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ohwynne · 3 months

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TIMING: After Wynne returned from Ireland LOCATION: Wynne's tiny home. PARTIES: @vanoincidence & @ohwynne SUMMARY: Wynne and Van have tea and talk about demons. CONTENT WARNING: N/A

The kettle whistled but it sounded to Wynne like a banshee screaming. Many things did. A creaking door, a howl of the wind, a beep of a phone. Their mind had become a tricky thing once more, memories leaking through as if they were a dripping faucet that never properly closed. Drip, drip, drip. Declan’s body. Elias’ blood. Regan passed out in the car. Drip, drip, drip. Jac dying at the altar. Padrig's guts ripped out. Their skirt getting caught in brambles as they ran.

They turned off the gas. The screaming stopped. They poured the hot water in two cups, moved over to Van and placed one in front of them. On the kitchen table stood a box with various bags of tea. Usually they’d try to make something fresh and herbal, but they didn’t have the energy, so dried tea it was.

Wynne sat with their legs pulled up, knees against the table. “I have … cookies somewhere. If you want.” They glanced at the table, wanted to lay their head on it and stare at the wall. They were so very tired. But Van was here and they had things to talk about. Big things. Rhiannon jumped on the table and they stroked his thick orange fur. “Yeah. You know.” They weren’t sure what they were saying. Nora wasn’t home, still. Everything was bad, still. “Sorry about the cat hairs.”

Van knew that Wynne had come home, but until she saw them, she wouldn’t feel satisfied with the statement. I’m home could mean a lot of things. It could mean what it meant to Nora who said she was coming home, but left soon after. Until Van saw Wynne, she wouldn’t feel settled, and even after she arrived at their front door, she still felt sick to her stomach over what had happened.

Van had hugged Wynne, something she never did. She didn’t really like physical contact, not in the way most people meant it. But it was purposeful, the way she had wrapped her arms around them, and the way she had let herself be directed inside.

She sat across from Wynne now, hands in her lap as they brought the water to a boil. It felt like she was being rattled inside, too. The lip of the pot bouncing as the water grew hotter and hotter. She felt like that most days. But the sound stopped, and steam reached just beneath her chin as the mug was pushed forward. She looked at the array of tea bags, opting for mint.

“I ate like, a ton before coming.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie, but not necessarily the truth. “Maybe we can uh, do cookies later or something.” Van looked up to meet Wynne’s gaze, thoughts whirring in one place, the topic of demons, banshees, Nora, and Declan all creating something vicious out of what wasn’t typically peaceful, but calmer. “No, I like them. I mean, I don’t like, go out of my way to get covered in cat hairs, but…” She cleared her throat. “You can sleep, you know. We can um– I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Okay was such a fucked up word, wasn’t it? “I thought that maybe…” She shrugged, “I was worried.”

The air was thick. Not with the oncoming summer or the threat of rain or pollen, but with unspoken things. There was a conversation to be had at this table, on this day, over these mugs of tea — there were veils to lift and things to confess. Wynne’s was tight with the anticipation of it, the knowledge that Van and them would grow closer through honesty but that they’d have to bare themself, too.

It might have been easier to do this over text, but it was better not to. They knew that. They were tired, anyway, of conveying ugly truths through messages on a screen. It was just hard to put these things to words. To know when they could stop talking about tea and cat hairs and food. When the conversation shifted. They hoped it’d just happen, that they wouldn’t have to awkwardly maneuvre the chit-chat into a Conversation.

They plucked a bag of tea from the container without looking, dropping it in. Their appetite hadn’t returned yet, even if they had. Besides, they only bought tea they liked anyway. “Oh, yeah, sounds good.” A few weeks ago they would have had freshly baked cookies. It has been hard to cook, though. They didn't like holding the knife.

“And no, it's okay, I need to try and sleep in the night, you know? Jet lag, or something. I don't get it but it's annoying.” They stared at their mug as Van worried, watching steam rise and curl. They wanted to be like that. “I’m here. That's what I care about most. That that's over. And that I'm also not … in my old home any more. I guess we should talk. Right? How do you… do that?” They pressed a hand against their forehead. “I mean I know how to talk. Obviously. Just… it's hard.”

“I’ve only ever been like, one timezone back, so I don’t think I ever got jet lag from that.” Exhaustion after travel looked different on everyone, and she knew that there were a lot more things than just air time plaguing Wynne. Van looked down at her tea as the color from the sachet bloomed through the water– something not quite true green bled through. It felt like she was looking at her insides.

She looked up at Wynne as they began to speak, eyebrows furrowing slightly in response to the non-questions that came through to meet in the middle. “Do… what? Talk? I just sorta open my mouth.” A harsh laugh left Van as she tried to push the unease away. She shook her head a moment later, pressing her index finger against the hot mug. It burned, but it was a reminder that she was here across from Wynne and that she couldn’t get lost to the whirring inside of her mind. She retracted her finger after a few seconds, drawing her hands back into her lap.

“You mean like, the demon thing, right?” She shrugged, “I don’t… actually know. It happens when I think I’m going to die.” She wasn’t sure if that was totally true given she didn’t think the situation with Diana called for a demon, but it was getting harder to parse through exactly what had happened these days. “But the rest of it, um– the melting, the other stuff… I break glass when I get nervous or upset, too. It’s magic.” The word fell off her tongue like it’d always been there. She had finally garnered a taste for it, and it was a strange thing to behold. “Somebody who– they also do magic, I think? Uh, they called me a summoner. I’ve been looking into it, but…” She twiddled her thumbs beneath the table, nails scraping along the edge of the wooden fixture. “It’s still kind of new? Not really new, but the um, acknowledging thing, I mean.”

They still struggled to even grasp the fact that they had gone and come back from Ireland, that a plane had taken them to a place in a so-called different timezone. Never mind all that had happened in that place. It was strange, to be struck by disbelief while also constantly remembering the things that had happened vividly. Wynne shrugged. “Fair enough. It’s not great. People complain about it like a lot at the airport.”

Van was laughing and they were too, but it wasn’t the way they usually laughed together. There was something morose about it, which was how they felt about things most of the time these days. As if a thick, dark cloak had been laid over everything. “Oh,” they said. “Me too. That’s how I do it too.” It was funny. But it also wasn’t. But it really was. When Wynne laughed again it was a little more sincere.

Van was magic. They’d suspected something like it, considering what had happened to the vampire. But the fact that it had to do with demons made Wynne feel uneasy — they knew there were nice (or at least … kind of nice) demons out there, but they had a feeling those were in the minority. “I … am … it’s good, that you’re acknowledging it more. I can try to help to look into it. Maybe the library can help.” Maybe it was in the restricted section, though. “So the thing … that claw that took the vampire, was that a demon?” They bit their lip. It would be very ironic if it was a demon who had saved them both from the vampire — but then a demon had helped them before. “Do you think planes are held up with magic like yours?” They frowned at their mug. “Um, not important. I just don’t get how they work without magic, so I think it is magic.” They pulled up one leg, placing their foot on the chair. “Demons … are dangerous.”

“I think that’s like, normal, right?” Van relaxed slightly, no longer feeling as though she might dissolve on the spot. There was a lot to be worried about these days, but she didn’t want to project that onto Wynne. They already had enough to deal with. “To talk with your mouth. I mean, I guess you could talk with other things, but…” She shrugged. Now wasn’t the time to get stuck on the logistics of how to talk in other ways.

She tried to not let Wynne’s expression deter her from continuing on with her explanation. “I’m a little worried that looking into it will like, make people look into me, you know?” If there were hunters for things like werewolves and undead, then who was to say there wasn’t a hunter for what she was, either? Maybe it was self-involved to think that, but she couldn’t be too sure. This world was still new to her. “But, um…” Did Wynne know that Teddy also possessed magic? She didn’t want to out them, so she didn’t bring them up by name. “I have some other help, and I think… I would like yours, too, if you’re offering it.” It might be nice to have somebody normal on the sidelines.

At Wynne’s question, Van faltered slightly. “I… didn’t know that’s what it was when it happened– that time or like, the others.” There had been others, and there was no shying away from that fact. “I’m not really sure… I don’t know a lot about this.” She wiggled her fingers above the table, looking down at them. They looked so normal, but each time magic swept over her, she could feel the electricity buzzing in the pads of her fingers, extending all the way down her wrists like some sort of alternate vein.

Iron pooled at the tip of Van’s tongue as Wynne stated the obvious. “I know– I definitely know that. I’m not– I don’t…” With a sigh, Van pushed some hair out of her eyes. “I’m learning about it. The magic part, not the demon part– I don’t know– I think that I need to learn about that part, too, if I want to be able to control stuff. But I guess– summoners– me, I–” Another deep breath, another finger pressed to the now cooling mug, “it’s not just demons… we can summon other things.” She hadn’t read a ton into it, being too preoccupied with everyone in Ireland and their fates, but now that everyone was back (except for Nora), maybe she could find the time again.

“I think so, yes. I saw a video of someone who talked without moving their mouth, though? But I assume the noise still came from their mouth.” Wynne frowned. It was really not the most important thing, and yet their mind kept coming back to it. It was baked air, like the things people had said on the stage of the trial. They didn’t mind it this time, though. “Or like, sign language.”

They nodded when Van asked if they understood. They did, in a way. There were always people looking out to hurt others, after all. It made sense maybe people would look into Van with bad intentions, too. “Of course. It’s good to be cautious. I think it always is. But I would be glad to help. And I’m glad you have help.” The world was so vast and to face it alone was impossible, though Wynne had tried in those first months after running from the commune. “I don’t know a lot about magic but I can look for answers.” Maybe that restricted section of the library should be broken into after all.

They felt a pang in their stomach as Van struggled to speak and hoped it wasn’t because of them. Wynne was silent as she tried to find the words, sipping their tea patiently and looking at her carefully. They tried to imagine what it was like, to begin to realize there was something within your power that you didn’t quite understand yet. They already struggled with all their own realizations — like that maybe they had grown up in a cult and that it was okay, really, that they were still alive. “It must be hard. To try and figure all this out. But um, you’re like not alone.”

They put down their mug. “I don’t … I don’t know a lot about magic, but I know some things about demons. Like that there are different types. And some are nice, but most of them are tricksters. And they can look like humans or like something else.” Wynne swallowed. “And some of them want human sacrifices. But there are rituals to get rid of them and other things. I can also learn more about it if you want, I have a source.” They didn’t want to name Teddy, but they were just around the corner. So was Gabagool, who was a bit more obviously a demon expert. “And other things? Like … if you got better, you could summon us freshly baked cookies?”

“Oh, true. Yeah.” Van pushed herself to think outside the box– to not be so embroiled with what she’d always been faced with. It was hard, acknowledging the things outside of her bubble, but it had to happen if she was going to face any growth. Wynne’s ways of looking at things was only further proof of that. It was a simple thing; a discussion about discussion, but it held more worth than just that alone.

Wynne seemed to understand her in a way that few did. They offered their help, but didn’t demand she take it. That felt… nice. Wynne was just Wynne, and for them to extend their hand, it meant a great deal to her. Van nodded, “I’d… really like that, Wynne. Thank you.” That almost felt too formal for her. “Like, I would really like that. I think it’d help a lot, to know I’m not doing it alone.” She hadn’t been– she had people in her corner, but with Wynne, it felt different. Maybe because they had a lot more to lose, so it made Van feel that much more protective.

The only demons that Van had been faced with so far were the kinds that saved her life. Were they good? Would they have killed her, too, if given the chance? She thought back to the feathery hand, and how if she plucked each delicate white strand away, what would be left? Somebody like her who had lost something? Or would it be something more sinister? “So it’s like people, like– all different kinds. That makes sense, too.” They wouldn’t all be bad– nothing could be all bad, because if that were true, then what Jade had done would have been right, and Van didn’t think what Jade had done, or did in her past, was right at all. But there were bad things, too, and Wynne affirmed that. It was a difficult thing to swallow– that maybe the portals she created that took down those going against her weren’t the only bad things. That the creatures she unknowingly asked for help were a part of it, too.

“It’s just… a lot. All of it.” Whether she meant the demons and her magic or the whole Ireland trip, she wasn’t sure. Van took a deep breath and looked down at the tea that was reflecting back at her. “I would like, so much rather summon cookies or something.” Hopefully they’d be regular cookies. “Or like, maybe if Nora runs away again, I can just summon her right back.” It was a joke she had exchanged with Emilio, but the idea of it felt less like a joke and more or less hopeful.

“But seriously, Wynne. I don’t– I won’t ever hurt you with it. I hope you know that.” Not intentionally, at least. She hoped by the time Wynne came face to face with her magic again, she’d have it under better control. Van offered them a weak smile. “It… this is all like, so messed up.” All of it. They should’ve been able to exist as regular twenty-somethings, not in complete fear that any move they made could end up with them in a casket. “I just wanted you to know that, though. The power stuff. It felt wrong um, not talking about it.”

Maybe that was the most important thing there was in the world. To not be alone when going through these kind of realizations, to have people to look along with you. Wynne wished they could be more to Van than an extra pair of eyes, that they could offer her a kind of guidance and wisdom that she certainly deserved — but when it came to magic they were wholly ignorant. But they’d try, and at the very least they would be there with tea and other things.

“Of course, Van. You know, you helped me so much. Help me still. With all the things I don’t know, which are a lot of things,” they smiled a little. “And I get that this is different, but it also isn’t. Friends help each other.” And this was easily accepted by now. Van was their friend and would continue to be their friend, even in the face of demons and former communes (cults?), even in the face of explosive magic.

They nodded. “Just like humans. Or people. All different kinds,” they echoed the sentiment, because it was the sentiment they were trying to build their life on. Wynne wasn’t struggling to develop a philosophy outside of the one they had abandoned, but this was a core part of it. Everyone had the ability to be good, just as everyone had the ability to be bad — and though some people had more powers to do bad with their bad intentions, it was still about intent. If a bad person had Van’s powers, it would be horrible. But Van was good. “But … I think they’re still, when they’re bad … they are very dangerous.”

Van was right. It was a lot, all of it. But it had been a lot since they had ran from home, the entire world an overwhelming cacophony of sound and bright lights. Though there was pain and fear, though, that lotness also came with these things. Van. Jokes. Tea. They clung to their cup. “Maybe you can practice that. And summoning Nora, but maybe you can use me for practice so she doesn’t have to know.”

Wynne frowned at Van before nodding their head again, meaning every bop of their head. “Of course. Of course, I know. I — you saved us, last time. And I am glad we’re talking about it. That we can talk more about my home, too. That it’s all … open and discussable and that it’s okay to discuss it. Because I trust you, okay? To hear my things, but also to not hurt me.”

“Yeah! Like, one day you’re going to totally wreck me at Mario Kart. Maybe not right now, but one day.” It felt nice to joke, to laugh with Wynne across from her. The days of staring down at her phone screen, of waiting for response after response; of finding out whether or not the people she cared about were okay weren’t necessarily behind her, but for the time being it was. At least, in Wynne and Regan’s case. Van so desperately wanted to find Nora, to show her the love that those in Wicked’s Rest had for her, to show her that even if home didn’t feel like home, it could mimic the feeling until it felt real. That was what it always felt like; Van never felt at home, but with Wynne across from her, she felt like she was getting closer. Van wanted both Nora and Wynne to feel that way, and she hoped that one day they would. “Friends definitely help each other, yeah.” Always, no matter what.

Wynne held warnings in the palm of their hand, spilling them onto the table. They traced them out– a warning, a promise, the acknowledgment that while other things might be dangerous, Wynne didn’t think she was dangerous. Van wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Most of her life, she’d been treated as a fragile thing, and so she learned how to crack at will, to fall apart as that was what most expected from her. Wynne treated her with the respect she’d been looking for, much like Erin and Nora. “I understand, and I trust you.” Because Van had no reason not to. Because Wynne spoke of these things with an understanding that rivaled the ability to actually dredge up shadows and souls alike.

Van snorted at the thought of practicing with Wynne. “Maybe when Teddy gets back we can try.” She didn’t think she’d actually use Wynne for any kind of summoning practice, but the offer sat heavy on her shoulders, or rather, the trust did.

As Wynne went on to speak, Van sat in a silence that enveloped her, not in fear or turmoil, but in hope and understanding. “What happened? Was it the– your home, right? Something happened… before you got here.” Van bit the inside of her cheek as she watched her friend, searching for something– for the moment she should reach across the table, even if she wasn’t very good at physical affection. She wanted to learn more about her friend, not just because Wynne had insisted, but because this level of trust meant something, and Van wanted to show that she was reliable.

They chuckled. “I totally will. The power of the toadstool will help me and I will finally get first place,” said Wynne, knowing that this was a very distant reality. They didn’t mind losing against Van so much, though, so it didn’t matter. They had skills that she didn’t have and through that they could help one another. It was very nice, actually. “Maybe we can play some games in a bit, if you want. Teddy got me a console –” They said the word with a bit of uncertainty, not sure if it was the right term. “– but I don’t really get it yet. It’s nice to watch Netflix with though.”

They gave their trust too easily, they knew that now, but the thing that existed between Van and them was different than that kind of trust. This was something that went deeper than believing things at face-value and expecting the best from people — this was the kind of trust that came with friendship, with knowing they could rely on Van. For fun, but for support and safety too. A kind of trust that Van wouldn’t exploit them or hurt them. “And I trust you.”

A large sip was taken from their cup, the tea not as hot as it had once been but still warming up their insides as it traveled down. They wanted to fill their mouth and throat and stomach with tea so they wouldn’t have to repeat what had happened — but they owed Van the truth. And it wasn’t like they hesitated because they thought she’d look at them different, after all. That fear of condemnation seemed to have left them, at the very least.

“My commune — well, maybe … maybe it was a cult, actually. But we revered a demon. It gave us boons and stuff. And we … well, had to sacrifice one person every so often, and it was supposed to be me, but I didn’t want to die, so —” They swallowed, even if their mouth was dry. “I ran away. And then they —” Again, their mouth was dry. Wynne looked at their hands around their mug. “Had to find a replacement, so it was my brother. And then … Emilio, he found out for me, and then … we went there. To get rid of the demon. And Dr Kavanagh helped, too. And –” They shrugged. “I guess it’s over now. But it doesn’t feel like it. I am still there sometimes. And I still — you know, think about what ifs. And being in Ireland was so … they were so weird there, but also similar to home. It’s … yeah. But I know about demons because of it. That’s what happened.”

Van’s eyes lit up at the promise of video games after the discussions of how deeply traumatized they both were had ended. Van liked having these kinds of conversations because it meant she was growing, but she was a girl who liked to game at heart, and at Wynne’s suggestion, she nodded. “No, for sure, we can definitely play! I can show you how to like, actually use it and stuff. For things other than Netflix.” She smiled at Wynne, wondering if she could get their phone later to install a few different games on. It was easy to get lost in the ways that their communion could revel in comfort, but she knew it was important to understand the ways in which they needed to be there for one another through the dark stuff, too. It was, at the very least, easier to acknowledge than before.

There was the temptation, after seeing the look in Wynne’s eyes, to tell them that they could discuss it later. But wouldn’t it hurt later, too? Wouldn’t there be that same look in their eye, the subtle shake of their fingers as they clasped it around their mug? Van knew that now was the time to listen, not to insist that they could revisit it another time. This was important, and Van had shared her truth no matter the fear that came with it, and Wynne wanted to do the same. Van owed it to them to listen instead of make excuses.

As Wynne went on to tell their story, Van could feel their mouth widening, forming a perfect and round ‘o’. That wasn’t something she had expected, but it made sense, with Wynne knowing a lot about demons. Or, at least, way more than she did. Van reached across the table finally, closing a hand over one of Wynne’s that was still wrapped around their mug. It felt like the right thing to do, and she wanted to do the right thing by them. “You feel guilty, right? About surviving? Both times?” Van could understand that, too. She felt guilty about Diana, about Debbie– hell, even about the banshees that had taken her home from her. How she had gotten to live in the bubble of safety, of what Jade didn’t categorize as dangerous– how others simply existing with what they were had been condemned. Wynne had been condemned, but they had crawled out of it– had escaped the fact of death, despite the odds. “I’m like, really glad you didn’t die.” She thought that much was obvious. “Before, and in Ireland. Both times. You deserve to live, you know.” This wasn’t about her, but she felt like she was talking to herself, too.

Van squeezed Wynne’s hand, running through the number of things people much wiser than her had said to her in the hopes of bringing her back from the brink. But it didn’t seem like Wynne was on any ledge. This was a conversation filled with hope and trust, and Van needed to treat it as such, instead of imposing her own versions of grief and understanding onto them. “I’m sorry about your brother.” Van’s lower lip trembled slightly as she spoke, “and I’m sorry that it feels like you’re still there.” Van knew how that felt. She was still in that parking lot, standing across from Diana. She was still in the grocery store with Debbie. She was standing across from the banshee that had taken the last thing of her family from her. But she was in front of Wynne, and Wynne was in front of her. They were here, together. “But you’re here. We both um… we both are. We’re both here, and like, it’s super– this is so dumb, but we’re stronger than our demons. Literally.” A hiccup left Van and she reached up to touch her face with her free hand, realizing that tears had begun streaming down her cheeks.

Wynne’s story made Van want to learn how to control her magic instead of run away from it. It shouldn’t have been the defining factor for her, considering the tragedies that had already occurred, but she wanted to make sure that Wynne would never have to face something like that again, not if she could help it. “Thank you. Um…” She blinked away the tears, “for telling me.”

“I’d really love that,” they said, smiling brightly. Van was so clever when it came to technology, but also someone that Wynne liked to learn from. And playing games they did like — even if the ones they were used to were more card or board based. Video games were fun to play by yourself, though, which was nice. They liked the idea of drowning out their thoughts by pushing buttons.

As the truth spilled from them, Van reacted with a kindness they might not have allowed a few months back. They no longer expected people to respond with anger, to condemn them for their betrayal and so they let their friend touch their hand. And even if Van were to tell them that they should have died, that they had been selfish and a traitor — they’d have the knowledge that plenty of others thought differently, themself included. But Van just took their hand and offered words of understanding.

They nodded tentatively, “Yes.” It was a heavy way to live, to feel like there should be something shameful about every breath and step taken. And yet that was the truth of it — they felt guilty for sitting here. “I’m trying … I’m trying not to. I am also glad I lived. Even if I feel guilty, too.” There would never be any undoing of it — no possible way to bring back Iwan or to turn the clock on what had happened in Ireland. Their past was a trail littered with mistake but it was a trail that kept going, winding through forest and field and past beaches. It kept going.

There was another dip of their head, their eyes glued to the squeeze of Van’s hand around theirs. Wynne took the sympathy in stride, not feeling discomforted as it came from the other. “Me too.” They looked at Van and at the tears on her face and felt something loosen in their throat, a tightness they hadn’t realized was there until now. They, too, cried. “It’s … no, it’s true. It’s not dumb at all. We are stronger than them.” The demon had died. Wynne still lived. That trail kept going.

“Of course. And – thank you for listening.�� They turned their hand around so palm met palm and held onto Van’s, not wanting to let go just yet even if they didn’t know what to say any more.

Van had felt alone for so much of her life, that the feeling of having Wynne across from her still felt slightly foreign. It felt like that time by the mines with Nora, signs melting down to nothing as Nora exposed herself as an entirely different being altogether. She was learning things about those she called friends, and in turn it made her feel less alone, less… desperate for understanding.

They could take their time together, she thought. Her hand remained overtop of Wynne’s as she looked at them, vision only slightly blurred from the tears that ran down. It was a special thing, being able to fall into step with somebody else’s trauma, even if the ones that she’d experienced had been so far removed from anything that Wynne had. She bit the inside of her cheek as she watched them, “I’m glad you told me. Really, really glad, Wynne.” There was nothing but sincerity in her voice as she squeezed their hand.

With her other hand, she grabbed her mug which had cooled off considerably. The tea was lukewarm, but Van didn’t care. “I feel like, so adult right now.” Drinking tea and crying– she’d seen her mom do it a thousand times over. Only, her woes weren’t about a fragile daughter or money, but something entirely different. Things would be okay. Maybe not right now, when everything was so fresh, but eventually– Van had to believe that. Not only for her sake, but for Wynne’s, Nora’s, and Regan’s, too.

#van.#tea time.#threads.

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myfavouritelunatic · 1 year

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The Blacksmith

The beginning of the end... what will become of our beloved throuple? Can the uprising be stopped?

I am so very proud of this chapter, and I truly hope you all enjoy it. Two more to go... *hides away to await your reactions*

Pairing: Halbrand/Sauron x Female Reader; Galadriel x Female Reader; light Haladriel/Saurondriel.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Light violence. Major Character Death. 😬

Links to Chapter One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, and Thirty-Five!

Chapter Thirty-Six

All heads turned to the she-elf. Her eyes held the same grief within them as your brothers had when they first entered. "I came to warn you-" "We know." Halbrand interrupted, wishing to save Galadriel the breath. "My brothers have just informed us of what our people seem to be plotting." you explained, trying to contain your joy at the sight of the woman you loved. She was here. She had returned to you. "Galadriel… do you stand with us?" She let the most subtle of smiles creep into her expression, nodding her head in assent. "Hope is not lost then, my love." you spoke, shifting your gaze to Halbrand, watching the fear begin to dissipate in his eyes.

"We must act now, if we wish to prevent your people from mutiny. The minds of men are easily persuaded. The three of us should be able to repair the damage before it is too late." Galadriel implored. "Though you may want to dress for the occasion, your majesty." she scoffed, though playfully, finding it hard not to enjoy the sight of Halbrand's bare chest, and the opportunity it afforded her to make a jab at him. Your love said nothing in response, only wandered over to slide on his burgundy tunic, the one from your wedding, before putting boots and belt on, and grabbing the final touch that is required of royalty: your crowns. Once your own boots were laced up, and you fetched your dagger, you stood upright to receive the diadem once more. The people needed to be reminded of who they dared to challenge.

The five of you then exited your home, rainwater splashing under your feet as you moved through the streets. The rain seemed to have driven the citizens of Pelargir indoors, for there was no one to be found at all roaming the city. The only movement came from you. Steeling yourself with each breath you took, you looked deep within for the strength to face what was to come. For winning over your people, especially those you knew and cared for, was not going to be easy. Another battle to be fought it seemed, though hopefully this one would occur without the need for violence.

Soon the great hall came into view, and yet still there was not a soul to be found. It was all beginning to feel rather odd. "Galadriel, do you know where everyone is?" you questioned her, unable to hide the nerves in your tone. "Yes. This way." she answered, shooting you a quick glance of her crystal blue eyes. You couldn't wait to get lost in them again. Lost in her. A handful of minutes later, you could see your fear in the distance. Stood in the town square ahead, covered in sparse beams of sunlight that had burst through the clouds, were the citizens of Pelargir. Every. Single. One. The crowd was too large for it to be anything less. Your breathing hitched in your throat and you clung tightly to Halbrand. Not only were you going to convince a few dozen people, you were going to convince all of them.

Upon approach, you noticed five familiar faces front and centre in the massive group: Bronwyn, Arondir, Theo, Olwenna, and Padrig. The five people you needed to win over the most. The five that would no doubt be the hardest to convince. You stopped only a few metres from them, not getting too close, the rage of the crowd feeling like the surface of the sun. You locked eyes with Olwenna in that moment, facing your fear head on. The kind and understanding woman you knew her to be was gone. Her face was one you almost did not recognise, for it was twisted in her mourning and her anger. The lady's beautiful auburn tresses billowed out behind her, the wind flicking them like the flame upon a candle. Her eyes were as red. You felt a tear fall fast down your cheek, but this show of emotion did not quell her, for her sympathy for you had fled.

Bronwyn began her argument against you by announcing your names to the masses, as if she was reading a decree from a parchment. Though she refused to call either of you king or queen. This, both you and Halbrand, did not like. "It seems we have been premature in our celebrations. Information has come to light that leaves us, the people, with no choice but to renounce you both as our royal leaders, and offer up a vote to either exile you… or execute you."

You could feel the fury rising within Halbrand, and you tugged on him reasurringly, trying to ground him, to keep him from losing this battle before he has a chance to defend himself. Sauron or no, it was rather difficult for him to loosen his pride. He took a deep breath before answering Bronwyn. "I should have you locked up for sedition, Lady Bronwyn. This is a most disppointing sight. How is it your loyalty could falter so easily?" "Because of me." Suddenly Halbrand was ripped away from you, the force of which caused you to stumble. Once you found your footing, you looked upward and across at a scene you did not believe.

Galadriel was holding your dagger to Halbrand's throat.

It appeared now that the she-elf had been the lure on the hook, not Bronwyn. They had known your brothers had been listening. "Galadriel… what are… what are you doing?" The question could barely pass your lips. The she-elf did not answer you, not even her piercing eyes contained the reasoning for what she was doing now. All you saw in them was conviction laced with sorrow. Bronwyn spoke on her behalf. "After I witnessed the cruel murder of that poor man at your hands, after I had seen to it that my only son would survive, I spoke with Galadriel. I knew she was conflicted about which side she should fall on. Should she remain true to her intentions and kill you both? Or should she lend you the chance to be our king and queen and save the Southlanders? I… I was regretfully adamant, and admitted my mistakes. I had been blinded by the love for my people that I did not see… the monsters on our doorstep.

"I told her about what I saw. She then told me about what she had seen. That helpless village… they could have united with us peacefully, we could have brought them to see the cause that you claim!" Bronwyn was letting her temper best her, and she paused a moment to regain her resolve, stepping towards Halbrand who was not struggling against the she-elf's grip. "Galadriel told me… the nefarious means by which you attained the title of our king…" Bronwyn spoke those words so low they were almost a whisper. "That you seek only power… and nothing will stop you from gaining it." "Bronwyn, please-" you tried to interject, but the lady would not have it.

"You are Sauron. You are allied with Morgoth. You brought the mountain down upon our home." her voice trembled as she spoke. "These are things we cannot forgive!" Crying out these words, the roar of the people behind her was deafening. The contrast was sharp between your arrival in Pelargir and the scene before you now. Your heart ached as you remembered how joyous the crowd had been as they had welcomed you, and celebrated the impending nuptials between the king and the queen. Yet now their cries were maddening, filled with ferocity, betrayal, and vengeance. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows, in just a handful of days.

Perhaps you both deserved this reckoning. You had thought Garion striking you down would be your retribution, but it seems it was only the beginning, only leading to this moment. You moved your gaze from Bronwyn with her impassioned and angry face, to Galadriel, as you attempted to understand exactly why she had betrayed you. When only this morning you were naked with her, holding her in your arms, relishing in her touch and that of the warm water of the bath. You had been absolutely certain that she was allied with you once more, that her love for you, her love for Halbrand meant her allegiances were secured. Why would she give herself over to you both if she was going to take it all back, or never meant any of it in the first place? Or perhaps, this new development was something she had not intended. She had been gone all day after all, only returning to you when it was necessary for the uprising to take hold.

Galadriel's face broke the moment her eyes locked with yours. It had been an expression of steel, of her vengeance returning, matching the violence of her holding Halbrand at knife point. Though when your eyes connected, she found it rather difficult to keep herself together. Her lips trembled, and water began to pool around her blue irises. Was this regret she was wearing now? Did she not wish to be holding your dagger, holding your love's life in her hands? Perhaps this might be the way to get through to her, and through to them all, for if Galadriel topples, then the rest of the people would be sure to follow.

Casting your vision upon your husband now, he was oddly calm, acting almost as if this was a minor inconvenience to him that would soon be sorted out. This was the mask he wore, the veil he put up to show that he would not be affected by any attempts to thwart him or his rule. Because you knew underneath how he truly felt. He was fearful, disheartened, and most definitely filled with ire. Halbrand was giving a remarkable performance, lest he give into his emotions which would only lead to his darkness escaping. He had to do everything within his power to prevent that from happening. And so did you. For if either of you lost the battle within, then you would have no chance of winning the battle without.

"Release me, elf, so that I might explain myself." Halbrand requested, ready to fight with words. Galadriel did not budge, tightening her grip it seemed, and you swore you could see a small droplet of blood exit the throat of your love. "Do as he asks, Galadriel." spoke Arondir finally, wise enough to know he might be the only one with whom she would comply. Reluctantly of course, she loosened herself from him, but remained close, dagger at the ready. Halbrand stared into Bronwyn's eyes deeply as he spoke.

"The eruption of Orodruin was a plan that I conceived, yes. Hundreds of years ago. In that time, my desires have shifted greatly." He began to pace in front of the crowd slowly, casting his eyes upon all who dared to look at him. "The words I spoke to you all during yesterday's feast… I meant every single one. For in the freedom I have found since the defeat of Morgoth, I have only desired to make right the wrongs I committed. So when the opportunity presented itself to rule over these lands… I took it as a sign. As a chance to heal this world. And to not take it would be cruel.

"The fire from the mountain rained down upon you all not because of me, or my wife, your queen… but because of your enemy. My enemy. Adar and his orcs have now claimed the remade Southlands as their own home. They are the ones who have stolen your lands from you. Their undertaking was not my hope for you. Nor do I wish to see your lives taken by their swords. I fought with you, defended you, lead you to victory because it is what you deserve. And it is only the beginning of what we will achieve together if I remain your king."

Olwenna surged from where she stood, Padrig unable to hold her back. She walked briskly towards Halbrand, and struck him hard across the cheek. He flinched just the right amount, for you doubted her strength would be enough to truly take him aback. The king placating one of his subjects for her satisfaction, which he would hope, might lead to his satisfaction later on. "You murdered my husband!" she screamed at him, her whole body shaking as she did so. "How could you?!"

In this moment, without hesitation, the words passed your lips in an instant. "Because he was going to kill me!" You stepped forward then, standing now between your love and your friend. Defending him as he had defended you. Olwenna's face contorted with rage and confusion as your words hit her ears. "No… do not lie to me again, my friend." she spat venomously at you. "This is not possible." "Why else would we have to harm him?" you urged her as she seethed silently, shaking her head.

"Show her the proof, my love." Halbrand suggested calmly from at your back. The wound to your skull had not yet healed fully, and would now, it seems, be key evidence in this terrible trial. You gently removed your crown from atop your head, parting your hair to reveal the gash in your scalp caused by Garion's blunt attack. Your eyes darted between both Olwenna and Bronwyn as they studied the wound, their mouths agape. "An orc could have done that. Easily." argued Bronwyn, not wanting to admit she was wrong.

"What do my eyes tell you, Olwenna? You know me, you sense my spirit… am I lying to you now?" Tears were fighting against your will, and you held them back as long as you could so as to stare down the red-headed woman. You did not blink, and nor did she, and you watched as it dawned on her. Clasping her hands over her mouth, she tried to hold back sobs, but to no avail. Padrig rushed to her side, and she threw herself on the young man, her grief taking hold once more. With her eyes no longer on you, you let your own tears manifest, feeling them spill over and down to the ground.

Wiping them away with your plum coloured sleeves, you placed your diadem back on your head, before stepping beside Halbrand, locking your fingers tightly with his. Surveying the faces of your people now, you saw them becoming torn. It was working. They were doubting what Bronwyn and Galadriel had told them. They were starting to believe in their king and queen once more. You even looked to Azrahin and Târikun, taking in their hopeful expressions. Feeling her people being swayed, Bronwyn threw out her final attempt to depose and dispose of you and Halbrand. "Galadriel… you know the depths of Sauron's deceit, cunning, and devastation more than any here… I now give you the chance to do what you should have done days ago… claim your vengeance."

Bronwyn stepped back beside Arondir and Theo, giving Galadriel space enough to size you both up if she needed to. The she-elf entered your vision, her back to you as she spoke to the citizens of Pelargir, her lengthy blonde locks, still slightly damp, swaying lightly in the wind against the dark turquoise fabric she wore. "I see the doubt upon all of your faces. It is the same doubt that weighs heavy on me. The choice we need to make is a burden we should not have to bear, but we bear it not only for ourselves, but for our children, and their children, and their children. And we pray that they shall never have to be faced with a choice as imperative and difficult as this.

"When I arrived in your small city days ago, I had only one goal, one objective that I desperately desired to achieve. It was the force that swept me from my elven realm, drove me to the ends of Middle-earth over this age, a force that saw all with only one eye. But since that time when my blade was prevented from ending the life of Sauron, my other eye has opened and now together they both see a view all encompassing. The good and the evil. The light and the dark. Love… and hate." Galadriel turned to face you and Halbrand then, stepping slowly towards you both. "This is what I see in you." Her head slowly moved from Halbrand, to you, and back again. "And it is what I see in myself. You have both made your choice. Now it is time to make mine."

You could only look at her and nothing else. The entire world melted away. Galadriel cast her eyes upon you, smiling softly. A great calm washed over you, her presence soothing you, and you managed a smile back, letting a deep breath work its way through your body. Her love for you emanated outward from her heart, her very spirit, and you drank it in, letting it sustain you. You felt at peace. Finally. It was a magical sensation. Everything was going to be alright, you were sure of it now.

Though something changed very quickly. The air was invaded by an unshakable sense of dread. Galadriel blinked, and you watched tears trickle down her soft cheeks. Suddenly the smile struggled to stay on her face. The next words she spoke trembled as they passed her lips, as if they were forcing their way out of her. "I choose the light. It is my destiny. As it is yours." she paused, not wishing to finish her thoughts. Shifting her gaze to Halbrand, she raised a hand to his face and gently caressed it. A moment passed, though it was a moment that felt like an eternity. "And we must save this Middle-earth."

You saw what she was going to do before she had the chance to do it. A queen must protect her king. In the blink of an eye, you forced yourself between your two loves, just as your dagger in Galadriel's hand moved to strike. Your breath hitched and your body burned painfully as the weapon penetrated you. The she-elf's eyes went wide, as shock rippled through her. Despite the near unbearable ache you were now feeling, you were able to smile at her, and placing both your hands on her exquisite skin, you pulled her towards you in a kiss. Your lips clung to hers with all your might, trying to communicate all you could about how you felt in this moment. To reassure her this was okay. That you still loved her and could never hate her.

Now you knew how your victims felt with your blade buried deep inside your flesh. The justice their ghosts must feel at the notion of it. Releasing her from your tender touch, you cast your eyes downward to see the sight you knew was there. For you had already seen it. The same image your mother had shown you, Galadriel's hand on your bloody hilt, the blade hidden within you, blood gushing from your gut. The meaning of your mother's vision resonated in your mind, as it had now come to pass. The warning you did not heed.

Suddenly, Halbrand was screaming like you had never heard, the realisation of what had just occurred hitting him like a tidal wave. A mournful cry, filled with inhuman desperation that projected itself loudly for all to hear. Losing the ability to stand, you collapsed on the ground beneath your feet, Halbrand falling down with you, keeping your head from connecting with the damp pavement. He was cradling you, holding you tight, as if to tether you to this world, to assure you would never leave it. You looked up at him in his anguish, tears running fast down his face, landing on your cheeks. Galadriel fell to her knees before you, crouching at your feet, her expression almost one of complete catatonia. Azrahin and Târikun ran to your side, clasping your right arm and hand, their sobs entering the air. You were surrounded by your family, by the people you loved. Knowing this, your peaceful feeling returned, as each second that passed ticked towards your last.

"Someone do something!" called out Azrahin urgently. "Please!" Of all the hundreds of people in the town square that day, not one of them did a single thing to save you, accepting your fate. "Bronwyn! Please help her!" begged Târikun. You glanced down at your fatal wound, the daggers hilt protruding skyward, blood continuing to flow freely from you. Slowly turning your head to your brothers, you offered them solace. "There is nothing that can be done… the blood… its too much…" you spoke between coughs. Now you felt the metallic taste of it on your tongue. "It's okay."

"No… sister… we are not losing you…" cried Azrahin, trying to change your fate with his words. You could only cough in response, small dropets of blood landing on your lips. Halbrand stroked your face gently as he gazed down sorrowfully at you, his own sobs taking control. "My love.. why did you do that? Why did you do that?" he cried uselessly, as if the answer would put things right. "I didn't need saving…"

"Yes you did… it's all I wanted to do… save you…" you uttered softly with a smile, feeling yourself growing lightheaded… weaker. Halbrand managed a laugh somehow. "You saved me long ago, my love… it was supposed to be my job to save you." "And you… and you did." you coughed again and felt your blood trickle out from your mouth. Your love bit down on his bottom lip to prevent his sobs from controlling him once more. "This… this is not how it was meant to be… you're supposed to stay by my side… my queen… my wife… I'm not ready… I'm not ready to be without you."

Raising your left hand to cup his tear stained face, he closed his eyes in his sadness, attempting to savour the touch of you whilst he still could. Then you let it move down, and using the last of your strength, you held it firmly over his heart. "Such music as this will never end." you whispered with a faint smile, and Halbrand quickly returned it, before placing his lips upon yours in one last kiss.

Your eyes did not open again.

Tagging: @denzit @heronamedhawks @pursuitseternal @coraleethroughthelookingglass @hikarielizabethbloom @restless-tides @imjustsuperweird @vaguelyvibin @gil-galadhwen

#halbrand x reader #sauron x reader #halbrand/sauron x reader #galadriel x reader #halbrand #sauron #charlie vickers #galadriel #the rings of power #trop #trop fanfic #lord of the rings #lotr

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kadavernagh · 5 months

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: The lake in Saol Eile PARTIES: Regan and Wynne SUMMARY: Wynne meets with Regan at the lake and, in a moment of Regan's desperation, is able to reach her. They speak of escape. CONTENT: Self-harm, domestic abuse, parental death, sibling death, vomit mention

"You carry Padrig’s death on you now. That was your judgement. I could never carry someone’s death. This is my judgement.” But was the jade in her hand not as heavy as any cadaver in her morgue? She would shed it too. She didn’t have to carry it. She didn’t have to carry anything. No banshee did.

The soil underneath Regan bled a dark brown as she coughed up more water, which had to be the last of it. She still felt soggy inside – and not the kind of soggy she was trying to forget, the kind she had shed from her skin, the kind she had nearly given to the lake to drown because she could not do it herself. It was usually a two-banshee job, an báthadh, it had to be. As far above humanity as they were, banshees were still susceptible to the same instinct to breathe, to scramble and claw their way to the surface no matter what. And that was the root of all of Regan’s problems, wasn’t it? Life would be so much easier, Regan thought, if banshees did not need to breathe.

Crickets chirped along the water’s edge; they had been Regan’s only audience. Cliodhna had not been there. She didn’t get to see her granddaughter's persistence, her flailing efforts, her attempt to disavow what held her back.

But it was just that, wasn’t it? An attempt. Pride turned to shame. Regan hadn’t been able to do what was really necessary. The ring was still on her finger. She didn’t see the jade shine through the surface and then fade as it sank down with the detritus. She didn’t throw it in the lake where it probably belonged, because such a swampy, soaked token deserved somewhere equally wet, and not a hand such as hers. But she couldn’t, she couldn’t do it.

Regan ran her towel through her damp, stringy hair again. The sun could not be counted on here. It was a day like most others, where the mist rolled down to the earth and exhaled a cool humidity. The wet stayed wet. Decomposition toiled a little faster. Wynne grew bolder. Though perhaps that last one had nothing to do with the weather. Where Elias remained upstairs in the clinic, Wynne had been daring enough to venture out, which Regan saw as an opportunity for them to see the rot of this place (once more, not the good kind). That had been her intention, anyway, when she’d asked Wynne to meet her by the lake in the middle of the day.

She would show Wynne where she had drowned herself, and then had tried to drown Jade’s love. She would show them the tar pit, the place where young banshees learned to rend flesh with their scream, the spot where Declan would die a senseless death. She would show them her palms and the new aithrighe chun báis writ in iron above her navel, tell them how she received this ugly, awful honor, the way her father’s purpose was to be expendable. She would describe the punishments, the exiles, the tearing of wings from cold skin should someone dare fly high enough to ask a question. She would name every single banshee who lived here and recount every callous comment, rude remark, compulsion to kill for something that might have been no more than an idea. And then Wynne, a mask of impenetrable horror over their naive face, would see that this was no place for them, and they would drag Elias and the ham child out the way they had come in, and they would not look back at such a vile place.

Regan would do that, if her heart didn’t feel like it was about to vomit the second she looked at Wynne. She averted her gaze immediately. Hearts did not vomit, but hers would become the first in recorded medical history. She swallowed down what tasted like the scummy water of the lake, but there was no drowning the sensation now. Regan stared at the water, stiff as she was born to be; she couldn’t look at Wynne, and wondered what Wynne saw when they looked at her now. “Have you made plans to leave yet, or do you require more convincing? You’ve walked around enough. You know, don’t you? You’ve seen it, all of this, twice now.” Regan crossed her arms, catching the sight of her finger where her failure shined back at her. There was that cardiac queasiness again. The breath she took was not nearly as controlled as it should have been. Her lungs ached to scream loud enough to part the lake, but she had it, barely, and she held it, tangling her own fingers around it to push it down into the water before it could breathe. Regan’s distant expression registered faint discomfort. That whirlpool forming in her stomach had to be just a few measly drops remaining inside her. Still, she couldn’t meet Wynne’s eyes again. “There is no demon here, metaphorical or otherwise. There is nothing to bravely confront. There is no battle to fight. So do not fall on your own sword in lieu of having an enemy. The banshees would all enjoy that, seeing your organs spilled out over something sharp, but you would not.”

———

It was impossible to stay in their designated room. Wynne had been stuck in plenty of rooms in their life, ruled by passivity and fear. They’d folded to obedience and let other people’s demands sculpt their days, as was customary back at home, and though they had often felt accomplished at the end of one of those days, they knew better now. More importantly, they had not come here to sit idly and wait for a chance to run. Run, they would — but only with Regan in tow. And, alternatively, only if they could be certain that Elias, Nora and them had done everything they could to get Regan to come, even if it had been fruitless. There was a part of them that knew the reality existed that this mission would partially fail. That there were minds that could not be changed or moved. That there was a home they should return to. That there was no use in trying forever. Some battles were lost. Their brother had died on an altar. Some battles were lost.

But for now they clung to hope and whatever courage they had managed to muster. They left the clinic each day in an attempt to do what Emilio might. To investigate. To make themself understand what this place was, in general and to Dr Kavanagh. They understood these to be two different things, after all. Their impression of the aos sí would always be painted in different colors than that of Regan.

It was like that with their own former home too, wasn’t it? Emilio had gone there and seen something ugly, something that should be met with anger and violence. Who knew what Teddy had seen, or Lil. To Wynne, the estate on the shores of Moosehead lake was a combination of sweet memories. Of bonfires and swimming in the lake, of shared meals and communal living — but also of forced death, of reprimands and punishment, of limits so tight that sometimes they weren’t sure they could breathe.

They saw things in Saol Eile, with those wide and observant eyes, their ability to be quiet and a wallflower. They saw joy. They saw glee. They saw more ugly things, though, than these things. The smell of death hung like a thick blanket everywhere, reminding them of the leftovers at the altar after a sacrifice, after the demon had left some things behind and their people had been to afraid to clean it, lest It wanted more. They tried to see what Regan might see, but they didn’t understand it yet. They didn’t see her surrounded with other women, like some clumps of banshees seemed to be — like cousins or sisters. Perhaps Dr Kavanagh was a sheep returning to her flock, but if that was so, Wynne had not yet found evidence of it.

There was the lake, which was perhaps the only peaceful place if you ignored the echoes of screams. It could be that Regan wished to stay for the lake, but there were other lakes. This wasn’t a superior lake, just like the lake at their once home hadn’t been.

They met Regan where they had agreed to meet, not sure what would come of this. Wynne had once been someone people listened to, a sanctified martyr, a savior. At the end of the day, though, they had answered to their elders and their patriarch, just like the rest of them. Once, they had thought of Regan as something similar to those people — another elder with a wisdom that could guide them. But they realized now that perhaps Regan was just like the others at home. A member, who was looking up at their seniors to guide them, filled with desperate hope. Another person grappling with duty and obedience. Maybe Regan was even more similar to themself than they had ever thought could be. If she was, maybe she too would run.

They halted next to her and watched the ripples of the lake. It was nice enough to swim in it now, but they hadn’t brought a towel. The one they’d packed was hanging in their designated place of hiding. Wynne was quiet, letting Regan take the lead. There was still some of that reverence left. Such things didn’t disappear so easily. “I intend to leave,” they said. “That was always the plan.” Leaving was something they knew how to do. Leaving was something they had learned was sometimes the right thing to do, even if it came with a guilty conscience and an endless question of what if. Leaving was something Regan had approved of, in their case. “I have seen it. I don’t understand why you need to stay. This isn’t — it’s not a good place.” They were quiet again, noting how unhappy Regan looked. Not that she’d often looked happy in Wicked’s Rest, but she had never looked like this either.

“I don’t want to fight. I don’t — there is no fight here for me. Maybe not for you either. I want to leave. To go home to the people in Wicked’s Rest. To get Hamstring there. And you. You know that.” There was no demand in their tone. Just a statement of fact, as that was all it was. Wynne watched the lake with its pushes and pulls. Patient and endless. More immortal than any undead thing they’d ever met and would ever meet. “Why did you leave this place before?” Because she had returned, hadn’t she? She had left and come back. “I … I think about going back too. Not any more. I burned that bridge. But I still do.” They dreamed of it more now that Ariadne wasn’t there to ensure a dreamless sleep. Of the lake, of the meals, of the fields. Of their brother. Always their brother. “I know why you came back. But why leave?”

———

“I do know that. But you staying here, allowing the ham child to do the same, is putting her in danger. Cut your losses. I have cut mine.” That wasn’t a lie. Regan had cut them (hadn’t she? She had, right?). Accepting that she had cut them was what took longer. That was it. “Do you like the lake? There is death at the bottom. A heavy coating of it.” Regan’s eyes filled black, and she scanned, watching darkness mix within the water like ink. “There are waterfalls that feed into it. The ham child mentioned them. I think her… tour guide showed her. She doesn’t realize that they lead to all of this death.”

Wynne’s question made her blink, attentive. It made sense that they were asking about that. They probably thought they could replicate Reilly’s success, but these circumstances were different. Regan paused, her thoughts taking a moment to shuffle themselves into the right order. The day Reilly found her was both incredibly hazy, yet also one of the clearest memories she had of this place. “I saw my brother and… I don’t think either of us thought the other was real, at first. He looked older.” She didn’t. “I asked him how he got here. He said a plane. He appealed to my confusion, I guess.” It had been more than that, though. Something unrecognizable rose up in Regan’s throat and where she had expected a scream, her voice only croaked. She crossed her arms, turning away from Wynne slightly because her failures were becoming evident. It wouldn’t take her grandmother to pick them from her face. “I had been here for years and… I was told I would never see him again. And then I did see him again. He pointed that out. So for just a few minutes, for just long enough to… to make the mistake I made, I thought that, perhaps, he might be right about other things, where my grandmother had been wrong. Like that I did not need to be here.”

Regan’s resolve cooled and hardened, and she turned back toward Wynne. “But I am back here. My grandmother wasn’t wrong. I could never… I couldn’t do what you did. Burning that proverbial bridge. I need this place, I need my grandmother. It’s not only about duty.” A comparison struck her, something Wynne might grasp. “You were going to sacrifice yourself for your people. It wasn’t only about duty to you, either, but about the greater good. That is why I’m here, too.”

And it became easy to lose sight of, when little but duty was poured into her ears. But as her grandmother liked reminding her, Regan could not have one without the other. Did Wynne understand better now, or had they seen the whole truth this entire time, and come anyway? Regan twisted her ring around her finger. Somewhere deep within her mind, she conjured an image of herself throwing it into the water, as she tried to do before Wynne arrived. She could see the tiny splash and the shine as it rocked down to the bottom. Regan hated Jade right now – as much as she was allowed to. Hated her love. Hated her love for Wynne, and Elias, and the reckless child who had stuffed herself in luggage. Hated herself for attracting such humans into her orbit. She freed her finger from the ring and held it in her hand. As her gaze locked over the water, her muscles begged to pitch it.

———

“I don’t –” They cleared their throat. They wanted to sound unwavering and steady, the way they had felt every now and then on this journey. Regan was no elder to cower in front of — she was just a person, Wynne reminded themself. A complicated person who had listened to them before, who might listen again. “I don’t think I am allowing her to stay here — that’d insinuate I have any authority over her,” they said. “I can’t just drag her from here, kicking and screaming. It would … it would be bad.” Nora would have to agree to come. She had powers that could overwhelm Wynne, and though they didn’t think she’d use them against them, they weren’t sure how far Nora would go to achieve her goals. “I am working on it. I don’t want either of us to be in danger.” A beat. “That includes you.”

Wynne turned their attention to the lake as Regan did, moving in tandem with the banshee. These were things they knew how to do – how to be agreeable. How to move along, how to act as a unit. They nodded. “I like the lake. It reminds me of the one at my old home.” The ebb and flow was peaceful. They felt the urge to take off their shoes and socks, to hike up their skirt and stand in it. “There’s death at the bottom of every body of water, isn’t there? It’s how nature keeps feeding itself.” They squinted. “I hope there’s no trash in it. That would be very bad.” Wynne hesitated a moment, and then started unlacing their shoes. They wanted to be here a while – to really speak to Regan. They might as well get comfortable. “I’m not sure how much Nora knows about death. The way we do.” It was worrying.

They worked on pulling off their shoes and socks, all the while standing. Maybe part of them wanted to demonstrate that they weren’t put off by the death at the bottom of the lake, but the weather was also nice. Wynne knew that part of life was about enjoying it now. For Iwan, in part. They didn’t want to think about him, but they did as Regan spoke of her brother. “Does he know you are back here?” Had she told him, like she had told all others? That brother, who had crossed an ocean and had gotten into one of those horrible planes to come get her. “Is that not … is that not sad and wrong, that you can never see him again if you stay here? If this place keeps out all those that care for you, even from a visit? Is that not, on its own, bad?”

They weren’t sure how to do this, though — how to convince Regan to leave when every day was filled with a moment of regret. Sometimes, yes, sometimes Wynne felt empowered by their decision to live. Sometimes it was as simple as getting their feet wet in a lake and feeling the sun on their face to make it seem worth it, but sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes it was more akin to being swallowed by a lake, wondering how things might have been if they hadn’t messed with the status quo. Wynne wasn’t Regan’s brother. They weren’t Elias, who wore his heart on his sleeve and was so convinced of his righteousness. They weren’t Jade, who loved Regan in a singular way. They were Wynne, who still regretted not getting on that altar from time to time. Who was glad and grateful for all the people they’d met and the things they’d learned — but who might undo it, should they get a second chance.

“You said – you need to be here to learn, right?” Wynne was trying to piece together all they knew about banshees. They screamed, they killed, they had a pit where people died slowly. They upheld Fate like they had once upheld their then-nameless demon. It was hard to undo the threads of the Banshee’s world, just as it was hard to undo the ones that had held together their own. How much of it was true, how much of it was not? When were things about control and when was it simply about controlling? Again – there was no way to start judging Regan’s grandmother, when their own mentor haunted them. When there were still ties that bound them to their family, who might convert them back into their circles should they return.

But Wynne would not return and Regan had.

“I’m … I’m just trying to see, okay? I don’t –” There was the hesitation again. After depositing their phone into their shoe, they walked into the water, let the sharpness of the cold water sharpen them. “It wasn’t the greater good though, was it? It was lies, back at home. And if not that, it was corruption. I thought it was for the good of my community, but what good would it have been? If I had laid down on that altar for their bounty and fortune? If another had followed me, and another? What good — what good is it if Normstring is hurt and your hands are bandaged too – I noticed – and you cannot see your family, if you are confined? Is this the only way to learn?”

They watched Regan take her ring off and though Wynne wasn’t sure what the ring symbolized, they understood it meant something. “They told me so many times there was no other way.” There was something tired in their voice, then. “That dying was the best thing I could do, but I didn’t. And you told me that was a good decision.” They wanted to take that ring from her hands, to stuff it in their pocket and shake Regan the way so many people had shaken their shoulders. But they wouldn’t. “It can’t be so simple, that this is the only place, the only way.”

———

Confusion twisted into a tired sort of faint alarm across Regan’s face as Wynne removed their shoes. The meaning was clear. They were going to wade into the lake. No surprise that Wynne seemed comfortable around the water, given their previous home right on a rather large lake (one that was probably impactful to their community) but it was the secondary meaning that Regan did not like: Wynne was not going anywhere. The towel dangling from Regan’s hand dropped clumsily to the ground at the realization. Her hair dripped. Her lungs felt wet again. Was it not enough that Wynne insisted on coming here on some ill-advised rescue mission? Now they would also swim in the same water (if what Regan did could be called swimming), and claim they knew about death in the same way. The line Regan had drawn between the two of them, so stark only seconds again, wobbled.

Since coming here, Regan had tried not to think about her brothers, or Jade, or anyone else she’d left behind. They clung to her like the stench of cadaverine but less desirable, unable to be scrubbed off. She addressed Wynne more curtly than she intended. “My brothers don’t know about any of this, and will not. Having them visit would be cruel to everyone involved. They would see that their sister has died, and I would be setting myself back. The same is true of Jade, and of you and Elias.” It took about two weeks living here, in the beginning, before Regan had raised the subject of her brothers to Cliodhna, asking when they could visit. Normally displeased with questions, her grandmother was uncharacteristically open to providing Regan with an answer to this one – it was a question that she supplied in response. What would they see? That shut Regan up. Over time, she formulated the things her grandmother did not need to say – you would hurt them, a year of progress would be undone in a moment, they would blame you for what happened to your dad, they would try to pull you back where you do not belong, they won’t recognize you now. Regan did not ask again.

She watched Wynne out of the corner of her eye as they waded into the water. They seemed more certain about that than anything they were saying. Did they feel like a hypocrite, some part of them missing what they left behind or regretting what they did? At least here, Regan would learn to have no regrets. Wynne would never get that in Wicked’s Rest. She would here. She would.

Regan clenched the damp bandage wrapped around her palm, not reacting at all to Wynne pointing it out. She fidgeted the ring loosely between her fingers, the water still calling for it, louder and louder, pounding like her slow heart. Jade had promised Regan her bones. Could she still lay claim to them, to her, if she did this, changed and twisted herself in such a way?

She tried and failed to blot Jade out again. “I assume norm is what you called ham in your home. Hamstring was not supposed to do that. She won’t do it again. Your community… they collapsed without you.” It was harsh, Regan knew that, but Wynne had not shied away from that fact in the past. “Not because of some sacrifice, but because you went back for your notion of the greater good. You carry Padrig’s death on you now. That was your judgement. I could never carry someone’s death. This is my judgement.” But was the jade in her hand not as heavy as any cadaver in her morgue? She would shed it too. She didn’t have to carry it. She didn’t have to carry anything. No banshee did. She thought she hadn’t been willful enough to throw it earlier, that was the problem, but it was the opposite, she realized now – she had been too willful, too human, too much Regan. Wynne would need to see that she belonged here. She needed to prove it to herself even more. Regan curled her fingers around the ring and wound her arm up, expecting to see Jade streak through the air like a green-bottle fly before she hit the deepest part of the lake (that was the water sounding in her ears, only the water, not her heart now).

But Regan’s shoulder locked up. Her palm refused to open. Her fingers did not listen. It was Wynne’s fault. It was Jade’s. They made it her fault.

Fine. Regan’s lips curled in a snarl she wasn’t allowed to have, but it would be the last. Instead of attempting to throw the ring, she marched into the water behind Wynne. She would drop it, let it sink and drown like the stones crushing her chest. Let it join all of the other dead things in the lake. That would fix this and free her. It was, as Wynne had asked, the only way. Hatred flashed in her eyes. It needed to go. It all needed to go, if she was ever going to be able to be what she needed to be. Why couldn’t she be left here in peace? Why was she constantly being disinterred and dragged out of her burial ground, stuffed full of her organs again when she was trying so hard to embalm herself?

Regan waded further in, ahead of Wynne, not feeling the chill at all. She would answer Wynne’s question in a way they would feel as the sting of loss, a way that would force them to give up, one that made a point rather than a concession. “The reflex to breathe, to live, is incredibly strong,” Regan started, remembering how her grandmother had explained this before the first drowning. She saw it in the defensive wounds on the hands of decedents, sometimes skewered all the way through with the knives that slayed them. She saw it in the huge eyes of the thrashing animals she vociferously disassembled. She saw it in Wynne as they had stood outside of their community, taking in everyone’s words of encouragement. Life wanted to keep living, even despite death’s inexorable march. Banshees were not things of life.

Where Wynne seemed to find the water peaceful, Regan only felt thousands of reminders against her skin. Her grandmother’s fingers caught in her hair, Jade’s soft kisses trailing down her neck, the sting against the wide scab on her stomach, the way Elias’s entire arms had wrapped around her, the desperation of her lungs. “Screaming– screaming for someone’s death is the same, and if you fail, if you open your mouth and try to live, the price can be everyone around you. There is only one way to learn, to do no harm. When you drown, your instincts take over. They force you to kick, to jump, to clamber, so desperate to reach the surface the body feels as though it's on fire. But all you can really do is wait… waiting is the worst thing about drowning.”

The rictus of her arm eased and she lowered it, ring still stuck against her palm like it had been glued to the bandage. Regan’s voice was low and struggling to stay flat, itself attempting to reach the surface. “You strain against it at first. The first time, the second – the first twenty times, perhaps. But eventually… you stop.” She stared into the water, and for a second, she thought she saw her grandmother’s dark eyes peering back at her. Regan swept her hand through it, disrupting the image. Stop, she muttered to herself, to the reformed reflection, desperate.

Regan’s silence did not last long. “Or so I’ve heard.” She was almost waist deep now, and her grip on the ring loosened; it tightened around her voice instead. “This–” She held out a shaking palm, showing Wynne the beautiful promise, one that had been so full of love, one that should have instead been an inconsequential trinket from a life she had been severed from “–it’s the problem. You’re all the problem. It’s why I don’t yet know what it feels like to not flail and gasp.” The water rode up Regan’s shirt, reaching her face from feet below it, staining her voice and her eyes. “That's why this isn’t working. It’s not working. It’s not working this time. I need it to work. Please leave. Please let it work.” She tried to turn her wrist. Tried to let the ring drop. But it only sat in her palm, her hand trembling underneath it, more fragile than what it held and who she pleaded to.

———

The water was cold. Though the world warmed slightly since the appearance of spring – even if April remained as capricious as always – the water was taking its time to adjust to the more moderate temperatures. Wynne didn’t mind it though. They felt awakened by it, more alert by the pinpricks the cold water delivered through their system with every centimeter of skin that got in contact with the water. It kept them grounded to this place, their mind from straying to another lakeshore where they had stood with the same kind of dread. A shore where maybe they would have longed for someone to speak with them as frankly.

The lake at home had been large and seemingly endless. A border of their world. They’d lay on their back on the water, staring up at the sky and considering its clouds, its chemtrails, its blueness. Wishing and wondering. They’d loved that lake. They had found answers on it, mused away as a young child about the ways and wiles of the world. If they waded further now and laid on their back, would they find any answers in the Irish sky? Would they find the way the make Regan see that this place was a poison, a weapon, a cage? Would they find the right words to make Nora give up and abandon plan?

They doubted it. It hadn’t been Moosehead lake and its sky above it that had made Wynne see with clarity, back in the day. It had been their own self preservation, their selfishness, their anger and above all, perhaps, their fear. They let their fingers dance on the water all the same, because the water was – in all of this – blameless. It could not help the bodies at its bottom, but it could still sustain other lifeforms.

Regan spoke with a definitive and curt tone, one that would have made them cower a few months before. But they had crossed another body of water to be here. They had seen their former mentor die because of their decision. They were here because their friends were in trouble and even if Regan’s tone struck that obedient nerve within, they did not budge. They dipped their fingers into the water further. “That’s not right,” they said. Maybe it was childish, to take rightness into consideration — but it wasn’t right. “Your brothers deserve to know where you are. You deserve to see your brothers. To see the people you care about. Those aren’t — those can’t be things to set you back.” It was through their loved ones that Wynne had found the things they had lacked, after all. Home and support, but also autonomy and safety. These things mattered. They had to matter.

Wynne was confused when Regan said something about norm meaning ham. They frowned but decided to let it go, as talking about different definitions for ham was not really the most pressing issue. Regan was speaking of their former home, after all, accusing them of what they knew they were guilt of. It still made their breath catch in their throat, though. No one had told them, after all, beside Siobhan that one time. No one had been honest with them like this. They swallowed, stared a the ripples in the lake Regan and them were causing. “I don’t think your community will collapse without you,” they answered. “But the people in Maine might. They don’t want you to die. Not truly and also not in this metaphorical way you speak of.”

They were closer together now and Wynne started hiking up their skirt a little to keep it from getting wet as they followed Regan. She spoke of banshee lessons and ways and some of it went over their head. They didn’t understand it fully, the screaming. They knew it was done for someone’s death and knew, now, that it was capable of causing harm — that people could die because of the scream, that it wasn’t a mere announcement. But the details evaded them. Did it matter, though? Was it not just another responsibility to learn to live with? Regan had been told there was one way to learn and she saw no further. She stood at the edge of the lake and didn’t see the opposite shore, the other roads to take.

And why did she compare it – this learning – with drowning? Was she speaking in metaphors again or was that why she was drenched? “Did you — were you trying that now? To try and drown without giving into your instincts?” They needed to know, what this was. To clarify what Regan was speaking about.

They felt their stomach grow tight with dread. No one had ever pushed them under water in such a way. No one had made them learn by making them squirm and struggle for life. Maybe they would have, once they had tied their arms back and pushed them on the altar — but to Wynne struggling to live had looked more like running through the woods, sleeping on benches and in seedy motels, being confronted with humanity’s cruelty in the uglier corners of the world. And then survival had looked like learning to love other people, in accepting their care and affection even if they felt infinitely dirty for their survival.

“The — I don’t know if this is a metaphor or if you are really being drowned, but irregardless. The way to not flail and gasp is to not get stuck underwater to begin with. It’s not – it’s not to cut ties with us. You’ve heard that this is how you learn,” they said, and they were starting to feel a little more sure of themself, “But people lie and people are misguided. And I don’t know about being a banshee. But I don’t think having to drown or feel like you’re drowning is a way to learn anything. You can learn a different way. I do think that is true.”

It was hard to hear Regan’s pleas. To see her tremble. Wynne had been taught how to calm people once. How to make them feel at ease. They had been a beacon of hope, a promise of a bountiful future. But they didn’t know if they could reach Regan the way they had then. “You can find a different way for it to work.” They moved down further, letting go of their skirt and letting it float in the water as it reached their thighs. They stood more in front of Regan now, rather than beside or behind her. “You told me so many things, about demanding better for myself. About having done right by myself. So why can you not do that for yourself too?”

———

Was her drowning all that surprising? Regan had never told Jade, never told anyone so overtly (humans would not understand, only be horrified), but how did Wynne, or anyone, think that banshees learned how to hold in a breath while their lungs were exploding out through their ribcage? Positive reinforcement? “I dislike metaphors,” Regan said simply, though it wasn’t true. “Mine usually involve bones, at the very least.” Many times she had compared her love and those she cared about to cherished femurs or glistening entrails. The more her life had been filled with poetry, and she had come to learn or remember so many sensations not described by anatomy textbooks, things the dead would not tell her, the more her mind opened up. Her language choice and mannerisms had begun to mirror that. Less Gaeilge, hills in her flat affect, the occasional please, words curling around her lips because she had smiled, metaphors and similes and analogies brightening her speech by the day. “I dislike metaphors,” Regan repeated, and, thinking of how much she had changed within a year, it was more true now.

How dare Wynne step in front of her, try to stop her forward momentum, her clear path to becoming something better? That was not a metaphor either. If she could move her hand she would have pushed the child out of the way. Regan couldn’t drop the ring. But she could set one foot in front of the other until she was in deep enough that the ring would be pulled off her palm by the gentle current. She could if Wynne were not obstructing her. “Move.”

Wynne held enough certainty on what was right for both of them, but they still seemed unsure about something. Regan had learned to recognize the silence that covered them right before they said something about their home; they probably thought of that place. She wasn’t sure why. This was not the same. Regan’s voice wobbled as she spoke. “Banshees live a long time. Hundreds of years. And despite that, I have not heard a single word about there being another way. Don’t you think someone would have found it by now?” If there were another way, why would they not be using it? This was not like Wynne’s community, where someone in charge needed to keep power in their grip, and self-interest prevented dangerous ideas from spreading. Banshees were different. There could be no self-interest where there could be no self. Her arm trembled again, and she tried hard to knock the ring out of her hand. Jade thought she was a person. Wynne did, Elias did. There were times where all of them made Regan feel like, maybe, she could be one. But it was a veil she had chosen not to pull back, in Wicked’s Rest, surrounded by those who cared for her. She needed to pull it off now.

But her body did not listen to her. The banshees did not listen to her. Wynne and the others did not listen to her. What was she supposed to do, listen to her strangled sense of self? Regan grabbed her wrist with her other hand, twisting violently, trying to get her bones to obey, but it felt instead like she might just break them. Something in her met her own intentions and resisted with enough force. When she and Jade had spoken of rings, Regan had thought of it as a promise. That had been a metaphor (which, she decided, she now hated). That must have been it. A promise. Of course she couldn’t break it. Only it didn’t feel like a physical wall, or like something had strung her up. But if it was a promise made in error (she buried the word deep in her mind after she had thought it), then it wasn’t– it wasn’t her fault that now she couldn’t– instead of the kerplunk she had wanted to hear, a screech whistled from between her teeth.

“None of you are letting me– don’t you understand?” She was emphatic. Her face felt as it had when she was starved of oxygen, before Wynne showed up here. “I’m trying to be good! I’m trying to make sure I don’t hurt someone! The duty that I– do you think I care about serving something I don’t believe in half the time?” She couldn’t suck the words back in. But only Wynne was here to receive them. “Someday I’ll care. If this works. If I work. But I care about you, and Jade, and Elias, and my brothers, and keeping people safe. That’s why I can’t leave. You need to leave me so that I can leave you.”

There was a kerplunk.

Regan’s eyes ticked to her outstretched arm. To her hand that had gestured as she was talking, turning sideways without her realizing it, and effortlessly allowing her ring to slide off her palm. Into the water. She hadn’t even felt it.

Her heart jumped quickly enough to shake off the ice. Regan’s gaze whipped to Wynne, now asking for their help, and she dove in after the vanishing flash of jade.

———

So it hadn’t been a metaphor. The way banshees learned – what, exactly, Wynne didn’t know – by being made to drown. They shuddered at the thought, wondered who it was that held Regan down — if it was her grandmother’s hand pushing down on her head or some other method used. At home, when they had learned to swim, it had been in small classes of peers, and though it did include being thrown in the deep end there had been something gentle about it all the same. Drowning served no purpose. The water was just that. A place for leisure. A source of food. A rippling thing of beauty. They stared at the lake and how the sun shone on it and they hated the banshees for making it a place of such ugliness. They hated Regan for speaking of it like it was something that was actually useful and needed. “I dislike you drowning. I dislike that you have to do that. No, that you think you have to do that.”

They shuddered, too, when Regan told them to move, but they felt their feet stand steadily in the mushy bottom of the lake. At home, they’d reach for that mush and throw it at each other while squealing in joy. A lake was a beautiful place. A source, not an end. Not a cruel lesson, a punishment. Not a room to be locked in, or reprimand, or a hand clashing against skin. “No.” There was something rare in their voice. Certainty, determination. Their eyes were as wide as always but they flashed with something harsher.

And it almost faded from their eyes as Regan spoke of the way banshees lived so long (this was news to them, and so a truth they had to grapple with on top of all the other things — were some of the women they’d encountered over a hundred years old), but they kept their heels dug in the ground. They sunk a little. “If you really believed it why haven’t you thrown us in that pit yet? Why have you not screamed at me since? Why are you — Regan,” Their eyes grew a little wider at the sound of her first name coming from their mouth, “This cannot be it. This – you would not have left if you don’t understand that in some way. There are other banshees, aren’t there? And besides, even if things last long and have lasted long, that doesn’t make them right. Like, you know? Capitalism has existed for a long time. And kings, there have been kings and queens for more than centuries. Are those right? That is not a good argument. Just because something has been one way for a long time doesn’t make it right. You are bandaged and wet because you are trying to drown yourself and you think that is right? Why? Because people before you have done it? That is wrong. It is wrong.”

They fell silent, shocked at how loud their voice had gotten. They didn’t know a lot about the world, that was true. It had only been one and a half years since they had started broadening their horizons but they understood some things. They understood that some people were cruel. That power and control were both means to an end, even if they did not always understand that end. That the people at home had thought they were doing something right, even if they had raised them up to die, even when they had watched their brother get slaughtered. That the world existed in more gray tones than they had been taught, that it wasn’t all one extreme to another. They knew that it was important to feel like you belong. That feeling strange and unfamiliar to everything was isolating. They understood that it was scary to deviate, to run away and not look back. That even though there was something cowardly about doing that, it was also brave to abandon. They knew that sometimes love was the only thing that mattered, because everything else hurt and was scary and unfamiliar. These were the things they were certain of.

And sometimes that certainty was stirred, because they were certain too that to be convinced of something was not always to be right.

They were quiet for a moment. “It hurts when you do this.” It was not meant to be accusatory, but it was in a way. Jade said she had been crying. Elias looked like something wounded. Van was upset. Nora had gotten in a suitcase. Regan’s brothers would wonder and wonder and wonder.

The plop of something hitting the water had Wynne looking down, then back up at Regan. They didn’t understand what the ring signified, but it had to be something important considering how the other had struggled with the weight in her hand. How she looked at Wynne now.

And so Wynne followed into the water, pushing their body down. Back at home they’d throw down little trinkets and tried to dive them back up. Sometimes they got lost in the mud, only to be found a year later. Sometimes they got them, hands closing around the familiar feel. They swam down the way they had then, fingers petting the lake’s bottom, filled with death and life and the ring. Their fingers found it eventually after sifting through a few stones and they came up. Panting, they held out their hand for Regan. “Here,” they breathed, extending the ring.

———

Regan had never heard Wynne speak in such a way – bold, demanding. Like she had told them to be, once upon a time. They said the same thing Elias had; if this was the fate that awaited them, why not get it over with? Why not stop trying? Neamh-roghnaithe. If Wynne of all people did not understand, then no human could. But that unfair though came tethered to another: please leave, please leave, please leave. It was only that single, simple sound of the last year of her life hitting the water that replaced everything else in her head with nothing but action.

Her lungs steeled themselves as soon as her head submerged. The water pulsed in her ears. You’re permitted to come back up, you’re permitted to breathe, she reminded herself, but panic was again quick to push out any rational thought. The lake wasn’t deep here, but small things drifted (small… how was this small?) and Regan still had to stir up the sediment, raking her fingers through detritus to find the one thing down here that mattered more than all of the fish bones and decomposition in Ireland.

Her chest burned and she felt that familiar, creeping and then surging need to breathe. To open her mouth even (especially) if it meant letting the water in. This time, she scrambled to the surface before that happened, but she had nothing to show for it. No ring, just mud clinging between her fingers. Regan popped up intending to take in a quick gulp of oxygen before plunging back in, but Wynne stood there, dripping, the water curving around their waist, their hair sopping wet, their breathing heavy, and– Regan stared at their hand, the glistening ring in their palm like it had been no trouble at all. Her eyes stung – the water was obviously not clean – and she was able to convince herself that any additional precipitation was only from the lake.

“It fell, I didn’t mean to– I wasn’t– I mean, I was trying, but I couldn’t–” She had been so desperate to get away from that thing and now she couldn’t get it back quickly enough. Regan leaped through the water over to Wynne, grabbing it from their hand and fitting it right back on her finger. It felt like a phalanx clicking back into its proper place. In the same motion, her arms wrapped around Wynne’s thin shoulders and she exhaled the entire contents of her lungs, even feeling some of the water from earlier seemingly evaporate. “Thank you,” Regan whimpered, a sound and phrase so unbecoming here that it jarred her to hear it. She wobbled like an unsteady pillar. Enough to realize just what she was doing. Regan peeled herself away from Wynne like none of that had just happened, her eyes darting to the surface of the water. It was unassuming, the sun casting off of it through the clouds and mist, not at all like it had just almost taken everything from her.

“I’m not… a very good banshee. That’s the other way. Failure. Death.” Regan waded into the shallower water. She could see the bottom now, but she felt heavier with each step as her clothes became waterlogged and stuck to her skin the more she was exposed to the air. She looked over her shoulder for Wynne. Who was still there. Of course they were. She wasn’t sure why she’d felt the need to check. Wynne wasn’t the type to discard anyone in a lake.

Regan’s shoulders sank and another one of those long, undulating breaths left her lips, like something was pressing against her throat from both sides. She flitted her wings a couple of times to make the water slide off them and finally let her gaze hang over Wynne. Wynne had started demanding. Regan was going to stop doing that, at least right now. “Jade gave… I think she…” As tired as she was, her tongue still fought her on a specific p-word. What came out instead made her sound more frog than banshee. So pathetic that she had not been able to form a whole sentence. “It’s a promise. And apparently not the kind that I… I thought I couldn’t do it because… it’s always been me, though. The problem. Not you. Me, and… this place.” Another heavy, difficult breath. She knew what she had to convey. She had known since she met Declan, since before, even. But she hadn’t been able to stomach it. “Thank you.” Regan’s jaw felt hingeless and she was silent for a moment. “Does your phone work?”

———

When Regan lurched at them they nearly jumped out of their skin, but it wasn’t something to stress about. The banshee took the ring and put it back in its place, around her finger and Wynne watched for a moment. They mindlessly fiddled with the ring they wore around their own finger, a gift from Ariadne that they touched more and more in these days of temporary separation. It had only been a week since they’d been apart and though they knew they would be reunited with her (or, at least, they had to be, they would be, it could not be that they weren’t) it felt like an eternity.

They were surprised once more by Regan as she embraced her and spoke to them in a tone they had never expected from the doctor. Wynne stood there for a moment and then returned the embrace, hands maneuvering around the wings that had not been there back in Wicked’s Rest. They didn’t know what it meant, this moment of uncharacteristic closeness where Regan crossed some kind of barrier. Where she thanked them, which was something that fae didn’t tend to do. They let her go once she moved back and just watched her, quiet and silent and unsure at this new side of Regan.

They followed the banshee with some distance, patient and silent. Wynne was a better listener than speaker, anyway. “Why should failure mean death? And why — I think you can decide what makes a good banshee. I think you are a good banshee.” But they weren’t exactly a great judge of banshees, considering they still barely understood what they were all about. Regan seemed different than the people here, though. She thought murder was wrong. She thought Wynne shouldn’t have died. She helped people when they were hurt. She understood something about death that they seemed to understand too, but it was different from these women who liked sacrifice and murder a lot.

The topic swayed to Jade and now the ring made more sense. As context dawned on them they felt a little more sure again and as they wrung out some bits of their skirt, they let Regan talk. It was good to be patient, they’d learned. Patience was a good quality. It was one of the things they thought Padrig had been right about — that patience suited them well. It was clear that Regan was grappling with something, that there was a knot of inner conflict she was trying to undo and Wynne tried to imagine what it might have been like, had they returned home and left Ariadne behind. How mixed up everything would have been in their insides, then. They started stroking the water again.

“Then you should hold onto the ring.” A beat. “Even if you stay.” It was a quiet concession. Wynne knew there was a potential at failure, that there was a reality where they managed to sway Nora to come home and leave this play. Where they’d run as they’d once had. “You’re welcome.” They gave a small smile and no more words. There was no room for any more speeches, no more words left in their chest. But they had what Regan was asking for and Wynne waded to the shore, waving their hands around for a bit to dry them before pulling their phone from their shoe and opening up their chat history with Jade. It was an assumption, but it was also something of a push in Regan’s back. They extended the phone, “Here you go.”

———

If Wynne thought Regan was a good banshee, then they knew nothing of banshees, even after spending a couple of weeks here. Actually, she preferred it that way. It meant Wynne wasn’t often in the company of the locals. She let her feet drag her around a little, unsure and unsteady after that brief simultaneous holding that her skin still crawled with (and especially her wings, which were only grazed, but that was more than she ever would have permitted if she thought about it). Only the most infirm of humans required these holdings, and it was because they could not hold themselves up. Regan was not that. So why had she– well, there were those times when– no, she wasn’t going there. Except she was. Because she was holding onto the ring and because Wynne was handing their phone over and when Regan got the first glimpse of Jade’s profile, a quiet sob did leap up her esophagus. The assumption of Wynne’s did not escape Regan. The fact it was correct did not escape her either.

The ring hadn’t been the only promise – there was another. Regan had intended to keep Jade away, but now she realized it was keeping both of them rooted in place. Her fingers hovered over the strange keyboard (her old Blackberry was much easier to type on). Maybe… no. Or… no. She seethed with frustration again. Couldn’t the hazy sun dry her off any faster? Useless star, only able to keep the solar system glued together. Regan glanced over at Wynne, checking to see if they needed their phone, but they weren’t rushing this. It also, apparently, was not waterproof. So Regan shook her hand out a little, shedding droplets of water, and focused herself. Why was it that things that could be typed were not always the same as things that could be said?

Probably because of how dangerous this was.

She kept pausing, deleting, pausing, turning to Wynne for reassurance she didn’t realize she had been seeking. Once, her hand slipped and it seemed like something happened but the message was still there. It happened again and the camera went on. Wynne had to help with that. Blackberries were better.

Suggesting cremation to Declan had filled her with dread, the words fine individually, but forbidden when expressed together as a sentiment. It made her think a banshee could be behind any corner, they had eyes all over (never mind that she’d sense them). It made her disobedience contort her stomach and stain her mind enough that Cliodhna had picked up on it when Regan turned up there in the evening (yes, she examined the child for the other child; yes, he was suitable; yes, she needed to go upstairs and vomit into the toilet). This was twenty times worse.

Regan pressed SEND before she could make room for doubt – it wouldn’t be long, she could feel it pressing against her on all sides, waiting for a crack to appear. And she did create a lot of cracks. Talking to Wynne about what she had sent was even harder. But Regan couldn’t do this alone. She might not be able to do it at all. She looked left, then right, for good measure. Also up. She didn’t even want a bird or squirrel to hear this. The animal could die, and a banshee could extract this from them. It wouldn’t be the first time such talk spread in such a manner.

Regan gestured for Wynne to come closer and stayed hush. Every precaution. And even then, the words stuck to the inside of her mouth – Wynne had to pull them out with one of those soft, melty (too delicate it might break apart), human looks. Regan hesitated, then sped up, eager to get this over with. “The boy the ham child loves is going to die. We need to get the child out of here before that happens. The ham child, I mean. Not the boy. He is going to die. I mean, he is really going to die, there is no changing this. And I… I will try to explain this to her. Again. She needs convincing.” Wynne was listening, more attentive than ever, and she was no longer uncertain in saying all of this. Actually, Regan’s eyes sparked with more electricity than they had in weeks. She had a cause, a mission, something she cared about. “It isn’t working, what I am doing here. It isn’t you. It’s… but I don’t think I can leave.” She swallowed. She knew this. It was not a new thought. But saying it, expressing it as a would if I could, was more than a small slip in progress. “But… but if I can find a way, a way to help you three, and– maybe–”

She could tell Wynne had hoped Regan would say all of them. That she was coming, too, considering how much they had dug their heels in before. This was the best Regan could do. A stuttered fragment of a distant possibility– but it was not an I will not go. It would also have to be enough. Out of the three who had come here for Regan, Wynne was the most likely who would be willing to leave without her, if it meant getting the ham child and Elias out safely. They had the most sense, even if today had been an excellent display of stubbornness. “It’s going to take a couple of days. Worm Remembrance Day is on…” Regan checked Wynne’s phone for the current day. “Thursday. All of the banshees will be gathered by the statue at sunset. Away from the cars.” Wynne would understand what she was saying. They had to, because the shame of disobedience was going to strike her down soon if she stated it any more plainly.

“I will try,” Regan said, handing Wynne their phone back – after one more quick message sent to someone who needed it. She hooked her towel up from the ground and made a half-hearted attempt to dry her hair off, but she still felt as wet as ever. “And I will think.”

#writing #c wynne #parental death tw #sibling death tw #vomit tw #self harm tw #domestic abuse tw #sad and gay tbh :/

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sweetpeauserboxes · 2 years

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[id: a light orange userbox with a pastel orange border and pastel orange text that reads “this user's f/o is padrig.” on the left is an image of padrig from ooblets. /end id]

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endless-bunny · 1 year

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Pathfinder Iconics Comparison Part 1: Classes with Different Iconics

[Part 2: Core Classes] [Part 3: The Remaining PF2 Classes] [Part 4: Classes Who Got Demoted] [Part 5: Prestige Classes] [Part 6: Who's left?]

Paizo hit upon a really clever bit of design when they came up with the idea of "Iconic" characters.* Unlike some other role-playing games, which have illustrations full of generic characters and scenarios, each character class in the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game is illustrated with an Iconic character. These are fleshed-out characters in their own right, and in addition to appearing in illustrations throughout the books, they're used for novels and comics and fiction of all sorts. Some of them appear as party members in Kingmaker and Wrath of the Righteous. *Note: I have since come to learn that the character illustrations in the Player's Handbook for the third edition of Dungeons & Dragons were considered Iconic. The characters for the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game therefore represent a continuity of that concept rather than something Paizo came up with. However, I think Pathfinder does it really well, and it's something that is sorely lacking from the fifth edition of Dungeons & Dragons.

Between the first and second editions of Pathfinder, some of the Iconics got swapped out, while others stayed the same but got updated outfits. See below the cut for comparisons between the classes that got swapped, and I'll make separate post for classes which stayed the same.

Note about the artwork: We have the absolute shining star Wayne Reynolds to thank for most of these. He's genuinely my favourite fantasy illustrator. Unless noted otherwise, all illustrations in this post are by him (and all are © Paizo). Paizo credits all the interior artists at the front of each book but finding out which specific artist did each specific piece is a bit tricky. Thankfully, not only does Wayne sign is artwork, he has such a distinctive style, so he's easy to recognise.

We'll start off with the characters who are completely different.

Alchemist

Damiel (PF1, he/him, Elf) and Fumbus (PF2, he/him, Goblin)

Pathfinder 2e has promoted Goblins to a core ancestry, so they wanted one of the new iconics to show it off. Goblins often have a fondness for things blowing up, so alchemist seemed like a perfect choice. Fumbus has already had his own solo adventure in a comic book, while Damiel was featured in Hollow Mountain.

The Alchemist appears in Advanced Players Guide for PF1 and Core Rulebook for PF2.

Gunslinger

Lirianne (PF1, she/her, Half-Elf) and Nhalmika (PF2, she/her, Dwarf)

These ladies are both very cool in their own ways. Lirianne has that sort of Clint Eastwood vibe, peeking out from under her hat. Nhalmika is a real Mama Bear, and it's quite rare to see a mother going adventuring.

The Gunslinger appears in Ultimate Combat for PF1 and Guns & Gears for PF2.

Oracle

Alahazra (PF1, she/her, Human [Garundi]) and Korakai (PF2, he/him, Tengu)

Like goblins, tengu are now more available to player characters in PF2, and Korakai was brought in to demonstrate that.

Lest you worry that Alahazra might have been forgotten, she does appear in the PF2 Advanced Player's Guide as one of the Oracle "quick builds", the Flame Augur. She also continues to appear in scene artwork in the books.

Illus. TBD, it's not Wayne.

The Oracle appears in Advanced Player's Guide for PF1 and Advanced Player's Guide for PF2.

Psychic

Rivani (PF1, she/her, Human [Vudrani]) and Thaleon (PF2, he/him, Elf [Vourinoi])

I love Rivani's outfit, and there is something to be said for completely invisible magic, but the splashes of colour in Thaleon's key art just make it so dynamic I can't help but love it.

The Psychic appears in Occult Adventures for PF1 and in Dark Archive for PF2.

Summoner

Balazar & Padrig (PF1, he/him, Gnome) and Ija & Tuku (PF2, she/her, Human [Bonuwat])

The Summoner is the Pet Class in PF2. It lacks a lot of the granular customisation of the class in PF1, but in exchange the class works in sync with its pet in a way that the Ranger and Druid can only envy.

On a side note, it seems unlikely we'll get the Spiritualist in PF2 given that the Summoner can take an Undead Eidolon and cast Divine spells if she so chooses, so as a bonus, here's Estra (she/her, Human).

The Summoner is found in Advanced Player's Guide in PF1 (with a revised version appearing in Pathfinder Unchained) and in Secrets of Magic in PF2. The Spiritualist is found in Occult Adventures in PF1.

So that's your lot. All five of the classes that got a new Iconic between editions. If I remember, I'll update this post with links to the others once I make them.

#pathfinder 2e #pathfinder #pf2e #tabletop #ttrpg

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this-is-a-name-dont-worry · 23 days

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j'ai passé ma semaine à redessiner mes ocs kaamelott, en partie pour m’habituer au dessin digital :) Voici donc la petite famille, du plus âgé au plus jeune

Padrig, Veia&Ronan, Marc, Yuna

(devinez lequel a été fait en dernier <3)

Originaires de l’ile de Bretagne, leur père était un servant à Kaamelott. Leur mère étant originaire d’Italie (Vitali, près de Rome), ils furent envoyés chez leurs grands-parents maternels durant les dix ans de règne de Lancelot, le plus âgé étant Padrig, 19, et la plus jeune Yuna, 10. Les problèmes commencent quand leur mère vient leur annoncer le retour d’Arthur, et qu’ils peuvent maintenant rentrer. Ça fait 10 ans qu'ils n’ont plus vu leurs parents, et 10 ans qu'ils ont passés loin de leur terre natale. 10 ans sans être certains d’un jour revenir, 10 ans passés à grandir. Ils ont tous des réactions et ambitions différentes, et ça pourrait détruire leur famille.

#kaamelott #je les aime tant ils sont preciouscand dear to me #spoiler l’un d’eux meurt

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eldritchaccident · 9 months

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Timing: Mid December Location: The Jones house Feat: @ohwynne & @eldritchaccident Warnings: N/A (though there is very very brief description of gore in the first paragraph) Summary: Teddy shows Wynne their latest project.

It was strange to be back at this house where Wynne had once made a deal with a demon. Said demon was no longer present, having slipped from this world onto what they only assumed was another plane of existence, and yet here they were. Staring at that large house, their bike awkwardly parked on the still-green lawn. Something in their body seemed to be stirring, memories scratching at their brain. Levi shaking their hand in this house, sitting across from them as they ate dinner. Levi ripping apart at the seams and becoming the Leviathan. A claw undoing Padrig’s skin, organs spilling. The black blood. The swish of its tail as it left.

There would be no demon in that house any more and it was hard not to feel like it was their fault, somehow. That Teddy was alone now, or at least without their adopted father. Wynne fiddled a little with their jacket, pulling it tighter along their body as they walked up the lawn. There was no reason to be nervous, but they were. The howling wind sounded like gythraul when it had been fighting.

Eventually they rang the doorbell and eventually Teddy opened in all their bleach blonde glory. Wynne smiled at them, knowing there was no reason to be nervous around them and still feeling their stomach twist. It was strange to see the former-demon in the house, as the boat had fit them better. At the same time, Teddy Jones probably had the ability to fit into any and all places with that energy they brought. They were glad to see their face, in spite of all their twisting guts.

“Hi!,” they said. Wynne looked at their empty hands for a moment. They hadn’t brought any food, for once. “I’m here.” Obviously. They shivered. “Can we go in? It’s kind of cold.”

—

“Wynne!” Teddy practically squealed with delight, a force of nature they always seemed to carry with them in excess. The ex-demon rushed forward, throwing warm arms around their shivering guest. “C’mon in, I have somethiiiiing to show you. But first let's warm you up. I made hot cocoa.” There was a sing-songy quality to their voice. One part joy of holding a pleasant secret, the other of finishing a job worth doing. Both were for Wynne, and they deserved even more.

“How’re you doing, hope the drive over wasn’t too bad.” With one arm around them, Teddy made for the kitchen where wafting scents of warmth and sweetness drifted from. The mugs were already set out. Teddy’s, looking quite a bit like a cartoony angler fish, and Wynne’s was peppered with sunflowers. The chef rounded the counter to start pouring right away. But not before continuing their pestering questions.

“Are you warm enough? Do you have enough clothes for the winter? Maine is rough, and we could go get you stuff if you need it.”

—

Teddy seemed so glad to see them and Wynne felt a little less heavy immediately, not quite understanding that someone could be so excited by their simple appearance. They leaned into their touch though, and returned it in kind. “Something to show me?” They looked up at them, intrigued and eager, but mostly excited by the promise of something warm. The wind had felt like icy knives against their bare cheeks.

As they moved into the house, they worked on pulling their handmade hat from their head, shrugging. “It was cold, but it’s not so bad when you have the prospect of a warm house ahead.” They fiddled a little with their hat. “I should get a license, but there’s a … a fae at the BMV who kind of made it hard for me last time I tried.” They frowned and shrugged. “And I’m … okay. I’ve just been really tired. Maybe dazed is the right word. What about you?”

They looked at the mugs being poured full of hot chocolate and then at Teddy, slowly pulling off their scarf and jacket as well. “I have some warm things. I took a lot of wool and fleece things when I ran, because it was around this time of year too … and I –” They flushed slightly. “Stole some things after running away. But I might want some new things.” Wynne folded their jacket and placed it on a stool. All their old clothes had been made by the hands of those they’d betrayed. Of those who had betrayed them first, perhaps. “I’m setting aside some money for it. But I’m warm enough now, don’t worry!”

—

Teddy was good at listening, they liked to believe they were pretty good at picking up non-verbal things too. If only because they’d studied the craft immensely, always being a little too obsessed with humans and how they interacted with each other and the world at large. Unfortunately, the more personal it got, the harder it was for them to discern. Wasn’t so much a problem with Wynne, though.

There was an easiness to the conversations they held together, a peace. Something about being the survivor of a familial attempt on their lives. Maybe that thread alone was enough for their energies to exist on some sort of similar wavelength. Pretty much as soon as they had heard their story, Teddy felt so protective over Wynne. They wondered if the other knew. Even if there wasn’t much they could do now except jump in the way of danger, take whatever came at them just to dish it out to whoever deserved it. Maybe that's why they were pushing for this surprise. If the other member of the survivor’s club would take it.

“You need a license?” Their head tilted to the side, as they took a careful sip of the hot drink. Not too hot, just right. “I could just get you a fake, y’know. I got a guy who’s an expert. One of my aliases actually got summoned for jury duty once. I went on a lark, it was actually kind of fun, strangely enough.” A satisfied hum sat on their lips. “I can probably teach you how to drive better than any school anyway.” It did not take much at all to amuse Teddy Jones. They were a self-contained universe of entertainment. Throw them in a pit of beige, and they’d explode it into a waterfall of technicolor. But they always preferred having someone along for the ride.

Wynne went on about having some things stored up, and Ted made a mental note to keep the ex-greenhouse stocked with yarns and wools for crafting with. Of course, there would be a few holiday gifts too, maybe even a tree. Religion wasn’t really something that Teddy ever interacted with, for pretty obvious reasons, but they loved the traditions around the winter holidays. Bright lights, big dinners, a chance to show everyone you care about how well you’ve been paying attention. Wynne deserved a whole lot of nice things. Cozy things. Deserved a chance to carve out new traditions that came with their freedom. With their new life. Teddy couldn’t wait to be a part of that.

“I’m gonna worry, sunflower. It’s like my job.” Teddy grinned, then gestured slightly towards the back door. “So. Wanna see it?”

—

It was a rare thing to have someone who could understand the situation Wynne had once been in. The people in Moosehead had the context that others lacked, had mostly endured the same upbringing but couldn’t understand what pre-mortem sanctification was like. The people here were filled with kindness and perhaps righteous anger, but most of them didn’t fully get it — and that was okay. But Teddy understood what no one else they’d met so far understood: what it was like when your parents were willing to give away their child for a demonic entity.

There had been a level with comfort with the other from even before this revelation, but ever since they had found out that (un)fortunate link between them it had grown steadier. Teddy was someone to rely on. Someone who was capable of lifting them up. Who made them feel hope.

“Oh. Really? I mean! I think the government is not to be trusted anyway. And I am afraid maybe they’ll ask many questions or something,” they said, frowning a little. “And Ariadne has been teaching me to drive and I know some things already but I could definitely use some more lessons. You’d be a good teacher.” Wynne was certain of that. “I saw your car, I think? It’s very cool.”

They took a long sip from the hot chocolate, letting it warm them up. They were beaming up at Teddy, “Okay. But I’m alright. No hypothermia from me!” The houses here were a lot warmer than the ones at home had been, anyway. Those weren’t the things they were worried about, that they thought were worth worrying about for Teddy. They nodded their head, ready to follow the other wherever they would take them. “I very much do. What is it?”

—

Maybe it was the sudden loss of their adoptive father, bringing back a cache of old haunts that had eaten away at Teddy's mind from the moment they were old enough to comprehend their birth parents' betrayal. Maybe it was the colder weather and early nights that made an empty house feel even more so. Maybe, both, or neither, but Teddy was clinging so tightly to anything that resembled connection.

Wynne, Emilio, Nora. Teddy wasn't blind to the reasons behind their attempts to keep the trio close. It was a selfish need to not be alone. The ichor that washed over the whole of Wormrow provided a wonderful excuse to collect all of their favorite people nearby. "Atta-kid. That's why you're the best." Teddy hummed fondly, always pleased to anti the establishment. “Having a few teachers isn't a bad idea anyway, different types of driving, that way you can find your own style. Though you shouldn't say the thing about my car being cool, too loud, Emilio will pop out of nowhere just to tell you you're wrong.” The wide grin on their face really betrayed the serious tone they sarcastically spoke with.

The next part was a lot easier to show than to explain. “Follow me.” One part ominous, one part joyful. Teddy turned and started off towards the door, expecting Wynne to join them. Back outside just for a moment, down a short path and over to what used to be another storage and greenhouse, but had been completely redone. Pretty much gutted and refitted entirely to be a cozy little house, made perfect for their little sunflower. A bit of a bigger project than Emilio's office, but well worth it.

The outside was a warm yellow, painted with red, orange, and green flowers and swirls. A stark contrast to the cold gray that painted the last few days of autumn. In spring, they'd plant flowers together, well, if Wynne liked it that is. Teddy really hoped they'd like it.

“Ready to go inside?”

—

They knew that Teddy said kind things easily and to a lot of people, because that was the kind of person they were. Uplifting and positive, spreading a boisterous kindness around in a way that Wynne found inspiring. But even so, when they said that they were the best they were beaming up at them. “I learned to drive on a tractor. I know a bit about how to use it, but all the rules …” They sighed. “There are very many of them. And I do want to know them. So I don’t get arrested or something.” They frowned. “I will tell Emilio that he is wrong if he does!”

They followed Teddy, curious what it was that they had to show them. They couldn’t begin to guess what it might be, with the other being unpredictable in a way they had grown to appreciate. Their intentions were always good, after all, and that was something they were growing more steadily used to as they realized that the intentions of those at home had not been.

Their eyes fell on a small home, which they hadn’t seen the last time they had been here. There had been something, though, but they had barely noticed. Their mind had been more occupied with meeting an actual demon who wore aprons. Wynne’s eyes were wide, heart skipping a hopeful beat as they glanced at Teddy to try and gauge what this was about. What this meant. If it — no. Surely not.

“What’s inside? Is this … for Gabagool?” They hadn’t seen the demon yet and for that, they were kind of glad. He’d been rude and revealing last time. Wynne blinked at the paint. “Did you paint that?”

—

“Oh bud, we’re in Maine. No one knows the rules on how to drive here.” There was a pause, a comforting smile, and Teddy closed the distance between them to put a hand on their shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Driving is ninety percent just not speeding too much, and the other ten is paying attention to road signs. If you can drive a tractor I’m confident we can get you on the actual roads in no time.” The warm smirk burst into a small fit of laughter as they walked, “I do, in fact, love telling Emilio he’s wrong.” They pointed out. As if it wasn’t obvious. “But it’ll be better when you do it. He might even listen for once.”

The brisk air was enough to make Teddy want to usher the kid inside the new place faster, but there was something to savor out here too. Wynne deflected, in a way that they thought the other might. However, Teds didn’t quite expect– “For Gaba– No, Wynne, sweetie. Gabagool has the whole house. He’s a free range goblin. This is–” A pause, searching for the phrasing. “It’s actually for you. If you want it. I did, I painted that cause it reminded me of you, y’know. Wanted it to feel all homey. Wait until you see inside.”

—

“Oh. Yes, people are a little careless sometimes.” Wynne smiled a little. “I mean, I already drove! Once, by myself.” They didn’t really feel like bringing up the context of having to go save Ariadne from Rhett, though. “And on a parking lot. But the signs are the ones I’m trying to learn. And then if I know them I can use a fake license.” They were glad Teddy and Emilio were such good friends. It was good, that the people they cared about cared about each other — it felt a little like what had been good at home. Like community. “He sometimes listens to me. But he’s very much like a mule sometimes.”

They were quiet. For a long stretch of time they were quiet. They had thought their hopes and instincts silly just moments before, but here Teddy was revealing that this was to be theirs. If they wanted it. There was something about both those statements that had them feel a little lost for a moment, but in a way that was welcomed. It was their choice. And it was a kindness, no strings attached. “Are you — are you serious?” They finally blinked up, eyes a little teary. Of course Teddy was serious. They made many jokes, but not about these kind of things. “I want – yes, I want to see the inside and — are you?” They pressed their lips together, looking up at the small building. “Are you serious?”

—

A little careless was an understatement. The last time Teddy saw someone use a turn signal was… probably before they moved to Maine. Ah well. There were a lot of other things that made up for scary driving skills (or lack thereof) that made the ex-demon want to stay in this weird little fucked up town, in a weird little fucked up state. They could go on, wax poetic about the way the cliffs met the ocean, about the charming little neighborhoods, about the lively downtown area. But it was never about the place was it? Teddy had been all over the world, and never once even thought about settling down until now. Until here. With people who somehow managed to poke through the evasiveness, the selfishness, and the fear of commitment that came with any new place.

Until now, it was all temporary. Strange, to think about considering until now, they had forever. Maybe it was the eventual end that gave meaning to the things it ended. Maybe living on, expecting yourself to be apart from anything that wasn’t themself or their father was removing them from the life they wanted to live. Even if they hadn’t known it yet.

There was an undeniable pride in Teddy’s chest as they looked at Wynne. The kid had gone through so much, and here they were, standing on their own two feet. Stronger than ever. Like the flowers etched in paint along the walls of the building before them, Wynne was something that grew bold and kind in the face of adversity. Such a rare blossom deserved a place to thrive. To see what it could do in favorable conditions, with the support they needed.

“Serious.” Teddy beamed, crossed a finger over their heart and mimicked locking it with a key. “All yours champ.” Just like with Emilio, they handed over the key, figuring the first step should be theirs.

—

Losing their apartment had been a sad affair. It felt silly to complain about it, as they had been able to spend more time with Ariadne and there were way worse things in the world — but the apartment building had been the first place that had felt like home since they had ran away. There was something special about it, even if the faucets were leaky and the wind howled through the cracks and one of their neighbors sometimes threatened them with a knife. Wynne hadn’t been looking for a new place, hoping foolishly that it might one day be restored and all would be good. Avoiding the problem.

Maybe it was good that they had been, because here was the solution. Teddy had come to the rescue, once again, their spontaneity matching perfectly with their hesitance. They were looking at them and then the house and then back at them, hardly able to believe that this was happening. That someone could love them, like this. That it could feel this secure. This giving.

They curled their hands around the keys and were quick to dive in for a hug, pressing their teary face against Teddy’s chest. Wynne swallowed thickly, trying to pull their tears down with them, and then pulled back. There was a small sniffle. “Thank you. Thank you. I can’t – I can’t believe it.” They let out a laugh, which was nervous and excited, and they tried not to tremble as they pushed the key into the lock and turned it.

—

A gift well received was one of the most gratifying things to experience. Teddy knew it was a bit selfish, or at least they saw it that way. Doing nice things with the ulterior motive of… well, this, they supposed. Of seeing the look on someone’s face when it all worked out just right. The feeling was something they had chased for… pretty much ever. Whether it was acting as demonic as possible to make their father proud, or being a little over the top with gifts and such.

The hug was returned, long gangly limbs curled around the shorter of the pair and squeezed tightly, protectively. For a moment Teddy pressed their cheek into the top of Wynne’s head before stepping back. Smoothing out the other’s hair from their face, and wiping away one of the big tears that had begun to spill.

“Alrighty sprout, let's get in before we do get hypothermia.”

The inside of the tiny house was as meticulously crafted as the exterior. Maybe even more so with all the room for expression. Teddy giddily urged Wynne on, asking them to explore the space with gestures alone. Too excited to properly verbalize it at all.

The doorway opened to a small foyer, a little bench to the left to sit and take off boots, along with pegs to hang up coats, scarves, keys, or whatever just above. Further in, a small sitting area with a comfy couch, a little coffee table, and a small entertainment system filled in the corner that split off to the stairs and a small hallway that led towards the kitchen. The appliances were old, but well taken care of. (As luck would have it, a year or so ago Ted had done a shift at an old antiques place and their temporary boss had a knack for restoring old stoves and fridges. They cashed in that favor as well as quite a few more for this little adventure.)

Greenery was strewn about the whole place, in cute pots both on the ground and hanging in macrame holders. Though the ex-demon did look a little sheepish when Wynne went in for closer examination. “Plants are fakes for now, couldn’t get a whole greenhouse worth in here in the middle of winter, but we’ll fill it out in time, y’know?” The rest of the decoration was sourced from local artists, and some Teddy knew from way back when. Lots of cute things with folksy charm that reminded them of Wynne.

The stairs in the center led to a small loft style bedroom, complete with dressers full of thrifted sweaters, socks, and other cozy things. And a big old bed with a heavy knitted quilt sitting right in the center of it all. Teddy was pretty proud on how well they had done in such a short time, but that was the benefit of being the person who always “knows a guy.” As well as having a stupid amount of money they really didn’t need left to them by their father. Excited as they were, there was really only one opinion that actually mattered about the house. So Teddy grinned, turned back to Wynne and asked;

“Whaddaya think?”

—

It was overwhelming. That was a statement that often rang true for the likes of Wynne, who had been raised sheltered and without the constant input that came with mobile phones, computers and televisions. The world was large and filled with terrifying and glorious things and it was sometimes too much for their brain to comprehend. But in some situations it was a welcome thing.

Like now. Teddy called them sprout and the doors opened to a house that was theirs. Was decorated with them in mind, by someone who not only had a good eye for interior design but who knew them. They thought of their bedroom in Worm Row, which had been decorated with a poster that had been gifted by Ariadne and a few random plants and candles. It had been bare besides those few things, lacking in personality. They hadn’t thought they’d had one of those. They had thought that whatever identity they’d had had been left at the estate, when they had abandoned their title of dewisedig.

But this was theirs. This was made for them. This fitted whatever personality they had apparently been showing to Teddy. The cozy couch, the kitchen that looked well-used but more than functional. A little outdated, but still working. The plants were especially fitting, even if they were fake. The art pieces were ones they liked, even they couldn’t quite put into words why. It was all proof, though, that they were seen.

They were quiet as they moved through the house, aside from a few sounds of surprise. They liked that it wasn’t too big. That the bed was covered in a quilt. They ran their fingers over the handiwork, looking up at Teddy. “It’s …”

Wynne didn’t want to start crying again. They looked outside, at the far away ocean view. They exhaled deeply. “It’s too much.” How did one accept such a gift? How could they, when they had done nothing in return? Wasn’t everything a give and take? A balance? They were blinking at Teddy. “Right? It’s — it’s perfect. It’s so perfect. It’s too much.” They had to give something in return but they had nothing but their empty hands and the things they could make. Nothing of this scale. “It’s beautiful. I love — it. But …” Their lip trembled. They didn’t know why they were getting so upset. “Teddy …”

—

“No, hey–” Teddy saw the wobble, the break in resolve. They knew this all might have been a little overwhelming but they never wanted Wynne to cry, or anything even remotely close. Teddy pulled the shorter one into a hug. One hand cupping the back of their head while Ted’s chin rested neatly on the top of their head. “None of that, okay? You earned it, sprout. Don’t gotta give me anything back. This isn’t transactional okay? It’s your turn to grow, I’m just here to make sure you got the sunshine.”

In their mind, this was all the logical progression of the story. Levi had taken in a kid, bound to sacrifice and raised them. Wynne might have been a bit older than young Teds, but they were still just a kid. Needed a home. Needed someone there to support them when shit got rough. Someone who could give advice and comfort. Not that Teddy was the best at either, but they had a lot of love to give, and Wynne was as deserving, if not more, than anyone.

—

They felt themself tremble and when Teddy pulled them close, their face resting against their chest. Tears still spilled, even if they were told there was no need for it. Wynne let out a shaky exhale and returned the embrace, nodding their head against Teddy’s hand and chest. “Okay.” Not transactional. A space to exist, a space to simply be and be safe. What else could they ask for? A place to come home to, created with care and meant to be somewhat permanent. “Okay. Okay, if you’re sure.”

They eventually let go from the embrace, looking around the place again. Their chest felt heavy, but less so than it had felt before. It would take a while to get used to this, but maybe that was alright. “It’s really beautiful,” they said, a little breathless. They weren’t sure what to do next, but when their gaze rested on the entertainment system they looked at Teddy. “Will you … show me what all that is, how it works?” That would be good. To listen, to watch and to busy both their hands. Wynne smiled. “I’m a … noob, is what they call it, I think.” And Teddy was good at those things, not just at explaining things but all of this — at giving.

#wickedswriting #ohwynne #eldritchaccident

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honeysmokedham · 5 months

Note

[pm] I came all this way for you and maybe I shouldn You kn I didn' Nora can you at least tell me you're okay? I'm worried.

[User is idle for a moment.]

I didn't want to leave my old home either. It was nice there. And comfortable. And people made me laugh. But they would have killed me. And they will kill me here. And Elias. And you. And Declan He's going to I don't understand what's happening and I keep having nightmares and sometimes I'm afraid Padrig will show up or my mum and I just

Just tell me you're okay. Even if it's just a stupid emoji because I'm afraid you're in that pit now. Do you want me to I can't find you. I'm afraid for you. Okay?

[user retrieves her phone because she’s a child of the technology era and old habits die hard. Another unread message. Another twisting gnawing wave of guilt. Another choice to make. Move forward or look behind. Was the book of Greek mythology she’d been reading not warning her to move forward and only by not looking back could she escape hell? Nora opens the message.]

I’m okay, I’ll leave when Regan leaves. Busy day talk to you later. Bye.

[user is lying]

#c #c: Wynne #Emilio’s message is still unread #just an update on Nora’s phone situation

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nightsidewrestling · 9 months

Text

D.U.D.E Bios: Roger Lum

The Fourth Prince of Hell Roger Lum (2020)

The third son of Damian and Nicole, the rebellious and outgoing Roger. He will do anything to piss off his parents.

"I set one of dad's suits on fire."

Name

Full Legal Name: Roger Ferruccio Lum

First Name: Roger

Meaning: From the Germanic name 'Hrodger' meaning 'Famous Spear', derived from the elements 'Hroud' 'Fame' and 'Ger' 'Spear'.

Pronunciation: RAWJ-a

Origin: English, French, Catalan, Swedish, Norwegian, German, Dutch

Middle Name: Ferruccio

Meaning: Derived from the Late Latin name 'Ferrutius', a derivative of 'Ferum' meaning 'Iron, Sword'

Pronunciation: fehr-ROOT-cho

Origin: Italian

Surname: Lum

Meaning: From Old English 'Lum' meaning 'Pool'

Pronunciation: LUH-mb

Origin: English

Alias: None

Reason: N/A

Nicknames: N/A

Titles: Mr

Characteristics

Age: 20

Gender: Male. He/Him Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: British

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: May 28th 2000

Symbols: None

Sexuality: Straight

Religion: Christian

Native Language: English

Spoken Languages: English, French

Relationship Status: Dating

Astrological Sign: Gemini

Theme Song (Ringtone on Damian & Vi's Phones): Damian: 'Counting Stars' - One Republic Vi: 'I Sat by the Ocean' - Queens of the Stone Age

Voice Actor: Tim Minchin

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Bodmin, Cornwall, England

Current Location: Bodmin, Cornwall, England

Hometown: Bodmin, Cornwall, England

Appearance

Height: 5'9" / 175 cm

Weight: 160 lbs / 72 kg

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: Blond

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: Sparse

Facial Hair: Clean Shaven

Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) 1

Piercings: None

Scars: None

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Allies: N/A

Enemies: N/A

Friends: Adam Nye, Joseph Winter, Heddwyn Pritchard, Padrig Llewellyn, Fabian Rhydderch, Macaulay Rhydderch, Pace Rhydderch, Hale O'Hannigan, Walker Rhydderch,

Colleagues: N/A

Rivals: None

Closest Confidant: Rowena Abram

Mentor: Damian Lum

Significant Other: Rowena Abram (21, Girlfriend)

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Damian Lum (61, Father), Nicole Lum (56, Mother, Née Yap)

Parents-In-Law: None

Siblings: Viola Nye (41, Half-Sister, Née Lum), Ulysses May (38, Half-Brother), Wanda Ott (35, Sister, Née Lum), Tristan Lum (32, Brother), Xavia Lum (29, Sister), Sullivan Lum (26, Brother), Yasmine Lum (23, Sister), Zella Lum (17, Sister)

Siblings-In-Law: Quentin Nye (42, Viola’s Husband), Kestrel May (39, Ulysses’ Wife, Née Coy), Heath Ott (36, Wanda’s Husband), Gardenia Lum (33, Tristan's Wife, Née Day)

Nieces & Nephews: Adam Nye (21, Nephew), Paulette Nye (18, Niece), Benjamin Nye (15, Nephew), Olivia Nye (12, Niece), Charles Nye (9, Nephew), Earl May (18, Nephew), Jane May (15, Niece), Flint May (12, Nephew), Imogen May (9, Niece), Magnolia Ott (15, Niece), Laurence Ott (12, Nephew), Naomi Ott (9, Niece), Daisy Lum (12, Niece), Vance Lum (9, Nephew)

Children: None

Children-In-Law: None

Grandkids: None

Wrestling

Billed From: N/A

Trainer: N/A

Managers: N/A

Wrestlers Managed: N/A

Debut: N/A

Debut Match: N/A

Retired: N/A

Retirement Match: N/A

Wrestling Style: N/A

Stables: N/A

Teams: N/A

Regular Moves: N/A

Finishers: N/A

Refers To Fans As: N/A

Extras

Trivia: Nothing of Note

#D.U.D.E #original character #Lum #Family. Not A Wrestler

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ohwynne · 7 months

Text

TIMING: Around Christmastime PARTIES: Zane @rn-zane & Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: A store SUMMARY: Zane and Wynne have to deal with an entitled customer while in line together! A conversation follows. CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

After all this talk about Christmas decorations and consumerism and what not, Zane couldn’t help but feel a little bit guilty as he hugged the shopping basket to his chest. It was just a few strings of lights, nothing boisterous, but the darkness of the house from the outside felt more and more looming with every passing day. The least he could do was put up some lights, pretend it was inviting when he got home from work. Actually making it look lived in would perhaps prevent an accidental squatter from settling in, too. Especially now with Chris dropping in when needed.

The store was fairly busy, an after-work rush forming a decent queue to the cash register. Zane zoned out, eyes rolling slightly when he finally noticed that there was indeed Christmas music playing. Apparently it really was never too early. Blocking out the rather bad pop-rendition of Santa Baby, his eyes roamed aimlessly until they caught on a gut wrenchingly familiar sight. Wynne’s back was facing him but it was them, no doubt about it. A few people separated them in the line but the second they’d finished paying, Wynne would turn and spot him.

They’d made it very clear that Zane’s… well, existence, brought them discomfort. He couldn’t blame them in the slightest. Shifting on his feet, worry rising at the thought of ruining Wynne’s whole day, about them probably trying to be polite while absolutely hating the sight of him, Zane made the sudden decision to simply leave. Gently nudging the person in front of him with an apologetic smile, he gestured past her. “Sorry, I just need to-”

“Boy, if you think I’m letting you cut this line, you are dead wrong.” Her voice rang out loudly, eyes sharp and freezing Zane to the spot, excuses about just needing to get past to leave falling on deaf ears as she continued on a tirade of ‘kids these days and their manners.’

—

With their new job paying a little better, Wynne was starting to grow more comfortable with spending some money on themself. One of their newest objectives when it came to spending money was adding more items to their wardrobe, which had been limited and very much filled with old Protherian clothing ever since they’d ran away. And though those fabrics were sturdy and comfortable, they looked out of place or rather — not like themself. Someone who had grown untethered from the commune that had clad them, fed them and told them how to both live and die.

They had tried on different clothes, looking at their figure in the mirror as if it was an improved version of themself, while also feeling like they were a stranger. It wasn’t really like they were venturing out wildly — they still clung to muted, earthy tones. But there was a pair of jeans in their arms that felt very much like a statement piece to them.

It was a glorious, kind moment where their freedom was celebrated in a tiny yet meaningful way. They almost forgot about the pessimism that had overtaken their mind, but it soon enough returned when another customer raised her voice. Wynne looked over their shoulder to look at the commotion, eyes already wide but growing wider at the sight of Zane. The sound of the woman’s voice seemed muffled even if it grew louder with every self righteous work she spoke and Wynne swallowed.

They seemed to land after a moment, grasping the situation better as in the background of their mind they remembered the vampire woman who had forced Zane’s head down into their neck. How she was dead like Padrig and the demon. They didn’t feel afraid, they found, just a general type of bad. Like their guts were churning in their stomach in response. “It’s okay, he’s with me, he’s not cutting in line,” she said to the woman, fingers digging in the fabric. “But we’ll um, leave. Okay?” Wynne moved from their spot in the line, leaving one less person for the angry woman to wait on and heading towards the back of it. The last thing they wanted was to be a witness or participant in some kind of scene. At the back of the line they loitered, looking at Zane and wanting to say something — just not being sure what.

—--

This was hell. Hell was real and Zane was stuck smack dab in the middle of it, being shouted at by an older lady with Wynne’s attention turning towards him, eyes widening in horror. He could have moved first, turned his head away, anything. Instead, Wynne’s gaze and the angry confrontation kept him glued to the spot, mouth dry and stomach twisted with anxiety. In some karmic twist, Wynne was the one who stepped up to the rescue, diffusing the situation.

The woman still looked offended but clearly found it harder to be angry with Wynne than the tall and, in her opinion, rude young man. Zane, to his credit, did manage to mutter an apology despite being practically smacked speechless at this point. His feet shuffled until he too had left the queue, hands clutching desperately at the basket in his hands. As if the solution to this situation rested somewhere underneath the lights and garland stuffed in there.

Wynne was watching him, making a prompt exit stage left seem a bit hasty, so Zane slowly shifted his way over. A good six feet of distance separated them, both seeming just as lost for words. “Those look nice,” was the first thing to leave his mouth that wouldn’t have been a new rendition of profuse apologies, head nodding towards the jeans in their arms.

—

So much had happened since that time in the barn. That wasn’t to say the memories had grown any less sharp and jagged — Wynne still awoke panting to the memory of that dank and dark place, feeling that cold sharp pain in their neck again. They still looked at Arden and wondered if she thought about it too, if she replayed those bits even if she didn’t want to. But so much had happened since all the same.

Some of the most relevant occurrences perhaps having happened within them. Though part of them was more lost than ever now that the demon was dead and that chapter was closed, they also felt more in charge than they ever had before. Zane was no longer as scary a thing as he had once been, in those initial days, weeks and even months since the kidnapping. And though they felt uncomfortable, there was no resentment or fear to be found. Just that same sadness that everything came back to these days.

They looked down at their jeans, then back up at Zane. “Oh. Thank you.” Wynne grimaced a little. They almost opened their mouth to explain that they were very excited to buy new clothes, but Zane barely really knew them. “That woman was not very nice. Your … lights are nice though.” They dug their teeth in their lip. “Um. How have you … been?” They did kind of wonder. After all, they understood now that Zane had lost quite a bit at that barn, too.

—

It wasn’t a smile but it was… something. Their eyes no longer held the same glaring amount of conflict as they’d done in the hospital, the last time Zane had seen them. Wynne looked better, too. Stronger, almost. But still in some ways shrunken by the weight of the vampire’s presence. He glanced back towards the woman who had loudly made her opinions known, giving a small shrug. “People get tense around the holidays,” he excused, even though he had no idea if that was just the lady’s general attitude. Benefit of the doubt.

His lips quirked slightly, relieved in some ways that Wynne seemingly wanted to keep this conversation going. It almost slipped out, that he was going to decorate the house but bringing their attention to the place Wynne had been held and hurt seemed… bad. “Trying my hand at some decorating,” Zane said lamely instead, shifting his weight, wishing things were different.

“Oh, uhm…” His eyebrows had shot up in surprise, the question probably the last thing he’d expected Wynne to ask. “You know… dealing. Done a bit of training with Emilio which was… surprisingly nice. Lots of work, keeping busy.” Zane focused on relaxing his hands, currently twisting the handle of his basket within an inch of its life, the plastic threatening to snap. “You and uh, Ariadne, huh? That’s great.”

—

That seemed to be true enough, that these so-called holidays made people more tense. Wynne tried not to think about last year around this time, when they’d been on the run and so many places had been packed and decorated. “I guess so.” People at home would get stressed around big rituals and the like as well, lash out more easily and make larger demands. They wanted to stop comparing things to the past and live in the present.

But it was unshakeable. Zane stood across from them in the store, but they were also across from them in the barn. They blinked. “I like the decorations,” they stated bluntly and simply, “The town looks nice. Twinkling like that.” They tried not to think about where Zane might put up the decorations, preferred to think it was just at the hospital.

When the vampire mentioned Emilio they were a little surprised. It wasn’t like they felt betrayed by this fact — just surprised. They trusted the slayer’s judgment, just as they trusted in Ariadne’s. That was two points in Zane’s favor. “That’s very nice of him. He taught me some moves too. It’s good I think, for us.” They probably could use some fighting skills. “Still at the hospital?” Wynne beamed a little, nodding. “Yes. I’m — maybe it’s …” They cut themself off. “It’s really nice. About five months now.”

—---

Zane couldn’t pretend not to notice the signs of discomfort, the way Wynne’s eyes would unfocus for a second or shift uncomfortably away from him, the tension in their shoulders. Not that he was doing any better but comparing their situations felt unfair - Wynne didn’t have anything to make up to him. “I agree. It’s always been my favorite thing about the season, everyone trying to keep away the darkness.” He huffed out a quiet chuckle at himself. “Which sounds way too dramatic when talking about fairy lights.”

Talking about the people they both knew instantly felt safer. Zane didn’t want Wynne feeling obliged to ask how he was doing, to pretend to care about his emotional state just for the sake of politeness. Both of them cared about Emilio, for some reason, and Ariadne for obvious reasons so the common ground felt steadying. The line moved forward and the two shuffled along with it. “Yeah, it was strangely nice. He’s a good teacher.” It was comforting that Wynne was learning how to defend themselves, too. While Zane definitely needed to, it was clear which of the two was more vulnerable. “Still there, yup. No shortage of people that need the ER, sadly.”

Watching Wynne’s face be taken over by an emotion that wasn’t stress nor discomfort made Zane unable to contain his own smile. “I’m really happy for you two. It’s good that you have each other.”

—

The world had been painted in black and white at home. No shades of gray — just absolutes. Things were either good or bad. There was either sowing or reaping, day or night, life or death. All these opposites were required for a balanced world, and in that kind of world view there was no space for someone like Zane. Someone who had hurt them badly and was still good. But Wynne had gained insight over the past months and knew now that these things could coexist. “No, it makes sense. At home we’d burn a lot of candles when it got dark. And there were the stars, of course. You can’t see them as well here.” They flushed a little, at this lifting of the veil.

It was still hard to trust their own judgment at time, as it felt like their mind was leaking with the thoughts of people back home. But Emilio and Ariadne trusted Zane, and he was being nice to them now. They inhaled and exhaled deeply and found that their unease wasn’t as large as it had been at the beginning of this conversation. “He really is.” They smiled sadly. “I would hope one day less people need it.”

They nodded. “I think so too.” Wynne was quiet for a moment, fumbling with the tag on the jeans. They didn’t want to befriend Zane, but they also didn’t want to think of him as the monster from their memory any more. He’d killed the woman who’d forced his teeth down. Wynne had condemned their mentor to death. There was a red thread there, something tying them together. They didn’t want to explain it to him yet (if ever), but it made them feel something close to forgiveness. “It’s okay. If you want to be friends with Ariadne. I’ve thought about that. It’s okay. You seem like …” They shrugged. “You could be a good friend to her.” They were both undead, after all. And in that area, Wynne could never offer Ariadne their full understanding.

—

It took him a moment to realize the flush spreading over Wynne’s face and another moment to realize why, his usual intuitiveness in reading people murky by the stress of this encounter. They had revealed something they hadn’t meant to, reminding Zane of their strange bonding experience way back in that hospital room. Another piece in the puzzle of Wynne's life, but clearly one they hadn’t meant to let slip so Zane brushed it off for them. “Nothing really beats a sky full of stars. I am a sucker for a scented candle, though.”

Again, silence settled between the two of them but it didn’t feel quite as heavy as before, a small step in the right direction perhaps? Zane was used to the silence of people thinking, pondering on a response or what to say next. Now that Wynne no longer looked like they wanted to bolt from the store, he could let the silence sit. Eyes widened slightly when they finally spoke again, a proverbial olive branch being handed over that Zane still didn’t feel quite deserving of. “That’s-” He cut himself off, an array of things to say at the ready that all eventually boiled down to sounding like he didn’t trust Wynne’s judgment on this.

“Alright. Well, I’ll be here if she has any time. I’ve heard being in a nice relationship can be really time consuming.” A joke, sort of, delivered with a soft smile. Almost hopeful. Zane didn’t expect Wynne to ever fully get over what had happened - it had left more scars than just the one they were clearly quite expert at covering up. But maybe things could, at some point, be fine.

—

Zane didn’t ask about where they’d come from, where they had burned the candles and seen the stars. There were a lot of places with candles and stars, of course, but it still felt like something personal. Maybe one day they’d tell him about how they’d recognized something of themself in him, but this place was not the right one. “I personally prefer a nice scented oil. But I don’t say no to a candle either.” This small bit of common ground was nice enough for now.

Had this really been the person who’d ripped open their throat? Who’d made them bleed despite his refusal to? It was hard to think of this Zane as the same person as he stood here, with strings of lights and talking of things so mundane. Wynne knew people contained multitudes. People could be vicious and violent and yet be kind, like Emilio. People could care about you and still intend to hurt you, like their parents. People could be the sweetest, softest person you knew and still have to make others afraid, like Ariadne. It didn’t make sense, but it did. It just was this way.

They let out a nervous laugh, bursting past their lips awkwardly. “We have our own lives! But yes … I do take up some of her time. But it’s okay. Really.” Wynne was sure of it. They felt a twinge of selfishness for their previous request, but then their neck was still marred. Some things took time. “I hope your house looks nice after decorating. I’m … I’m going to check out now. See you around, Zane.” There was no need to duck into an opposite direction if they were to see him again, after all. He hadn’t meant any harm in the barn and he certainly meant no, now. They lifted a hand in a half wave and walked back to the check-out, feeling their throat throb but feeling something besides their elation, too. Hope.

#zane.#a certain darkness.#threads.

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