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illumwriting · 2 years

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live hard, die young (revised)

a little thing that got way out of hand. based on sparxflame’s lovely responses. huge warnings for character death, blood, violence. heavy references to shatsome. 2,850 words.

They dump a twitching and barely conscious Strife on Kirin’s back doorstep, wrapped in a ragged blanket and peel out of the alley in Smith’s car of the month, faces drawn. “Guys, just let them take me-” Smith starts, and Trott snarls no so fast Smith doesn’t try to argue.

Sips greets them at the door, his smile wide as ever and the smell of half burnt pizza coming from the kitchen. His face falls as he sees Smith’s pale face, and the terror flitting behind Trott’s eyes.

“Ross?” Sips asks slowly as he lets them in and locks the door behind them, watches Ross’s stony form shake almost imperceptibly. Smith has fled to the upstairs and Sips can hear things being thrown, punctuated by gritted shouts of profanity. Trott meets Ross’s eyes and nods, and Ross runs up after Smith, the banging slowly fading.

“We need to go, Sips.” Trott’s voice is raw, and his hands are still stained from the mix of redstone and blood he’d tried to wipe off Strife’s face.

“Trotty-” Sips protests, but the deadness in Trott’s face makes Sips realize this is no game. “Am I gonna need anything?” Trott glances around their shared home, his face drawn. “Your warmest jacket. Any weapon. You have about 10 minutes.”

There’s another crash from overhead and a raw cry of anger, Sips can’t tell who. He just nods and starts digging in the front closet for anything that might fit him as his head spins with the possibilities of what might have happened. Smiffy not speaking, even Ross frightened. The boys had just gone out for a jaunt with Strife…

Oh, fuck.

Trott wrings his hands together and drags his skin slowly off the back of the couch, slinging it over his shoulders with a labored sigh. Ross and Smith thunder down the stairs, an angry light of self-hatred in Smith’s eyes and a pained resignation in Ross’s.

“I don’t know when they’ll start looking for us.” Trott says as they gather in the entryway, Ross handing a thick strip of leather to Sips who takes it with a questioning look. “As soon as they come, I’ll lead them to the water.”

Smith dips his head in a nod. His lips are pressed together thinly.

“But-” Ross starts to protest, and Trott stares him down, eyes full of sorrow and the thought of loss. “Protect Sips.” Trott mandates, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Smith utters a cry of frustrated anguish and rips open the door.

They’re still in Smith’s car when the horns sound, not even a full hour outside of the city yet. Sips knows what’s going on now, and hates the way he can see it eat at his court. “C’mon guys!” he says from the backseat where he sits with Ross. “We’ll make sunrise, I know it.”

No-one says anything back and Smith jams his foot down harder on the pedal as if it will make the car go past its limits.

“We’re sorry.” Ross murmurs in Sips’ ear as the car starts to sputter and they hear the pounding on the road that’s been following for at least the past mile now start to grow louder. “We were supposed to protect you-” Sips stops him, running a hand across the ridges on Ross’s neck.

Smith suddenly swerves off the road, banking the car harshly down the edge and onto the mud by the river, no care for the way the branches scratch it.

“I’m gonna miss you idiots.” Sips says when the car stops bouncing, and then Trott is yanking them both out of the backseat.

“We need to go, now.” Trott hisses. “Ross, you fly, far as you can ahead. The old shack, by the river. Stay there, they don’t know about it.”

Smith is dropping dark red boxes into the car, and Sips feels the sickness in his stomach well. The pounding is getting closer. Trott stands before Sips, head bowed in one last act of love and subservice to his king. “I’m sorry.” He says.

Sips kisses the top of his head. Feels the softness of his lovely servant's hair one more time. “Go.” He releases Trott, and thinks he sees tears past the hardened resolution in Trott’s face as the selkie takes off on foot towards the water and the pounding follows him.

“Come and get me, you bastards!” Trott screams, and Sips weakly smiles at the silhouetted middle fingers Trott holds high.

“Come on.” Smith whispers softly as soon as the murderous mob passes. “Get on my back, before the fuses burn out.”

“What?” Sips says, and Smith just huffs and reaches into Sips’ pocket and pulls out the leather strip, hanging it around his neck so the ends trail down is back and kneels on the ground, facing away from Sips.

“Grab it and hold the fuck on.” Smith urges him as Trott’s whooping fades out in the distance. Sips obeys, and suddenly Smith is shifting, wet and wild as he becomes a steed for their king.

“Woah.” Sips says, and the rest of his words are lost to the wind as Smith gallops into the tree line and away from the rocking explosion behind them.

————

“Fuck you.” Trott spits out the sand in his mouth onto the ground, mucky and stained with blood. They’d caught him with an aggravating ease thanks to modern weapons, shot at him with harpoons and arrows and double-barreled shotguns, hauled him out of the water and ripped his skin from him with searing magic. He’s without clothes now and bleeding from his side where the broken remains of a spear still stick out, on his knees in front of Kirin- Kirin, the fae lord of the whole city. His hunting party holds Trott’s pelt, ready to desecrate it.

“Burn it.” Kirin says, never taking his eyes off Trott. Trott doesn’t falter from his disrespectful manners, even though he knows what’s coming. “Where are they, selkie?”

“I hope you rot in the witch’s domain.” Trott flashes his teeth, bloodstained from ripping enemies to bits in the water before his face contorts into sharp pain as the fae light his skin on fire.

“Harsh words.” Kirin muses, gripping Trott’s chin. “And you sacrificed yourself for nothing.” Trott spits again in his agony, right into Kirin’s face even as he can feel himself burning alive from the inside out.

Kirin drops Trott back to the sand of the beach, wiping his face off with disgust and watches the selkie writhe until his seal skin is almost all burnt to ash before driving his sword through Trott’s heart to the fae’s cries of “No Mercy!”

———————

They hear the cheering float all the way down the river, clinging to each other in the ruins of a house where Smith first stole Ross away. They all feel it, like a hot iron to their souls. “Fuck!” Smith's voice cracks sharply as he sobs. His hair hangs wet in front of his face, his clothes rendered useless and waterlogged.

They’re not quite sure what to do then, as they hear the rhythmic pounding of the pack on the Hunt again, and Sips curls his fist in the hem of Ross’s shirt.

“Go.” Ross says quietly, and Smith and Sips stare at him as the gargoyle disentangles himself and stands. Smith opens to his mouth to protest, and Ross cuts him off. “Smith, go. Take Sips and get as far away as you can, don’t stop. You know you can’t carry us both on your back.”

“Come here.” Sips says gruffly, standing too and pulling Ross in towards him, hugging Ross tightly and breathing in the scent of fresh paved roads and dust and the hint of saltwater that came from Trott that still lingers on Ross’s clothes.

Smith presses the last of the explosives and a remote detonator into Ross’s hands and kisses him. “Thank you for stealing me.” Ross says, and then watches as Smith and Sips disappear into the night, sweeping over the few human tracks Sips leaves.

“Hey assholes!” Ross booms into the night when the two have gotten well away, and hears the pounding swerve to draw close to him.

————

Ross goes out in a blaze, like the church he was once bound to. Rigs the shack with explosives and gets as many as he can to come in, stabbing with his tail and shredding with his claws until the ratty couch where he and Smith had bound themselves to each other is surrounded by the downed corpses.

He tires all too soon, made of stone almost as old as Kirin and of borrowed fragments that were never truly meant to be a part of him. They jump him, pin him down and take delight in ripping the gems from his body that Honeydew had given him to repair himself with. He waits until he hears Kirin come up the stairs and then whaps his tail onto the button he’d kept hidden under the couch.

Kirin finds him in the rubble, burnt and charred fae around him, his right arm broken off into concrete dust and the rest of him trapped under rubble.

“You were my favorite.” Kirin says softly, kneeling beside Ross, who coughs ash from his mouth and looks weakly at Kirin with blue eyes that are fading to dull grey.

“Eat shit.” Ross grinds out, his voice raspy and he coughs again, trying to free himself from the smoldering beams on top of him. Kirins tsks at him, and holds a scrap of-

Oh stars above- Ross thinks-

fur in front of his face. “Trott decided to go the hard way out.”

Ross grits his teeth, exhales slowly even though he knows he doesn’t need to breathe at all. “The witch will use your bones for fertilizer.”

Kirin sighs and shake his head at the stubbornness. He cleanly puts his sword through Ross's heart, watching the gargoyle break apart into shards, leaving behind a pair of ripped jeans and shirt that burn quickly in the spreading fire of the shack’s remains. ———————————————-

They’re in a thick forest- it all looks the same to Sips as the trees whip past and he presses himself close to Smith’s mane to keep his face safe from the foliage they crash through.

He can feel Smith falter beneath as they draw out of range of the water, and he can hear the labored breaths as Smith’s form starts to fail him after so much exertion.

“Stop.” Sips whispers into Smith’s ear, and the horse pays no mind, running on. The ground is damp behind them, an easy trail to follow. There is no pounding, no shouting to be heard.

“Smiffy, stop, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” Sips begs again when he feels Smith stumble, hard, and finally Smith stops, and sips slides off his back, letting Smith turn back to human. He’s covered in sweat and his eyes are wild as he gasps for air.

“They got them, oh fuck- Ross is dead, mate-” Smith whimpers, holding his arm where he’d bound himself to Ross and Sips knows Smith isn’t lying with the creeping coldness he feels too.

“We gotta hide.” Sips says, his own voice shaky, and drags Smith after him into the brush, holding the trembling kelpie’s head in his lap.

The night is cold, and the hunters are relentless. It’s just after midnight- or as far as Sips can tell, when the pounding jolts him from his sleep and he shakes Smith awake with a hissed “Shhhh.” Smith sits up and rubs at his tear stained face, staring with wide eyes out into the dark at the lights drawing near.

They stay silent, curled up to each other, Sips drenched by the water and tears that haven't stopped dripping off of Smiffy. The pounding gets close, the wild whoops of creatures who have gone so long without a hunt like this and the roaring noise that sounds like Smith’s cars yet distinctly primeval. Sips shudders, and feels Smith tense against him.

It goes dead quiet, and the lights hold still. Smith bares his teeth at whatever lies outside the brush, a defiant shout growing in the back of his throat. Sips holds Smith’s arm tight and reins him back.

The brush atop of them parts, and Kirin looks down at them. He’s got blood smeared across his beard and he smells thickly of ash and fire. “Found you.” He says and Smith lunges from Sips’ hands, a broken cry rattling out of his throat as he goes straight for Kirin’s neck with a thin blade Sips had carried for him.

Sips stares, helpless and mortal as Smith and Kirin grapple, water spraying around them as Smith drives the knife into Kirin’s upper arm over and over and Kirin wraps his wide hand around Smith’s throat and squeezes until Smith is choking and can’t hold the knife anymore, driving the point of the blade one last time into Kirin’s arm and then trying to pry the fingers from around his throat as he’s shoved to his knees.

“Sips.” Kirin’s voice is commanding, and Sips stands up from the brush slowly, noting the circle that the hunting party has formed around them. “Come here.”

Sips stands his ground, hands shoved in his pockets and slouching. He blames his shaking on the cold air and his soaked jeans and sweatshirt. His cap was long gone to the forest, leaving him feeling exposed. “Let Smiffy breathe.” He drawls, tries to keep the fear out of his voice. He meets Smith’s eyes and Smiffy looks as terrified and angry as Sips feels.

Kirin tosses Smith to the left of him into a tree, hard. “Consider that your dying request.” Kirin says as Smith wheezes and gasps for air. The fae descend on Smith and bind him to the tree with iron rope and Smith wails in pain. Sips shrugs and steps closer, never taking his hands out of his pockets.

“So nice of you.” Sips says flatly. He feels the weight of the small gun in his pocket, the cold metal against his palm. He’s only got one shot.

“Your court harmed my property, severely.” Kirin crosses his arms. There’s just a few feet between the two rulers, despite the power difference.

“Yeah. I’d say you, uh, harmed my property pretty severely too.” Sips tries to laugh, but he feels broken inside. He’s never getting them back.

Kirin reaches into a pocket and holds out his hand. Sips can see a scrap of fur and the glint of something blue. Smith strains at his bindings and wails another outraged cry that is stifled as fabric is stuffed into his mouth.

“If you rescind all ties with them, you’re free to go.” Kirin’s teeth flash unnaturally white as he offers the remnants of Sips’ court to him. “No mercy!” shouts a group of fae and Kirin’s tail lashes in irritation. They fall silent, but Sips finds it in him to sneer at Kirin.

“You fuckin’ think I’m still just a mortal they kidnapped?” Sips tightens his hand around the gun, sees a space between the armor that Kirin wears. “Play by your own rules or don’t play at all.”

He sees Smith out of the corner of his eye, straining, looking angry and proud of his king as Sips whips the little pistol out and shoots. Sips stumbles backwards with the force of the magic-imbued shot, landing on his ass in the muddy grass and watches Kirin stumble backwards too, the fur and shard falling from his hand. The fae shout and Smith struggles to break free in the clamor. Sips stares as Kirin rights himself, and smiles a wide grin and traces over the dent in his armor.

“Bring me the kelpie.” Kirin unsheathes his sword as he stares down Sips with malice, and Sips feels frozen in place as Smith is dragged and forced on his knees in front of Kirin, facing Sips, prone. “Smiffy-” Sips breathes and Smith gives him a tired smile around the gag.

Kirin grabs a handful of Smith’s hair and drags it back until Smith’s neck is bared. Sips feels the fae closing in around him but not touching him, not yet.

“No mercy.” Kirin spits and drives the sword home, through Smith’s back and out through his heart.

Sips stares at the blood on the iron blade, at Smiffy’s face frozen in hatred and hears dimly the sounds of chanting fae as Kirin drops Smith’s body to the ground ands pulls his sword out.

“Last words?” Kirin asks him, and Sips blinks out of his haze, staring up at the fae lord.

“Yeah.” Sips says and sneers again. It's started to rain, and the drops are cool on his skin. He’ll see the others soon, wherever dead assholes like them end up. “Smiffy says the witch is comin, and I say the witch is gonna win. Also, fuck you.”

Kirin slams the blade down into Sips’ heart with no hesitance, and then pulls it out, lifting it high.

The Hunt is over.

#hatfic #yogfic #urban magic yogs #the garbage court #rewrite #sparxflame #swyogs

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