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jamiemackenziefraser · 3 years

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All That Was Fair

Chapter 12: Billows and Breeze

Summary: Burning questions pave the way for a few much-needed answers.

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A/n: I’m back, thanks so much for your patience! As usual, this chapter picks up directly where the last left off, so it might be good to glance at the previous chapter if you want a refresher.

Chapter 12: Billows and Breeze

***

After the unfortunate incident with the knife, Claire had been reluctant to leave his side, still buzzing with worry over him. She’d gotten herself well and truly worked up, and Jamie thought that they needed to do something lighthearted and low-stakes. The day so far had been so charged with tense energy that Jamie thought perhaps being outside in the familiarity and tranquility of nature would do her some good.

“Do ye fancy a hike?” he asked Claire, who was sitting curled up on the couch. Immediately remembering that “hike” was likely not a word in her vocabulary, he amended, “a wee walk about outside?”

Claire’s face brightened instantly and she perked up. “Oh can we? I feel so stuffed up!”

Jamie was proud of himself for once again correctly guessing what would be good for her. Perhaps he had her figured out now…

Thus the preparations began. It was an unseasonably warm day for autumn in Scotland, so Jamie was comfortable with Claire wearing one of the armload of dresses provided she also wore his jacket. Most of them still lay on the chair where he’d deposited them the night before. He grabbed one out for Claire, handed it to her, and then she disappeared off to change. When all of the rest of the dresses had been draped over his arm to bring upstairs, he noticed the book laying on the chair. The Woman of Balnain.

Alarm bells went off in his head, and his curiosity peaked, but he didn’t have any time to spare to look into the book. It’d have to wait. As he tossed the clothes upstairs in the guest bedroom, he took a stop by his office to place the book on his desk. Soon.

For his own preparations, he suited up in his well-loved hiking boots, packed a backpack of water and snacks, and considered their destination. Claire likely wasn’t interested in a car journey (she’d had enough excitement for one day), so perhaps just a walk about his property and a stroll to the neighboring monro. It truly was beautiful: the heather was in full bloom this time of year, turning the hills into sweeping seas of purple. Claire would love it.

So, they escaped out the back door and set out side-by-side along his property. They weren’t touching, just amicably basking in each other’s nearness. About two steps in, Jamie realized he needed to slow his pace. His long legs and inexhaustible hiker’s energy would far outpace his wee faerie.

“I never thought tae ask…” Jamie began as they walked along, Claire’s face upturned toward the sunlight peeking through the clouds, “how old are ye?”

“Oh…” she looked down shyly and then glanced back up at him from under her lashes, “I'm quite young really, I’m only 9 and 30.”

Jamie’s mouth fell open. He was incredibly taken aback by this, having pegged her to be about his age if not younger, but quickly decided he could take it in stride.

“‘Quite young?’” he chuckled, “ye’re practically a granny compared tae me, lass. I’m 29.”

“29!” she exclaimed, as if she had just told her that he was the bloody queen rather than a decade younger than her, “but you’re so… why don’t you live with your parents?”

Jamie nearly tripped over a stone in his path but managed to right himself before toppling over. Claire had stopped walking the moment “29” had left his mouth, and she was staring at him with a concerned gaze that uncomfortably reminded Jamie of how an adult might look at a lost child.

But the pieces were beginning to fall into place in his brain, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs as he gathered his thoughts. With a glance at Claire and then a tilt of his head, they resumed walking.

“I sense that maybe there’s a wee difference between lifespans of humans and the fair folk…” he began uncertainly, “Humans only stay wi’ their parents until they are 18 or so. Besides, I lost my mam when I was young, and my da a few years back.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what possessed him to share that last intimate detail with her, superfluous to the point as it was. He hardly ever talked about his parents’ deaths to people, and it disconcerted him a bit how easily it came tumbling from him now. Apparently a deep part of him wanted to share everything with her.

“Ye said ye’re quite young…” he continued, and a horrifying thought suddenly struck him, “you didna still live wi’ yer parents before ye came through the stones, did ye?”

Oh Christ what if she was only a child by fae terms! She looked his age but…

His head began to spin, but she thankfully answered before he could work himself up any further.

“No. I suppose things are a little different for the fair folk. We are taken care of by our parents until around 30 years of age or so. But I’ve been on my own for far longer than that. I… I lost my parents as well. When I was very young. I can hardly remember them really…”

She gave a little tilt of the head, trying to keep the mention of tragedy casual, but he could see the pain in her eyes that wouldn’t meet his.

Jamie’s heart ached for her, tinged with the familiar longing for his own parents. It seemed they really were kindred spirits— him and Claire— two lost souls who’d somehow come to find each other.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said huskily, “so that’s what ye meant when ye’d said ye’d been takin’ care of yerself yer whole life? Did ye no’ have other family?”

Claire shrugged her shoulders a little, as if her clothes were too tight, and shook her head, her curls billowing in the gentle breeze to hide half of her face. He knew she wasn’t hiding from him intentionally, but it still made his heart clench to see her discomfort.

“Not really. But the fair folk are rather communal. We are often near each other, even if we don’t live as a family unit per say. Others made sure I was well, and I had friends and other fae around, but mostly I’ve been—”

She left the word “alone” unspoken, but the meaning was clear. The undeclared word seemed to linger in the air between them, weighty and heart-wrenching.

At this new declaration, Jamie couldn’t help but reach out and take her hand. She wasn’t alone anymore after all. Maybe she felt that way, but Jamie would be damned if it were true. He wouldn’t leave her. Her wee hand slipped easily into his, and he allowed his thumb to drift over the peaks and valleys of her knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. What else could he say in the midst of such loss?

“What about you?” she asked, her natural radiance suddenly coming through in her smile, dissipating the heavy topic’s dark cloud, “will you tell me more about your sister?”

Jamie couldn’t help a sheepish smile. “Aye, Janet is her real name. After we lost our mam when I was around 8 or so, Jenny became sort of a mother tae me. She was always there when I needed her, and— weel…” he let out a bit of a laugh, thinking about the earlier blow up with Jenny, “she’s always there now, sometimes too much when she’s sticking her neb intae my business… but I’m glad she’s there. I love her verra much.”

Claire gave him a sweet nod and squeezed his hand. “I can tell she’s important to you.”

Apologies rose in Jamie’s throat along with the resurfaced guilt from earlier. He had told the one person who mattered most to him that Claire meant nothing, and both of them were aware of it. But as much as he was bursting to lay himself at her feet and explain his mistake all over again, he’d already been forgiven, so it was time for him to move past it.

His thoughts were interrupted by Claire letting out an exclamation. They had just rounded the edge of the monro, revealing the expanse of rolling heather— its purple waves spread into a picturesque canvas across the landscape.

“Bonny, is it no’?” he asked, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

“It’s beautiful,” she uttered in wonderment.

Feeling like a protagonist in a romance novel, he held tightly to her hand and led her through the field. Her skirt billowed in the breeze behind her, and her face was lit up with a serene joy. Riotous curls swept all around her head, and Jamie was enthralled. He found himself walking almost completely backward so he could watch her face as she took in the beautiful sights.

He could admit to himself that it was cheesy, but to him, Claire would always be the most beautiful view.

If only he could tell her that… To bring them to a halt, gather her into his arms, and kiss her until she was breathless…

He had to squeeze his eyes shut before the longing took him over. The words he always repeated to himself came to the forefront of his mind.

You can be her friend, her anchor, but nothing more. She’s lost everything, ye canna take advantage of her. Pull yerself together.

And so he did. He wiped all thoughts of kissing her from the slate of his mind— imaging a whiteboard of the errant imaginings being erased— and grounded himself in the moment.

“Have ye ever seen a place like this?” he asked.

She shook her head, still smiling in delight. “We don’t usually wander out as far as the moors. Well, some do. Some have experienced a great deal. But I hadn’t ever left my forest before now.”

He nodded, going silent as his imagination overwhelmed him with images of him taking Claire to the beaches of Greece. Her joy as she took in the crystal blue waters, her dropping to her knees to grab handfuls of sand, her body clad only in a bikini as she jumped into the waves...

A question suddenly struck him and pulled him rudely from his fantasy.

“Do the fair folk read?”

She looked at him, uncertain. “Read?”

He thought back to their adventure at the bookstore. She hadn’t actually asked him about the books, but she hadn’t made any indication she knew what they were either. It had been an overwhelming day; he couldn’t blame her for not asking about every single thing when it was all unfamiliar.

“Do you have language in a written form? With symbols?” he expanded.

She gave a little shake of her head and looked curiously at him. “We communicate verbally, like we’re doing now. What is reading?”

And thus, Jamie set into the best explanation he could manage. About communication, learning, writings surviving the years to give insights into ancient ways, the power of stories in human culture.

“We tell many stories,” Claire told him during a break in his explanation, “all passed down from one generation to the next. Like I said at the gardens, language is everything to us.”

He nodded thoughtfully. Jamie’s curiosity about the fair folk was well and truly peaked, and as they walked along, enjoying the serenity of the warm day and the feeling of earth under their feet, he launched into more questions.

“This may be a difficult question tae answer, but… how are ye alive if ye dinna eat? I mean… humans get energy from things we eat, where do you get yers?”

“Well… I suppose a simple way to explain it is we get energy from everything around us.” She made a wide, encompassing gesture to their surroundings.

“Like from the sun? Like plants do?” Jamie’s brain was running away with thoughts of Claire going through the process of photosynthesis.

“No, it’s… it’s hard to explain. It’s more like… I just tap into the energy of the earth. I don’t really know how else to say it.” Claire gave him a bit of a helpless smile, and Jamie returned one in dismissal of the topic. It didn’t matter to him so much how exactly it worked so long as it did.

“Okay, one more question,” he asked, hoping he hadn’t already pushed her too far with his curiosity.

But his fears were assuaged when she answered indulgently, “you can ask me as many as you want, Jamie.”

That got his head spinning. What he really wanted to know was about relationships between the fae. Did they have marriage? He longed to ask her (and maybe get down on one knee depending on the answer), but he bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to be scaring the lass with a daft question when he couldn’t even keep his feelings in check. No, he’d save that one for another day.

“I appreciate it, lass, but jes’ one more for now. From the stories I’ve heard from my mam… and that many people believe in Scotland, ye’re supposed to leave offerings of milk and sweets— food— for the fair folk tae eat. But ye dinna eat, so…”

Claire let out a laugh then. Not one of mocking or disdain, but pure enjoyment. And it lit up Jamie’s soul to hear even though he had no idea why it was she was laughing.

“You humans think you have us all figured out. That one, my lad, is one you all made up completely on your own. I’m sure half of the things you believe are mere superstition,” she answered with an entertained gleam in her eye.

Jamie could have talked to her for hours, deciphering which of the scottish legends were true or man-made, unraveling the secrets that made up his mysterious faerie, but he noticed she was starting to droop a bit. Her pace had slowed, and despite the wide smile still gracing her face, Jamie thought it was time to turn around.

“Come now, lass, let’s go home.”

She gave a grateful nod, and with that, they turned back. On the way home, Jamie began to explain all about his job. About the publishing company— his whole livelihood based on stories. Claire seemed to lighten at that, and Jamie started to mentally catalogue which books he’d have to read to her first, imagining her delight as she was introduced to all different kinds of worlds and knowledge.

The sun was just beginning to go down as the cottage came in sight. The clouds were lit in a warm golden light, and specks of it sparkled in Claire’s hair. Rather like the color of the aura around her— he thought. He looked at her then, really looked, and saw the soft shimmering cloud, barely visible in the golden sunlight. They were no longer holding hands, but he thought if he took just one step closer, he could feel the warmth of it. Indulging himself, he did, and found it to be just like it always was. A sense of well-being, of serenity, of Claire.

“Would ye like another shower, a nighean?” he asked as they stepped inside the house and he took the jacket from her.

She looked quite excited by this idea. “Oh yes, please.”

He inflated with the pride of pleasing her and had to hide his smile as he hung their jackets on the hook.

“Well alright then. But only if I can take one after ye, I must smell worse than the underside of a stag.”

Much to his surprise (and perhaps even horror), Claire suddenly was on top of him, her face pressing against his shoulder and hands casually rested on his sides, holding him still. There was the sound of a deep inhale, and then she withdrew her face with a smile.

“I think you smell wonderful,” she said sweetly, without a hint of sarcasm in her tone or guileless eyes.

Jamie laughed out loud, his chest heaving with the force of it. Claire laughed along with him, although he wasn’t entirely sure what she was laughing about.

Overcome by his giddiness (the lass had just smelled his oxter and liked it for Christ’s sake!), he leaned in and caught her around the waist. Holding her body against him, he lowered his head and took a whiff of her neck. His nose brushed the skin there, and she began to squirm against him, the softness of her clouding his mind.

“Ye smell like…”

His words cut off as she struggled playfully, making him laugh. The squirming only egged him on, and he easily held her incapacitated as he sniffed again, this time on the other side of her neck. She pushed half-heartedly at his chest, but at the same time, she seemed to be leaning closer to his touch.

He had been planning to tease her, to finish his sentence by listing whatever horrible smell he could think of and demanding she shower immediately, but he found that when he really thought about it, she smelled fresh as a summer rose. Like the heather of the fields and crispness of the breeze.

Of course she did, the lass didna drink, she likely didna sweat either.

Just another enchanting thing about her— she would always smell intoxicating.

“Actually ye smell good,” he finished lamely.

His hands fell from her waist, releasing her, and she pushed away from him while continuing to laugh.

“Well I’d like that shower either way,” she teased.

As he headed toward the bathroom to turn it on for her, he began to berate himself over their little display. His eyes squeezed shut with the force of his embarrassment.

That was something a couple would do. Not friends. He’d been overcome by flirting in the moment, the nearness of her that seemed to make him lose his heid. He’d stepped over a line.

The feeling of her squirming in his arms, of holding her body against him, lingered in his mind long after he’d left Claire to her shower. He sat down at the kitchen table and buried his head in his hands.

He had to get himself together.

While Claire showered, Jamie needed to take care of real life. Food was first-and-foremost, and then he had to set about the task of taking more time off work. There was no way he could leave her. That was the same thing he’d told himself the last few days, and Jamie briefly wondered if he ever would be able to. It certainly wasn’t getting any easier.

As he pulled out his phone to shoot Ian a clipped and matter-of-fact text about yet another absence, Adso gave him a green stare of disapproval from his perch on the coffee table.

“What are ye judgin’ me for?” he asked the cat indignantly.

Adso simply gazed at him some more, even and unwavering in his haughty objection.

Jamie sighed heavily, “I guess ye’re right,” he told the cat, “I’ll call him. Now stop eyin’ me like that.”

Whipping out his phone, he reluctantly initiated the call.

“Hi, Jamie,” Ian answered, seeming rather muted compared to his usual exuberant greetings.

“Hello, a charaid,” Jamie said, and then there was a long silence. Guilt was seeping into his brain at the thought of possibility driving his family away. The cat really had convicted him…

“Listen, I am—” “Jamie, I wanted tae—” they both started at the same time.

“I’ll go,” Ian volunteered, “I wanted tae tell ye that I’m sorry we ambushed ye this mornin’. Ye’re right. Ye’ve worked hard wi’ out a single day off in years, ye deserve a vacation if that’s what ye’re needin’.”

“Thank you, Ian. I’m sorry, too. I shouldna have blown up at ye and ignored yer calls. I’ve jes’ been… sortin’ through some things.”

“I understand that,” Ian chuckled.

“Listen, were ye serious? About me takin’ as many days as I need?”

“Of course.”

“Then ye willna bite my heid off when I ask ye for the rest of the week?”

“Ye’re a canny one makin’ me say it before ye drop that bomb on me… Of course, Jamie. Take the time ye need. Ye’d tell me if anythin’s wrong, wouldn’t ye? Ye ken ye can talk tae me about anythin’?”

Jamie’s heart clenched. “Of course, Ian. Thank you. Listen, I hafta go, but I’ll see ye soon, aye?”

“Aye. And Jamie… maybe gi’ yer sister a call? I ken she wants tae apologize.”

“Alright, Ian,” he answered rather noncommittally, still stinging from their fight, “Bye, a charaid.”

With Ian’s quick goodbye, Jamie hung up and sat back heavily in his chair, sighing at Adso— who was looking smugly satisfied over making Jamie do the right thing. There was barely a moment of silence between them before he thought about the fact that Claire had been in the shower an awfully long time.

“Wee besom’ll use up all my hot water,” he grumbled at Adso on his way toward the bathroom to check on her.

Not that he really minded in the slightest. Claire could use up all the hot water and leave him taking cold showers for the rest of his days and he would just thank God that it meant she was with him.

***

#all that was fair #update #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction #fae claire #outlander fanfic

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davidfarland · 4 years

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What’s a “Working Outline”?

When you send a novel proposal to a publisher or a movie proposal to a studio, you’ll often be asked to send an “outline” with your package. The word outline is used rather casually, and it often can be misleading.

Many publishers and producers really want a “synopsis,” a brief description of what happens in the book or screenplay, often told in as little as a page. However, a good book publisher will often leave the length of that synopsis up to you, or they might ask for three pages or maybe even five. I’ve known some authors who will write up to 50 pages. But all that the editors want is a brief description. I like to break it up like this:

Paragraph one answers the following questions: Who is my protagonist? (Sixteen-year-old Desiree McConnel.) Where is my story set? (64 million years ago beside Lake Gunaya which is current-day Saint George, Utah.) And what is my major conflict? (Desiree is a time-traveling sightseer who has come to watch the destruction of the Jurassic world as a huge meteor is about to strike Earth, when an angry triceratops trashes her transporter.)

That first paragraph launches the story. Now, I might want to elaborate on these things. For example, I might explain that Desiree’s mother has just died, and her father brought her on this trip to bring her out of her funk. Or maybe I’ll explain that she’s fascinated with dinosaurs and secretly wishes to avert the coming decimation, or she’s attracted to a hunk named Beckett who has also tagged along.

Or maybe I’ll want to heighten the conflicts. Sure, there are going to rampaging Utah raptors, but Desiree’s growing attraction to Beckett will surely become an important conflict, and that funk is just going to get worse when she sees her father killed. And when she finds herself struggling to breathe air filled with micro-carbons from the destruction of the Earth and gets to see first-hand why everything died on the planet for the next three hundred thousand years, the whole story is going to become more and more grim. Especially since she realizes that she and her new boyfriend won’t make it—humans didn’t evolve 64 million years ago.

But that opening will be important.

The next couple of paragraphs become just as important. You have to answer the questions: What conflicts arise out of the situation? How do they morph and grow? What does my protagonist do to try to handle them? And how are all of these going to surprise your editor and reader. This is where the art of storytelling really becomes important. This is where you have to begin blowing your editor’s mind, throwing surprising twists into the mix.

This mid-section will also be the point where I begin weaving things together. Maybe our protagonist flees the devastated time-travel vehicle and tries to climb into some hills to find shelter. I could detail how her father checks out a cave and is killed, not realizing that even raptors need shelter. I might get into how she has to huddle with Beckett for warmth, having their first romantic interludes, and that they soon find themselves hunted by a raptor that has developed a taste for human flesh. Then the meteor strikes, sending shockwaves around the world and micro-meteors go blasting into the atmosphere, so that the air becomes unbreathable. Huge lightning storms begin striking, setting forests afire, and a global ice-age sets in.

The conflicts need to weave together and build, and our protagonist needs to grow through her struggles, until we reach the climax of the book. This is our final paragraph or two. Is Desiree saved by a rescue team? If so, is she sixteen or ninety-two when it happens? Does her boyfriend become a lover, a husband, a meal for a T-Rex? Could she possibly decide after living a life in the Jurassic age, that she wants to stay? What does she learn from all of this? Does she find happiness?

That’s the conclusion of your synopsis, and you really can put an entire book into one page.

Writing a great synopsis is an art in itself, and it is one of the most valuable skills you can develop. When an editor wants to buy a manuscript, he might show your synopsis to the publisher and the marketing department, and if you’ve got a stellar outline, it can add a zero or two to the amount you’ll be paid on your advance. It can also motivate the entire publishing company to push your book big before it is even purchased.

Think of your synopsis as an advertisement for your book. You want it to sell the reader, hook them into reading the longer manuscript.

Often the publisher or movie studio wants something longer than a page. For example, I recently got hired by a producer to put together a proposal for a movie, and I got to outline it in twenty whole pages, single spaced! (That’s called a movie “treatment,” but it’s much like a synopsis.

For big books, ones where the publisher is going to invest millions of dollars, the publisher might want a detailed synopsis that is seventy or eighty pages. I’ve only ever heard of a publisher asking for an outline this long once, but you should know that it happens.

A “working outline” is different from a synopsis, though, and I recommend that you write one for every novel you write, and often even for short stories. The working outline is a document that I use as a writer. In it, I like to break my novel down scene by scene and plan who will be in the scene, what significant action will occur, and make any notes to myself. Here is an example of such a scene:

Chapter 9—The Appetizer—With the time machine damaged, Desiree tries to help Beckett repair it, but her father warns that the radioactive power source is dangerous. It can damage her reproductive system. Her father doesn’t want her to get near it. Beckett gives her a look and she realizes that he is thinking, “We might be stuck here forever.” He might even be thinking of the family they might raise. She doesn’t want to consider such things—they’ve only ever kissed— but feels she should worry about her health. So she goes to a small rise and stands guard while her father and Beckett work. She’s terrified of the pack of Utah raptors that are hunting in the area, when suddenly the sky lights up and a huge meteor blazes across the horizon. There are several deafening explosions as pieces of it fracture, and she watches it for ninety seconds until suddenly it impacts. The ground bucks and seems almost to liquify as it begins to roar, and in seconds she sees huge dust clouds exploding up in the distance, crowned by lightning. Dinosaurs roar and hoot and whistle in terror, and flocks of pterodactyls take flight out over the lake, while freshwater fish seem to try to leap out of the lake. Note to self: Make the end of the world spectacular.

With each scene in my outline, I put in the name of the point of view character in color so that I can track my POV characters visually over the course of the novel. (This is important if you are using multiple POVs). I also put in the actions that they take and the things that happen to them. I put in the new conflicts that arise or the ones that are resolved or the conflicts that escalate or broaden. I want to make sure that I keep track of rising stakes, mysteries that are bought up or solved, romances that bud, and so on. I might also make notes to myself about how to handle the scene, emotions to evoke, and so on.

When I finish writing a scene, I will go back and make a notation, showing how many pages the scene came out to be, so that I can see how well I’m controlling the pacing.

A working outline can easily be twenty pages long. I will even add in bits of dialog or description that come to me in the middle of the night, so that my working outline might grow to be a hundred pages. No one but me will ever see that outline. It’s just a tool that I use. Yes, I’ve got a working outline for my latest book, and no you can’t see it.

In fact, there is some good software that writers use for this. Scrivener for example will help you track your scenes and characters and write a nice summary for each scene, and then you can expand each description into a scene pretty easily. There are a lot of other programs that do the same, but I haven’t used most of them to make comparisons.

Still, learning to write a great synopsis is a valuable skill, and every writer needs to learn to throw together a working outline and keep developing even while you’re in the writing process.

***

Writer’s Peak—

Many soon-to-be great authors suffer from writer’s block. Which is the number one problem troubling young and old writers alike. David Farland, along with NLP Trainer Forrest Wolverton, are providing a training that has been designed to help you change all that.

We will be streaming this event live and providing a taped recording afterward so if you cannot join us in person, join the feed! You are encouraged to take notes and actively participate during your time with us.

This workshop is coming up fast! Writer's Peak will take place on November 16th in Provo. That's next Saturday! Don't miss your chance to break that writer's block and get back to doing what you love. You can find it at https://mystorydoctor.com/live-workshops-2/.

Writers' Bundle—

Due to some unfortunate technical issues, I am extending the Writers' Bundle for one more day. Quite a few people had software problems that prevented them from purchasing the bundle. Now that we have solved the problem, I want to make sure that everyone has an equal opportunity to participate in this sale.

You'll get access to the audited versions of my online workshops and receive copies of his books on writing, all for a special price. These materials together would normally cost more than $1800, but for this sale only you can get them all for the low price of $89. This year’s bundle includes some new items as well.

You’ll get one-year access to all material in these workshops, meaning you can work through courses at whatever speed you like, and even complete assignments alongside friends and writing groups (my personal recommendation to get the absolute most out of this bundle deal).

You can learn more here at https://mystorydoctor.com/pi-the-writers-bundle/

Or if you just want to go straight to purchasing, you can do that here at https://mystorydoctor.com/pricing/oc_checkout/?s2p-option=10

#writingtips #writrblr #writerblr #writingcommunity #writingtip

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eternityunicorn · 5 years

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Elijah’s Eternity Part Four

Author: eternityunicorn

Genre: Romance/Fantasy/AU

Warnings: Violence, Language, Possible Smut

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x OC

Summary: Elijah Mikaelson didn’t know what to expect when he encountered the strange archer in the night, but he certainly didn’t think his whole world would be turned upside down by it. Yet, he quickly learns that she is more than what she seems, having come looking for an Original after a large spike in supernatural being populations started cropping up on Earth a thousand years ago. Now, he must help her decide if the supernatural community should stay on their home planet or leave it for good? A task that is made more complicated along the way, as his life is changed forever.

NOTE: OC is my main character from my novel. Also, elements from my novel are also present.

———————————————————————————————————

The sight that Elijah witnessed was one of sheer amazement, a word he seemed to use a lot in regards to Eternity. She moved with such speed that even his vampire eyes could barely keep track of her. She was there and then she was gone, almost like she was weaving in and out of reality. She had the grace of a well seasoned warrior, using a companion of archer and swordsmanship to subdue their assailants, whatever they were.

Within was seemed seconds the group as dead, in bloody heaps on the ground. Then once the battle was over, he witnessed her curl her hand up close to her chest in a sideways fist, save for her index and middle fingers, which stood straight up. Her head was bowed and it seemed to Elijah that she was offering a prayer of some kind, but then he saw the corpses vanish as of they had never been there.

Vampires were capable of great feats; super strength and agility, invulnerability to injuries and illness, for the most part, and excellent stamina. The only things that could kill his kind were the sun, a stake through their hearts, or decapitation. For Elijah, however, being an Original afforded him invulnerability to even these things, making him an even more formidable enemy...or ally.

Yet, he’d never seen someone with that level of skill that she displayed. Never again would he see such ability, except for however long he was around her. He found himself blown away, as would anyone who saw what he had just bared witness to.

“That was...impressive,” he said, coming up to her side just as she willed away her weapons and returned to the elegance of her white dress. “Remind me never to anger you.” He smiled.

Eternity returned his smile with a smirk of her own. “Yes, I’m a bad ass bitch that shouldn’t be crossed. Ever,” she boasted jokingly, “and done you forget it, sir.”

Elijah cringed at her use of explicits. It sounded...out of place with her sweet, soft spoken tone of voice. Yet, he said nothing against it. He didn’t feel comfortable speaking his thoughts on the matter. They simply hasn’t arrived at that point. So, instead, he turned his attention to those grotesque things they had encountered.

“Just what were those horrendous things anyway?” He asked her with distaste.

“Demons,” she replied casually. “Low levels to be exact.”

“Low levels?”

“Aye,” nodded Eternity. “In some immortals species, there are ranks of strength. The stronger the immortal, the more beautiful and civilized. The weaker, the more grotesque and animalistic.”

“I see.”

“These demons probably stumbled through one of several portals that exist by mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Aye. It happens,” she shrugged. “There are holes in the barrier between this world and the Immortal Universe that pop up from time to time. Sometimes, creatures like these ones with no power of their own, find their way here through them. They were probably drawn to me once they crossed over, which was why they were here specifically.”

He still didn’t quite understand. “Drawn to you?”

“Yes,” a somewhat dark look crossed her delicate face then, “the dark always seeks the light.”

Elijah didn’t know what to make of that look, but it vanished from her face quickly. The light returned to her features as she turned her attention to him. She smiled brightly again, as if the phenomenon hadn’t happened at all.

“Well, now that that’s over, let us go for a walk and I shall tell you what I meant to yesterday,” Eternity said, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow again, her other hand on his bicep. “There is much that must be said and the night is short.”

They began to walk back into sleeping town. Most people were warm in their beds or at least, safely tucked away in their little hovels. Therefore, it was quiet and easy to speak openly about the secrets that Eternity needed to share with him. No doubt to the free humans that remained out, they walked together casually, looking like a pair of lovers on a romantic stroll. Not that Elijah minded if they did. He was sure they looked quite like the sophisticated pair, him and her.

“So, what does the forgotten history you spoke of have to do with me?” Elijah asked, prompting her to begin her explanation.

“Oh, it has plenty to do with you, Mr. Mikaelson,” replied Eternity cheekily. “I’ve told you that immortals were taken out of the picture on Earth and other mortal worlds too. Well, my friend, that means that technically, you and the rest of the supernatural community is illegal. By the laws set forth, you’re criminals, the lot of you.”

He cast her a sideward glance with an arched eyebrow, “Is that right? Do tell?”

“You see, ever since the great exodus of immortals, there has been a remanent of magic left behind in the Earth,” she explained. “Humans born with magic powers aka witches were always here, just in such small quantities it didn’t matter. They were left here to live. But as humans do, they multiplied in greater and greater numbers, these gifted humans. Still wasn’t too much of a concern, but then the first werewolves were born, and another new supernatural species was created. And finally, your witchy mother created the first vampires. Nothing was done for a long time, but the conflicts and the bloodshed has grown since that day a thousand years ago, involving not only those supernatural creatures, but innocent humans too. And now it is a concern. So, here I am.”

“Why is it your duty to deal with this...issue?”

“Well, every kingdom needs a regent, right? There had to be some sort of government created after Ceres spit the universe to keep the balance, yes?”

He pulled them to a stop then. Elijah turned to her with narrowed eyes as he wrapped his head around what she was implying. “Wait. What are you saying exactly?”

“I am the Universal Queen,” she answered plainly. “Still, not a god though.”

Elijah grinned slightly, “I don’t know. It’s sounding more and more like you might be one.”

She was stern and unyielding then. “No, I am not. In fact, I loathe such a title. I didn’t create existence or the one universe before the division.. Neither has any other immortal, despite what they might say. I am simply a guardian, with the power to protect all. Both literally and figuratively, mind you.”

“Alright, alright. I understand.”

They began walking once more as Eternity continued her explanation, “As I was saying, the new supernatural community isn’t supposed to exist. Vampires, werewolves, and witches, the lot of you shouldn’t be here in the human world. Yet, you are and the issue is complicated because by all rights, you are all based in humanity; with mortal origins. Gifted humans or cursed depending on perspective. Humans with immortal capabilities, if that makes sense. It makes my decision very complicated.”

“And what decision is that?”

“Whether or not the supernatural community should leave this world and join the immortals on the other side of the divide.”

He took a moment to think on that, absorbing the information. “What if you decide to make us leave and you’re met with resistance?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” grinned Eternity. “I’ve been known to to be very persuasive, usually without fists even.” She lightly punched his arm and then gave a short laughed. “I can win them with diplomacy surely. Though, if I have to assert dominance, I can do that too quite easily.” She winked at him flirtatiously, though he wasn’t sure if she had meant it that way.

Moving on from it, Elijah chuckled a little at her playfulness. She may have had that shining grace that was regally otherworldly, but the more time he spent with her and the more comfortable she became, he began to notice am almost down to earth humanlike quality to her. It was quite the contrast in her personality. If he hadn’t seen the godlike side of her, he could have easily thought she was Earth based. Perhaps an unusual witch.

“It’s because I’ve spent a lot of time here on Earth, amongst humankind,” she answered his thoughts. Then quickly she sheepishly apologized, “I’m sorry.”

He paused in his step and placed his opposite hand over her that was on his bicep, “It’s okay. I’m getting used it...and I’m coming to not mind it. I understand it’s just what you do.”

Eternity smiled, “Oh, it is, but you haven’t seen all my tricks and how do the humans put it? My mad skills.”

They continued walking as he commented on her reply to his thoughts, “So, you spend a lot of time here. How come I’ve never heard of you long ago then?”

“I’m a well kept secret,” she shrugged. “I’ve met people, of course. King Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn, for example. I also met a Pharaoh of Egypt once and I was there when the RMS Titanic sank. That last one was not one of my finer moments. I had been...distracted, and failed to save those poor people.” She looked upset with herself for a moment, but recovered quickly to say, “Though, in the time of Henry the Eighth, I did save Anne Boleyn from her fate.”

“You did?”

“Aye, I did,” she boasted proudly. “History says she died that day in 1536, and by all accounts she did, but it was an illusion - a trick. I did have help in it,” she paused for a second, that dark look from before returning to her face before disappearing again as quickly as it came. “Anyway, I gave her life back to her, albeit a different one, so that she could live to see her daughter, Elizabeth, grow up and become the great queen she did eventually become.”

Just as before, Elijah didn’t comment on that dark look that had crossed her face again. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what caused it since the look seemed born of some deep sadness, like someone she had cared about had betrayed her. So for the time being, not wanting to intrude, he pretended he hadn’t seen it. Deciding it was best to move on.

Then he noticed they had reached the end of the main road of town and it was there that they stopped. He felt her disconnect from her hold on him, feeling a little more disappointed than he probably should have. Then she turned to him fully with that grace of hers, that queenly grace it turned out.

“I came in search of a Mikaelson to gain insight into the new supernatural community,” she said. “I have much to learn about you, about the world in which you live, in order to make my decision about what to do about said world. I cannot let supernatural creatures exist here, mortal born or not, if the danger to humanity is too great. It didn’t work out so well the first time human and supernatural coexisted, after all. I need to know if leaving things as they are is the right thing or if removing the community is necessary. I would like to stay with you, to see it for myself, your world, so my decision can be well informed.”

Elijah was a bit surprised by her request, but logically it made sense. Besides, he did figure it might come to this. She was hoping to meet one of the Originals, since they had started this whole supernatural community, allowing it to grow to the well established point it was.

Thinking about that, it was probably a good thing it had been him that she had encountered. If she had met Niklaus or Kol, no doubt they would be dead and the rest of the supernatural community would be banished from their home world forever. While seeing other worlds and meeting beings like Eternity was appealing, he personally didn’t want to leave the world that he had been born into. He was certain that most others would agree. He might not have been a saint, having done a lot of dark things in his time, he still wasn’t the murderous, unhinged madmen that his younger brothers could be. He at least attempted to keep an honor code to live by, if only to pretend he was more than a monster.

“I would be honored to help you in your endeavor, Your Majesty,” he answered her inquiry with mock flourish.

Eternity cringed, wrinkling her nose at him. “Don’t call me that, please. I may be a queen, yes, but here in this one world in which I am not know, I am just Eternity. Although, my friends do affectionately call me E.” She then smiled cheekily at him.

“Fine, as you wish, my lady,” he jested and laughed when she wrinkled her nose at him again with a smile of her own.

“No, don’t say that either.”

“Alright, alright. I promise I will refrain from such...formalities.”

“You better.”

They laughed.

Elijah found their companionableness even more profound than it had been twenty four hours before. It seemed impossible to be as such in an incredibly short amount of time, but here they were. And now, they had agreed upon a partnership, one that would define the fates of countless people. Even though it was a great task to ensure the supernatural would be able to remain in their birth world, Elijah didn’t feel pressured by the dauntingness of it. He was hopeful that he could plead the case of the supernatural community to her effectively.

“So, my dear, what now?”

“Well, I am rather hungry now. Perhaps that dinner that we had skipped out on?”

Elijah grinned, “Very well. I shall make the arrangements.”

To Be Continued....

#elijah mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #ocs #my fic #my ocs #fanfics #fan fiction #first fanfic

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deehollowaywrites · 6 years

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A serendipitous confluence of events occurred over the past several days when one of my favorite television shows returned with an unexpected side character, the AWP writing conference took over downtown Tampa, and three Kentucky Derby preps ran, including a much-contested San Felipe Stakes.

If these seem disjointed, know that horses are always--shall we say--the glue of my spiritual landscape.

A few friends who also watch the soapy, sneakily feminist Lifetime twist-buffet UnREAL admitted that they didn’t want to spoil my delight at the inclusion of a jockey character, however briefly poor, much-maligned Norman was onscreen (I assume my Twitter reaction delivered). The show, which is a dramatized take on the Bachelor empire of reality TV, attempted to lampshade the ingrained humor of a petite man trying to win the affections of a statuesque woman by having all the characters involved remark on this apparent absurdity. Producers Rachel and Quinn, Everlasting’s star Serena, and Norman all know he’s being played for giggles. A few heated conversations and a drunken bathroom tryst later, Serena cuts Norman from her lineup of possible future husbands. Knowing the show, he might pop up again, but I was sorry to see only one episode devoted to exploring this particular corner of heteronormative masculinity.

“So you’re a jockey jumper, then?” asks the protagonist of Jason Beem’s racetracker novel Southbound. The narrative elaborates, noting that most of the women one might reasonably class as race-rider groupies are “at least five foot seven,” and then moves onto the more pressing topic of whether the woman in question, beautiful and popular paddock host Maria, might shift her interest to the horseplayer protagonist. Despite the novel centering around various racetracks, jockeys rarely show up; there are 44 instances of the word in a 400-page novel. When jockeys do appear, they’re at a distance, on horseback or in the saddling paddock, and seen through a specific, borderline-hostile lens: that of the horseplayer who mistrusts riders. Jockeys are there to be yelled at by spectators, to “stiff” bettors, to do anything other than their jobs, and most saliently, they’re “notoriously horny little creatures” who can be trusted neither to ride their horses honestly nor remain faithful to their partners. Simultaneously sexualized by their in-group and unsexed by external observers, (male) riders are shrouded in layers of marginalization. How is it possible for a rider to be trite joke fodder in one context and erotically imposing in another? In both the universes of UnREAL and Southbound, jockeys fuck women but they’re not meeting the parents--the difference lies in admission, in context required for comprehension.

“I’m an elite athlete!” Norman protests, standing on his five-five dignity, and later, as it seems Serena might be opening up to him, starts a spiel about how his profession is misunderstood. But Serena is intent on hiding their hook-up once she’s sober again, the show’s narrative turning ambiguous as to whether her shame is rooted in poor decision-making, loss of control, or the fact that the guy giving it to her doggy-style was half her height. Meanwhile, Maria the paddock host is casual about dating or sleeping with riders; protagonist Ryan is the one with opinions about it, and so the reader’s attitudes are directed by this point of view. It’s normative but distasteful, where the cast and producers of Everlasting find the idea of a jockey romantic lead neither normative nor tasteful.

Readers of the nonfiction canon of Thoroughbred writing will see reference to a few superstars of the sport edging into popular consciousness as viable romantic heroes. These nearly always fit within a certain profile: white, blond, all-American. Steve Cauthen, Chris Antley, Gary Stevens. Norman of UnREAL is, of course, white. Observers might also note that the current lineup of rock-star jocks is heavily Latino. The sport relies on sexy imagery to sell itself as glamorous and attractive but limits this imagery to female spectators and participants, largely sidelining the appeal of male participants. Barbara Livingston’s infamous beefcake calendar notwithstanding, racing is shot for, marketed to, and discussed almost totally within the realm of the heteronormative male gaze. It’s impossible to untangle the overarching reputation of jockeys from their status within the sport, their concurrent location at its center and its fringes. Physically, according to UnREAL and the accepted romantic tropes it trades on, riders cannot fit the profile of a romantic lead (they might tick the box marked abs with a bullet but they’re--gasp!--short). According to Southbound, reams of five-foot-seven-and-above women are willing to set this deficit aside, and starfucking can’t always account for taste, since low-level Portland Meadows riders get their fair share too.

It’s almost like the height-gap trope beloved of romance enthusiasts only applies to tall men and short women. Who’da thunk?

My favorite panel out of the two days I attended AWP’s writing conference was “Shooters Gotta Shoot: Voice in Sports.” Never have I felt so understood by a bunch of strangers! Author and panelist Katherine Hill noted that football players talk a lot, an offhand comment that kicked the hamster wheel of my brain into high gear. Do jockeys talk? Not where horseplayers can hear them, usually. What they say is filtered through the lens of what the trainer wanted from the race, how the odds stacked up, whether their horse won or lost. Their voices are reduced and fragmented from intersecting angles:

English may be a second language;

The sport of racing itself is a niche one, replete with specific, exclusive vocabulary;

Secretiveness prevails on the backstretch, while the pop-media view of Thoroughbreds relies on tired images of corruption, rigging, and under-the-table deals;

The riders’ place within their sport is layered with uncertainty, from physical danger to the tentative handshake that confirms a mount or takes it away.

If certain trainers had their way, jocks wouldn’t talk at all and no one would request it of them. They would be emotional whipping boys for the losing horse, emotionless mannequins for the winner. Within the shelves of fiction, it’s also rare to hear a jockey speak, likeliest in the crime-novel aisle under Francis. On Harlequin’s website, a search for “football” returns 142 titles, while “baseball” gets 94 options and “hockey” 73. These are the Big Three of sports romance, with basketball, soccer, tennis, NASCAR/F1, and all Olympics-related sports making minor showings as well. Horse racing, when it shows up, falls largely into historical-romance settings--a scandalous duchess at Newmarket, a sheikh’s stable girl--or again in crime and suspense, with horse-theft plots and murdered barn managers. Trainers appear as romantic hero/ines almost to a fault; out of Harlequin’s 9 results for “jockey,” only 2 titles feature an actual Thoroughbred jockey, and both characters are female. While I’m always pleased to read (and write) about female jocks, I don’t find it cynical to assume that these books exist in part because short women are palatable and appealing romantic heroines, while short men are perceived as having Napoleon complexes or little-guy syndromes, and generally being 200 pounds of testosterone in a 115-pound body. So who gets the happily-ever-after? Viking-esque hockey hotshots, American-beefcake ball players, and any hero who falls within an appropriate, narrow conception of heterosexual masculinity. Whose voices are reflected and amplified within the larger field of sports fiction? Whose experiences are projected as normatively male and typically American? Whose bodies are portrayed and received as alluring and desirable, and whose are operating within a historic context of abuse, control, and ownership?

I ground up my nerve to ask a question in that “Voice in Sports” panel, which I rarely manage because I’m a shy doofus. After the panelists’ conversation shifted to the imperial "we” of sports fandom, I asked Hill and poet Jason Koo to discuss how the collective love of fans for their sport can turn toxic--how the boundary is transgressed, at what point possessiveness becomes ownership and how that in turn affects how players are permitted to speak. I was thinking, as I am always thinking, of the relationships between horseplayers, trainers, owners, and jockeys; of that word, owner, and racing’s intertwined history with slavery; of a sport built on the underpaid and sometimes unpaid labor of people of color; of the vitriol casually displayed on the apron, as two days later at Tampa Bay Downs I’d listen to a man next to me yell SHITHEAD! at Julien Leparoux in a post parade. I said that racing is my sport of choice, waited for someone to say that racing isn’t a sport. I said after the panel, thanking Hill and Koo for their remarks, that I write romance--that I have marginalized my own voice in my choice of sport to write about, and my choice of genre to frame that sport, and my choice of mostly queer characters to people that sport’s fictional world.

Nonetheless Javier Castellano has his better story, his voice triumphing over Mike Smith’s. Nonetheless I write on, delighted in the space in which I’ve found myself, continue to find myself.

It’s my job as a romance writer to depict race-rider leads and love interests as exciting, sexy, and appealing. It’s my pleasure as a racing fan to depict jockeys themselves as multifaceted, compelling, and human.

#Urban Hayseed #diana's writing

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gunmetaltesla · 6 years

Text

|| I Think You’ll Understand ||

The day starts like the previous ten have, with me waking up at around eleven-like a lazy, posh house cat content to satisfy nothing but her own urges-to the cold, bright light of a winter sun streaming through the window across from my bed. I squint against the light and begrudge wakefulness, taking me away from the pleasant dreamscape free of taunts and jibes and blessedly, tantalizingly replete of stolen kisses in the stacks of the library after hours, foggy lunchtime conversations on the front steps, and breathy laughter over textbooks and notes in an otherwise quiet dormitory (the window of which articulates just how long ago we should've gone to bed). Shaking my head free of these images, lest they occupy my entire day. I'm no doubt expected to socialize with the endless stream of people that visit this time of year-"come-a-callin'", as our wonderfully Scottish maid Trudy would say, clucking around my room like an industrious hen once she's heard signs of life-but I can't seem to force my warm feet to hit chilly floorboard. Instead, I content myself with a bit of a lounge. She'll no doubt come to inspect what she expects to be my luxuriating corpse-finally giving into the boring, torturous monotony of the holidays-but for now, I'm just fine burrowing under the down blankets for a minute and surveying my kingdom.

I can't help but think you'd like my room. Without even knowing you all that well, and thus possessing a similarly foreign quality myself for you, I think you would look around the space and tell me, in that calm, warm tone of yours, that it suits me. The combination of royal blue painted and bare brick walls-my mother, after all, a huge proponent of recognizing and embracing the infrastructural brilliance of an old house-dark hardwood floors, worn Turkish rug and cozy bed awash in creams, ivories, and greys. Books, books, books, on every available surface. And two floor-to-ceiling casement windows that overlook the back garden in which I can hear my parents good-naturedly bickering over, I think, turnips. It's quiet, warm, and domestic. Not typically words associated with me-quite the opposite in fact-but still fitting in this scene. I've just stretched from fingertips to toes when there's an alert noise from my phone where it sits on a black lacquer bureau opposite my bed. I get up on all fours, still burritoed in blankets, to see if I can read the screen. And I can just make out a shape that I think, or rather hope, forms your name. I'm tumbling out of bed, tangled legs betraying me and causing an undignified thump and sprawl onto the floor. I right myself and pick up my phone, my face already forming the smile that has become characteristic when talking to you.

Morning. I heard this song this morning when I was helping my mom make breakfast, and I thought of you. I think you'll like it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MH-UmYkXiM

I immediately switch my phone to Bluetooth, and the song's plucky, but somehow smooth and wild, guitar comes strumming through the speakers I've stationed throughout the room. That's another thing I think you'd like-you seem like the kind of person that would appreciate good audio.

I do like it, I reply once the video ends, a big smile across my face and a dreamy look in my eyes, thank you for sending it to me.

You're welcome. Any plans tonight?

Oh. That's right, I think with a groan as I walk back over to my bed-phone in hand-and burrow back beneath the blankets in retreat. Tonight is New Year's Eve.

No, but that doesn't mean I won't be do anything.

I don't look happy. Well, truthfully you wouldn't know, but the wording of that text looks somehow "off". After nearly incessant conversation over the break, you've become quiet adept and the tone and meter of my text conversation. Oddly enough, you've never met anyone else-apart from you-that texts how they speak. You shouldn't have been surprised, given all my other quirks. The thought of it still makes you smile.

Trapped in family commitments?

A long time before the dreaded typing ellipsis and then ping.

Something like that. My sister, convinced that I need to let loose-I think she forgets that I'm ten years her junior, the fruitcake-stormed into my room two days ago and all but demanded that I get secretly drunk with her at the party tonight.

You have no idea how to respond to this, because you're feeling a cocktail of sensations yourself. Curiosity, as to how I might be different under the influence. Surprise at the fact that I might indulge in the first place. Titillation-yep, I said it-at the idea of a less rigid, weaker-walled me. And jealousy, which catches you by surprise, when you remember the last of the New Year's traditions. It's then that you also realize that you never asked if I…you don't know if I'm attached. You aren't, but you suddenly find a desperate desire within yourself to know if I am or why I'm not or whether I'd like to be. Another ping.

I'd rather be spending time with you.

You smile at the phone, cradling it in both hands like a treasure. You decide to have a little fun and get your answers at the same time.

So…drinking with your sister at a family get-together. Sounds like a good time. No plans otherwise? No budding romance to kindle as the fire crackles? No one to meet under the mistletoe?

That's Christmas.

I know, you goober. I just meant…nevermind.

I will not be kissing anyone as the bell tolls, if that's what you're asking.

You can practically hear my eyes rolling at the concept, and that makes you chuckle. You're typing out a witty retort when your younger sister walks in.

"So, who is this guy? Your "friend from school". You've been glued to that phone since you got home."

"I never said it was a guy." It's out of your mouth-which is now hanging open in surprise at yourself-before you can stop it. A bullet, speeding toward fragile flesh.

"Oh. Okay. Cool. Mom says lunch is ready." And that was it. You'd expected further questions, deeper investigation, but nothing. Casual interest. Hmm. Maybe it wouldn't…ping.

What about you?

You reply, detailing your own plans of meeting up at a friend's house for a party of your old schoolmates. How everyone is getting all dressed up like it's some swanky affair. There's an ellipsis…then nothing…then another ellipsis…then nothing again.

You're now being summoned to the kitchen in earnest by shouting siblings, so you leave your phone on the bed. All through lunch, you catch yourself straining for any digital noise coming from your bedroom. You must have made a face, because your sister catches you listening and says, "I'm sure she'll text you back."

"Who?" ask you mother and brother simultaneously.

"Her friend from school" is all your sister answers. Something like a secret builds up between you, but it's fond and loving and conspiratorial in the way that only sisters share, so you let it slide. Besides, she's always seen more than she lets on. She's an observant one, your little sister. You're clearing the table with your second brother when you hear it. The ping.

"Told you", comes teasingly from the kitchen. You hand off your portion of the dishes and dash to your room, shutting the door behind you. Three texts, in rapid fire, arrived.

I'd love to see what you're wearing. I'm sure you'll look beautiful all dressed up. Not that you wouldn't if you were dressed casual. I'm sure you would. Might. Could. Do. I'm dressing up, too, if you were curious. It seems the occasion commands it.

You chuckle, low and soft, and carefully type out your response, hitting send before your brain can think better of it.

Well then. If I show you mine, will you show me yours?

That's the closest thing either of us have said that's close to flirting. You're not even sure if it is-if that's what you meant it to be. Playful, yes. Obviously. But flirtatious? Maybe. You might have made a mistake, but only time-and texts-will tell.

Suddenly the party-and the preparation for it-had higher stakes. You felt the delicious tension of attraction purr in your chest, the heated need for physical touch. You've always experienced this, even before sexual activity was even a possibility. You've always craved contact from people, but sexual awakening had only heightened it. And now that you're…well let's just say you need to do something. Be with people. Feel the push and pull of flirtation, the rush of kissing, the release of anything that comes afterward. You want to look your best, but for whom? It's not as if…well. Time to plan.

Leave it to you to find the perfect dress at the very last moment. You were rummaging through your mother's closet, and there it was-a white gold sequined mini number with ¾ sleeves and a low-dipping back. All you needed now was-yes! A pair of nude heels left over from a formal at your old school. You laid everything out and, satisfied with the outfit, set about getting ready for the night.

You kept glancing at your phone throughout the process, having not heard from me in several hours. You figured I was deep into the entertaining-I'd told you about how many different "parties" and gatherings my family holds over the holiday season (that's what I get for a politically active mother and socially and philanthropically active father)-so you didn't precisely question the silence. You didn't like it, either, but that's another issue. You're just finishing up your makeup-simple and bronzy, just your style-when a text tone interrupts your thoughts.

I don't want to show you.

You frown a little, gold eyeliner still dangling from your hand, and reply with a simple ?

"Mine". I don't want to show you. You'll think it's silly.

I won't.

You're sure.

Yes.

And you were. But you waited…and you laughed a little when you realized that I was following your text to the letter and waiting until you'd shown me your getup before revealing my own.

Give me a minute-I'm just finishing up.

A few minutes later, satisfied with your appearance via a thorough check in the full-length mirror of your room, you managed a shot.

You look…

You feared the worst. That somehow what looked nice, and festive as hell, in your head didn't actually translate aloud.

You look like the first sparkler I ever held.

And somehow, without knowing me in childhood-really without knowing me now-you knew that was a high compliment and blushed at its sight.

Thank you. That's…I know that's a very nice thing to say. But enough about me…

And you waited…and waited…and waited…till finally a ping. And all you saw was a brilliance of sparkling emerald green, miles of pale skin, and a small, knowing smirk beneath a quizzical brow.

I felt foolish, posing like I was. I'd staged everything. Hell, if I commit to something, I do so to the fullest. I'd grabbed a tripod from my mother's home studio, set on the timer, and taken practice shots. I wanted it…I needed it to look well. I wanted to impress you, even if I didn't quite know why. Still, I did it. And I managed to get a shot I felt alright about-the rest I hated. It was now or never, and so I sent the thing before I could fake an excuse and bluster some lie of it not turning out.

It's a costume party.

I hit the send arrow and waited, the wig cap feeling tighter and hotter than it had moments ago, the silky fabric rough on my anxious skin. The sequins, which sparkled and winked playfully like they were meant to, instead cast glares and were just too bright for me. I'd made a horrible mistake. I'd gone too far. Who wants to go to this stupid…who should celebrate this useless…oh what's the point! I was reaching to yank off the wig and tell Trudy to tell my family I was sick when my phone went off.

Holy shit! You look just like her. Please tell me there's no Gene Kelly waiting for you at the party.

I grinned ear to ear, the angry red of my skin transforming into a blush of flattery. Not only did you know who the costume was meant to represent-I mean for God's sake I'd spent a week making it (Trudy helping with the sequins)-but you also told me…you implied that I…how I could ever be as appealing as Cyd Charisse is beyond me.

No. Nor is there a scar-pocked man thrusting a diamond cuff beneath my snout to lure me away…

Well you look incredible.

So do you. I wish…well, Happy New Year!

Talk to you soon.

And that was all it had been. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than a video of me and a young woman you assumed was my sister, singing "Honky Tonk Woman" into the camera at the tops of our lungs, drunkenly and off-key enough to make you nearly splutter coffee all over your book when it arrived.

We'd gone back to normal conversation after that. You never told me what happened to you when you rang in the new year, but it wasn't out of deception.

It was a face-to-face conversation, and you were only a couple of hours away.

Are you on the train yet? You smiled.

Impatient to see me?

Yes.

Good.

Good. Talk to you soon.

The emphatic tone of that one-word reply was all the hope you needed. Maybe, if you were lucky, I'd had a similarly transformative-or at least eye-opening experience-myself over the holidays. You wondered if you'd made any appearance in my dreams the way yours had been flecked with green sequins and set on vivid soundstages, awash in color and life and music.

The train ride itself had been relatively uneventful. You listened to the playlist we'd made together-a collaboration of such delightful weirdness that it actually made a cohesive unit of 75 tracks-and chatted with friends who join the growing throng of co-eds as the vehicle neared its academic destination. And as the train slowed, you sat up straight-afflicted with a sudden doubt. What if it was in your head? What if it was good on paper-or on screen, I guess-but had nothing, no juice, in real-time?

Well. There was one way to find out.

The train came to a stop, and students began flooding the white landscape like a school of fish breaking rank. You, hating the hustle and bump of the crowd, waited on the train for a few minutes until the rush died down. And when you got off the train, face grimacing at the sudden gust of ice-cold wind, you saw a familiar form walking toward you-curls whipping around an eager, pale face that sported a brilliant, elated grin.

We met each other breathlessly, nervous exhales dancing and mingling in a rapidly cooling fog between us.

"Hi", I managed a little weakly.

"Hi", you replied, thinking your face would split from its smile.

"How was the-"my question was interrupted by the perfectly-timed Flanagan, shouting at you to hustle to the fieldhouse for a team meeting.

You looked up at me-had I gotten taller in the three weeks of break? -and your smile faltered. It seemed to me, to us both, that you were on the verge of saying something. You settled instead for squeezing my hand-frigid because I wasn't wearing gloves beneath my black peacoat. The gesture was, no doubt, meant as a balm. As a silent apology or a physical ellipsis, promising further discussion. It was witnessed, however, by Flanagan.

"Quit dykin' around with the know-it-all and hustle."

You felt me go rigid right before I yanked my hand from yours, mumbled something about needing to check in at the stacks, turned on my heel and stalked away. You called after me, but I just jammed my headphones into my ears and sped up.

Fucking Flanagan. She'd made my life a nuisance since she came to school three years ago. How she'd managed to keep her grades up enough to remain here was a perpetual mystery, but it wasn't one I was too keen on solving. She wasn't worth the time.

Remember how I said that I was so used to jibes and insults that they barely even registered anymore? Well this one-it landed. Like a meteor.

I was used to it. That isn't a lie; I'd never been popular, and I did nothing to remedy that. But you…with your warm smile and easy conversation, strong presence and confident stride. Over the fall term you'd become the second year's golden girl-a star on the pitch and in the lab. You could do no wrong. Except, of course, if you were seen hanging around me. And I didn't want that for you. What to do-how to solve the problem and still get to see you (because I selfishly wanted that so badly I could hear it in my blood)-stomped around my brain for the next two days. Until Tuesday, when I knew I would see you again. You texted me several times later that day, and on Monday, but I never replied. Better to start distancing myself now than risk further…heartache? Is that really what it was? When did I become so…romantic?

I was just falling asleep on Monday night, dreading the awkwardness of the next day, when my phone went off with a text.

I don't know what else to say. Flanagan's a dick. Maybe Ms. Lee can help me out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kI0dBvg-qw

The beginning of the song crooned through my phone's speakers, and I smiled. And then I laughed.

Maybe Tuesday wouldn't be so bad.

I saw you the next day, in a place other than the library. That had only happened twice-once at the end of the last term, and the other at the train station the day before winter term began. You were walking out of the dining hall, hair still damp and face still scrubbed red from your shower after morning practice. You looked so alive. Radiant with life and laughter and the vitality of the young. And you were arm in arm with a boy I vaguely recognized as a player for lacrosse team whose name I thought was Eli.

My gut went cold, but I was not ready for that. I wasn't prepared for the force of jealousy now coursing its way through my entire body, making my blood feel like boiling metal. My appetite had completely disappeared. I simply clenched my jaw and turned around toward the direction of my first class of the day. Middle English-something that normally held my full attention-but I could already tell my focus would not be on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

The classes came and went, my mind completely unfocused on notes or readings or conversational French. I barely lifted my pen to paper over the course of the day so that, by the time I plopped dejectedly down into my chair behind the desk at the library, I just wanted the day to be over and done. Fortunately, I had some things to occupy me for my shift-organizational tasks always comforted me. As I've said before, the system was my friend.

"Long time no see".

I closed my eyes against the joy I felt at your voice. Against the surge of relief at you coming to see me.

"Yes."

I didn't risk looking at you. There was no use in both of us knowing how deep my wounds had gone.

"I thought I saw you coming toward the dining hall this morning, but then…I waved, but you'd already turned around". Your voice sounded curious, apologetic, and concerned.

"Yes, well. I was almost there when I lost my appetite." I couldn't mask the venom that time.

The silence across the desk, coupled with a chill in the air you could almost feel, made me look up at you. And the expression in your face mirrored the one etched on my memory from finals week-which felt like a century from now-when you'd brought me coffee.

"Oh. Well, I just…I mean I thought…I kind of wanted to talk to you about something. Do you have time after your shift today? We could meet after dinner, or something, if you want and talk about some th- "

"We're late. Come on." From the wretched Eli, to whom I shot enough daggers with my eyes to make him blanch (in which I took monumental and petty satisfaction). That is, until he grabbed your hand and started tugging you in the direction of the study group.

I decided to be the bigger person and acquiesce.

"After dinner. Tonight."

"My rooms?" you offered, the hope and honesty in your voice making me nauseous with guilt at my behavior to the point that all I could manage was a nod in confirmation before you left the desk and joined the others.

Two hours later, my shift nearly finished but my relief arriving for hers early, I took a few extra minutes to return some of the more precious tomes by hand. And one, a text on marine anatomy, brought me within two shelves of your study group. Something like curiosity-morbid though it may have been-made me stay and lurk in the shadows between shelves, watching you among the other athletes. You weren't studying, you were relaxed back in your chair which was leaned on its rear legs as yours were propped up on the table around which you all sat. You were laughing at something someone had said, and my heart soared (as it always does) at the sound. Then, it increased at something Eli said and you leaned your forehead onto his shoulder as the two of you shook in laughter. I was suddenly desperate to be anywhere but where I was, stuck between the world I knew and the one to which I'd never belong. I was in such a panicked rush that the book I was returning to its place wobbled off its shelf and, with a very loud thunk, fell to the ground.

I froze where I was, white with mortification and fearing detection. Chanting to myself that I was invisible and the people around me were deaf, my peripheral vision took note of someone rising from the table to find out what caused the noise.

"Fancy meeting you here", you said with a little sarcasm but, still beneath it, your characteristic warmth.

"I wasn't eavesdropping." Blurted, vomited right out of my mouth.

"No one said you were. You do, after all, work here." I heard rather than saw the smile in your voice.

"Yes. True. Well. I should be going."

In the time it had taken for our conversation to start and for me to desperately try to escape, two more people had gotten up from the table-no doubt to discover the identity of the mysterious interloper. My two least favorite people in the walking world.

"Oh, it's you" moaned Eli with a dramatic sigh and a dismissive whip of his hand.

"Shouldn't you be sitting at your little desk with Patricia Highsmith and Gertrude Stein?" growled Flanagan, her face already contorted with malice I hadn't earned…yet.

You braced for the impact of these insults on my behalf, stuck as you were between myself and the other two. You looked as if you were going to come to my defense, but I didn't give you the chance.

"Sadly, misses Highsmith and Stein aren't available. Maybe I should just have a chat with your dear, sweet, so very secret Megan instead?"

I still don't know what made me say it. I shouldn't open my mouth when I'm upset; it always gets me into the worst kinds of trouble. You know this-now. Then, though, I don't think you could've stopped me. No more than you could've anticipated or stopped Flanagan's open hand reaching past you to meet my face with such force that the class ring on it scratched my cheek enough to draw blood.

The air was dense with tension, silence, and surprise.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, heedless of the heaving Flanagan and the confused Eli. You even reached toward me, but I took a step back.

"Don't…she's socially radioactive", he said, his face forming a cruel sneer.

"I- "

"He's right', I said, righting myself, 'don't worry about it. I'm fine. I always am. It was…it's been nice knowing you" I managed a halfhearted shrug, but I could feel the tears and bile building in my throat.

You were speechless, and you looked like someone had struck you. Flanagan's chest was still heaving and her face was the color of a ripe raspberry. Eli was just leaning against the nearest shelves like a triumphant peacock.

"Talk to you soon", I said with a bitter laugh, the sound of it-and the reference in my words, and their sarcastic finality-made you flinch.

I walked past you, went to my desk to grab my things and practically ran from the library. My friends. My sanctum sanctorum, now reduced to rubble.

I made it to my rooms before I let one tear fall, but they didn't stop.

You didn't move from your spot between the shelves until the other two had left. Flanagan had muttered something about leaving something in the fieldhouse and stomped away; Eli's boyfriend Jacob had come to retrieve him. And you just stood there, dumb to everything except two things: one, that you'd watched me get hurt and done nothing (despite really wanting to) and two, that you didn't care whether I was radioactive-that you'd risk the poison if it meant getting to see me read Italian or look at me dressed like Cyd Charisse.

You finally moved and made it to dinner, eyes searching the hall for me all the while. I wasn't there.

You left the hall and went back to your rooms. The door was still open in invitation when you fell asleep.

You woke up in the middle of the night, suddenly like someone had disturbed you. The room was dark, your roommate Chloe's gentle snores the only sound. You were trying to figure out what had woken you when-

Ping. From two minutes ago. That's what had done it. A text from me. Just a link and four words.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBxAdoTOnuM I'm sorry. The steps.

You grabbed your overcoat and your purple beanie, jammed your headphones into your ears, and took off running into the night.

2:54

I couldn't believe I done it. My face scrunched up at my foolishness, my lovesick nonsense-the shit that only happens in stories-but winced at the tug I felt from the scratch on my cheek. I'd been standing here in the cold for fifteen minutes before I'd even sent the text, and now for ten as I waited on the steps. Late night snow was starting to fall.

I had almost-nearly-basically given up when I heard distant footsteps in the dark.

A form started to take shape. A girl. An athlete. A familiar purple beanie.

I thought I was going to faint.

You took full form, and slowed down as you came to the bottom of the steps. You didn't ascend, letting me dictate the terms.

"HI", you said breathlessly, your chest still heaving from your cross-campus sprint. Your coat was open, revealing your sleeping sweats beneath.

"Hi", I returned, a smile threatening at the corner of mouth at the fact that you'd come. And you'd come like that-as soon as you-

"I came as soon as I could. I was…I waited for you to come."

"I know."

"I left my door open."

"Chloe must've been so confused."

Spurred on by the casual tone of the conversation, you put one foot on the steps to come up, "Listen…."

I held up a hand to halt you.

"No. I…I'm sorry about earlier. I'm not good…I'm not good at people." I rolled my shoulders in awkwardness, but my hands remained in my pockets, making me look like an irritated penguin.

And you laughed. That glorious sound that felt like sun breaking through the clouds.

"It's okay that you're crap at people." You took two steps upwards. I didn't stop you.

"It is?"

"Yes", you said happily, taking three more steps. Only two left.

"Why is that? You heard Eli…I'm radioactive. You saw Flanagan-I'm…why is that okay?"

"Because it is. You're not good at other people. You just have to…" you took the final two steps, level with me and then the final leap.

You reached up, lightly touching one chilled tan hand to my cold pink cheek, you brought your face close to mine and I took a surprised breath. That was all the indication you needed.

You pressed your lips softly to mine, the contact sending sparks and ice and fire and honey all over, inside, atop my mouth. I gasped into your mouth, and you smiled against my lips.

"I just have to what?" I finally asked moments-or years or seconds or decades-later, my eyes still closed long after the kiss had ended.

"You just have to be good at me. And I have a distinct feeling', you said as you took my hand in yours and gave it a reassuring squeeze, 'that you're a natural."

We walked down the steps and across the dark campus, holding hands all the while. You stopped every once in a while to brush snow from my hair, and I paused to let you. We meandered down to the crew lake as the sun was breaking the horizon, and I watched it rise in your eyes and turn your hair burnished gold while you watched the warm peach light settle around my paleness like a blooming rose. We were sitting on the dock, freezing but unbothered by it, when my stomach rumbled.

"Breakfast?" you asked.

"Yes. I need to shower, though. Meet you there?"

"Definitely". We got up and walked back through campus, you escorting me to my dormitory's entrance like a gentleman. The chivalrous nature of this didn't escape me, just so you know. I know you're just as much a romantic sap as I am, and to this day I am grateful.

We kissed quickly and I left you. You stood outside the building, relishing this new day and its possibilities. You put your headphones on and hit the link again, starting the song over once more. As the chorus was arcing upwards, it dimmed to allow the text tone to come through.

Talk to you soon.

You smiled and walked in the direction of your rooms. You knew it was true. It was true now and always would be.

#how we met #i wrote this for you #my words #girls loving girls #second pass #books #boarding school

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nxtherold · 4 years

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Daughter of Darkness

CHAPTER II : A HEART AS BLACK AS THE VOID

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Full work can be found here. Chapter: 2/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Genre: Angst, Drama, Suspense, Action/Adventure, Romance, Canon Rewrite Chapter Summary:

Daeris has completed her biggest contract yet and assassinated one of the most powerful figures in Cyrodiil. The reward? Information on the Black Dragon, the mysterious agent hunting down her fellow assassins. Daeris has been chosen to follow this lead. However, Matron Astara's decision to give Daeris this mission was met with rage by one member of the Sanctuary: Mirabelle Motierre. Mirabelle is Daeris's closest ally, but Mirabelle is convinced that she should be the one to pursue the killer of killers and get revenge for her fallen lover, Cimbar. Daeris has no choice but to obey her orders, but can she do her job without also shattering her friendship with Mirabelle? As desperate as Mirabelle has become for revenge, there may be more at stake than their friendship.

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." -Norman Cousins

Daeris tapped a nervous finger on her lip, her arms crossed defensively over her chest as she listened to Mirabelle and Astara argue in the next room. She knew Mirabelle would be disappointed that she wasn't being allowed to participate in the hunt for the Black Dragon, but there was no way she could have foreseen the bubbling fury that erupted from the Breton.

"This is my kill, Astara! You know that!" Mirabelle screamed at the matron.

"And you know better than to question me!" Astara responded in her cool tones, her voice pitched as it tried to withhold her annoyance at Mirabelle's insubordination. "Daeris was the one placed on this path by the Black Hand. It was her contract that earned this information; she will be the one to follow the lead."

"I was a part of that, too! I was vital in Fortunata's demise!"

"And you have been rewarded appropriately."

"Gold is nothing to me, Astara. You know I what I want, what I deserve!"

"You deserve nothing more than what's been given to you. If you want blood spilled so badly, go take a contract. Preferably one in a region far enough away that I don't have to hear you bitching to me about the Black Dragon anymore. You're getting far too emotional to tolerate. Find an outlet to release your rage, but know that no matter what you think you deserve, it will not be the Black Dragon."

"Astara, please!" Mirabelle cried out, her voice lowering. "You know why I've been so...unlike myself. You know that Cimbar....Cimbar and I..."

"I'm well aware. So is everyone else in this Sanctuary that had to listen to you two whenever you decided to enjoy each other's company," Astara groaned, looking up from her logbook on the table to stare Mirabelle directly in the eyes. "You knew better, Mirabelle. You knew that attachments are worthless in the eyes of Sithis. I thought you were smarter than that, and yet here you are, crying like some doe-eyed maiden, wasting extra tears on a man who briefly gave you a good time while you could be doing something productive."

"That's low of you, Astara," Mirabelle growled. "You know I-"

"Don't even say it. You weren't in love. Love isn't meant for people like us. We are tools of Sithis. We are death. You swore away love the moment you donned the shrouded armor that marked you as a born murderer. Trying to fall in love when death in your trade is like stabbing your dagger into the dirt; it does no good for anyone, dulls your blade, and eventually you're going to catch the broadside of a rock that snaps the tarnished metal like a toothpick."

Mirabelle grew quiet, save for the enraged huffs that swelled in her breath.

"You're mad at me now, but you know deep in your heart that it's the truth. The sooner you let go of the fanciful idea that you were in love and get over it, the better. It's okay to mourn that we lost a member of our family, but it is not okay to root yourself in your despair and endanger yourself and the family we have left," Astara said. Her voice held it's hard edge, but her anger had notably subsided. "So, I'll say it once more: Get. Over. It."

Daeris peeked inside the room to see Mirabelle's reaction. She could see the Breton's hands clench into fists as her feet shuffled on the floor and her head lowered. She expected Mirabelle to shout at Astara again, but instead she grunted and stomped a boot hard on the cobbled floor. Her hands rushed to the desk Astara's logbook rested upon and flipped it on it's side, sending all of it's content crashing to the ground. She turned and pushed past Daeris, her swollen eyes briefly meeting Daeris's lightless grey hues as she marched down the hall.

Astara sighed in her wake and reached down to set the toppled table upright. Daeris stepped in and began to collect items from the ground to help the Matron, cleaning silently as she reached for her voice.

"I'm hoping that eventually after all of this has been dealt with, she'll see that I'm just trying to save her life," Astara spoke softly. "She forgets that I've been in this organization long enough to see people make the same mistakes that she has. If she ends up a corpse because of this, I won't be surprised."

The harshness of Astara's words startled Daeris. She faltered as she picked up the fallen logbook, clutching it in her arms as she looked to see if Astara's face gave a better context to the statement. Astara noticed how the words sunk into Daeris and heaved another sigh. These younger girls were not as hardened as she, and she forgot this often.

"Do not take that as me wanting her to die. Wanting someone to learn a lesson at the cost of their life is as useless and foolish as drinking argonian piss like it could make you feel the Hist," Astara explained. "I only mean that I know how these things end. If this does cost Mirabelle her life, I will still promise her vengeance, the same as all others that have been lost to the Black Dragon's blade."

"I understand, Matron," Daeris nodded and closed the logbook, dusting it off before placing it back on the table. "So, Grazda said you needed to speak with me. I assume this is about the Black Dragon?"

"You probably gleaned enough from Mirabelle's shouting to piece it together," Astara snorted, "but, yes, it's time to collect the information Count Carolus promised us in return for his special request. Carolus's runners sent a meeting location earlier today, and Speaker Terenus decided that you should be the one to follow the lead. Go to Desek Moor, a quaint little ruin south of Kvatch. Follow up on whatever the count tells you. If it's a good lead, pursue it. If it's garbage, kill him in a way that those who lie to us deserve to die."

"Hm, organ-melting poison, or cripple him and toss him to the wildlife? Which do you think screams 'I betrayed the Dark Brotherhood' more?" Daeris mused, but judging by the deadpan glare she was receiving, Astara was not entertained by her casual jesting. Nothing new. Daeris cleared her throat and veered back to the serious nature of the conversation. "I'll, uh, cross that bridge when I get to it, I guess. Anyway, is there anything else I need to know before I set out?"

"Well, you could ask Mirabelle for information since she's been scouting Carolus, but I'm not sure if it's even worth broaching the subject with her at this point. Odds are she'll just scream at you. Best case scenario is that she plainly refuses."

Daeris could feel Astara's tenseness as she spoke. Astara did not tolerate behavior like this, but she was being uncharacteristically patient with Mirabelle's insubordination. With the turmoil in the Sanctuary, more patience was required for the flaring tempers and emotional outbursts, but Astara's patience was wearing thinner by the hour. When the Matron was on edge, everyone felt it.

"Thank you, Matron. I'll set out momentarily."

"Do not dawdle, assassin. We're missing something. The longer we wait, the more the pieces of the puzzle elude us."

Her response was but a nod as she turned on her heels and exited to the hallway. Astara may have been convinced that talking to Mirabelle would be fruitless, but Daeris didn't care for whatever information she had. Rather, she wanted to make sure the woman was okay. Regardless of her intent, she wouldn't be able to avoid a conversation with Mirabelle anyhow, as the moment she entered the circular room that all the hallways intersected with, Mirabelle stepped out in front of her. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and while she still held anger in her expression, the feelings weren't pointed at Daeris. Not directly.

"It should have been my mission. You understand that, I know you do."

Daeris nervously pushed loose strands of hair behind her ears. What was she supposed to say?

"What am I supposed to do about it, Mirabelle?" she said. "You know I can't go against them."

"Of course you can't," Mirabelle spat sarcastically. "You're their little golden girl. You disobey them all the time, and I'll give you credit: you get away with it because you're damn good. But you're really choosing now to be an obedient little servant? When you could be helping me?"

Mirabelle's accusations jabbed into Daeris like a knife. It was unspeakably uncomfortable, like ice on her back.

"We're done here."

Daeris started to walk away, her expression contorted in disbelief. Mirabelle's eyes widened as she realized what she'd said, and she grabbed her arm to stop her.

"Wait! I'm sorry, Daeris. I...I didn't mean it," she croaked. "Ever since Cimbar died, I've just been angry. And now with everything else that's happened, I feel so frustrated and-"

"Don't worry about it," Daeris quelled and looked her in the eye. "I know you're upset. I'm here for you, Mirabelle, but I have to do what's been asked of me. This is to protect our family, and we all have our part to play; we can't afford to divide ourselves further over decisions we don't agree with."

"I know." It was little more than a squeak on Mirabelle's part. So drained of conviction, Daeris wasn't quite sure she could believe it.

"I'll be back sooner than you know it," Daeris placed a hand on her shoulder. "And I'll tell you everything I find out. I promise. You deserve to be involved, but I also don't want you to get yourself killed."

"You give me less credit than I deserve," Mirabelle replied. A dour statement that could not be recovered from despite her efforts to lighten what she said afterward. "Don't worry about me. I just...need to cool off. I'll be waiting for you."

Mirabelle waved weakly and walked around Daeris, turning towards the barracks. She looked back with a fragile smile; yet another attempt to ease Daeris's mind that failed. Nothing Mirabelle could do would ease the growing terror that was forming in Daeris's chest. It was like the calm before a devastating storm. Daeris couldn't explain it, but she felt it.

Something was about to go very, very wrong.

Dasek Moor was pathetic in terms of ruins. No sprawling network of exposed passages or sunken secrets to explore. Maybe somewhere deep beneath the land there were some remains of the ruin's former glory, but it was unseen to the assassin. It was rubble; the bones of a structure long dead. A mighty fort, worn down to a tiny speck of architectural destruction protruding from the hillside. As miniscule and disappointing as it was in appearance, it was unobtrusive enough to provide good cover for a clandestine meeting. Good choice, Carolus.

The count sat fireside with his back turned to the darkness, though he constantly peeked over his shoulders, watching for those who prowled the dark. Daeris observed him for a moment. His fear was amusing. He was the one who reached out to her organization in the first place, and yet he still behaved like a rat in a cage. It made her uncomfortable, how she liked Carolus’s fear. She knew the origin of that horrid, yet inescapable feeling of pride, and she did all she could to not claim it as her own. She didn’t want to feel that way. She didn’t want to revel in apathy. She would disown the call of her nature as strongly as she could, but the call would never leave her. Not entirely.

The daedric blood that flowed through her veins felt most foreign at times. She was human. She lived among them for so long, being human was all she knew. And yet, she always knew she wasn't. She could pretend for as long as she liked, but at the end of the day, there would always be a darkness inside her veins that pulled at her endlessly. Sometimes it was welcomed. Sometimes embraced. Most often, though, the inhuman blood felt unreal. It was like a tattoo she hadn't meant to receive; there was no way to be rid of it.

We can't choose our parents, after all, nor our upbringing. How mismatched the two were for Daeris. Her mother, a deity from the darkest realms of Oblivion. She, an assassin, dirt of the earth that might as well not have a name. That was all she cared to be, but still she found herself a prisoner of her own blood. Not that her heritage did not have its benefits. She'd be dead if not for the cursed gift she had. It was a double-edged sword, and despite all of her complaining and desire to live as the nothing she saw herself as, she obeyed her higher calling. A higher calling that had long been predestined for her, yet hidden from her knowledge. What this purpose was, she did not know. But whenever her mother called on her, even for the smallest of tasks, all other things were put aside.

This is why she couldn't bring herself to listen to the raven. Daeris knew that her mother had a task to ask of her. She would give in eventually, of course, but for now, she could not risk interrupting her focus. Someone was hunting her family, the family that she gave to her. There was no way in Oblivion that she would surrender their lives just to fetch a trinket for a daedra. She told herself that, but she knew that if she was asked directly by her mother rather than her messengers, she would do it in a heartbeat. To serve her mother had become a compulsion rather than a choice. She was weak in that way. Loyalty was rarely a burden to assassins, but Daeris found herself possessed by it nonetheless. Loyalty. Servitude. If not to the Dark Brotherhood, then to her mother.

It's not like her mother was completely absent. She contacted her daughter enough to maintain a relationship with her. Daeris felt connected enough to her to still see her as her mother. Enough to love her and feel loved in return. But all the same, there were times when Daeris felt her loyalty was more valued than their shared blood. It was as if there was an invisible switch that flickered in her mother's mind; a lens that dictated whether Daeris would be seen as a daughter or a servant for the moment. Daeris attributed it to the nature of the daedra. There were times when she too found herself unable to care about things that she should, an irreverence that wasn't always intentional. How odd it was that the unfavorable experiences gave her more patience when dealing with her mother than the better ones. Many of their flaws were shared, after all.

When she was bored of her watching and contemplation, Daeris pulled a small dagger from her pouch and began to toss it in the air. The bird-like chirp of the metal cutting through the air tickled at Carolus's ear. Startled, he turned to find the source of the sound and locked eyes with the glint of moonlight that clung to the tossed blade. “Who goes there?” he croaked and rushed to his feet.

Daeris stepped forward out of the darkness, catching the blade for a final time. She slipped it back into her pouch after a few twirls around her fingers; the finesse intended to taunt the count. He sighed heavily enough for her to hear it and all of the annoyance that weighed his breath. His hands found his hips, and his creased brow displayed distaste rather than the intimidation Daeris tried to invoke. No, Carolus was much too jaded at this point to be curtailed by the bleating of an impetuous child wishing to see him cower. His lips parted with a sneer and groaned, “If you like theatrics so much you should join the circus. Melodramatic assassins don't have a lot of longevity.”

“Bold words from a man who almost pissed himself at the sight of a dagger,” Daeris giggled and grinned at the man. Carolus might have been too boring to care, but she was perfectly happy being her own audience. She leaned against the wall behind her and crossed her arms. “Scaring the piss out of you has been admittedly fun, Carolus, but we have business to conduct. Start talking; I've got someone to hunt.”

“I've already done my part,” the count said and turned his attention back to the fire. “Stop pestering me, assassin. I owe you nothing.”

The smile faded from Daeris's face. Her arms dropped to her sides and her head lowered. Was he serious? He owed a debt to the Brotherhood, and he was going to repay it. Daeris marched forward and pulled the count up from his crouched position. A jerk of his arm turned him to face her.

“Are you trying to go back on your word? We had a deal. One bound in blood. Have you forgotten what you owe to us, Carolus?”

“I've given you what you asked for,” the count pulled his arm away from Daeris, his opposite hand clinging to the hilt of the sword at his side. “I didn't lie. My information is good. I checked it out myself. If you and your organization can't make use of it, then that's your problem, not mine.”

“Don't treat me like a fool! You didn't give us the information,” Daeris raised her voice. The count was an idiot if he intended to try and trick the Dark Brotherhood. Daeris was ready to draw her blade and punish him for his lies as commanded by Astara, but as she looked into his eyes, she didn't see the face of a liar. His hand quivered around his sword's hilt, and his expression was wrought with confusion. Daeris relaxed her agitated shoulders and took a step back. “But you're telling the truth, aren't you? You passed on your info?”

“I did. I gave it to one of your associates.” Carolus's sword hand relaxed, but it did not move from the hilt. “I told them everything I found out.”

“It couldn't have been one of us. I'm the one who was sent to make contact with you. No one else from my organization should even be in the same vicinity.”

“It was one of your people, alright. Wore the same armor as you,” the count said and plucked a piece of parchment and an ebony dagger from the ground. The parchment bore the black hand symbol of the Dark Brotherhood, and the dagger's unique form marked it as Brotherhood craftsmanship. “They fancied their knife tricks, too. Pinned this to the wall by my head in lieu of a greeting.”

The assassin narrowed her eyes as she saw the insignia and dagger. Either an outsider was playing a very convincing game of pretend, or someone inside the Brotherhood had disobeyed orders. The latter seemed most likely.

“Was there anything distinguishing about the person that approached you?

“Very feminine, both in voice and physique. She got right to business, and as soon as I finished telling her everything, she said 'thanks darling' and left.”

“Darling? She called you darling?” Daeris's head shot up to look at the count. Alarm spread across her face. There was only one assassin she knew that went around referring to people as 'darling'.

“She did. But she was gone so quickly. I don't know what else to tell you.”

“Tell me everything you were meant to. After that, consider your debt paid,” Daeris spoke, taking the dagger and parchment from Carolus and stuffing them into a spare pouch. “I'll track down the other assassin and deal with her properly. I know exactly where she's going.”

“Go to the Order of the Hour's stronghold, the Enclave of the Hourglass. They're amassing an army, most likely so Primate Artorius can one day take Kvatch by force. But that's my problem, not yours. What you want is what lies inside. The Black Dragon takes refuge there. She's the First Sword of the order, after all; their top operative, and the primate's personal errand girl. If you have any hope of catching her off-guard, I suggest you infiltrate the enclave before she decides to pick off another one of your associates.”

The count's instructions replayed inside Daeris's head as she studied the enclave's exterior from her hillside perch. There was very little activity outside, but the flickering torchlight and accompanying shadows that were visible through the slots of the gate signalled that the interior was far more lively. But that was not her concern, for the moment. Instead, her eyes locked on a single figure prowling just outside the gate; a woman clad in dark leathers.

Mirabelle.

Daeris descended down the hill and faded into the shadows to cover her angry march to the rogue assassin. As soon as she reached her, she thrust a blade from the shadows and held it next to Mirabelle's neck to halt her. “We need to talk,” Daeris said, her voice a low growl. “There's cover in these hedges. Come with me.”

Mirabelle complied and ducked into the bushes without a word. When Daeris joined her, she turned to her with a smile. “Ah, here you are, darling. I've been waiting.”

“What in the hell do you think you're doing, Mirabelle?” Daeris questioned.

“Astara sent me to scout the fortress. The Order has been moving in a lot of siege weaponry the past few days. We should get a proper assessment of the threat they pose.”

Daeris response was silence. She pulled the dagger and paper from her pouch and threw it on the ground before Mirabelle, whose smile immediately disappeared.

“Explain, Mirabelle.”

“I don't have to explain myself to you. I believe I've said enough.”

“You're not stupid, Mirabelle. You know what you're doing. You know what you're about to throw away.”

“I'm not throwing anything away. So long as you don't tell Astara, that is.”

“I should tell her! If you keep pulling shit like this, you're going to get yourself killed.”

“Dying might be better than what I already have to deal with,” Mirabelle dourly chimed. As she continued, tears brimmed at the edges of her eyes, but they did not betray her. “You don't understand, Daeris. I loved Cimbar. She took him from me. Every day I hear the Black Dragon's voice in my head, laughing. Every day I remember what I saw when we went to retrieve Cimbar's body. I remember the moment I realized he'd never hold me again. I remember waking from my sleep the next morning and looking over at his empty bed. And through it all, what did everyone tell me? Get over it. Get over it, Mirabelle. Go sweep Fortunata's floors and forget him. But I can't. I can't forget him. My soul craves vengeance. You were the only one that didn't push me, so I thought that you of all people could understand, but I was wrong. Here you are, and you've turned against me, too. I'm dead inside, Daeris, and I can't live again unless I plunge my dagger into that bitch's heart!”

Daeris’s lips quivered as she tried to hold her snarl, but it could not stay. It twisted with sadness and despair and the realization that she could not stop Mirabelle. Did she not understand that she was bound to die from her recklessness? That she was in no mindset to confront the Black Dragon? No, she knew. Mirabelle knew what was at stake, yet she chose to put her life on the line anyhow. All for a dead man. All for Cimbar.

Daeris could never understand how she felt; she’d never been in love. Those closest to her were her fellow assassins, Mirabelle herself counting among that number. And yet, she didn’t have to understand how Mirabelle felt in that moment to empathize with her. She may not have understood what it was like to lose her beloved or to live every day starved for revenge, but she didn’t need to. She could feel the pain; it was so strong that it almost radiated from her friend. She could see it in her eyes. She felt it in her words. And because of their friendship, her heart wept for a loss she could not comprehend.

Eyes squeeze tightly together as Daeris sucks in a breath. She was going to regret this. She knew she would. But what else could she do? Mirabelle was going to destroy herself if she continued alone, but if Daeris turned her in, that might destroy her in a different way. The best she could do would be to work with her so that she could simultaneously work to protect her. But what would come later? Would she turn her into Astara once they got back to the Sanctuary? It would be a betrayal. Mirabelle would never forgive her, but it might be what’s best for her safety.

“You can’t face her alone,” Daeris says quietly.

“I have to face her, Daeris. Are you going to try and stop me?”

“No. I’m coming with you.”

“Coming with me?” Mirabelle was puzzled. Daeris was her friend, but could she trust her intentions? Especially when up to this point she had so thoroughly sided with Astara? “You’re lying. You’re just going to wait until my back is turned and then incapacitate me. You’re going to stop me.”

“I can’t stop you. If I turned on you now, you’d just do something even more foolish than this later. You’re determined to confront her, and no one can change your mind. So, I’d rather be there to help you than have you charge in alone.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” A smile of relief sweeps across the Breton’s face. It felt good to not be treated like an impatient child. Mirabelle was just as capable as any other assassin in the guild; just because she was driven by grief didn’t mean that her skills had waned in any capacity. She knew she could do it if only one of her Dark Brothers or Sisters would take her side and work with her. Even if Daeris didn’t truly believe they had any chance against the Black Dragon, surely she could convince her. This was all she needed: a little faith and the opportunity to prove everyone else wrong. “In that case, I’m glad you’re coming. Two dashing rogues like us, who could stand a chance? We’ll bring the Order to its knees.”

“There’s an army around the corner that would laugh at that statement, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Daeris concedes, her eyes returning to the towering fortress gates. “You’ve been here scouting a while. What have you learned? What’s our best approach?”

“The Black Dragon isn’t our only concern, that’s the best I’ve gleaned. The siege weaponry amassed in the courtyard could easily decimate our Sanctuaries when the time comes for the Order of the Hour to wage war against the Brotherhood. They might even be able to take Kvatch. No wonder the count was desperate enough to turn to assassins.” Back to business so quickly. They were both professionals, after all; neither had become elite figures in the Dark Brotherhood through sheer accident. “But they can be easily dealt with while we still have surprise on our side. We should take the equipment out before it can be put to use.”

“All of that dry wood? Nothing a little fire can’t fix.”

“I’ve got that covered,” Mirabelle affirms then stretches her index towards the main entrance of the fortress. “The only entrance I’ve found is the main one, but you don’t have much to worry about. They think they’re safe and secluded here; there’s no one guarding the entryway from the interior. I’ll burn the equipment and cause a scene to distract the guard at the exterior while you slip in. When the panic is in full bloom, I’ll take advantage and sneak away to come find you.”

“You’re recommending we split up? Mirabelle, I just said I wasn’t going to let you face this alone.”

“I said I’ll meet up with you again. This will give you the perfect opportunity to scout ahead. Besides; with one entrance, I doubt I’ll be able to outpace you within the fortress, so I won’t go after the Black Dragon without you.”

Daeris crinkles her nose, bottom lip catching between her teeth in a chew as she ponders the path laid before her. Mirabelle wasn’t wrong; she wouldn’t be able to get ahead of Daeris without an alternative entrance. Moreso, Daeris was tired of doubting Mirabelle. She was tired of questioning the people she was meant to trust. But was it so wrong to mistrust her when she had lied to Daeris before? Daeris was no fool, but she wasn’t so willing to throw away the idea that someone she considers her friend would be honest with her.

“Okay,” she nods, gripping the daggers at her sides. “Come find me as soon as you get inside.”

“I will,” Mirabelle smiles; a far more hopeful expression than the one she’d used to fool Daeris before. “I promise. Together, we’ll bring the Black Dragon to her knees.”

As deep into the fortress as she was, Daeris could still smell the embers of the burning siege equipment. Mirabelle had done fine work; it was only a matter of time before she found her within the halls of the enclave. Daeris’s efforts saw less results, however. Through gossiping chatters, official reports, and the writings in the Order’s archives, the only knowledge she could glean of the Black Dragon were largely insignificant factoids and things she already knew. There weren’t even any signs of the Black Dragon’s presence. Was this really where she operated from?

Half of the fortress was still rubble on the inside. Dusty remains of old architecture toppled over beneath blankets of cobwebs. The Order of the Hour was rebuilding it, that was certain, but their incursion was so recent that the innermost halls remained largely unattended in favor of rebuilding the outer defenses, likely to protect the siege weapons they housed in the courtyard. It was hard to step without the clash of broken stones crunching beneath the soles of Daeris’s boots. She had managed to stay as quiet as she could throughout her exploration, but only through great effort on her part. Lengthy steps prowl the castle, balancing her weight to press slowly against the grinding rock rather than crunch through the weak remnants. The pace is arduous, but it is her best way to protect herself from unwelcome exposure.

Then, an abrupt crackle taints the quiet atmosphere she’s engulfed herself in. She looks to her feet in surprise, but she finds the ground beneath solid. The misstep was not hers, but that of another; another whose presence she hadn’t noticed. She tries to listen, but her heart beats loudly within her chest and drowns her ears in the sound of an invisible drum. Surely this was just Mirabelle coming to join her. Who else could sneak up on an assassin so well? She’d made a habit of it too. But as Daeris turns, it is not Mirabelle that she sees. Rather, it was an unrecognized face; a plain woman with dark hair in servant’s clothing, arms raised in surprise as if she hadn’t intended to stumble upon an assassin. No one ever does.

A blade raises but is stayed by a quiet plea. “Wait!” the woman calls out before Daeris could silence her. “I can help you! Just, please, put your weapon down.”

Daeris tilts her brow at the strange woman. She was unarmed as far as the assassin could tell. She didn’t seem to pose a threat. Still, Daeris keeps her blade raised. What was to stop the woman from giving away her position and alerting her superiors? Her offer of help was most definitely born from a desire not to meet her end at an assassin’s blade, but could she actually provide assistance, or was it merely a desperate attempt to leverage an empty promise for her life?

“You want to help? Tell me what you know about the Black Dragon.”

“The Black Dragon?” The woman’s face twists in concern, not for the Black Dragon, but rather in fear of her. Eyes turn in their sockets, peering over her shoulders in watch for an unseen boogeyman. “She was once one of you, you know. She was part of the Brotherhood.”

“She was one of us? Then why does she hunt us?”

“I don’t know. No one knows. There are many whispers about her. Some say she was tired of being commanded by her superiors. I’ve heard others say that something happened that pushed her too far. Something horrible that made her hate the Dark Brotherhood more than anything.”

“That’s not enough,” Daeris pushes the blade against the woman’s throat. “What’s her name? Where can we find her?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know any of that! But I do know how you can find out!”

The woman’s hands press against the dagger softly, silently begging for the weapon to be put away. She was being compliant, and so Daeris acquiesced and pulled the blade away, though she knew better than to sheath it.

“Her chambers are just beyond here. Perhaps you will find your answers in there? I can take you there, if you promise you’ll let me go afterward.”

Dark silver hues scour the woman’s form. Her skin, a fair shade tinged with the gloss of copper, bore faint white scars all across the surface. Were these from the abuses of her liege-lords? Daeris couldn’t blame her for being so eager to trade away the Black Dragon’s secrets; especially not since her life was on the line. “Fine,” Daeris agrees. “Take me there, and you can live.”

The woman steps cautiously around Daeris and proceeds to guide her down the corridor. She is watched at every step by the assassin, prepared for treachery from an individual that would otherwise be unassuming. It doesn’t take long before she stops before a particular door, peeking inside to make sure it was unoccupied before inviting Daeris to enter. The room past the threshold was large and lined with shelves that contained scores of books. The ceiling was at least two stories up, and on the opposite wall there was a stone alcove with an inscribed insignia representing the Order of the Hour. Before she examines the room further, Daeris takes note of a leather-bound journal laying on a desk in the center of the room.

“This is the Black Dragon’s private study,” the woman states. “Surely you can find something of use to you here.”

Daeris pays no mind to the servant woman; she’s already found something of use. A tactful thumb pries the bindings loose from the journal and splays the contents out before her. She had not the time to pry through every entry in the book, but one recent entry caught her attention more than others. The servant -whoever she was- was right; the Black Dragon was once part of the Dark Brotherhood, and she now blames them for turning her against them. But why? What did the Brotherhood do to drive this woman to kill the people she’d once sworn to be family to?

A rustle from above startles Daeris from her reading. She turns in search of the noise and locks her eyes upon the engraved alcove. Mirabelle stood upon the ledge, looking down at her fellow assassin.

“Daeris? Thank Sithis you’re here!” Mirabelle proclaims. “This chamber supposedly belongs to the Black Dragon; here, we can lay in wait for her return and strike when she thinks she’s safe.”

Mirabelle’s mouth opens as if to continue, but the figure behind Daeris steals her attention. “Daeris, who’s that with you?”

“It’s a servant that-” Just as she was going to explain to Mirabelle how she’d found the chambers, she looked behind her to find that her guide had vanished in a cloud of sinister red magic. In the slick motion it takes for her to return her gaze to Mirabelle, she sees that the servant was now standing behind Mirabelle on the ledge. Neither assassin can utter a word before a blade thrusts into Mirabelle’s back and out through the center of her chest. The action is so decidedly quick that it leaves no room for either to scream; Mirabelle, choked on the blood that began to swell within her throat, and Daeris, choked by fear.

“Who am I?” the woman laughs in visceral, disgustingly gleeful bloodlust. “I am death, you stupid little girls. You never should have come here. And now? One of you is never going to leave.”

The blade is ripped from Mirabelle’s body, and a cruel kick sends her crashing from the ledge down onto the floor below. Daeris rushes to her by mere instinct and cradles her head in her lap as if she could somehow still protect her from death. Angry, yet fear-filled eyes look up to the ledge in terror.

“You,” she spits. “You’re the Black Dragon.”

“Figure that one out for yourself, blondie?”

“Why are you doing this? The Dark Brotherhood used to be your family!”

“Family means nothing to the Brotherhood, little girl. They always go on and on about how important family is, but they would throw away the lives of every last one of you --of us-- without batting an eye. You’re a tool to the Night Mother, nothing more.”

“If you think that, then you’re the one who never cared about family.”

“They made me kill my family; all of my Sanctuary. A Purification. They made me do it. Every last one of them, people that I lived with and loved, dead by my blade all by the Black Hand’s orders. They shouldn’t be so shocked that I’ve taken a blade to my ex-Brothers and Sisters when they are the ones who aimed me at them.”

Daeris could not respond to her claims. She couldn’t say they were true, but also could not say they were a lie. If that was the truth, then it was horrifying. What if Daeris had been put against Mirabelle? Or Kor and Hildegard? What about her home Sanctuary in the Imperial City; could she kill the people she was raised with? Her head dips into a fallen drape, ash locks cascading over her face.

“Your silence tells me that you understand now. You understand why I do this. The Dark Brotherhood is no family. It is a group of monsters that long to be holy and will cling to whatever fake righteousness they can find. The Order of the Hour is no different, but at least they haven’t told me to kill my comrades yet.” The Black Dragon cleans her blade, sliding it back into its sheath. “Leave here today knowing that I only left you alive so that you can send a message to the Black Hand. Tell them that Lyra Viria remembers what they made her do. And she won’t stop until every last one of them is dead.”

The Black Dragon turns to leave through the secret door hidden in the alcove. As her hands presses against the mechanism, she is stalled by a simple response.

“Wait.”

If only for the amusement of the assassin’s fruitless efforts, the Black Dragon half turns to look upon the desperate face that called to her.

“Your name is Lyra Viria?” Daeris calls out, her head bowed as she looked upon Mirabelle’s lifeless body. Tears pour from her cheeks and drip onto her dead companion’s skin in a downpour. “Lyra Viria….my name is Daeris Urzara.”

“You think I would even care to know your name?” the Black Dragon chuckles.

“I want you to know my name. I want you to engrave it into your memory.” The assassin raises her chin to look upon the face that killed her fellow assassin. Her friend. The shape of her features burned into her mind as rage boiled within her blood and spilled through her tears. Her body shook in response to the fire lit within her soul, and she bit the inside of her cheek until it spilled blood into her mouth. “Remember my name. Remember my face. Because I am going to be the last thing you see before you die. I am going to fucking kill you.”

She could belittle the assassin. She could chide her for being so bold, even as she was destined to share the same fate as her newly-deceased associate. Instead, Lyra likes the challenge she finds in her eyes. This one was different; she didn’t cower. An assassin with a backbone? Or just a fool? Nonetheless, her declaration intrigues the Black Dragon enough to offer a response.

“Daeris Urzara,” the Black Dragon repeats, stepping through the alcove to depart. “Come find me, then. If you have the gall to stare death herself in the eye.”

Two steps, then a final pause before the darkness of the tunnel consumes her.

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

#[daeris ; fics]#[daughter of darkness]#[fanfic]

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