perhaps grinding his teeth.

The last thing he was expecting was for Dean to tug at his arms, pulling him forward into his chest. Dean wrapped his arms tight around Castiel’s back, knowing he wouldn't be ready to let go for a while. Castiel was warm against him, and he could feel the faint beat of his heart through his chest. A heart that, not too long ago, had stopped beating. The thought makes him tighten his hold.

It takes Castiel a few shell shocked moments to remember it was customary in these kinds of moments to hug back. He uncertainty lifts his arms up, deciding to match Dean's position and wrap them around Dean's back. He can feel the tightness of Dean's back muscles under his fingers, but they seem to soften a little once Castiel places his hands over them. Cas can't help but smile a little at this, feeling as if he still had a bit of the healing touch he once had as an angel.

"I don't care if you're an angel, or if you're human. I don't care if you can't do all the things you did for us before. That's not what I care about. I care about you, Cas. Not what you can do for us." Dean tells him, letting his hands slide from Castiel’s back to his arms as he pulls away from the hug, keeping a light hold on his hands. "I don't need you because of your power. I need you. I need you in that stupid trench coat and tie. I need you and your crazy obsession with bees. I need you and your compassion for humans. I need you and your rebellious nature. I need my best friend. I need my soulmate."

And before Castiel can get anything out in response, Dean gives him a warm smile, tugging him towards the door of the room.

"C'mon, Cas. Let's go home."

- - -

It wasn't all smooth sailing from there, as it never is. Dean knew the angels were still out there, still angry, searching high and low for Cas. Ezekiel knew it too, and it wasn't all that surprising that he brought it up one morning, demanding that Castiel had to leave for all of their safety.

Dean knew there was a time when he would have caved in. Ezekiel may have been the only thing holding his brother together right now, and there was no way he was going to gamble on his brother's life.

Things were different now, though. Dean had a soulmate now, how could he possibly abandon Cas to face the angels on his own? Ezekiel always sort of seemed like a no-nonsense kind of angel, so Dean had thought the best approach would be to present as much evidence as possible in Cas' defense. Even Ezekiel couldn't deny that it had been impossible for him to locate Castiel with his Enochian warding tattoo, and Dean brought up how impossible it would be to find Castiel, combining that with, not only how difficult it was to find the bunker, but also how damn near impenetrable the thing was.

That wasn't what swayed him, though. He had never really thought to bring up the whole soulmate thing with Ezekiel, and Ezekiel looked just as confused as they did when they found out, citing that it was impossible and that it had never happened before.

But as Dean began to explain further, he could have sworn he could see a flash of hope in Sam’s Ezekiel's eyes, the first sort of emotion he had ever seen from the angel. He wasn't too sure why until Ezekiel began talking about how it must have been a sign of God, how else would an angel have miraculously developed their own soul, then been given a soulmate?

Dean wasn't all that sold on the idea, finding it hard to believe that the big man upstairs had any interest in the two of them, let alone the fact that he was fairly certain God wasn't even home anymore.

Then again, Ezekiel had a point. If God is the only being that can create a soul, as the angels claimed, then how else did Cas get his soul? And if God did, how far back did this go? If he had been destined a soulmate since birth, was he also Castiel’s since creation? Did God pair them together, billions of years before he was even born? Was it part of God's plan all along, for Castiel to lose his grace, and to become human?

He didn't really know what to think. It was almost too much to think, and quite frankly, he didn't want to argue with Ezekiel about it. Not if it meant that Cas got to stay, here, at home, with Dean, where he should be.

One of the reasons why Dean was so unsure about having a soul mate was that he feared everything would change. He thought that the moment he saw his soulmate, he would be desperate to get out of the hunter's life and settle down like all the others, to go and find that white picket fence, apple pie slice of domestic life.

It's not what happened, however. Everything is pretty much as it was. But now, now there's one more addition to the bunker. Now, he has a second person to help fret over Sam with. Now, there's another voice, this one much gravelier, humming along to whatever song is playing on the old, crackly radio in the kitchen as he cooks. Now, there are warm touches and fond smiles whenever they see each other. Life is as it always is, but now, he has his soulmate. Now, he's happier.

One night, after a filling meal of burgers, as they lazed around the bunkers table with beers in their hands and their stomachs, Sam had asked him that now he could see them, what his favorite color was.

There was barely any hesitation for him, barely any time he needed to think. He simply looked over to Castiel, reaching out for his hand under the table, smiling affectionately at the man next to him before answering.

"Blue."

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Without Question (Epilogue)

Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Content: fluffy conclusion and maybe...mayyyyybe a future fic idea

Warnings: …none? Um...except for that one lady in there.

Word Count: Hot water does not quench my thirst no matter how good it might be for my body...which in itself is such a disaster of a thing.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The life of a parasite is not that complex of an affair. It is born to live inside a host, gather its nutrients from the said host- more than often at the host's expense- live till it can breed more or find a better host. Its entire life is based on the expense of another creature; its survival in the flesh of someone who can contain it. Therefore, it is no wonder she does not like it when someone calls her a parasite. For she is not one. Her kind lives in codependency, finding a host it is compatible with and helping it flourish in return for nourishment.

Her species was known to have always gone for the living, looking for hosts they could control, be the dominant party of the two sitting in the conference room inside the mind of the body they inhabited, the foreboding controllers that they were. However, inhabiting a dead host- or someone near to it- was never talked about for carcasses were beneath them and their Titan-like ego.

But she isn't like them. She wants to be different. To finally have the freedom she has craved for her entire existence; she wants to live it. And so, she has decided to throw all the laws of the dead empire outside the window and try her theory of inhabiting a body nearly at its deathbed.

The woman- strolled into the emergency room with fatal blows to her body in some accident- is covered in blood and bruises when the doctors try to rush into the process of saving her, measuring her heart rate, blood pressure and respiration rate. It is pure chaos for her to watch it all from the ceiling. Humans. Such soft creatures. She can sense that woman's vitals weakening with every passing moment, something the machines tell the medical professionals by a few seconds' delay. No amount of effort is going to repair that internal bleeding and shock accelerating that human's chances of death slithering right by the corner. And just at that second, she knows that flesh is no longer the resident to the soul it has been harbouring since the beginning of its time, she jumps discreetly into the body when the doctors are focusing at the screen that shows the patient is flatlining. One shock to through the defibrillator is enough for her to let the chemicals be catalysed to become one with neurons; her presence gradually gelling with the body to become one with it. And before any other human in the room can debate on it being a medical miracle, a sign of higher power or simply the inadequacy of the machines, she opens her eyes in her new form, seeing the world through an independent pair of windows for the first time.

Free.

.

"You know, when we both silently agreed on staying together, I wasn't really expecting you to spoil my life like this."

Steve's chuckle reverberates through the kitchen and dining hall. His honey-laced laugh reaches you in the living room to make you smile as you gather the whiteboard, a few markers, the portable speaker, and a couple of other knick-knacks for the small gathering you are about to have.

"If making breakfast every day is spoiling you then I am not even halfway to showing you how much more I can spoil your life, doll," he announces over the sound of something sizzling over the stove.

You bite your lips to stop the overflow of these gushing emotions all inside you. "Oh, let's not forget giving Stace the freedom to do whatever she wants, okay?" You state, getting up and moving towards the hall, "And you making that entire front yard-"

"That's our back yard."

Our back yard.

...Fuck. Why is he like this?

"Making our entire back yard into this freaking perfect garden with all those fancy fairy lights and a freaking gazebo!"

"You liked it," he stresses. You peak in from the entrance of the kitchen, watching him carefully place the omelettes in two plates along with the toasts- yours extra crispy with thinly spread butter on them- before pouring orange juice in two glasses.

"That doesn't matter," you retort, watching him being caught off guard, your heart instantly melting when his eyes light up on seeing you stand there. "I'm not gonna maintain that luxurious green patch when the time comes."

He stands facing you, his hands on his hips and oh heavens! that customised blue apron with chibi Captain America blessing its front gives you all the right feels in your stomach. "No problem," he affirms, picking the plates and moving them to the tiny breakfast table by the French window before coming back for the juice, "I'll take care of it. I'm pretty sure all of these are positive spoil-"

"Oh I'm not done yet," you interject, sauntering towards a slightly confused and faintly excited Steve, "you have me utterly spoiled-" you move your hands around his waist, earning an arched brow from him- "with all-" your hands go beyond his back, moving lower till they land over his butt cheeks- "of that-" and give them a tight squeeze, forcing a delightful hum out of Steve as you push him closer to you- "sex!"

"Hmm," Steve growls, planting his one hand on your waist under your t-shirt, while the other goes up to tease your lower lip with his thumb. "If you don't like being spoiled," he whispers, bringing his lips closer to you but never close enough for you to get a taste of him, "we can always stop."

"Or," you begin to propose through a moan by letting your hands run along the hem of his track pants, creating a wave of disturbance wherever your fingers touch him before stopping at the trail of hair going down, "we could make it a healthy habit so it doesn't seem like I'm being spoiled." 

Your fingers run down that soft golden trail, stirring something inside the Captain, his light eyes feeling a dark edge of mischief being added to them. His finger traces a path down from your lips to your neck, going further down your chest. "Everyone'll arrive in an hour," Steve sighs, giving a light shrug.

"Oh," you turn to look at the clock and realise he's not wrong, letting go of the waistband of his track pants, "then we should-"

Your sentence ends up a light shriek from Steve lifting you by your ass, making your reflexes wrap your legs around him. "That means," he grunts, balancing you effortlessly in those buff arms while his lust-filled eyes have yours locked in place, his voice a shade huskier as he starts moving to the bedroom, "I have a lot of time to make you question all that I do for you. And to you. And more."

Oooh yes!

.

"How do I use this thing?"

Wasn't working with a human vessel not enough? Did they really have to invent these cheap electronic devices?

She looks down at the device that seems to keep buzzing with different messages for some reason as she tries to find her way through the street.

Getting out of the hospital had been easy (and so was getting a fresh set of clothes). Give the docs and nurses another pile of flesh and bones to worry about and they run like scared animals to help their flock. Now, she is out exploring, trying to work with this new suit, find out the perks and non-perks, questioning her idea of travelling solo when having another conscience to talk to and gnaw at would have been easier. Now it's just her with her voice speaking from some uncharted void walking down into a farmer's market, already having discovered how much of gross unwanted attention this sex of the human species is given on the street.

There is a huge variety of delectables lines up that the humans seemingly prefer. Different shapes, colours and sizes. Some smell sweet, some sour, and some smell like they would sting your tongue before leaving a sweetness behind. Strange edibles. She watches another human- a man as far as the scent of the hormones off him goes- politely asking for some fresh oranges while telling the man behind the counter the ones he is trying to pack do not smell fresh. The sweet nectar of curiosity seems to send a reaction to her brain, making her step towards the box of citrus fruits displayed for the customers. Quickly picking half a dozen from down the different boxes, she brings them forward to the man who is nearly losing his patience. "These are fresh."

The man turns to see her. And she gets a good look at him for the first time. Hypnotising blue eyes look at her in a flurry of confusion and gratuitous delight, the beard hiding pink lips and flushed cheeks.

After a short considerable second, he takes the oranges from her. "Thank you," he mentions without blinking, taking a little time to turn back to make the payment. And in that turn is a microscopic moment, he watches, from the corner of his eye, a stranger try to touch her ass for barely a second.

She, of course, feels it too well. The man turns to get hold of that pervert and kick some respect into him only to find her punching the daylights out of him.

And he just stands there, full body in pause, mind in awe of the woman who has knocked that excuse of a man out in one blow, looking at her once again- this time from his heart. She looks back at him too; though with visible shades of uncertainty before looking down at the guy.

"Was I not supposed to do that?" She asks the man who by now has his mouth agape, still looking at her.

He blinks. "Huh?" Looks down at the man and raises his brows and chuckles. "What? No. I mean yes. You are absolutely supposed to do that."

"Oh-" she nods, and he watches her beam and be proud of herself, "okay."

"Um," he tries to catch her attention.  "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She looks down at the hand she used, feeling nothing more than minute tickles. "Yeah, I think I'm good." She turns her gaze back to him with a smile.

He melts inside.

"Do you know where is this place?" She asks him, taking out a card she found in her- the dead woman's- pocket.

"This," he hums, reading the card, "was a few blocks down the road the last I saw it."

"Oh," she scrunches her nose and feels a tired groan come out of her, "how far?"

"I can drop you there if you want," he blurts out, "I'm going that way myself."

She looks at him again. Watching him run his hands through his long lush hair, wondering if she'd seen him somewhere before shaking that thought off, knowing full well that she would remember a pretty face like this. "Yes, I'd like that."

"Great," he chirps. "Oh, I'm James," he addresses, drawing forward his hand, "my friends call me Bucky."

"Bucky," she tastes the name on her tongue and feels all the black mush inside her do a little dance for some unknown reason.

"And you are?"

She licks her lips and feels them stretch involuntary, drawing her own hand forward to meet his, saying her name to bring herself- her true self- into existence, letting the air carry her name for whatever future it is to bring for her.

[magaprima]

Part 2 Episode 5 Thoughts (1 out of 2)

Okay, before I begin my usual rambly analysis, just wanna say that first scene with Lilith and it focus on that cabinet...I’m sure I have that, or something very similar. But anyway, onwards

Can’t help but notice that when Lilith is sat in the chair, chatting to Stolas, swigging an enticing glass of whiskey, with the lighting and the way the fire is glowing in the hearth and casting her shadow all around the room, this not only creates the illusion of hell, reminding us of where exactly Lilith truly lives, that for all her time spent living in this cottage, her true home is in Pandemonium, but it also has very old-movie vibes when portraying a ‘devil woman’, all hellish colours and shadows, and we can also go onto the whole ‘shadow self’ idea, and how Lilith’s shadow is larger than her physical body, thus implying she’s much more powerful and ‘larger than life’ than she appears while pretending to be Ms Wardwell.

Also she is talking about this prophecy really openly and loudly with Stolas, fully aware that Adam is in the next room. I get the feeling she’s either totally forgotten about him being there, or her time at Baxter High and in Greendale has convinced her that humans never realise what’s really going on even if it bit them on the nose, so she’s just not being careful at all. 

‘Just as Sabrina performed an exorcism and a resurrection in perversion of the Nazarene’s miracles, she must now bring down the temple’ Some nice exposition there. And that is exactly what it feels like. It might as well be an aside in Macbeth for the way this was written. 

Also, Stolas, why are you asking which temple? What other temple is there besides the Church of Night? Get with the program, dude. But then when Lilith says about setting the bricks tumbling and Stolas replies, she genuinely laughs and I would love to know the sassy back and forth that went on between those two....before we discovered he was a spy for Lilith and so even her own familiar couldn’t be trusted. 

“I do so love stirring the cauldron”

I think this is one of the truest things about Lilith. She likes stirring things for the sake of stirring them sometimes, with no ulterior motive, she just enjoys seeing the chaos and chain reaction a simple stir can cause. And she genuinely has fun with these sorts of things, where she sets things in motion with a word or a look or an dea. I kind feel this goes back to the beginning, and how she essentially ‘stirred the cauldron’ in question God and Adam and defying him, and so comes from her desire to overturn the status quo which is quite intrinsic to who she is. No doubt, within reason, she stirs shit up in Hell too, and it wouldn’t take much for those court members to turn on each other. 

When Adam comes in and says ‘Mary’, Lilith stops mid drink and keeps her glass at her mouth as she looks at him, which I think does slightly imply she had forgotten just a little bit that he was in the next room. She’s gotten used to monologuing in privacy but now there’s someone there. A mortal someone. Also the fact she’s pretending to be someone called ‘Mary’, a Christian name, stands out even more when a moment ago she was all ‘bring down the temple’ and talking about the Nazarene etc. 

“I thought I heard you talking to someone” Yeah ‘thought’. 

Lilith throws him her usual polite Principal Wardwell smile she throws everyone when they’re asking questions she wants them to forget about, but the way she says ‘No, Adam, dear, go back to bed, I’ll be in shortly’, shows us how since the night of the Sweethearts Dance, she has definitely decided to keep him around. The risk of him interrupting her or causing to have to be ‘on’ with her Mary persona more often is worth his company apparently, which is very revealing. There’s no romance here, and they’re obviously not sleeping together (confirmed by his jammies being full buttoned plus the info we learned in Part 3 about his relationship with the actual Mary) but there’s already an odd...comfortability, which I don’t think Lilith has even realised, and most likely is telling herself it’s for convenience so people won’t come looking for him, but that hasn’t stopped her before with the pizza boy, the jock, Hawthorne...so how come Adam gets special treatment? 

Also he smiles so cutely  and nods at the way she says ‘I’ll be in shortly’ and he doesn’t ask her how long, doesn’t ask what she’s doing, he simply accepts that she wants to stay up a little longer on her own. He’s very respectful of her choices and of giving her distance when she wants it, and I think this is a large part about why Lilith didn’t kill him off even before she started to fall for him. 

She does roll her eyes a little once he’s gone, and it just makes me think that with him there she has to be Mary all the time. And she’s being the Mary he expects her to be; sweet, polite, concerned about her students etc. It’s only after the development towards the end of this episode, that we then see in the next episode, that while she’s still being ‘Mary’ she’s now behaving more like the Mary she is with Sabrina, which is more like herself. 

Also the fact Lilith glamours herself to look like Edward Spellman is not only one of only two times we see Lilith appearing as a man (the second time is as Adam when she goes to Mary for help, and yeah I need to analyse the fuckity fuck out of that moment) because Lilith, understandably, seems to prefer being a woman even when wearing a glamour, but it’s also quite an interesting thing for her to pretend to be, considering Lilith does play, inadvertently, a parental role towards Sabrina quite often, and you could reason even more so in Part 3. And then with the fact Lilith is now carrying Lucifer’s child just as Diana did, well the whole Edward connection is even more observationally interesting. 

Also Lilith just popping out of the shadows after removing the glamour and looking down on Sabrina and being all ‘and bring down the temple, she shall’ very clearly shows Lilith obviously thinks they’ll never see her in a million years because they never do; and guess what? She’s right. 

Then when Sabrina goes to her for help, and she’s all ‘And your Father’s ghost told you all of this, that Father Blackwood murdered him and your Mother’, it always makes me wonder how much truth was in that. Lilith never does outright lies, she uses the truth to lie as that’s usually more convincing and harder to disapprove, so I imagine there are some elements of truth here. We do know Edward had a manifesto Blackwood wouldn’t have wanted, and now Blackwood has his own manifesto, so there’s motivation, plus we know Faustus disliked a lot of things that Edward wanted for the Churches of Darkness (Equality for witches, for one)...is it possible Blackwood tried to stop them getting the manifesto to the Anti-Pope and the whole thing went wrong? That he was to blame but by accident? Or was it one of his dedicated Judas Society boys that did it? Taking Blackwood’s words as instruction rather than complaint, and then realising what had happened, covered it up to save himself as much as anything? I just feel there are elements of truth here and it does make sense for him to be connected to it all things considered, but I’m just not quite sure which parts are accurate and which are exaggerated. 

“Well, I’ll be damned” Usually, they stay stuff in the reverse in this show. ‘Those blessed Pagans’ instead of ‘those cursed Pagans’, and ‘what in the heaven’ instead of ‘what in the hell’, so I feel like ‘I’ll be damned’ should be reversed, like ‘I’ll be blessed’ or something along that line. I feel this was just a slip up on the writers part (much how I hated in the little mermaid on Broadway, they had the sisters say ‘she doesn’t even dip her toe in’ rather than ‘her tail in’; keep with the lexicon, people!) but I would really love if it was because she was spending so much time with Adam and so having to be careful what she says and how she says things, and she’s got into a habit of saying ‘I’ll be damned’ and ‘what the hell’ and didn’t realise she did it with Sabrina. 

When Sabrina says ‘you were his secretary, what do you remember about that time?’ you see the slightest flicker in Lilith’s expression where she’s like ‘oh yeah I was his secretary wasn’t I? And...in love with him, I think? But yes secretary...and obviously, I know things’ and so she proceeds to do what she does often with Sabrina; bluffs, bluffs like hell. She even has the same vibe as the exorcism episode where she’s all pacing around, avoiding Sabrina’s eye as she instead looks into the fire, going ‘ah, well, erm, yes, I...’ and buying herself time to come up with a story, trying to remember what she does know about what happens and neatly tying herself into it.

When she finally has a story in mind, she literally swivels around, chin lifted, like yes I am here with a story, I’m good now, let’s start again. Ahem, there was an enquiry. You can literally see that that she has taken that brief hesitant moment to come up with everything she’s about to say now, but the difference from here to exorcism episode, is she now has Sabrina’s full trust, so she doesn’t have to go so crazy and elaborate and all over the place with her story. She keeps it short and simple and it’s safe and convincing.

“An inquiry, immediately after the crash, the very definition of a whitewash”; definitely happened, therefore she starts with the truth, an indisputable fact, but she delivers it with emotion, reminding Sabrina subtly ‘yes I love him too and the whitewash of it all hurt’ and obviously that makes her story not just believable but sympathetic; she and Sabrina both want justice for Edward, don’t they?

“You know who ordered it and reviewed it’s findings of course?” Again, easy fact to know and prove, so we can definitely assume Blackwood was in charge, and it would make sense since he became High Priest in Edward’s place. 

But then Sabrina starts asking legit questions such as why did Blackwood want to kill her parents, was it purely for ambition, what work was she trying to stop and Lilith now has to move into the manipulation part of the story, bending the truth, telling it in a way as to make it work in her favour. 

“Your Mother and Father were bound for Rome, well more accurately the Vatican necropolis beneath Rome, he was to meet with the Anti-Pope and deliver his manifesto, a bold doctrine to reform the church of night” I’m guessing this is all true, unless Lilith went to the lengths of shoving Edward’s manifesto into the bottom of the ocean, this all seems correct, but this would have been information easily researched, and no doubt the reason Hilda and Zelda don’t talk about it, as it’s the idea that maybe someone in the church wanted him dead for his manifesto and they can’t face the idea of that. So they always insist it’s an accident. 

“A traditionalist like Blackwood would do anything to stop Edward from presenting it to the Anti-Pope” Now this is the bit which is more theory than fact, but note how she doesn’t state it as fact, it’s all ‘well he is a traditionalist’ which is very true, so she lets Sabrina fill in the gaps there, she doesn’t commit to the theory, only suggests it. Stirring the cauldron. But, considering how vehemently Blackwood tries to stop Sabrina presenting the manifesto and his wide-eyed look when he sees it, and how he freaking KILLS the Anti-Pope to stop it all, suggests Lilith might have hit the nail on the head. Whether it was Blackwood himself or, as I said above, one of his boys taking it upon himself to do it and Blackwood covered it up, I think we can safely presume he was involved somehow. 

“What was in the manifesto? You must have kept a copy” Sabrina says and you would think, as his secretary. Mary would indeed have a copy. But Lilith knows this is the one bit she can’t bullshit, because if Sabrina gets to the manifesto what she claims was in it could be easily disproven, so Lilith doesn’t even make an attempt, she simply she says no there was only one, but when she says ‘somewhere at the bottom of the ocean’ she yet again plays the hurt and sad card, that subtle reminder that she cared about Edward too, it all encourages Sabrina to share with her, to trust her, to believe they’re in this together. 

“Well, then your parents would not have died in vain” That was the money phrase right there. That’s the one that Lilith knows will push Sabrina into action, the idea that not only have her parents been murdered, but that their attempts were lost and all for nothing, directly appeals to her sense of family loyalty and her ‘I must do what’s right no matter the cost’ vibe. Lilith’s smile is almost smug but she manages to hold it back, because she’s probably thinking ‘Getting Sabrina to take on Blackwood and avenge her Father to bring down the temple is literally the easiest task ever. I’m done and it’s not even lunch’.

Also, later on when Adam asks about Sabrina, that tells us he was in the house when Sabrina was there. Did she meet him? I mean she must have seen him at the dance but did she actually meet him here? Did she realise he was a mortal and so keep quiet, but then think to herself that Ms Wardwell is even more someone she can trust, because she wants a life with mortals just as Sabrina does? Also she told Sabrina the reason she was excommunicated for wanting to marry a mortal; does she think Adam is that mortal? Or that it was so long ago that that mortal has died and Adam is new? Why could we not have had a scene where Adam walked in on Lilith and Sabrina and awkwardness ensued??

[aziraamane]

(Part 5 of the fallen!zira fix I've been posting recently, but I am currently very drunk and I need to post this now, I will work on the tags later)

~*~

The Fall had happened so quickly, there hadn't been time to close and lock the bookshop. As a result, Crowley and Aziraphale returned to Soho to be met with a police cordon around the shop and several uniformed officers inside, clearly under the impression that the plump, jolly, slightly camp owner had been kidnapped or such. How long had they been Below? 

"No, no, my dear chap, I'm fine - tickety-boo, you might say - no? Very well - "

"Mr Fell, you were gone for nine days without a trace!"

"Yes, I know...I'm dreadfully sorry to have bothered you all like this. Oh, what a to-do…" 

Aziraphale spoke pleasantly enough to the concerned officers, and once they were satisfied (plus one or two surreptitious miracles from Crowley to make them conveniently forget why they were there), they all soon departed, leaving the husbands in peace.

Crowley put his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder. "So...cocoa, angel?"

"That sounds delightful, my dear," Aziraphale smiled, nuzzling Crowley with a sigh. "Goodness me, I'm exhausted."

"Go upstairs. I'll bring it to you, yeah?"

Crowley watched Aziraphale drag himself away, black manicured thumb pressed to his lips in thought. Talking about everything could wait. Aziraphale needed to rest now...to adjust.

And so Crowley went off to make the warm drink that his husband favoured so much. It was too sickly for his own taste, but his love had ever the sweet tooth.

Memories of their years together budded pleasantly in Crowley's mind - feeding Aziraphale chocolates as they cuddled in bed, walks in St James' Park and dining at the Ritz, stumbling over their vows the day of their wedding, making love under stars Crowley himself had created. They hadn't known the meaning of the word 'eternal' until that night, almost ten years ago now...after the Apocalypse-That-Was-Not, when Aziraphale said "I think I've caught up with you at last, dear," and kissed Crowley for the first time. There was much to be said about a touch of human lips; so simple, yet so delightful, a stroke of biological genius. Once they started, they'd never been able to stop.

Angel, human, or demon, Crowley wouldn't let anything, anyone, take those blissful memories away. 

He'd just finished making the cocoa when he felt a flare of emotion from upstairs - followed by a cry - and then the shattering of glass. Crowley abruptly dropped the filled mug back onto the counter and made for the stairs.

"Aziraphale!" The worn wooden staircase splintered under Crowley's feet as he ran up two at a time. Hot air whipped his long curls around his face, ice stabbing into his heart. "Aziraphale!"

Everything that ought not be flying through the air, was flying through the air. A shattered piece of antique pottery slashed Crowley's cheek the moment he entered the bedroom, sending dark blood streaming down his face. Crowley clapped a hand to the wound and forced his way through the flying carnage, towards his husband kneeling before what remained of his full-length mirror. 

"Angel! Get a hold of yourself!" Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's shoulders and shook him, but Aziraphale only let out a scream of fury and tore at his own face with his nails. 

"Why did She forsake me? Why did She take my eyes? Why?!" Aziraphale collapsed against Crowley, heaving out howling sobs of utter heartbreak. 

He's seen his eyes, Crowley realised, seen the inky black depths deep-set in his plump, pale face. There were no mirrors in Hell - probably for the best - so coming home had been the first time Aziraphale could see what the Fall had done to him. 

Aziraphale's tears seemed to have broken the blind rage, objects dropping from the air with various thuds, tinkles and clangs. Ignoring the blood sheeting down his cheek, Crowley drew Aziraphale into his arms, cradling the back of his head as his husband sobbed out his grief. His nails left bloody furrows in his skin, which Crowley wiped away with a minor miracle. "It's okay, angel," he murmured. "S'okay..I'm here...you're safe with me…"

"I'm not your angel," Aziraphale choked. "I'm a - I'm a - I'm hideous!"

"No, angel - "

"I'm not your angel!"

The window behind Crowley exploded into a million twinkling shards. He flinched as glass rained down on them, but it was the rage in Aziraphale's voice that hurt him more. He knew he didn't mean it, that it was the demonic part of him rising up, but still, it hurt to see Aziraphale so pained and lost. 

"You will always be my angel," he said firmly, drawing back, "and a little thing like your eyes will never stop me loving you. You are my everything, Aziraphale. Six thousand years spent longing for you, and now I have you, I'll never let you go, not for Heaven, not for Hell, not for anything."

Aziraphale's body still shook with sobs, but some calmness seemed to be filtering back into him. "This isn't like me," he whispered. "What's happening to me, Crowley?"

Crowley snapped his fingers and the mug of cocoa downstairs appeared in his hand. "It'll pass," he soothed, pressing the mug into Aziraphale's hands, "and until it does, and forever after, I'll be here. I love you, angel. I won't let you go through this alone."

Aziraphale smiled weakly. "Thank you, dear...oh, but I've made a terrible mess of the place - let me clear this - " 

Crowley snapped his fingers again and everything flew back into its normal position, twisting and turning as broken pieces reformed. He tapped the side of Aziraphale's mug, then his nose, and winked, getting to his feet as Aziraphale did the same. 

"You are too good to me, darling," Aziraphale sighed, as he allowed Crowley to lead him towards the bed. He sat down on the edge and glanced down at his cocoa; steam began to rise from it as he miracled it warmer, then he took a sip. "Oh...that's wonderful. Thank you. I don't know what came over me...a white-hot anger, such as I have never felt before…"

"S'normal," Crowley said, stroking Aziraphale's sparse curls of hair. "All those negative emotions inside you have a place to escape now. Being an angel's usually powerful enough to keep them in check, but…" He shrugged. "We're creatures of chaos and we thrive on negativity. But don't let a stupid thing like becoming a demon stop you from being the most angelic fucking creature of chaos you can be."

Aziraphale nestled into Crowley's side with a sigh. "I feel I would be rather lost without you, dear heart. Goodness, but I love you so much, you know that, don't you?"

"More than ever, angel. More than ever."

"And you really aren't put off by my eyes?"

Crowley kissed Aziraphale soundly, hoping he would know his answer by that alone. When Aziraphale hummed contentedly and slipped his tongue into Crowley's mouth, he knew his angel believed him. 

[dolphin-bouillabaisse]

GO-ctober Prompt, 24

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #24 - Dizzy

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

They'd been driving for quite some time now, the usual heart-stopping tumble up and down small country roads that left Aziraphale grabbing onto whatever he could find. The demon hadn't told him where they were going, had only asked if he was interested in a 'day out', so he was quite confused when they stopped at a small carpark leading to nowhere in particular.

A field of grass stretched out before them, empty and desolate. Stepping out of the car, Aziraphale felt the wind rush through his hair, and saw it a bit more dramatically on Crowley's head, red strands almost obscuring his glasses.

“Not that I'm complaining, dear-” he said as they trudged a bit down the field, away from the car, and further into the windswept nothing, “but why exactly did you want to come here?”

“I really needed to stretch a bit.”

“What-” Aziraphale wanted to inquire further, but was silenced by the sudden appearance of black feathers obscuring his view.

He could count the number of times he'd seen Crowley's wings completely unfurled on one hand, and they never ceased to take his breath away. There was a difference between the small shape they took on when he manifested them at their home, asking for (or rather hinting at) a preening, and their true wingspan completely spread out. Neither of them were bound to specific shapes – their bodies could change, and so could their wings, conforming to whatever size they needed – but he'd seen human-bodied angels in full flight, and even they could not come close to the glorious black wings he was currently staring at as Crowley flapped them once, twice, cracking his neck with a quite joyful look on his face.

“Crowley!” He finally managed, not looking quite as happy. “What are you- someone could see!”

“No one around for miles, angel.” Crowley grinned. “That's why we needed to go so far. C'mon, get them out. Don't you feel cramped too?”

Aziraphale paused. It was hard to admit, but the demon was right, he barely needed to tempt him. Even when hidden from view in some ethereal plane not of their understanding, he could feel his wings constantly bumping against edges, pulling close, muscles and bones feeling stiffer each day. The small outings in the cottage weren't of much help, even though he quite enjoyed them (mostly because Crowley could not keep his hands to himself whenever he saw Aziraphale's wings).

He sighed, closed his eyes and let his shoulders drop, and felt the soft whoosh of another set of wings joining Crowley's in this realm.

Crowley let out a complimentary whistle. “Looking good there, angel.”

“Thank you.” He replied, all prim and proper, before a small grin pulled on his lips too. “I have a very good preener.”

“That you do.”

“I'm afraid all his hard work is for nothing, though, considering how windy it is here.”

He turned, nonetheless, in the direction of the wind, eyes closed, spread his wings even further, felt the air rush through his feathers. What a glorious feeling.

He'd barely opened his eyes again before noticing Crowley had wandered on, even further down the field, to where the wind was strongest. He could smell the sea as he followed him.

“Crowley, where are you- oh.”

They came to a stop at the very edge of the cliffs the field edged onto. A quick glance below revealed crashing waves between sharp rocks, a few seagulls swooping in and out before dashing back off to sea.

“You're not thinking of-”

Apparently he wasn't supposed to end a sentence today, as Crowley already turned to him with that bastardly grin again, and jumped.

“Crowley!” He fell to his knees to look far down over the edge – cream coloured pants stained with grass all but forgotten. This was far too dangerous. If he twisted just the wrong way, if he misjudged a current, if a sudden gust of wind caught him from somewhere, he'd...

Before he could properly look down, a swirl of black and red and iridescent colours already rushed past him up into the sky, the sound of raucous laughter trailing behind.

“Crowley, will you stop for a second!” He yelled after him as he saw him dive down again. The demon seemed to halt time for a second as he passed him, only to grin at him some more.

“If you want me to stop, you'll have to catch me. This is too good.”

And with that, he fell down the cliffside again.

Aziraphale got up, brushed grass and stains alike from his knees, and huffed. Fine. If a chase was what he wanted, he would get it.

He took a few steps back, collected his wits and a deep breath, and jogged forward until the edge of the field disappeared under his feet and he was airborne.

The rush of wind around his head become stronger with each foot he pushed forward. This was different from flying in heaven, where air and wind conformed more to the angel's will than the other way around. Here, it was a fight between powers, a test of strength and mind, flapping once or twice, searching for the right current to glide, all the while looking out for the endless wall of stone on one side, the endless expanse of deep sea on the other, spotting a small spot of black wings inbetween.

Aziraphale could feel his heart racing. What a glorious feeling.

He'd almost caught up to the demon when he noticed the angel, letting out another laugh.

“Come and catch me!” Crowley yelled again before twisting up, taking a turn, flying past just above Aziraphale. He could feel their primaries brushing for just a second before he was gone again.

Aziraphale took another deep breath, angled his body just so, and pursued.

A few more turns, sinking several feet once, roaring another few upwards, catching sight of Crowley's face once or twice, always with that silly grin, rarely so joyful – Aziraphale couldn't tell how much time they'd spent chasing each other along the cliffs now before going past them, further up in the sky. He'd almost forgotten he was actually planning to catch the blessed demon.

Crowley had not, it seemed, throwing a quick look back at Aziraphale. He appeared to slow down, whether intentionally or not, so Aziraphale could almost reach the tips of his wings – a quick push, a hurried flap, and he was off again.

“Oh no, you don't.” Aziraphale mumbled to himself, wind picking up around him, and with one more push himself he was at the demon's side, wings almost colliding, grabbing onto his jacket.

“Got you!” He shouted before realising he'd ignored the current for just one second-

they twisted, spiralled, wings knocking together, the wind coming from all directions. Seconds, and the ground came closer, Crowley twisted them up, Aziraphale pulled against him, and they slammed along the field, throwing up patches of grass all around them.

Whether by miracle or good reaction, he wasn't sure, but neither of them was particularly hurt apart from a few scratches. He dropped down onto his back, wings spreading on the cool grass, just as Crowley sat up next to him and laughed again.

“Lord, Crowley, you are-” He covered his eyes and sighed. “My head is spinning. I feel dizzy.”

“Feels good, eh?”

The voice was much closer now, and as he pulled away his hands, he came face to face with Crowley leaning over him. Instead of an answer, he pulled him down for a kiss. What a glorious feeling.

They stayed there for what seemed a little eternity. Aziraphale's heart was still racing, even as Crowley laid half atop of it. His wings spread over them, a canopy as dark as the night, and mottled with iridescent spots just as much as the stars sprinkled through the sky. The wind barely blew past them in their cocoon of feathers. A beautiful sight. Aziraphale never understood why he hid his wings for so long. Then again, maybe he hadn't – maybe Aziraphale had just never seen them.

“Do you do this often? Go out to stretch?”

“Mh. Every few centuries, I'd say. Not many places where you can really spread out. Even fewer where you can fly.”

“Mostly dangerous spots, I'd guess.”

“That's half the fun!” He got another one of those bright grins, a twinkle in uncovered golden eyes. “Though not as fun as chasing around an angel, if I'm completely honest.”

“I'm pretty sure I was chasing you, dear.”

Crowley only hummed before resting his head against Aziraphale's shoulder again.

“I don't think I've flown in ages.” Aziraphale scratched through the demon's hair, all snagged up and messy from the wind. “During my last annual report Upstairs, maybe.”

“Mh.” Crowley snuggled closer. “It might be the one thing I miss.”

“It's different here, though. On Earth, I mean. With the winds and such.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I prefer it.”

He could feel the demon's smile – not a grin anymore – against his neck. “You're a pretty good flyer, angel. Didn't expect that.”

“Did you expect me to dash against the rocks, then?”

Crowley sat up again to look at him. “Honestly? I didn't expect you to fly at all. Thought you were gonna rant at me about being careless, and silly, and all that. Like you usually do. All prim and proper. Guess I underestimated you again.”

Aziraphale blushed, just a tiny bit. “To be honest myself... I was going to catch you to reprimand you. At first.”

Crowley barked out another laugh before stroking down the ruffled coverts of the white wings stretched out under them. “Your wings are a mess, angel.”

“And whose fault is that?!”

“I suppose mine aren't looking any better.” He flapped his wings once, the wind rushing into their little safe sphere for just a second. Barely a feather out of place.

“Well, I'd say there's nothing left to do but to sort them out back at home.” Aziraphale smiled up at him. He was never going to ask for it outright, of course.

“Well.” The smile was returned. “If you're offering it like that.”

[obaewankenope]

work your sad magic on my fluff headcanons! 1. Azi is responsible for Crowley's current hair. He'd kept it long for a lonnng time and Azi wondered (after some wine) if maybe it was time for a change, and they found some scissors, and then this bouffant happened. Azi is very sorry, and Crowley is very happy. 2. Crowley retains a lot of snake-habits esp. when he's tired/stressed/his brain turns off. Such as hissing/lisping, curling into a ball, taste-smelling etc.

Okay, you’ve got one of these filled for now :)

.

“To be trustedis a greater compliment than being loved.” - GeorgeMacDonald

When Crowley had been in heaven, his hair had been oneof his most favoured things about his Appearance. The locks rolling down hisback to his hips, curling and bouncing with motion and celestial power. Deep,burning red like some of his most beloved parts of the cosmos.

The fall had dulled the shine, taken much of thecelestial glow from his hair, but the curls remained. Shorter, less beautiful,but still beautiful. Different yet the same. Or the other way around. Like him[1].

Several hundred years and he rarely cut it. Perhapsthree times before the 18th century came and went. Once was out ofnecessity—too much hellfire being tossed around—but the other two were becausehe wanted—needed—a change.

Now, in this twenty-first century, full of a lot morevanity and confusion and self-doubt, Crowley’s hair stands out as a tad bitunusual—especially when he doesn’t bother to pull it back into a bun or braidit or any of the other myriad of ways humans have developed over the ages fortheir hair[2].

One of the styles he often uses is a simple bun,sometimes scraggly as all hell, that pulls enough of his hair back that itdoesn’t get in his way but he still feels like it’s got something to it. Someweight.

People probably don’t even realise how heavy hair is—especially people who are used to longhair and suddenly have it short. It’s very much like having a tonne weighttaken off you and being replaced with a cloud[3].

Back in Rome, Crowley had cut his hair but he hadn’t liked it. It just fit in with the styleof the times. Marked him as Not Briton and thus not a slave—he’d had enough ofthat after one day and he may or may not have caused a lot of suffering tobefall an entire line of Roman leaders for making the mistake.

In the 1970s, he’d cut it to be a little less obviousthat he was Different to the humans, especially since he needed to blend in andnot Stand Out[4]. He’d let it grow outafter and in the mid-90s it was a decent enough length that he quite enjoyedit. Of course, then he was informed he’d be taking the Antichrist to his DesignatedStarting Point on the gameboard called Armageddon and he’d forgotten all abouthis hair for a Good Long While.

Until Aziraphale touches it reverently after imbibingfar too much wine and declares, “it’s time you had a haircut dear” as though itwas the most normal thing to declare when neck-deep in your cups and half-fondlingyour demonic not-friend friend without any awareness of what said fondling was doing to said not friend demon friend.

This is how Crowley finds himself sat on a ricketystool—knees bent at odd angles so his feet can perch on the cross beam on thebottom of the stool legs, head back, shoulders taut—while an angel runs his fingersthrough red locks and hums appreciatively.

In short: it’s sheer fucking agony.

“You really ought to take better care of your hair,Crowley, it’s far too lovely to—to—be—left to get all tangled like this,”Aziraphale says, tripping over words because of his state of inebriation and nothingelse. Obviously.

Crowley wants to reach out and touch the angel whenAziraphale comes to stand in front of him but the demon keeps his fingers to himself and firmlycontrols his reactions. He may be drunk as all hell himself but he’ll be blessed if he fucks up now just for afew seconds of gratification.

“Been a rough few weeks, angel,” Crowley sighs, unableto stop himself from leaning into the touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his templewhen the angel touches the hair there with a gentle grace. “You’d be a littlebedraggled yourself in my place.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale disagrees, smiling, “I’d be anabsolute mess—a ‘hot mess’ as the kids say, right?”

No. No that is notright but Crowley doesn’t correct the angel, too distracted by the softness inthose angelic eyes affixed to the demon. “Something like that, yeah.”

It’s no wonder at all that Crowley agrees to letAziraphale cut his hair and doesn’t even complain about it—well, not muchanyway, he has to complain; it’s what he does—afterthe angel has given him an absolutely idioticcut that works for him only because Crowley has one of Those Faces.

“I am sorry,” Aziraphale says for what is probably thetwentieth time in as many minutes and Crowley waves him off.

“It’s fine, angel,” he says, turning his head left andright to look at the style from both angles. “This is—yeah—not—not bad.”

“Oh! Wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaims, clapping hishands together, forgetting entirely that he’s holding a pair of scissors thatdon’t impale his hands only because Crowley doesn’t want them to. “I really wasworried you wouldn’t like it!”

Crowley has no way to explain to Aziraphale that evenif the angel had made him bald hewouldn’t have said he disliked it without sounding Supremely Pathetic And Besottedand revealing far too muchat an inconvenient time. Instead, the demon miracles the scissors into his ownhands and gives Aziraphale a smirk. “My turn to return the favour,” he jokes,snipping with the scissors in the air.

Aziraphale instantly backs away with his nervousno-thank-you-very-much-I’d-rather-not smile and Crowley laughs.

“I’m only joking, angel,” he says, banishing thescissors away to wherever. “Your hairsuits you just fine.”

[1]No matter how much Crowley may argue to the counter, he is—and always has been—fundamentallythe same person whether he is Archangel or Fallen. It is revealed in the wayshe refuses to leave children to suffer, injuries to fester, and death to happenunless it’s Deserved or Entirely Necessary. Yes, he is only onedemon-eternal-being and thus cannot prevent all the suffering and pain anddeath there is, but—and this is the most important part—he tries. Oh, how he tries.

[2]Haircare—or hairdressing, as it is known—is something humanity developed thousandsof years ago, with Greek writers mentioning the habit of hairdressers. In someunabridged versions of Aristophanes works, hairdressers are referred to as both‘blessings’ and ‘nightmares incarnate’, likely owing to the tendency of ahairdresser to either be the nicest person on the planet or someone who likelyneeds to be strangled with a hair extension. Those specific works ofAristophanes are not to be found bythe common websearcher or archive-hunter; indeed, they can be found only in Aziraphale’s shop on the thirdshelf from the bottom of the first aisle of shelves on the right of the door.But that’s not a hint to go looking. The Principality is very protective of hisbooks, even the ones documenting HairdressersFrom Hell (published 1902 by anonymous). He will hurt you.

[3]This metaphor comes from the author’s own experiences with long ass hair thatis just Too Long To Be Practical and thus was cut short in a rebellious act ofFuck You Mum and turned out rather well in the long run.

[4]Ostensibly, Crowley argued that it was to be better at demoning but the truthwas so he would be less obvious to any demons in the area and also—mostly actually—because he had to reportregularly to hell in the 1970s and 1980s and he wanted to spice it up a littleconsidering the last time they’d seen him he’d had… well… sideburns.

[alysmarylin]

The war is over, my love is not

The second part of a fic about Crowley and Aziraphale during World War II, the first part is here (sorry, don't know how to insert proper links):

In this fic Aziraphale and Crowley meet for the first time since 1941 among ruins of Berlin. I'm a Russian myself and I entertained a thought that Crowley made friends with Soviet soldiers.

Aziraphale could smell the scent of Death in the air. He'd been on Earth since the very beginning of time, and he'd seen just as many deaths as anyone could. But it was different there, in ruins of Berlin, where bodies piled up among rocks and metal and ragged cloth. He knew, reasonably, that if the world was about to end, he'd be notified. It wasn't a horseman on a paled mare whose name was Death, not yet - it was nothing but works of Man. And yet, if felt like the end of the world. He was an angel, but even he started to fear that God wasn't there anymore.

Aziraphale came there by the end of April, out of his own will, wishing to help as many souls reach Heaven as he could. He filled those dying of despair and dread with hope and forgiveness, he eased the pain of children he couldn't save, he gave heartbroken mothers' souls respite, he healed festered wounds of those whose flesh was torn apart and rotting.

He wished he could've ended it all, long before it came to that, but one angel couldn't stop the madness of a Mankind, and God... God was silent.

"Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel, only humans do that" - he heard Crowley's words inside his head. Oh, to think he believed the guilliotine was the worst they could do... Crowley always turned out to be right. Aziraphale would get angry at him, but in the end, he'd always be right. Last time he saw Crowley, in 1941, they both thought they've already seen butchery and unmatched atrocities. That was before Auschwitz. He wondered, what Crowley would've said about Auschwitz. He wondered where Crowley was.

"Maybe I should've told him".

He often wondered if it was his love for Crowley that kept him going for past 4 years. He'd seen a lot of things that made it hard to still love humanity, or trust God with his ineffable plan. But his will to see Crowley once again - to take him for a long walk or to a dinner out, or just to look at him from afar, made it all worth surviving. Even what he'd seen in Poland. One could never forget those kinds of things...

His eyes filled with tears, despite his best efforts. If only tears of angel could heal the humanity, or just one single human soul.

He walked further from the ruins towards the street, when he hears a sudden noise that broke the silence. Aziraphale stopped.

That was a tank driving down the street, men speaking and laughing in some foreign language. Russians? Might be. It was a time for their victory, after all. It was their time to celebrate and laugh, before they come back to their ravished homes to cry once again.

Suddenly, the tank stopped and one man took off and walked down the street. Other men waved him goodbye as they moved forward.

The man seemed healthy enough to walk, and as far as Aziraphale could see, there was no blood on his face or his clothes. He was dressed in grey or dusty black, and his clothes seemed ragged and dirty, but so was everything else - there was nothing but dirt and blood and ashes around them. The man was walking towards him. His face was covered in dirt as well. And then, as sun came out from the clouds and lighted the entire street, the man's hair shone with flaming red tounges of fire underneath all the filth that covered it.

"A redhead", Aziraphale thought. "It's well past time I stopped shivering at every readheaded man I see". But he couldn't help it. He couldn't take that picture out of his head. And then he heard man's voice.

- You really don't change, angel. All that wreckage around and you're all in white.

He didn't want to believe his ears or eyes. He had already been mistaken for a couple of times before, and that bitter realisation had always been way more painful than no hope at all.

But it was unmistakenly Crowley, thinner than ever, in ragged clothes, white teeth shining like angel's wing, as he was grinning mischovously. His red hair was a huge mess, he was covered in dust, but he still managed to wear dark glasses in all this poorest state of affaies.

- Show me your eyes. - Aziraphale mumbled. - I want to know I'm not hallucinating.

- They shouldn't be surprised to see snaky-eyed lad after what they've done themselves, angel. - Crowley took his glasses off, but then put them back within a moment. - But I still prefer my privacy.

- Oh, Crowley! - Aziraphale grabbed him in his arms, unable to hold tears anymore. - I'm so glad to see you. I've seen such horror, I've.... I've been here since April, and I was in Poland before that, and I almost lost my faith...

- Come on, don't be like that. - Crowley gently pushed him away. - I can't blame you for your tears, though. There were things that could make Satan himself tremble. But it's not demonic work, of that I can assure you.

- I know. Works of Man. Our Lord's most beloved creation. - Aziraphale was well past the point when he blamed Hell for human atrocities.

- Well, I guess it's almost over now. - Crowley gently put his arm on angel's shoulder. - I was planning to go home soon enough.

- Home?

- London, not Hell. You wanna go with me?

Aziraphale felt bad for feeling so much joy amidst such destruction, and yet he couldn't help but smile.

- I do. I haven't been there in a while. The place I lived in was destroyed. My bookshop, though - I hope it's alright.

- I'll have to find myself a new place. Maybe you could give me some advice, I haven't been to England since I left in 1941. I left my Bentley in Paris, in some reliable hands. Well, I hope they're reliable. I have to believe car's fine, or else I won't forgive myself.

- I bet there's not a scratch on it. - Aziraphale smiled. He told himself he'd use all his powers if something happened to Crowley's car. - We can drive home together, if you wish.

- I don't think it's safe, angel. We'd better meet in London. At least there IS London to meet in. - Crowley smiled.

They walked past ruins, as sun was setting down.

- Those soldiers, - Aziraphale asked - That dropped you off... You spoke their language? You speak Russian?

- Why act all surprised? - Crowley sounded a bit offended. - I speak a number of languages, I've been there for a while, you know. Not that I'm fluent or anything, but I made it clear I'm not a German, for a start.

- Have you been there? On Eastern front? - One thing Aziraphale knew of Eastern front, is that young boys came back all white-haired from there, if they were lucky, or unlucky enough to survive it.

- For a while. I've been to a number of places. Not that I want to recall it now, when all this is over.

They reached the crossroads, and Crowley stopped.

- You're here to help people find their final peace, aren't you? - Crowley asked.

- I am. And you? I wonder if Hell still has any work to do, given the...

- I'll just make sure right people will make it to Hell. - Crowley smirked. - That's about all I can do now.

- I hope I'll be back in London by September. If my bookshop is still there, I'll be waiting for you to come. If not...

- I'll find you anyway, mr. Fell. Such a neat surname you made yourself - Fell. But you didn't fall, it's me who fell, no? - Crowley asked teasingly.

- I was never as good as you at making up names, Anthony J. - Aziraphale replied - If you're so good at searching for people, then I'll see you soon.

- Bye, angel. See you.

Crowley turned around and started walking down the street, his tall figure looking completely black in setting sun. Before Aziraphale could make himself start walking away, Crowley suddenly turned around and shouted:

- I told you we'd win!

, before disappearing completely.

He was right, Aziraphale thought. The nightmare of war was almost over. He was daydreaming of them, meeting once again in London, when he saw a tank driving down the street in his direction.

"It way be foolish of me, but..."

He took a bunch of flowers from inside his jacket - a miracle too minor to be noted - and threw it to the soldiers sitting on the tank. He didn't understand what they said - unlike Crowley, he didn't know a word in Russian - but they smiled at him, and Aziraphale laughed himself, for the first time in 6 years.

[hungarianrhapsodyof1986]

I am Number 39

Chapter 3: First Report

As I hide in a nearby alleyway, the Leaders convene in the City Square. Joe stands amongst them, shaking hands with various members of this Society; fellow Leaders who’ve obviously been in their seats of power long before him.

“Good news or bad news first?” one of the Leaders asks. When I peek, I see it’s Diana speaking, her flowing blonde-white hair now tied up in a neat bun. She is standing on a large, wooden stage. Her once ragged dress is now replaced with a new, white one.

I then realise it’s one of the dresses the Females wear in the Citadel.

“Good news!” cries one of the Leaders. There is a murmur of agreement amongst the crowd, and I see Joe nodding his head. He seems a bit uncertain and silent (very uncharacteristic of him), fidgeting where he stands, and I come to believe that perhaps this is his first time to be part of a Meeting. How new of a Leader is he?

“Then, listen! A new Leader has risen amongst us, and just like his father his name is Joseph. We know him personally as Joe, and he now possesses the title of ‘Love’. When he is more experienced, he’ll take my place as Grand Leader, but for now let us welcome him in our ranks. Love, if you will step forward.”

The other Leaders move aside as Joe walks past them, eyes on his mother. She smiles fondly at him, and both her arms are open. Joe walks into her embrace, and the other Leaders clap their hands, some hooting.

“Welcome, Joe!” one man cries.

“Nice to have you!” a woman exclaims.

“I’m proud of you, son,” Diana says. She pulls away and pats Joe on the back once. “You may go back down.”

Once Joe goes back down and proceeds to the back of the somewhat small crowd, an elderly man with a raspy voice asks “what’s the bad news?”

The crowd murmurs in a agreement again. “Yeah, what’s the bad news?” a younger woman asks.

Diana sighs. “As some of you may have already heard, Devotion has been captured and executed. He was executed just yesterday,” she says, sorrow cracking her voice. There is then a shared gasp amongst the Leaders, and the youngest of them all asks “your Joseph?”

Diana nods solemnly. “Yes. My Joseph,” she says. “If we can all pause for a while in his memory, it would be very much appreciated.”

They are all silent for a span of moments.

“What are you going to do about it?” Joe asks, finally speaking up. There is a rage hidden in his tone, and it appears he can grow angry as well. For such a gleeful person, he can apparently be very vengeful. One of the men in the crowd places a hand on his shoulder comfortingly, but he doesn’t turn to look. He merely stares ahead, waiting for his answer.

“In his honour and by tradition, I will be the one to host the next Abduction. I will make sure revenge is achieved, and I will not rest until that happens. Who volunteers to take charge while I’m gone?”

All of the Leaders - including Joe - raise their hands. Diana looks at Joe fondly, but she raises a hand; signalling him ‘not yet’. Joe then nods in understanding and puts down his hand gingerly.

“I have decided,” Diana says. The Leaders watch her, rapt, as they put down their hands. “Conscience will be the one to watch over our people whilst I am away. Conscience, please come to the stage, if you will.”

A woman who looks just about Diana’s age steps forward and climbs up the stage as the rest of the Leaders applaud. Diana whispers into her ear and although I find it probably important, I shrug the matter aside. What I cannot hear is a matter I shouldn’t dwell on for long.

“Call the Abductors,” Diana orders, and the Leaders disperse, Joe following an elder man to who-knows-where. If they are to convene here in the City Square, that will be much more convenient for me. Diana is making idle talk with Conscience (I don’t know her real name), both individuals still standing on the stage, as I ready my transmitter. I will not be able to record the Abductors’ plan for they are too far from the transmitter, and their voices will doubtlessly be unheard due to the distance between where I stand and where they might meet.

This will be my first report. Through this opportunity which I will unmistakenly take, I will prove myself not only to the Head Sentinel, but also to the Sovranty. I will prove my loyalty and efficiency as a Resident and as a Sentinel, and I will protect the Community from whatever dangers these Outsiders pose. There will not be a Sentinel out here for how many years, but I will do my very best to remain here, always listening, always watching, for as long as I live.

I fidget with the transmitter and press a button. The red bulb flashes brightly, and a hologram appears before me, showing me an empty room which belongs to the Head Sentinel. He is no doubt in the middle of a Training and will be unable to answer my call, but I’m not expecting an answer. This is merely a test to see whether this transmitter truly works.

And it does.

I wait in the alleyway, my attention focused on all the pathways leading to the City Square, watching for any Leader that steps closer. For some reason, as I watch, my thoughts linger on Joe. If he‘s to become Grand Leader of this place, then he will be burdened with these responsibilities. After Diana who, if I recall what O436 said correctly, is also named Joy is gone, he will take her place.

Would he be offered leniency, if he were caught?

It would be such a waste. This man, strange as he may be, is perfect for Residency. He seems to be diligent and loyal. He may as well turn out to be efficient even when put under pressure. To see such a man go in a flash... it’s not a desirable image to imagine.

Anyway.

After a while, the Leaders - Joe included - return, a small group of people; an elder, adolescents and adults following them.

The Abductors.

I see no familiar face amongst that crowd, and I assume that perhaps their set of Abductors changes every time. They’re all dressed in white, and they’re undoubtedly ready to perform their duty. They gather before Diana who climbs down the stage, Conscience following her, and wait for her command.

Diana turns to Conscience and says “you may go back to your home now. When I’m gone, that’s when your duty starts.”

“Yes, madam,” Conscience says, then she proceeds to one of the pathways leading to the Square and leaves.

“Alright,” Diana says. She pulls out a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and unfolds it, revealing a picture familiar but unidentifiable. I may have sharp eyes, but it would take me a miracle to actually be able to see it. So far, all I can see are a bunch of boxes clustered together, said boxes varying in size -

It’s a map of the Citadel.

The Citadel, though moderate in size, can be a very confusing place to be in especially if you’ve recently acquired your own Residence. Every Residence has a copy of such a map, and although I have always considered it helpful in times past, I see now the disadvantages.

Diana goes down from the stage, and the small group (they’re only 5 in number) of Abductors surround her, eager to know their plan exactly. Diana then asks two of the Abductors to hold the map’s sides for her.

That’s when she begins.

“The Builders always open the gates at 8 o’clock in the morning to add to the waste outside their Citadel. While they’re away, we’ll slip in and dissemble and head to different Residencies. So far, this is the arrangement. Chris, Hannah, you’ll be a Couple. If asked, then you’re a Manufacturer and Builder respectively. Stay in Residence number 24. Milo, you’ll be staying in Residence number 91. You’re a Matchmaker. Clara, Geronimo, you’ll be another Couple. Deliverer and Agriculturist, Residence number 56. I’ll be staying in Residence number 39. Did you all understand?”

There’s a shared nod amongst that small group, and Diana continues. “Good. Target for now would be a Scientist; Number 45. We’ll meet in Residence number 39 three days after we’ve gotten through the barrier. I know this will be your first time in there, but we’ll make sure it’ll be your last. And it’s not because you’re going to die but because you’ll make it out with our target in our grasp. Just place your trust in me.”

The Abductors are wracked with nerves (I can tell. They’re visibly shaking as Diana speaks), and they should be. Little do they know they’ll be thwarted; I’ll make sure that happens. They won’t know about me; they won’t know about anything at all, but that’s just how it is.

“And if the barriers don’t open the day we arrive? What next?” asks one of the adolescents; a female with a soft voice.

“Then we camp near the walls of the Citadel until they open,” Diana says firmly.

“And you’re not even sure we can get out,” one of the adults say. Male, with a fairly feminine voice for one.

“Even if I lie saying I’m sure of this, you won’t believe me, so I’ll be frank with all of you. Nothing about this plan is a certainty, and only heaven knows whether we’ll all escape together or if we’ll be successful at all - “

“Then what’s the point of all this? What even is this, actually? A sacrifice? For what, the sake of vengeance? You would really endanger six lives for the loss of one?” the man challenges further. He’s wise, this guy. He’s asking exactly the same questions as I am.

It takes only one man to get the others to agree. They’re finally thinking. They bombard Diana with questions.

Why do this, then?

Should we even take part in this?

What if I don’t want to do this?

“No. Enough,” Diana says, raising a hand. “This is not for my husband’s sake. This is for all our sakes and of the ones in the Citadel.”

“Why should they matter?” asks the other adolescent. His lips curl downwards in what seems to be a scowl, and he’s obviously doing that in distaste. Their hate towards us and the Sovranty is fallacious. They’re the ones who are immoral. They’re the ones who deserve to be punished. They are the ones who don’t matter. We are but a peaceful group of people never torn about by conflict like savages. We’re simple souls who live life simply for the sake of the entire Community.

Why should they matter?

“They matter because they’re innocent people part of a greater scheme they have no idea about!” Diana sighs and rubs a hand on her face. Calming herself down, she takes in deep breaths and closes her eyes, maybe counting from one to ten. “Look. I don’t know exactly what that ‘scheme’ is, but maybe this Target will be able to tell us. I know the Serum’s still being developed, and maybe if we inject it into them, they might die, but it’s all worth a shot, isn’t it? We’re doing this for our people’s safety. We’re doing this for everyone’s safety. We’re doing this for everyone’s freedom. This is not about me. This is not about Joseph. This is about everyone else, so if you don’t want to do it then, by all means, find someone willing! But if you do want to help your fellowmen, then hop to it. I’m just a host; I don’t have power over any of you. But let the future of your families, your friends and everyone else guide you in making the right decision.”

The Abductors are shocked into silence as Diana sighs. She must have her way with words, for when she asks the predictable ‘who’s with me’, everyone in that tiny club raises their hands more than willingly. They apologise for their transgressions as well. Go figure.

“Thank you,” Diana breathes. “I’ll leave you all to your own devices. We leave tomorrow. Meet me here at nine tomorrow.”

My transmitter buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, pushing the small button. Immediately comes the image of the Head Sentinel, and I salute (as is customary). He looks at me almost expectantly.

“Well, 39?” he asks. “Have you any news?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply quickly. “A Leader and an Abductor Group of five people; two adolescents, two adults and one elder have just gathered in the City Square, discussing their plans for the next Abduction. I have collected all necessary information and am ready to share everything with you.”

Head Sentinel 74 raises a thick eyebrow. “Get to it,” he commands.

I must finish my report before Joe returns to that wreck of a home. I don’t quite know my way around this place; and I’ll need to follow him back in the shadows. It’s quite fortunate these people would waste their time over idle talk, laughing at awful jokes shared by one another, or I wouldn’t have been successful at all.

“The day and time the Abductors and their Leader will arrive at the Citadel’s barriers are indeterminable, but they are certainly leaving tomorrow. When do the Builders next jettison the scraps from the Citadel?”

Head Sentinel 74 glances to the side. Reflected in his eyes is a sheet of paper with numbers and days printed out on it. It’s a Tuesday today.

“This Friday and, as always, at 8 o’clock sharp in the morning. Next schedule would be Tuesday next week, same time. Do you have any idea who the next host is?”

“It’s Joy, O436’s wife.”

“They’re coming here for vengeance. No matter. They won’t be having it.”

“What’s gonna happen? Best warn the Builders; tell them they can’t jettison the scraps on those days,” I say.

Head Sentinel 74 sighs. “Sentinel 39, you were never quite the strategist. We cannot stop the Builders from performing their duties; the Citadel doesn’t sponsor idleness. What we can do, however, is trap the Abductors inside and take care of matters within. You’ll find that to be a more efficient way to take care of the pest problem, don’t you think?”

Thinking about it, it does sound more operative. “The Abductors will be staying in Residences 24, 91, 56 and 39. Better keep an eye out.”

“Target?”

“Number 45. Scientist?”

“Indeed.” He hums.

An idea comes to mind. “Why not place Sentinels at the barriers? They could end the threat of an Abduction taking place.”

“And cause suspicion that there are things yet amiss in the Citadel? The Sovranty will punish all of us for that. We could be excommunicated, or worse, hunted down and killed.”

“If the people are already conscious of Abductions happening, I don’t see what’s wrong with putting a fair few Sentinels at the entrances.”

“We, as Sentinels, are supposed to be the Sovranty’s message to the Outsiders that they can’t harm their people. The Outsiders just don’t seem to get that message. But the people don’t really know that, do they? All they must know is to be conscious of their work and be done with it. They shouldn’t care about these things, and our job is to make sure they don’t. Now, if they start to suspect things are wrong, then we’re not doing our job correctly. We can’t just do the easiest thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Information check.” At that, Head Sentinel 74 brings out a voice recorder. He pushes another button, and a light flashes, signalling to him that it’s on and recording. “A group of six Abductors will be entering the Citadel sometime soon. Three adults, two adolescents and one elder. The adults are?”

“Two females, one male. Adolescents, one male and one female. Elder, one male.”

“Okay. Moving on. They’ll be entering the Citadel either on a Tuesday or Friday at 8 o’clock in the morning while the Builders are jettisoning the scraps, and their Target is a Scientist Assigned the Number 45. They’ll be staying in Residences 24, 91, 56 and 39. Host for this Abduction is O436’s wife, soon to be Assigned the Number O437. Leaving the City tomorrow. Anything else?”

“The people staying at Residence 24 are male and female, Manufacturer and Builder respectively. They were given false Job Assignments, but that could be used to our advantage. The person staying in Residence 91 is a Matchmaker. The man and woman staying in Residence 56 are an Agriculturist and Deliverer respectively. The Leader will be staying in my old Residence. Job Assignment unknown. Report done, sir.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Joe shaking hands with an elder man, still smiling. Then, he pats the hand he’s shaking with his free one and lets go, beginning to leave. I must hurry this report.

“Recorded. I will inform the Inners about this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Until next time, Sentinel 39.”

After I salute, I follow Joe, feeling not even a hint of pride nor joy over my accomplishment.

***

“Ben? You here?” Joe calls out to the empty room downstairs. I’ve climbed up the building and went into the second floor (the bathrooms). I’m now going down the stairs, pretending as if I’ve just went to the loo.

“Yeah, sure am,” I reply as I push open the rusty doors.

“Sorry for leaving you here. I’m guessing you would’ve wanted to explore the City a bit, huh?”

Data. That’s what it’ll give me. Data to use against these roaches.

“Yeah... would’ve liked to,” I reply, sounding disgruntled. Joe winces at my ‘expression’, and that’s how I know I’m still doing a good job.

“Again, I’m sorry,” Joe says, giving himself no excuse. “Let me make it up to you?” he asks, sounding hopeful.

Stretching, I answer “sure, why not?”

Joe’s smile reappears on his lips, and he tells me to follow him as he pushes open the main doors. The bright sun is shining from above as I step out, and I have to admit it’s quite refreshing. Much better than sneaking around in dark alleyways. No trouble; once I know the layout of this city, I’ll be able to roam around and have the sun shine down on me more.

“Now isn’t this the life?” Joe asks. I nod my head, agreeing. “Now, it’s time for Tour Guide Joe to make his appearance.”

Before I could ask him what exactly he’s talking about, he starts dancing. It’s not some sort of awkward swing of the arms nor the strange jigs I was practically forced to learn during Training, but a decent one that impresses me.

After a successful twirl, he says “Tour Guide Joe, at your service.” He pats my back once, and I don’t quite know how to react.

I opt for embarrassment, burying my face in my hands.

Joe laughs. “Nah, not gonna do that to ya, buddy. Anyway, let’s tour this place?”

“Just lead the way, Joe.”

We start walking.

It’s riveting, how Joe could describe each place we pass through with such detail and passion, as if he lives his life for the sake of these places. He may not know the history of said buildings, but they’ve existed for hundreds of years now, and such information would no doubt already be lost.

We pass by a red building, looking almost unscathed. The windows are gone; not even their shattered remains present, and Joe says “that’s the school where children go learn. We’ve been able to acquire some history books from some libraries that haven’t been burnt down, and although those books are a bit damaged, they’re still quite decent.”

“What do the children learn here?” I ask, curious to find out whether their curriculum is different from ours. I mean, there’s no doubt that it would be, but perhaps their subjects are the same?

“History, Mathematics, Language and Sciences are the main subjects. There are, however, clubs the children attend every Friday. There, they can learn Music, Sports, Culinary, Arts and Homemaking. They attain their own hobbies.” He points to a line of other buildings just right after where the school’s located. “Those are where the clubs take place. Remember the order I mentioned the clubs in? They’re arranged that way. Moving on!”

After passing a few buildings where people are performing their business, whether it may be the selling of items or the tending of homes, Joe finally makes yet another special remark. We stop in front of a vined building, the brick kept intact even after so many years.

“This is the library,” Joe says. “Wanna take a look inside?”

“Dunno, man,” I say, wishing to explore the city even further. Much better to acquire more information about the place than spend more time in a particular one.

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine. We can return next time,” Joe says. “Let’s go?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. As we move, I’ll tell you about the library. You don’t have a building like that in the Citadel, do you?”

“No,” I say, recalling no such place. Why would we need a library? What is a library?

Joe clicks his tongue in what I perceive to be disapproval. “That’s such a waste. Anyway, a library is a place where people get to retrieve information from sources such as books, encyclopaedias and much more. This is also a recreational area where people may read fiction. You know what that means, right?”

“Yeah, no need to explain,” I say, smiling. Something in Joe’s eyes softens at the sight of my smile, and he returns it almost automatically. It makes me wonder, but I know I shouldn’t pay any mind to it at all. Outsiders and their emotions.

We walk on until we see a giant wooden stage in the middle of an open area.

“This is the theatre,” Joe says. “I know, I know, it looks like nothing special... but it really is a cherished place in our hearts. Especially Rami’s, Lucy’s and soon to be mine. This is where our actors and actresses perform our plays. Movies are long gone, but at least we got this.”

“I’d really like to see one sometime,” I say. “A play, I mean. You really seem to be fond of them.”

In truth, I am curious. I don’t honestly know if this still has something to do with my mission, but I don’t think on it. Data’s still data.

“And you’ll see one soon! Rami’s cooking up something, and whatever it is... I’m sure it’ll be good. And I think Lucy will be in action, too! You’ll finally be able to see her prowess. I’ll talk to Rami about the arrangements later when we’re done with the tour. We’ve still got places to go,” Joe replies, then we head west.

***

By the end of the day, I’ve collected data about what I assume is most of the City. We’ve passed their hospital, their City Square and much more places, and if I weren’t so fit in the first place, my whole body would’ve been aching by now.

I hear a growl coming from Joe’s direction. The man places his hand on his stomach and rubs it gently, as if placating it. “Jeez. Ben, I’m hungry. Would you like to go eat now?”

I feel a familiar pang at my stomach, and I nod. “Where do you have in mind?”

“I’d say home, but I think I’m too hungry to actually cook anything.” He looks at me with eyes twinkling with hunger. His mouth is shaped in a small ‘o’, and I get the feeling he’s come up with an idea... which could be a bad one. What do these people eat? What could he possibly be thinking about?

“Say, let’s go to Ravioli’s.”

“Ravi-wha?” I ask. Did I hear that right? Ravioli? Who or what is this Ravioli?

“Ravioli’s!” Joe exclaims, as if by doing so I’d realise what the heck he’s talking about. I stare at him, merely wishing to tell him it’s still not working, and Joe puts his hands on his hip, sighing. “Oh yeah... you wouldn’t know about that, would you?” he mutters. With mock-nonchalance he says “it’s only the best restaurant in town. The chefs there serve all sorts of food; pizza, salad, soup, you name it.”

“Did we pass it by?” I ask. Joe didn’t give any description of this ‘Ravioli’s’ or ‘restaurant’ whatsoever when we were still touring the city. We’re now at the City Square, deserted as it seems now, and the streetlights are on. The tour has only shown me how the Outsiders are benefitting from our scraps, and if there was something I could do about it, I would find a way to jettison them somewhere else. Underground, maybe.

“Nah, we didn’t. It’s near home. Come on, man. Yours truly’s suffering here.” He pretends to go weak in the knees, contorting his face in mock-agony.

Melodramatic, this man is.

A shrug. “Sure.”

“Excellent,” Joe says, then he starts running; quite unexpectedly. It’s surprising how quick of a pace he could set in a matter of seconds, and I almost find myself lagging behind.

But not quite. Not today.

In truth, the City Square’s not that far from the restaurant Joe’s been mentioning. It’s just a matter of minutes before we arrive at the destination; a small structure just the size of a normal, two-floored Residence. Moss grows at the sides of the edifice, making the entire building look green. Atop the building is a light-up sign comprised of mix-matched letters obviously made in the Citadel. ‘Ravioli’s’ it says.

Joe raises a hand as he captures his breath, huffing just as much as I am. Joe’s breaths are erratic, and there’s something similar to a wheezing sounding in the open space.

Joe’s laughing.

“Well, wasn’t that a ride?” he asks, still laughing albeit much easier now. “Sorry for going that fast on an empty stomach.”

“It’s fine,” I puff. How can Joe recover so fast? “Are we gonna go in or what?”

Joe’s breathing finally returns to normal when he says “I’m not going inside while you’re still panting like you’ve been placed in a heated oven with the door left closed.” He pulls a sheet of cloth from his shirt pocket. “Here, use this. You’re sweating like mad.”

“Thanks,” I say, getting the cloth and using it to wipe the sweat racing down my forehead and cheeks. A moment passes, then I’m alright. Joe extends his hand towards me, silently asking for the cloth. “You sure you still want this back?” I ask.

“Come on, Ben. As if I don’t sweat, myself. I can wash it when we get back home, anyway,” Joe replies. I give him the cloth (although it’s not really drenched in sweat, it’s still wet), not repulsed in the slightest. Everything’s just... blank, if you want to know.

“We going in?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

I follow Joe as he opens the door to the restaurant.

“Welcome!” a man greets with much enthusiasm, as if it’s his first time greeting someone. He adjusts his glasses, pushing it further up the bridge of his nose. “Ah, Joe! Nice to see you again! And you’ve brought someone?”

“Hello, Rav,” Joe says. He’s grinning; I could tell. “And no, it’s not like that at all.”

Before I could think of anything, Joe says “Anyway, Ben, meet Ravioli; owner of the best restaurant around and dear friend of mine. Ravioli, this is Ben. He’s new around here.”

Ravioli shakes my hand with a grip so strong I almost pull my hand away.

“Welcome to the City, Ben,” Ravioli says brightly, the hand that once clutched mine like a vise returning to his side. I flex my fingers, the crackling of bone gone almost unheard when Ravioli says “table for two, then I get your orders. Follow.”

We are led to a table with red cloth placed atop the wood. Two plates rest on the table along with complete sets of utensils, and Ravioli pulls the chairs away from the table, allowing us to sit down and adjust the seats ourselves.

“Menu?” Ravioli asks.

Joe raises a hand, “not for me, Rav. Ben here might need one though.”

I’m assuming Joe’s been here enough times to already have memorised the entire menu. Either that, or he just knows what he wants. A menu is placed in front of me, and I glance at the sheet of paper. The words are handwritten, but they’re written in an elegant print.

None of the foods seem familiar to me, and I’m wary of what they eat out here, suspecting they may try to find a way to poison me, so I consult Joe.

“What do you suggest?” I ask him.

Joe gives me a patient smile and says to Ravioli “we’ll be having a New York Cheese Pizza. Make that a Large.”

Ravioli scrawls on a sheet of paper before collecting the menu from me. “One large New York Cheese Pizza. Is that correct?”

Joe nods.

“Any drinks?”

“Nah, just water’ll do.”

Ravioli nods and walks away, leaving us. For being ‘the best restaurant in town’, the place is awfully empty. I make a remark about that.

“Well, this place isn’t the most famous, but it’s got the best food. You got the most amiable chef here, and I get food for free! You gotta love the free stuff.”

I feign amusement which I presume would be the appropriate expression to ape.

“His name’s not really Ravioli, isn’t it?” I ask. I may not be an expert on Outsider names, but I do suspect something... off about Ravioli’s name.

Joe confirms my suspicions. “It’s not,” he says, sniffing. “It’s actually Raphael Victor. Ravioli’s just a nickname.”

“Why use that name, though? Does the word have an origin or whatever?”

“Yeah. I don’t exactly know the etymology of the word, but I do know it was a food quite popular during the time of Old Earth.” He sighs. “He must’ve thought it appropriate.”

Joe is suddenly sullen. I let a moment pass before saying “hey, you alright?”

My voice is dripping with concern, and I’m beginning to wonder if it was a dose of too much when the bottom lids of Joe’s eyes twitch upward once. Does he suspect something? It’s a fleeting moment, but an important one nonetheless.

“Yeah. It’s just... something I don’t think I wanna talk about here.”

Hmm. Must be something serious.

“But you‘ll tell me?” I ask, eager to know. If it’s serious indeed (Joe doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for jokes at the moment), then maybe I could glean information from him. Emotions make you weak, make you careless... and I’m more than willing to read between the lines of whatever Joe could possibly say.

A sad smile shapes Joe’s lips as he says “yeah. But tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

There is silence now, and it drags on until Ravioli returns to our table with a strange looking stand and a plate with a circular, yellow-and-red... thing. It’s steaming.

“Joe, what’s that?”

Joe replies “only the best thing you’ll ever taste in your entire life.”