#the tangled web of fate we weave

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Cover art by @/crazycookiemaniac

Summary: The strings of Fate continue to twist and turn and wind in a rather odd manner. It's almost like the fate of the world would be dependent on just a few of the threads. Is there a chance to affect the way they are woven together? And how about the formerly so happy couple? All they carry of the other as of now, is the tender, but bittersweet emotions in their hearts, along with the rings on their fingers. Rings, which held a spell.

Pairing: Fuegoleon (CC) x Solara (OC) Fanfic type: Book/long fic Warnings: Mostly canon typical content, the battle/war themes are there, angst, Fue's fear manifests as anger (he's only human, after all), Solara is still pregnant so themes of pregnancy

Tag list: @succulentsunrise @loosesodamarble

A/N: Three months later... I wanted to see where canon progresses, but decided to make some decisions of my own in the end anyhow. Hope you like them (nyehehhee).

Word count: ~3.6k

Chapter 6: The Rings

‘Tis curious... It’s as if the Seer is no more. The string is awfully thin... Like all else. So, I wonder... I wonder if ... I wonder what’s in that room, beyond the mirror. The passage. She’s always looking at me through it, but I think there’s something behind her. Not that she ever spends more time there. But I think... there is something in there.

I wonder what it is... for ever since I was... how old was I? When I came here? Decided that it’s best to observe. To be an observer, rather than a Seer. Which, perhaps... Perhaps it’s what the researchers of Old Micah were supposed to be. To watch, but not tinker and toil.

Though the bells are awfully annoying.

Maybe they could hear the bells too and just wanted them to shut up.

Though sister... sister says that she can’t hear anything wrong with them. That some hear the bells, but hear nothing wrong about how they play. If you call that as playing. The blasted bells. They drill into my very soul. At times.

Maybe they drilled into the souls of the scientists too. And that’s why they drew the strings, and ventured too close. Trying to tinker with them. Temper with the threads that shouldn’t be tempered with.

And thus were no more... Nothing but a whisper. A distant memory for only those who are able to remember them. Their lair being nothing but ruins, hidden behind forcefields in fear of it taking place again. Another one breaking through because someone played an off note with the strings.

She half scoffed; half chuckled.

Or weaved them the wrong way. Since ... though I... perhaps it’d be better to call them as weavers. I’m not one, despite being like a spider caught in a web. Or... at least feeling like one. Though maybe spiders don’t feel trapped inside their own creations.

And since this isn’t my creation, I think that a spider isn’t a fitting description after all.

But... then... what does it make me? What am I?

I’m not a Seer, Weaver or ... Or... anything that there are supposed to be. I just exist.

Just exist and watch as the threads turn and twist, helpless as ever. Though. What would it affect me? If they’d cease to turn. If they’d... become tangled in a way like never before? What would it affect me? I am here, without a burden on my consciousness. For if I ever do nothing, then how could I be guilty of doing anything wrong?

Though sister is adamant that I do something, because choosing to do nothing is as bad as doing something wrong. While she also agrees that sometimes it’s best to mind one’s own business. Take care of her queendom and let others do as they will. Because others existing as they do, while not bothering us is... they might exist differently than we do, but it’s not inherently wrong in any way.

However... the twisting and the turning that’s taking place... Never did I think that so many threads could be affected by one path... two paths... Or maybe... It’s hard to tell.

The threads are awfully small and wound together where I can see them.

But still. They’re tied to awfully many places, and the web seems like it’s crumbling. Falling apart.

So maybe... but I couldn’t.

No one is to touch the threads. That is a Law.

One that the researchers of Old Micah learned the hard way.

No mortal hands are to touch the threads as they are.

But that makes me wonder... how would one then affect the twisting and the turning? Perhaps with a tool? That is how the scientists made it possible to weave into the net. With a set of tools that allowed them to touch threads that weren’t meant to be touched.

However... that doesn’t mean that there wouldn’t be a tool that wouldn’t allow for it. To take a hold and play the bells, attached to the threads. Or even... maybe if you connect something to the threads, and touch those instead of touching the threads themselves?

I wonder...

Her head turned towards the mirror, the pathway and the thin sheet of something she couldn’t name, which existed between that place and another. A place from where her sister gazed to her every once in a while. And for reasons that were lost even from herself, she couldn’t turn her eyes away.

I wonder what’s in that room...

---

The art of crafting a wedding band is delicate and precise work. After all, the piece of jewellery is meant to be worn around one’s finger for the rest of the days they have on this earth. And thus, it should be both durable and stylish; something that fits the person carrying the ring itself.

Designing such a piece takes time, let alone execute the craftmanship. Especially while working with a fragile material such as a leaf from the Tree of Binding Fates.

It was long, long time ago discovered that the material, which becomes hardened after falling off, could be used in jewellery or other memorabilia. But considering the significance of the ritual, it seemed only logical to incorporate such a fine material, add a fine detail, to a piece of jewellery as important as a wedding band. It in itself would already make the pair of rings unique, because no one else would have the same leaf, the same pattern, of the same shape and size and weight, as the one that The Tree served the couple. Perhaps one might find similar ones. Even hauntingly similar, while looking at older rings, preserved and kept intact for future generations to see and admire. Because surely love is something to admire. To read about the joys and sorrows the couple held, while looking at the rings, which were still there, as if to prove that the couple had existed, once upon a time.

The old man, in Thea, working for the [Lil’ Old Jeweller] had been doing what he knows best for 55 years already, in that very same shop, which was founded by his great-grandfather with no greater aspirations than to simply do a good job. It had been his wish to do an honest day’s work, in a manner that he could be proud of.

The old man could remember his grandfather having told how his father had felt rather silly while putting the word ‘old’ into the sign while opening, but he had felt that it added a certain charisma to the name. However, the word had grown true to itself, as the shop had gained popularity.

The old man could remember when his grandfather had gotten his first job with a request to add a leaf from The Tree, and how nervous he had been. Because it wasn’t just any material, it was something that couldn’t be replaced. So, he had started by chipping off only a portion of the leaf in hopes of being able to chip off another piece if he failed on the first try. And the method had proved to be successful. There had even been only a handful of occasions when a new piece had needed to be chipped off the leaf, because as the old man, his father, and grandfather, had all noticed, the work took shape around the leaf piece.

There was always a hint of a kind, along with having spoken to the couple, most of them easy to talk to, and some seeming more like they’d be the end of each other than the love of each other’s lives, about how the rings should look like. One had to work with the ring, instead of having to make the ring work for oneself. That was one of the things he had hoped to have gotten across to his daughter, who had taken an interest in adding leaves, actual leaves and flowers into the rings as well. Encase them in resin or alike material, along with the leaf from The Tree. And she seemed to do good job. Her customers seemed happy. Which was enough for him. He might not have understood the fascination, because when he thought about a ring, he thought of silver and gold, fine elements of the earth, along with gems and the leaf.

But he was already an old man. And he supposed that it was alright. Time went on, and his daughter also had the skill of listening. The old man had thought himself to have held the gift of seeing too, but upon watching the pieces his daughter made, he thought himself to have only a narrow view of seeing.

Though the daughter said their ways of seeing to simply have been different. There was no right or wrong, as long as you work with the couple, and do a good, honest day’s work.

The old man had been pleased with this answer. Perhaps that was all there was to it.

And so, the old man would continue doing his work, with the couples, the leaves and the pieces of metal, embedding the magic of the leaves of The Tree into a piece of jewellery that was worn on the ring finger of the left hand, from where there was a straight path to the heart.

Sometimes he would think how many utilize the magic that was embedded into the ring. Perhaps not quite many, because it could be used only once, and it wasn’t that often one held such a desperate need to get to one and another instantly. Especially if it was only once. Though he could always make a new ring, with the remainders of the leaf. None just seemed to think of it. Or then it wouldn’t be the same, because you only, really, get married to one person once in your life. At least... in most cases.

It was also possible that many simply... forgot about it. Put if off as just some ol’ wives tales and went on with their lives.

He also went on as to speculate that some might have thought the spell, or the mana, to activate to have needed something grand. A specific set of words that would wind into a sentence that would bring one to their loved one, or vice versa, for after all, the door swung both ways. But in reality, what was required, was rather simple.

Another thing he thought that many forgot, because more didn’t use it. And those that, perhaps, remembered it, deemed it invasive to simply yank one’s beloved to them away from whatever it was. Especially, again, since the spell could be used only once. And would give away to this one little ace in one’s sleeve. Not that it was so special that other nations couldn’t have come up with it and used it for themselves.

But, during times of trouble, he also found himself thinking if people, who once upon a time had sat there, in the small seating area of his shop, talking to him about their wishes for the rings, eyes full of love and hope for the future, had found themselves falling out of love. After all, it was not always love that bound people’s fates together. So, it was possible, that somewhere down the road, what had brought the couple together, drove them apart. And thus, the magic that existed in the rings was left unused.

Luckily, those thoughts, those moments, were scarce. And more often than not, he found himself smiling while thinking back to all of the encounters he had with the brides and grooms to be. Every story different from the other. But the smiles and the gazes, the tender, subtle displays of affection, they he could recognize. Even if they all harboured a special flare of their own, no matter how similar one might have thought them to be based on a glance. And the similarities, he had found, stretched far beyond the borders of nations.

For a while he had nearly forgotten it. During the years that it had been only Thean couples that came to see him. But one of the latest couple he found himself thinking more than any other for a while. Perhaps because of how much they had been talked about. Because of what was achieved, essentially because they had been the driving force for the borders opening and new alliance forming.

He had thought that maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised to find them, sitting across the table from him. But. He had been.

However, the surprise and the wonder had faded away as he looked at them smile. As he smiled because they smiled, and because the smile was contagious.

He hoped that the couple would never need to use the magic of the rings. He hoped that they could be happy and content; spend the days of their lives, together.

---

The smooth surface of his wedding band, which hid a pattern, as if flames, on the inner surface of it. He let his thumb grace the piece of metal, which spoke of a promise. A shared vow between two lovers, during a time that had been filled with... hope... More hope. A time that had been joyous and had made his flutter in the best of ways.

And he could remember... how it had been her fingers gracing over that surface of his wedding band. He could remember, how her fingers had trailed up his arm to play with his hair. How she whispered gentle nothings to his ears, or how she’d giggle, burst into a laugh because of something silly that he couldn’t even remember anymore. He just remembered the laugh.

He remembered how beautiful she had been.

He wondered how he had been blessed. Even for such a short while. A passing moment. A breath.

That’s how it felt, even if they had been together for years. Despite having been the best years of his life, they had been over in a blink of an eye. Too soon. Too quick.

Though he wasn’t sure if even a lifetime had been long enough of a time. But that was all the time he had; all the time she had. A lifetime.

It was just a shame that his lifetime would end up being shorter than hers. Not that he would have willed it any other way; for hers to be shorter than his.

And for a moment, he had to wonder if it had been only a dream. Something his mind had concocted during his coma, which he wished to believe with his entire being.

But... it hurt too much for it to have been a mere dream. The golden threads of fate, spun into ropes, were wound tightly around his still beating heart, which he hoped would carry his affection to her. He hoped that she could hear him, feel him, there, until he wouldn’t be. And perhaps, even after that.

He wished that she knew his last thoughts to be of her. Even when the battle was raging around him. Even as the end was nearing.

Something seemed to have caught the angels’ interest, perhaps a squad, or another captain. He wasn’t sure. But he had seen Yuno upon a glimpse, battling Lucius. He almost sure that he had seen Noelle too, which meant that the Bulls had returned. Perhaps that was why the angels seemed to have found something else of interest than the civilians, for the most part. Which allowed him to look around. Gaze around the area that surrounded him, rather than fire spells haphazardly at the enemy all around.

And what he saw, did anything but shed hope into him. If there had been much to begin with.

But the thing was, as a knight, he couldn’t give in; give up, turn his back on the sacrifices of his knights. He owed it to them. He owed it to the citizens of Clover. And, he felt that he owed it to his family. To stand his ground and be the man that he had tried to be, all his life.

He didn’t think himself to be afraid. Not anymore. He didn’t think himself to be angry, or sad... He didn’t know what he thought himself to be. If he was anything but a pawn in a game that seemed fixed. He knew that he had preached about the dangers of hesitating, freezing up; doing anything but steeling oneself.

He had learned that the hard way.

And yet, he found himself placing, again, his thumb over his wedding band, and thinking of her.

I wish... that we could have been together. This was our choice, and it was... the right ... choice. But still... I wish that... you’d be here.

However... as his mind formulated the thought, the words, the gentle, genuine confessions of his heart into a manifestation, he didn’t think the gilded string of fate, bound into ropes, to be listening. He didn’t remember the little spell, not in the pendant around his neck, but in the ring around his finger.  

The little spell where the door swings both ways.

And the magic, the first spark of mana was so faint that he almost missed it. Almost, but not quite.

It was just enough for his gaze to fall onto the small piece of precious metal, which now glowed a gilded, reddish glow, which reminded him of the leaf from The Tree, the rest of which was still in their room.

The glow was followed by a flash of light. Golden threads coiling around what looked like a small, tender, summer sun.

Perhaps, in another time, in another place, he would have thought it to be beautiful. Perhaps, but now, it chilled him right down to his very bone, because it meant something he didn’t wish to comprehend. Something he didn’t want to understand; believe.

He couldn’t believe it.

He didn’t want to believe it.

Never would he have thought that seeing her, would have equalled his worst nightmare. But now, as it did, all he could do, was stare at her. Eyes wide open, pupils constricted and locked onto her.

This… can’t be…

“Are you hurt?” She asked, as if that had been a reasonable question. The first thing she asked, as her eyes met his, her arm moving to her other, to do... something... but he didn’t register half of it. He could only think about the question.

As if it had been a reasonable question…

As if…

She was wearing an armour, and though it wasn’t… one that he could recall, it still… wasn’t enough. The thick plate around her stomach seemed only as a thin veil over what was more than a target to an enemy.

“Honey?” She asked, eyes full of worry, sorrow, but still with a soft fondness in them that was far too gentle for a place like this.

Place that was worse than the Underworld, worse than hell. Because even in hell are only those worthy of the punishment cast upon them. And here, it was mostly those … who were not.

“What… are you doing here…?” He could hear himself asking from her, through the haze and the deliria.

For a moment he had to consider that he had died, and this was but a fever dream. A horrid, twisted concoction of his mind during his final breath.

“I... was drawn to you,” she replied, looking at her ring. Yet another horrid statement.

Though… perhaps… in another life, another time, he would have deemed it soft and sweet, a promise fulfilled and so sacred that he couldn’t comprehend… But now, in its gentle caress lied thorns.

Oh how he wished they would have been mere thorns, instead of the soul carving, hollowing, burning, flooding sensation that sought to take over him.

A primal emotion. The primal emotion of fear, fluttered in him. But it came out as rage.

“What, are, you doing here?!” He shouted as his face twisted; teeth bared as if canines to ravage flesh. 

“I-, came to-”

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” He yelled again, jaw clenched and overtaken by a flood from within him.

“I… You...” she managed, before his right hand grabbed his left, fingers twisting onto his wedding ring.

“GET. OUT!” He yelled, slamming the ring, embedded with a leaf from the Tree of Binding Fate, onto the pavement of the Capitol. It clicked against the stones under them as the only sound she heard.

It might have been but a small, ringing sound of metal against stone, but the faint sound, was the loudest thing she could conceive.

And with it, she could feel her heart sinking in her chest. As if punched, her organs pushed all the way to her back.

As if a slap in the face.

And all she could do, was stare at that ring, as it rolled away from her.

But she didn’t want to see it go, so, she reached forward with a motion that was heavy; trembling. And cast Gravity of the Sun with minimal effort in hopes that it’d come back as tears rolled down her cheeks in the middle of the Capitol where she sat, alone, on the cold harsh ground.

No choice that she could have made, was good. But somehow, this, felt the worst one she could have taken out of the options provided. To sit there, unsure of what to do.

And… what made it worse, was the fact that she could feel the little ones kicking in her stomach.

They’re so feisty… she smiled to herself despite the tears. Just like their father…

[sxii-mafu]

Hi, can I request for Nilou x fem reader?

In the heart of Liyue, the bustling city of contracts and secrets, Y/N was known as a high-ranking member of the Fatui, holding the prestigious rank of No. 5. Her anemo vision gave her an edge in combat, but she seldom revealed the true extent of her power. A secret weighed heavily upon her, a forbidden knowledge she carried within her heart.

Contrary to her seemingly unassuming existence, Y/N was aware that she possessed a hidden strength far surpassing even the No. 1 Harbinger. This knowledge stemmed from an ancient pact she had made with none other than Zhongli, formerly known as Rex Lapis. Y/N's true purpose was to safeguard this secret, protecting the divine contract she had forged with Liyue's guardian deity and the heavenly principles.

Nilou, a Hydro vision holder from Sumeru, had arrived in Liyue with a purpose of her own, unaware of the tangled web of intrigue she was about to step into. She was a mysterious figure, her origins shrouded in mystery, and she had no inkling that she had crossed paths with a member of the enigmatic Fatui.

The other Harbingers were oblivious to Y/N's hidden strength until one fateful day. During a clandestine meeting at the Fatui headquarters, a palpable tension hung in the air as they gathered around the polished mahogany table. Tartaglia, Sandrone, Columbina, Arlecchino, Pierro, Pantalone, Il Dottore, Il Capitano, Sandrone, and Pulcinelle were all present. Their expressions were a mixture of intrigue and suspicion as they glanced at Y/N.

Her eyes, once vibrant and full of life, had transformed into pools of darkness, as if the very light within her had been extinguished. The Harbingers exchanged uneasy glances, feeling an unsettling presence in the room. Chains, invisible to the naked eye, bound Y/N as if she were trapped in a contract of her own making.

Tartaglia, the cunning and observant Harbinger, was the first to speak. "Something feels amiss here. Y/N, care to explain why you seem so… bound?"

Y/N's gaze remained distant, her lips forming a subtle, enigmatic smile. "Oh, Tartaglia, it's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? We all have our secrets, our contracts, and our bonds. Some are simply more visible than others."

The atmosphere grew heavier as the Harbingers exchanged knowing glances, realizing that they had just scratched the surface of Y/N's hidden truths. Unbeknownst to them, the threads of fate were weaving a complex tapestry, one that would challenge their allegiances, test their loyalties, and ultimately, bind their destinies together in a way none of them could have ever imagined.

As days turned into weeks, the tension within the Fatui ranks continued to mount. Y/N's presence had become a source of intrigue and unease among the Harbingers. Her interactions with Nilou, the unsuspecting Hydro vision holder from Sumeru, only deepened the mystery surrounding her.

Nilou had no inkling that Y/N was a member of the Fatui, nor did she suspect the enigmatic woman's connection to forbidden knowledge and the ancient pact with Zhongli. Their paths crossed in the most unexpected of places—a quaint teahouse tucked away in the winding streets of Liyue Harbor.

As Nilou sipped her tea, her gaze wandered, finally settling on Y/N, who sat across from her, her eyes veiled by an inscrutable mask. "You're not like anyone I've ever met in Liyue," Nilou remarked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Y/N chuckled softly, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "And you, Nilou, are a puzzle waiting to be unraveled."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Columbina, one of the Harbingers, who had been shadowing Y/N discreetly. "You two seem rather chummy, don't you?" Columbina's tone was laced with suspicion.

Y/N's smile remained unchanged, but her gaze turned sharp as she regarded the intruding Harbinger. "Columbina, always the vigilant one, aren't you? But some bonds transcend the boundaries of factions and allegiances."

The tension in the teahouse was palpable, and Nilou could sense the undercurrents of power and secrets that surrounded Y/N. She may not have known the full extent of Y/N's hidden strength or her ties to the Fatui, but she was drawn to her in a way she couldn't explain.

Little did Nilou know that their encounter marked the beginning of a journey that would lead them both down a treacherous path, one filled with deception, intrigue, and the unearthing of long-buried secrets. The web of fate was tightening, and as Y/N and Nilou navigated its intricacies, they would come to realize that their destinies were inexorably intertwined, bound by a bond that defied the conventions of their world.

[grayintogreen]

WIP Ask Game

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I was tagged by @critterfloozy

Okay so I've been on vacation all weekend and I'm trying to come back to writing and it is DIFFICULT, so I figure talking about writing helps.

Keep in mind that all I am currently working on is YCDHN and this will continue until at least May. I have other LitMoR stories I wanna write (they are included in here) and those will probably be the ones most likely to be worked on when YCDHN is over, but who knows? I might take a break and deal with some of these other fics.

This is by no means my entire wip folder. I have a HUGE document with hundreds of ideas. These are just the ones that I have either started or have enough plotted that I could feasibly talk about them.

They are also ALMOST all CR fic, because the majority of my followers are here for that. there are exceptions.

you can't deny high noon

seeking an original sin

by a spindle's bright end

the song is not the singer, child; the singer is the song

honey hides the taste of poison

full of poison, sweet as secrets

found a fate he didn't quite intend

a happy ever after left to sour and turn to dust

in the dark, where nothing grows

the path down to the water is all tangled up in debts

where the sky is small

where shadows leave their stain

let this darkness be rejected

the melting point of the soul

but dying isn't hard

a bridge and not a goal

the vengeance and the shame

wicked girls saving ourselves

filled with pretty poison that will set your soul to rot

and the absinthe and the wormwood are the lost years creeping in

you know that all the heroes are gone

the sky lights up with fire

these half-hidden lacerations won't be healed by incantations

a hand to guide them down the primrose path

no judges here, just wicked men

we build our homes on the water and then we wonder why the flood rolls in

they weave their wicked webs among the spindrift and the rot

there isn't a past, there's only the present flowing into the future

the flower in the shadow of the hanging tree

you can't keep the ghosts out (when you're the one who's the haunted house)

not your love to slaughter

and he gives me to my end

i am obviously not tagging 32 people. i think everyone i know has been tagged anyway. if you have not been tagged, GO FORTH.

[silentmagi]

Fanfic Title Summary: A Tangled Web of Red Thread

All Might x Inko x Hisashi

With two people, relationships are a fine woven web of feelings and communication, when a third person is added, the web is enough to ensnare even the most careful. However, sometimes that ensnarement is a comfortable blanket to keep them warm.

Shall we see what these three get weave with their red strings of fate?

The chaos compels.

If you want to write one of these, please just link me

[atlantispoems]

Love's Delicate Tango: Navigating the Twists and Turns 

In the realm of love, a delicate dance,  Where feelings collide in a mystic trance,  I found a guy, captivating and kind,  His presence in my heart, forever enshrined. 

Our story began when fate intertwined,  Each moment with him, a treasure to find,  We laughed and we shared, our souls intertwined,  A love blossoming, precious and refined. 

But alas, dear friends, life plays its game,  For in our midst, another heart lay claim,  A mutual friend, her affection ablaze,  With longing eyes, she too sought his embrace. 

Conflicted emotions, my heart felt a tug,  For friendship tested, with love to unplug,  The value of loyalty, a bond never to sever,  Yet love's sweet fragrance, I struggled to tether. 

Days turned to weeks, love's tangled web grew,  Caught in a battle, emotions askew,  Should I step aside, let fate take its course,  Or hold on to love, with fearless remorse? 

In quiet whispers, conversations unwind,  With our mutual friend, seeking solace to find,  As emotions entwined, we shared our heart's sway,  Together we pondered, how love would convey. 

But truth soon revealed, as shadows dispersed,  Friendship, respect, love's bonds were not cursed,  For love, you see, is a flame that's unique,  Its beauty multiplied when shared, not meek. 

So I stepped back, released my claim with grace,  Choosing true friendship, our bond to embrace,  For in the realm of love, a rare find we had,  A friendship worth more than a love gone bad. 

And so it goes, the story untold,  Of a guy I once dated, whose charm took hold,  But amidst the chaos, a friendship still thrives,  Love's intricate tapestry, forever weaves and strives. 

AtlantisPoems

This poem has a little bit of a story behind it, I wrote this poem because I fell in love. With a boy, a boy who is my ex, and who my best friend also is in love with, and they've known each other a lot longer than I have known either of them. And I decided to ignore my feelings and stay friends with my best friend instead of ruining it with liking a boy.

[qqueenofhades]

For the ask game: 23, 42 or 43?

23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?

Answered here!

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?

To be honest, I have received so many wonderful comments over a decade of fic-writing as an adult that it is impossible to pick just one. I have people tell me that they read a fic even though they weren't in the fandom since they like my writing so much, that they read anything I write, that my writing helped them through a hard time in their life, that they were grateful that I wrote TNR since they were 70 years old and didn't think they'd get to read the real end of ASOIAF (since George will never finish it), and more. I am deeply grateful for each and every comment, of course, especially those who leave absolute Novels of their feelings, but yes.

43. If you take/write prompts: what’s your favorite prompt fic that you’ve written?

Likewise, I have written so many that I can't necessarily pick. However, just to name a few, the Lighthouse AU, The Immortalists, Phantomverse, the tangled web of fate we weave, and probably some others I can't remember all turned into full-scale multi-chapters after first being popular as prompt fills/one shots.

[writing asks]

[timwritespoems]

In the Depths of Desolation: A Tale Unspoken

In the shadows of a desolate night,

A woman wanders, burdened by blight.

Within her womb, life stirs and grows,

But her heart's consumed by bitter throes.

She gazes upon a world so grim,

Its future tainted, prospects dim.

Her spirit tainted, consumed by hate,

She feels no love, only cruel fate.

A child unborn, unwanted and unknown,

In her depths, a sorrowful moan.

Her eyes, once filled with dreams and delight,

Now bear the weight of a starless night.

She whispers secrets to the wind's cruel breeze,

An unborn life tangled in her unease.

No love to give, no solace to share,

A choice made, shrouded in despair.

The heaviness within her soul expands,

As she relinquishes hope with trembling hands.

Her decision looms, a darkened crest,

A choice to spare the child, a bleak bequest.

Her heart, cold as stone, knows no reprieve,

As she weaves a web of grief and leave.

In this somber tale, darkness finds its kin,

As she surrenders her child to fate's cruel spin.

No glimmer of light shall grace this verse,

For the world she envisions, a haunting curse.

In silence she drifts, lost in the abyss,

A tragic tale sealed with one final kiss.

May empathy guide us, as this tale unwinds,

To embrace those lost in the darkest of minds.

For in understanding, perhaps we can find,

A glimmer of compassion, where hope's not confined.

[pridepages]

Tangled Web: The Atlas Paradox

I just finished The Atlas Paradox by Olivie Blake. I have some thoughts...

Here there be spoilers!

Poet Walter Scott was the first to write “Oh what a tangled web we weave / when first we practice to deceive.”

The residents of the Alexandrian Society manor house spent all of their first year together weaving their deceptions. Now, in Olivie Blake’s followup The Atlas Paradox, all six initiates must face the reckoning of their choices--and find themselves and their affections more deeply entangled than ever.

Many fantasy trilogies tend to suffer from sophomore slump. Often, the second book is the weakest of the lineup. Fair dues to Blake: Paradox is in many ways a stronger novel than The Atlas Six. Firstly, the world-building is much more clearly shaped. Why did our wizards have to murder one of their own to join this academic cult? Because, apparently, the library is a malevolent, sentient force that thirsts for blood. Better still, the disappearance of Libby Rhodes will not suffice. The archives are wise to such cheats. In fact, when Atlas Blakely’s class tried the same thing by disappearing Ezra Fowler, the archives took vengeance: each of the remaining members of the class were eventually killed except for Ezra (bouncing around the timeline) and Atlas (remaining to be fed upon by the murder books). Similarly, we watch as the remaining members of Atlas’s Six begin to fall apart in different ways: Nico sickens, Reina obsesses, Parisa sours, Tristan sulks, and Callum drinks. All of them are still being puppeteered by Atlas, who reveals that his Master Plan appears to be to use the collective gifts of the Six to find a door to a wider multiverse. Meanwhile, Libby has been stranded in 1989. To get home, she will be confronted with the ultimate moral choice and will face her own fall from grace.

Blake has described this book as the characters experiencing their quarter-life crisis. And it shows. Admittedly, it’s a bit aggravating to hear almost all of them repeatedly telling the reader about how life and the world are pointless because Alexandrians all have power and can effectively do nothing to change the world, their individual fates, or otherwise find happiness. But, much like the grating nobody-understands-me adolescent phase, it is a stage that any thinking young adult has to go through. And the characters are charismatic enough that you want to stick with them.

As in the first book, the Six find themselves navigating tangled relationships. Initial attractions are complicated by the choices that each has made and the ways they have hurt each other. The question posed to all of them is: Where do we go from here?

An early question answered (yay for being right!) was about Reina: “she never thought of anyone sexually.” So her arc is all about her friendships. “She developed a talent for isolation,” Reina reminds us early. But the problem with that is that she resents being overlooked. And although she can identify moments when she’s being unfair--expecting other people to reach out to her or praise her or admire her despite the hostile demeanor she radiates--she can never quite get over her own pride enough to try to reach out for the closeness she wants.

Meanwhile, we rejoin some of the couples facing the immediate consequences of their actions. Callum knows that Tristan tried to kill him at the suggestion of Libby Rhodes. Callum also knows that Tristan and Libby slept together. Therefore, Callum concludes, “This was who Tristan had chosen over Callum...He hoped it would pain Tristan for the rest of his life.” A vengeful Callum is perfectly in line with the person we know. Most of book one we were exposed to Callum’s vanity to the point where whether he was interested in other people beyond manipulating them was debatable. But here we see a softer, truly wounded Callum: “Tristan might have betrayed Callum, but he wasn’t the bad guy...This was just the world. You trusted people, you loved them, you offered them the dignity of your time and the intimacy of your thoughts and the frailty of your hope and they either accepted it and cared for it or they rejected it and destroyed it and in the end, none of it was up to you. This was just what you got. Heartbreak was inevitable. Disappointment assured.” 

And then there’s Tristan, who shows perhaps the most maturity out of any of the characters in this book when he finally says to Callum: “This--between us--it was real for me. You can pretend that it didn’t matter. That I was the one who wronged you. That you had no hand in how things happened. That I made a choice based on nothing, based on my own insecurities and flaws. But I am not such an idiot--I’m not so devoid of feeling to not be perfectly aware that you and I had something rare and difficult and fucking significant, and in the end it only broke because I broke it.” Unfortunately, it doesn’t make things right between them. Callum is still in deep pain and lashing out because of it. He cannot see that there is a way through the mess between them: forgiveness. But forgiveness takes courage, and more than just recognizing your flaws. It takes accountability for your own imperfections, taking responsibility for your actions both in the past and in the future. Tristan, by actually putting out there that he wronged Callum, was building a bridge that Callum has refused to cross. For all its failure, Tristan’s maturity in trying deserves a gold star.

Another way Tristan has changed is leaning into his affection for Libby. For most of the first book, Tristan was cold, reserved, apparently off-put by Libby’s earnestness and sensitivity. But secretly, he seems to have found it rather attractive. He sets Libby up in his mind as a kind of hero archetype, a contrast to how much he hates himself. But Parisa cautions him: “You like her because she’s innocent...because she’s moral. Because she’s good. Because she represents something to you that the rest of us no longer have, because we came here. And because we made choices. But she made a choice too, Tristan. She knew what the consequences were. Libby Rhodes is not your goodness, Tristan. She’s her own open flame.” Tristan is certainly in danger of idealizing Libby out of existence, fictionalizing her in his head--which is easy to do since she is absent from his life for most of the book. But, in the end, Tristan determines he’d “rather have whatever version of Libby she had become than face the prospect of having no Libby at all.” Whether he will be able to live with the reality of that choice will remain to be seen in the next installment.

Similarly, Parisa’s journey is one of identity. Parisa has been repeatedly accused of being unable to love. Parisa finally refutes this misconception: “Of course she loved...to her, sex and love and desire and affection were different things--some of which she needed or wanted, and some she firmly did not.” Parisa knows who she is. However, Parisa learns that book one paramour Dalton Ellery is not who she thought he was. She was previously aware that Dalton’s consciousness had been split. She now learns that Dalton split off a part of himself that he did not like--his ambition--in order to both make himself safer to handle his power in the world and because it would allow the archives to trust him with more information for his research. Parisa ultimately contributes to reuniting Dalton’s consciousness, but a ‘healed’ Dalton is a new Dalton: “She realized that without the entirety of himself--with no ambition, and indeed, no formulation of the future, which was a thing she thought they had in common until she realized that, actually, his version of a blank page was wildly different from hers--she had never seen the other intricacies of him. His dreams. His longings. His fears.” Their arc is particularly fascinating because it invites the discussion: would you change what you perceive to be your worst qualities? If you did, you would be a different person. If you were, would you still be right for the people who love you now as you are? Perhaps it is different when life changes who we are gradually, as it inevitably does. But neatly removing one element entirely does not make you a ‘better’ version of yourself. It just makes you different.

Speaking of differences: wow, Libby Rhodes! I admit, I had a pet theory about Libby Rhodes. Part of it arose from the kind of way she spoke about Ezra (like he was a box she was ticking off, like she was acting in ways a good girlfriend should, the way she seemed to easily resent and want to ditch him). I was just getting big closeted sapphic vibes off her. Then, of course, she had threesome with Tristan and Parisa in book one. This at least suggested queerness to me, but still felt unconfirmed...until we get this gem in Paradox: “I’m a time traveler from the future...who maybe kind of slept with one or two of my coworkers, whom I would also (maybe) like to sleep with again.” Them, plural, as in she was into Parisa. But, then again, who isn’t? Firmly orienting Libby with the sapphics is that she gets a crush on a fellow medeian academic during her sojourn into 1989: “a cautious kiss from Belen’s careful mouth, was riotous with sensation. The hint of pressure was like a spark to Libby’s imagination, igniting something dormant in her chest as a purr of satisfaction slipped from her parted lips into Belen’s smiling mouth.” Libby is at first her typical unsure self in this moment, feeling “the kind of weird that preceded a cliff’s edge, a sharp drop. A sip of absinthe and a first kiss.” A sip of absinthe. The drink she shared with Parisa before their tryst. Not to put to fine a point on it, “Libby reached for her...and heard the vestiges of Parisa’s voice in her head: Have what you want, Rhodes. Take it.” Big. Gay. Vibes. We love to see it. But it’s unclear whether Libby is meant to end up with Parisa, Tristan, or anyone else. All we know is that “All this time she’d been desperate for help, for someone else to reassure her, for some form of comfort, or anything that could make her feel she wasn’t alone--but she was alone.” Being cast out on her own forces Libby into a reckoning. Because, for her, companionship has always been about tacit acceptance or approval. Libby has needed to be constantly reassured of her own worth. But now she’s growing beyond that. “She was no longer desperate for the crutch of someone else’s faith. For the first time...she would not presume herself to be deficient. She would not doubt the power in her body. She would not question what was earned. She would do this, and she would do it alone.” If we’re heading toward a Libby who needs to forge a future standing completely alone, uncoupled to signify that she is finally emotionally self-sufficient, wouldn’t hate it. But it would be better if it were gay.

So, thank goodness for my absolute favorite arc in the novel. In book one, an obvious romantic connection to me from the beginning was Nico and his friend Gideon, the one who he claimed to come to the Society to help. The one who he does so much to protect. The one he worries about constantly. It could not be clearer as their interactions pile up in Paradox that it’s two-sided: these idiot boys are so in love. And just when you think they’re never going to do anything about it, Gideo takes the leap: “Relief, that no one had put a stop to that arrogant laugh...some madness in Gideon’s chest made up his mind for him. He leaned forward and caught Nico’s mouth with his in something of a punitive force, a captive blow. More of a gasp that anything else, really. Although technically, it was a kiss.”

Thank you, God. Finally. But these characters are unpredictable. Nico has shown attraction to women before (well, Parisa, but again--who hasn’t?) and maybe we were heading for another heartbreaking twist:

“Gideon felt Nico’s breath catch on his tongue, an audible hitch of surprise, and then Nico pulled away and Gideon thought no, no, no-- ‘Oh, so it’s like that?’ Nico said. His eyes were searching and bewilderingly, confusingly bright. In response Gideon felt unopened and raw, like he’d cracked his chest in two and presented the evidence for Nico’s evaluation... ‘Yeah, it’s like that.’ Nico’s smile broadened. ‘Good.’ Nico caught him by a fistful of his t-shirt, tugging him in again.”

Good. Just good. For so long they struggled with their words, struggled to articulate even to themselves what they are. But at last, they chose to take a risk: no more deceptions. No more tangled thoughts, fears, self-consciousness, or denial. Instead of deciding to stay caught in the web, they tore themselves free. 

I think we all have a tendency to overcomplicate our relationships. It’s easy to pull strands of negative thought. We tease out all the reasons that we can’t be happy with someone else: our sense of our inadequacies, our obligations, our histories, our resentments, our fear of risk--and we weave them into nets that keep us trapped. But we have the ability to make new and different choices. In the grand scheme of things, maybe choosing to pull ourselves out of our misery webs may seem like so much wasted or pointless effort. But if this life is all we get, and all we can control is ourselves, then maybe there is something worthy and heroic in setting ourselves free.

[wickedanddeadly]

Sonya Alexander Logan's Bio

" O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive! "

Sonya is the blood born daughter of the notorious vampire god known as Drake Alexander. Her mother was a very well-known witch who went by the name of Belladonna Alexander. At the time of Sonya’s birth Drake was being hunted down by the Catholic Priests so Drake and Belladonna had no choice but to hide Sonya away to ensure should Drake be captured Sonya would survive to carry on the Alexander bloodline. She was hidden away with a family Drake entrusted. As she aged, she was told that she had been adopted and that she was a special child – and when the time was right her parents would be coming back for her. Drake had also lined up extra protection for his daughter when he appointed the ruler of the dead as her guardian. Drake’s village was raided, and Belladonna was slaughtered. When he returned to find his dead wife, Drake sought revenge. He went on a rampage killing every Catholic Priest he could find.

Years later Drake returned to find his daughter only to learn that the people he had placed her with had been killed and his daughter had been kidnapped by Hades – the very man he appointed as her guardian. He had developed a sick and twisted fascination with her. Being bragged to the Underworld Hades swore to make her his bride one way or the other. She was filled with lies about how her adopted parents died - how it had been her actual father who took their lives and left her for dead. She was given powers beyond her belief to take her revenge in exchange for the promise to be his. She did his bidding, killing and slaughtering as he wished. It wasn’t until she met Peter that things began to change for her. The two became close, and she realized not all vampires were as Hades painted them to be. Her desire to break free from his clutches drove her to making a choice that forever changed her life. Peter allowed her to drink from his wrist, transforming her into a vampire. His blood triggering her natural vampire genes.

Soon thereafter Sonya happened across a dark and handsome vampire who stole her attention from the moment he stepped into town, no other than DJ X. The two quickly became an item, Sonya indulging herself in X’s party drugs, they slaughtered countless victims together. Sadly, at the time Sonya was to blind to realize this was the second man to come into her life that only wanted her at his side because of her abilities. She became hooked on his little magic drug, wreaking havoc on Santa Carla and the werewolves of the area. Zoe, Marie, Lucas and Colin had become the center of her attention. This went on for years until X’s party drugs seemed to not have the same effect on her. It was like she was becoming immune to his little concoctions. Soon thereafter X made the choice that his family ( The X Crew ) meant more to him than she did and they went their separate ways. Her entire world came crashing down around her feet.

Sonya went into seclusion. The heartache she felt was like nothing she’d ever known. Physically and mentally it broke her down in ways she never thought possible. She refused to speak to any of her family, including Peter. All she wanted was to wallow in her misery and pain. For many years she went on like this. It gave her time to think about the many terrible and tragic things she had done. The people she had hurt, all the pain she had caused. She believed this was her fate for all the unspeakable things she had done to the wolves and countless humans she slaughtered for nothing more than the cheap erotic pleasure of it all. Slowly she started pulling herself from her burnt down home and decided she was taking back control of her life.

It was then that she vowed that she would make right as many of the wrongs she had done. Lucas was the easiest to make amends with due to his strong connection with her father Drake. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that she could ever make up for the pain she had inflicted upon Marie and Zoe. The best way she knew to even attempt that was to watch over their children – to ensure no harm ever fell upon Luke or Tatum.

One day while in the woods close to Tatum’s home, she came across a man who stirred her attention. She had been there watching over Tatum and apparently so was he. Gunner was his name and slowly but surely the two became curious of one another. A relationship soon came to follow. Within that time, she learned Gunner was the blood father of the very wolves she had tortured for so many years. It wasn’t something he held over her head because over the many years he’d been watching from the darkness of the shadows. Her confession was something he knew all along. How unlikely were the odds that her soulmate would turn out to be a werewolf himself? After several years of struggles and battles Sonya and Gunner were married and now have a child on the way. ( This is due to a little magic on the side that renders her human until the child is born. ) Her witch abilities are still very well intact. Once the baby is born her vampire genes will once again trigger.

As of December 2021: Sonya is looking forward to personally tormenting her former lover, DJ X, after the lies, abuse, and hell he put her through over the years--though she reluctantly had to be convinced to allow another ex-lover, Hades, to help her see this come into fruition. Her maternal side has kicked into overdrive since her son's rapid growth spurt came into play big time. She was the first to learn about Peter's intentions of marrying Heather, and she was more than happy to help him get that underway.

Basic stats

Height: 5'8" Hair: Red & Black Eyes: Hazel

Powers and abilities

ImmortalPsionic Blast - to overload another’s mind causing pain, memory loss, lack of consciousness, vegetative state or death after having created a psionic link into that individual’s mind. Black MagicRegenerative Healing FactorTelepathyPrecognition ( Very Rarely Does This Happen )

Weaknesses

Having her heart removed from her chest Death will occur if her heart is destroyed Iron - the slightest contact will burn her skin, and prolonged exposure will weaken her dramatically to the point of not being able to use her magic. Iron effect both Goddess and Witch sides of her.

Relations

Gunner Logan ( Husband ) Judas Alexander Logan ( son ) Drake Alexander ( Birth Father ) Peter ( Blood Father ) Zoe Bryce ( stepdaughter ) Colin Mason Bryce ( stepson ) Zoey Dolan ( stepdaughter ) Marie Morningstar-Winchester ( stepdaughter ) Lucifer/Sam Winchester ( stepson ) Tatum Bryce ( granddaughter ) Leon Hawthorne ( future grandson-in-law ) Luke Mendoza ( grandson )

Face Claim: Starfucked

[concordeplotsmalur]

Malur's Concorde Chronicles: Uncovering the Hidden Plots

Step into the captivating world of Malur, where a web of hidden plots weaves through the city's streets. In this article, we delve into the Concorde Chronicles—an enthralling saga that unravels the secrets that lie beneath the surface. Join us as we embark on a journey to uncover the hidden plots that shape the destiny of Malur.

Peeling Back the Layers: As we dive deeper into the Concorde Plots Malur Chronicles, we peel back the layers of deception and intrigue. Through meticulous research and interviews with key figures, we shed light on the shadowy operations that unfold behind closed doors. Discover the true nature of these hidden plots and their far-reaching consequences.

The Enigmatic Figures: Within the Concorde Chronicles, a cast of enigmatic characters emerges, each playing a crucial role in the unfolding drama. We delve into their backgrounds, motivations, and alliances, unraveling the tangled web of relationships that drive the hidden plots. Explore the depths of their personas and the impact they have on Malur's fate.

Unraveling the Threads: Concorde Malur Bangalore we follow the breadcrumbs of clues that lead us closer to the heart of the hidden plots. We analyze cryptic documents, study coded messages, and connect the dots to reveal the intricate tapestry that binds them together. Prepare for a thrilling ride as we navigate through twisted turns and surprising revelations.

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Saturated

Author’s Note: Here it is, the long awaited one-shot that ended up a mini story in length. This wasn’t a planned idea, just something I went with and this is the result. I know this fandom is starting to shrink due to the show ending, but I hope those of you still here are having fun!

Masterlist

Summary/Pairing: Ivar x Reader In which Ivar thinks he’s found a daughter of the goddess Rán

Wordcount: 9642

Warnings:  Language, Angst, Smut NSFW

The night was warm and still when Ivar made his way down to the stretching shore. It was a difficult trek the older he became because he had to wade through the sand that seemed to double his weight and sap his strength. After all that effort, he was reminded why he put himself through such a trial when he came into the blessed solitude. When he was a boy he had found an old fishermen's dock that was no longer used, and it was a quiet place he could go without being bothered. Sometimes he would look out at the water and imagine all the lands that were waiting for him to bring them terror and glory. When he was feeling less ambitious after drinking with his brothers, he would lie back on the creaking boards of the dock and gaze at the stars and wonder if the gods were watching in forethought.

His mother told him it was the sea that would take him from her. Her eyes would grow empty yet full of sadness, and he could only watch without being able to comfort her. Ivar wanted to journey, and he assumed his mother's vision meant that either it was by ship or drowning that he would be taken. When one entered a longboat to go raiding, the chance of a storm crashing down was always a possibility, but it was a risk worth taking for honor and legacy. He loved his mother, more than anyone, but he could not stay in Kattegat forever. His fate was out there waiting, and he needed only to extend his hand to take it.

A sudden movement in the water broke his focus and he looked out over the dock to the rippling surface. His eyes adjusted, and he thought his mind had gone when he recognized the whites of a pair of eyes staring back at him. There was a person in the water, bobbing just to their nose above the surface. At first, Ivar reached forward with his hand. They must have been frozen to the bone in the frigid sea. Kattegat's waters never warmed, even in summer.

When he looked at his hand cast forward, he felt foolish. With his useless legs, he couldn't swim. His upper body strength might support him a moment or two, but then sink and be wrapped under in the weeds before he could take a breath. He withdrew his hand only to find the eyes were no longer where they should have been.

Ivar scooted closer to the edge of the dock, searching the black water for the face he thought he saw. He rubbed at his eyes. Perhaps he hadn't slept well enough, or maybe he had ingested something spoiled during the last meal. He chose to believe his senses were sharp. They had kept him alive this long, and while trying to match his brothers no less. His eyes did another sweep of the shore before he called out, "I know you're there. You should know you cannot hide from a son of Ragnar."

His legs that dangled over the pier were parted, and a figure came straight out from the water to rest its arms on his thighs. Ivar flushed when he saw the figure was womanly. A beautiful and terrifying face, with large silver eyes, peered up at him. He had mistaken you for a woman, but you were something more. The hair that tangled down to your waist dipped into the water, and below was not a pair of legs kicking. Black scales with a pearlescent shimmer. You were one of Rán's creatures, or perhaps a daughter to the goddess herself.

"Ragnarsson," You spoke, and he was struck dumb by your voice. "Few may hear the siren's song calling."

Ivar's eyes shot to your hand as it trailed up his leg. Your nails were long, and there was a transparent webbing between your fingers. What surprised him even more than your strange claws was how gentle your touch was. It was a caress barely felt through his trousers.

"Who are you?"

You smiled. "I am (Y/N)."

"I am Ivar."

"I know you," You replied, and your sweeping hand switched to cupping his cheek. "You have your father's eyes and spirit."

"You know Ragnar Lothbrok?" Ivar asked while leaning into your touch. Your hand was warm despite the brisk waters you waded in.

"I know many faces of your home. I like to watch and learn from your people. Your father was a gazer too, but his eyes were to the horizon. You search the stars and night sky."

When you began to pull away, Ivar grabbed your hand and brought it back to his face. "Do you know my brothers?"

"I have seen them, but my song does not reach their ears. You are unique."

Ivar simpered. He could hear what his brothers could not. While they were off in barns and clearings, playing under the skirts of thralls, he was alone in the quiet of the night with a goddess. The sea had chosen him, though youngest and deformed.

"Why have you sought me out?" He asked, desperate to have his hopes confirmed.

"I wish to talk with you, and learn more of your kind. But we must always meet under darkness, for many of your people would rather hurt me than trust me."

Ivar knew why. Fishermen told tales of beautiful women taking sailors to the water, down to the sea bed of Rán's hall, never again to surface. He did not think you had the malice to do such a thing to him.

"How do I know you'll return? Is this even real?"

He couldn't help the creeping doubt from springing forth, and you flashed him a look of pity before plucking the knife from his belt. That got his attention, and he lurched forward to reach for the thing, but you held no ill intent. Instead, you pulled your hair over your shoulder and cut free a length to give to him. It was softer than any wolf pelt, and he clutched it tight to his chest.

"Giving a lock of hair to another can be one's undoing, so believe that I will return or curse me should I ever be treacherous," You said, and you slid his knife back into place before dragging your hand down his thigh. His cock gave a twitch, and your grin told him you knew. "Farewell Ivar."

You slipped back into the water like a needle through silk, and he was only able to catch a glimpse of your tail before you disappeared into the deep.

ooOOoo

Ivar went back to the dilapidated dock every night, and true to your word you would be there waiting in the water. You only approached once he took his place at the end of the pier, and Ivar would keep his legs apart so you would come rest between them. As you spoke of things unimportant, he would weave his hand with yours, playing with your fingers and the thin membrane of webbing. You would return the affections with little pets of your own, and you always left a kiss to the corner of his mouth before parting.

The lock of hair you had given to him was always with him. He had braided it together into a bracelet that he wore everywhere on his wrist. If his brothers thought anything about it, they never voiced such concerns. Ivar presumed they figured he had found his own thrall to be with, and as distracted as they were with Margrethe, they didn't dig further into his affair. His mother had noticed the thing as well, and always she would give it a long stare. Ivar always anticipated her to ask, but she avoided mentioning it as if it were a matter too delicate to speak of.

Ivar wished he could bring you to meet his family if only to brag to his brothers that you had chosen him. But he knew that could never happen. They would fear that you were a deceiver after his life, and his mother would have you killed to keep him safe. She probably would never let him near water again.

"Ivar," You called, clasping both hands on either side of his face. "Your mind is elsewhere tonight."

"Sorry," He said, looking away momentarily. "I just was thinking what it would be like to live our lives together."

"Come with me to the water," You suggested, and you gave a small tug on his arm that scooted him closer to the edge. He almost let you drag him in before he grew hesitant and pushed back.

"I can't swim like this," He said, scowling at you and then his legs.

"I will keep you safe." Ivar searched your face for any deception, but he only saw your smile. "You don't trust me?"

"I do," He said quickly. "But I…"

You heaved yourself upwards on the dock until it was just the tip of your tail whipping strokes in the water. Ivar caught your bare torso against his chest, and he flushed as your breasts pressed up against him. You were practically sharing the same air, noses brushing together as you steadied yourself in his arms. Your eyes met and you breathed a laugh that eased his previous concerns.

"We won't go far. I just want to show you that your legs aren't the burden you think they are."

You weren't pleading, and Ivar was intrigued by your suggestion. He gave you a short nod, and that was all it took for you to wrap your arms around him and haul him down into the depths. Your strength was surprising, but the admiration was banished from his mind the moment the cold water soaked straight through to his blood. He thrashed his arms, grabbing for purchase at imaginary aids that weren't there. When he tried to let out a shout, he swallowed saltwater. The sea was going to take him, just as his mother feared.

No. You were there, and you had never left. Like a spark to wood, Ivar was enveloped in a new warmth, and he floated to the surface with your arms around him. He took his first breath of air, but his throat was raw and he sputtered and choked. Your lips closed over his while he continued to cough, and it was as if you pulled all of the water out from his lungs. He didn't know if it was a real kiss, but he wore a shy grin as you pulled away.

"Breathe," You instructed. "Breathe, and look up at the stars you love."

Ivar first looked back at the shore and realized you had kept your promise. You had only taken him out far enough so his feet wouldn't brush the sandy floor. He then craned his neck up to the sky and found the familiar sight of his stars. They were the same out in the water as they were on land, a comforting thought for when he would one day sail away from home. The sky would always be there.

"Lie back and let the water hold you," You whispered in his ear from behind.

Ivar didn't know when you had maneuvered around to his back, but he continued to put his faith in you as you guided him down gently into the water. He was lying face up with his body floating across the surface weightless and free. You joined beside him, and together you shared in the silent night, bathed in the moonlight with the motion of the sea carrying your bodies. Ivar forgot for a moment about his broken legs. Drifting there beside you, he felt whole.

"You didn't answer me before," He spoke up, and you watched him with curiosity. "About us living our lives together. Is it possible?"

"There are those of my people who have given up the sea's blessing to live on land. Some may even live among your kind, though I doubt you would recognize them."

"How did they do it?" Ivar was sure even the dumbest farmer in Kattegat would have noticed a child of Rán flopping about.

"When my people choose to live a life as a land dweller, they simply have to go ashore. The blessing of the sea will fade, and in place will be a soft and weak human body, " You explained, and you turned your eyes away from him. "But the sea is vengeful and she hates those who leave her waters. Once the blessing fades, we can never return to her currents, or else we would be reduced to nothing more than foam that settles into tide pools."

If you were to be together you would have to give up everything you knew to be with him. Ivar wanted to ask this of you, but he was afraid of your answer. Being a prince as well as his mother's favored son meant he never had to work for anything. What he wanted he got, and always in plenty. If you refused him, he feared the rejection and what his reaction could be. He wasn't beyond forcing you out from the water onto dry land if it meant keeping you for himself. Better to not ask now. It was too early to demand so much from you.

He heard you shift in the water, and you were at his side again while supporting his back with your strong hands. "You don't want to ask me?"

Ivar shook his head. "Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

"I know you will soon, Ivar. It's in your eyes, they darken with hunger."

"What would you say if I did?"

He let out a shiver as you righted him back into your arms, holding him in your embrace that let him know you were in control. "I would say that you could also give up your life to be with me. Right now, I could take you down there, and you would never again have to worry about dragging yourself upon the land."

The idea of never having to crawl again was tantalizing, something he had always wished for, and yet...even if he was with you, he knew he wouldn't forget all that he would leave behind. He wanted to show his people he could lead and conquer better than any man, even without working legs.

"I couldn't," He murmured.

"Then it is good I did not ask, and nor will you ask it of me. We will take comfort in the joy we have now, and forget everything else."

You met his eyes with your own. Silver, just like the treasures that were brought back over from raids. Ivar refused to fluster under your gaze, even though your peering felt like a piercing dagger. He wanted to appear self-assured, and not as some young lad who needed you to hold him. He pulled you close and planted a clumsy but heartfelt kiss. Your lips were cold but your mouth was warm, and he tried to keep up with your feverish pace as you devoured everything from the kiss.

When you clapped your hands on his cheeks, Ivar could feel himself trembling, and he knew it wasn't because of the kiss. Your mouth left him, and he tried to find your lips again. You placed a finger to his mouth to stop him and gave him a shake of your head. "You are like ice. I've kept you here too long."

"Not long enough," He retorted before sneaking another kiss on you.

You laughed while gently prying him back. "You have your father's confidence."

"Good, maybe you can find out what else of his I have." He gave you his best wolfish grin.

"We'll have our time," You promised, and you secured an arm around him before starting to swim back to shore.

The water seemed to grow colder as you glided through it and by the time you made it back to the pier, Ivar couldn't control his shivering. You urged him up onto the dock, and your concern had made you grow quiet. Ivar didn't mind that you fretted over his well-being, but he missed your smile.

"How will you make it back home?" You asked while looking over him to where the edge of the town was barely visible through the treeline. It was a long way off.

"I've travelled further," Ivar excused, though he had his trepidations. His damp clothes were sticking to him, and his hair felt like grass after the thawing in spring. The cold made his muscles tighten, and he wasn't looking forward to pawing at the ground with stiff hands.

"Go now, while you have the moon's light to guide you."

"When can I see you again?" It was becoming more difficult each time he had to leave you, and his thoughts revolved around when you could be together.

"I'll come back until I feel you no longer wish to see me." You reached your hand out to him, and Ivar took it, bringing it to his chest.

"That will never happen."

What he was saying must have been madness. Maybe you were Rán's daughter, and you had him under a spell. If you did, he didn't care. He would gladly stay under your enchantment. It was a warmth all his own, and a happiness he didn't have to share or contend with his brothers over.

"Goodnight my love." You placed your lips once more on his hand before returning to the sea.

Ivar did not watch after you as he usually would. It was a luxury he couldn't afford. The desperation to get inside by a fire drove him to turn towards home, and he struggled through the terrain as fast as his dragging would get him. He only passed by drunks and stragglers that did not give him a second glance upon realizing who he was. Ragnar's youngest son, the cripple. No one important.  

He huffed his way up the stairs of the Great Hall, nudging on the doors with his shoulder until they parted. A low fire was burning in the pit, and his mother was asleep on her throne. She was still all done up from the last meal, and he realized she must have waited up for his return. His guilt propelled him forward, and he went towards her instead of his room. Careful not to wake her, he collapsed on the furs at her feet where sleep found him quickly.

Ivar didn't know how long he had been asleep, but he was startled awake by screaming. It took him a moment to realize it was his voice shouting, and he had jack-knifed into a seated position, clutching at his lower right leg. He knew he had broken a bone, and his mother, who was alert at his side, knew it as well. She called for two able-bodied guards to take him back to his room, out of sight of the thralls who had now gathered. None of his brothers were about, and he was relieved to be spared the humiliation. The weakness of his body during moments like this was only for his mother and the healers.

He was placed down onto the fur-covered palette in his room with one of the guards already off to fetch a healer. His mother was already trying to soothe his agony with her words, and as she brushed the hair on his forward she grew a frown.

"You're burning up," She said, feeling his forehead and then his chest. And your clothes are damp."

He swatted softly at her hand, frustrated with her observations but with never enough ire to cause her any harm. "Go away."

"Ivar, where do you go? All of these nights you leave my sight and no one knows anything about it." She plucked at the bracelet of your hair on his wrist before he jerked it out of her reach. "Who is this woman you see?"

"Get out, please," He begged. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, and he didn't know if it was from the fever or the pain in his legs.

He was spared any further argument from her when the healer entered with three other thralls to assist. With soft voices, they were able to make her leave, at least until they finished addressing his fracture. Ivar would have felt awful at banishing his mother from his side if he could summon any other thought that wasn't about the hurt he was feeling.

The trek back through Kattegat had proved to be too much, but he didn't regret the night spent with you. In the water under the stars, and in your arms sharing kisses was where he wanted to be. He kept those thoughts in mind as the healer got to work on setting his leg in place, slathering it in a warming salve before wrapping it tightly in bandages.

"My Prince, you will need to stay in bed for the next few days to give the bone time to mend."

He gazed up at the rafters of the ceiling with contempt. How was he supposed to stay put knowing you were out there waiting for him? He couldn’t let the time pass and risk losing you, but he would need help.

"Go and bring me Ubbe," He instructed one of the thralls who shuffled out of the room at his request.

The healer continued to try and force some foul brew down his throat that he cursed her for at every turn of his head. Ivar knew he was notorious for being difficult to treat, but this healer had stuck through the bad times at his side. He admired her tenacity. If the situation was reversed, he would have given up on himself a long time ago.

After he had taken a large enough dose of the revolting stuff, he was left alone. The medicine made his head foggy, and he drifted in and out of consciousness while waiting for Ubbe to arrive. His eldest brother was best suited for the task in mind because he was soft when it came to Ivar's condition. Hvitserk didn't care about his legs either way, and Sigurd made a point to disparage him at every turn so he was definitely out of the running. Ivar guessed they had to all be out to the hunter's cabin. Following the commotion he had caused in the morning, one of them would have heard about it by now if they had been in town. It was nothing new really. He was used to being left behind.

Just as he was about to slip into another fitful bout of sleep, his door was forced open and in came his brother. He looked out of breath from running at least half of the distance back. Poor, gullible Ubbe.

"What happened?"

"The usual," Ivar started to explain as he forced himself to sit up. "Another broken bone."

"Mother says you also have a fever," Ubbe retorted as he took a seat at the end of the palette.

Ivar groaned. He hadn't estimated that his mother would be playing watchdog. "She got to you already?"

"She's worried about you."

"What else is new? She always worries about me," He grunted out as his leg twitched in pain.

"It's not just her this time. We all are concerned. You disappear at late hours and you're always tired. Even Hvitserk has noticed, and haven't you realized that Sigurd no longer says anything to you? For him, that's practically a defeat."

Come to think of it, Ivar couldn't recall the last verbal sparring match he'd shared with his third brother. Had his time with you sapped him of his usual energy?

"I need your help with something."

"Alright," Ubbe agreed with a nod of his head. "What is it?"

"When night falls, I need you to go down to the water. There's an abandoned dock if you follow the shoreline westward. Wait there and call for (Y/N), and tell her what has happened to me."

"Is she the woman who gave you that?" Ubbe asked while indicating to the bracelet on his wrist."

Ivar nodded as he began to twirl the thing around. It meant more to him than an arm ring. It was proof you had chosen him. "She's a daughter of Rán."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see for yourself when you meet her." He smiled something Ubbe couldn't understand.

"Feel better, brother," Ubbe said softly as he made his exit from the room.

Ivar could feel the headiness of the brew still working, as he was pulled into visions of you. Together you danced under the moonlight. He could recall the feeling of working legs even though he'd never had a pair before. You glided with him in his arms, but Ivar could not see if it was feet you stood upon or you had somehow managed to balance on the tip of your tail. The strangeness made him privy to the knowledge it was just a dream, but he allowed himself to be carried away in fantasy regardless.

Sometimes his mother would pop inside to have a check on him. Her long hands caressing his forehead and pushing back his hair made him feel like a boy again. The worry on her face had settled now that he was no longer writhing in pain. They only shared in a handful of words while the healer continued to tend to him. It was their special connection, a bond she did not have with his brothers.

When night came and darkness fell, Ivar sat himself up against the wall and waited for Ubbe to return with word of you. It was the first time in a long line of sneaking away that he didn't escape to go find you. A strange emptiness filled him at the thought, and he rubbed at his eyes to combat the sleep that threatened to take him. He couldn’t miss the update about you because he had fallen asleep.

A thin stream of silver light poked through a cut out in the roof of his room, and he imagined you in the water beneath the stars. He wondered what your reaction would be to learning of his injury. Concern he hoped, and not pity or regret for the night they had shared.

As Ivar's thoughts began to spiral out, he was relieved from further gloom when the door opened. Ubbe had returned, and he had on a perplexed frown that furrowed his brow.

"Well, did you speak with her?" Were the first words out of Ivar's mouth.

Ubbe shut the door behind him before coming further into the room. "I called for (Y/N) and waited on that pier, but no one ever came, Ivar."

He took a moment to juggle that information in his head while Ubbe looked on with worry. You never showed. Had something happened to you? Perhaps you were riddled with guilt about taking him in the water or you had seen Ubbe from a distance but did not approach. That had to be it. His brother was a stranger who did not hear your song as he had.

"I have to go there."

Ivar threw the furs off and started to twist to the side. His broken leg protested the rapid movement, and he grunted through his struggle. Ubbe was already at his side pushing him back. He latched onto his brother's arm and tried to shove him off, but even his upper strength had waned and he ended up flopping back down like a lifeless fish.

"You can't leave this room like that," Ubbe scolded. He took a seat down beside him, preventing him from trying something foolish again. "You'll end up losing that leg entirely."

"What's that matter? I'd be no worse off than I am right down."

Ubbe sighed. "I understand you care about this (Y/N), but I don't believe she would want to see you harm yourself this way."

Ivar knew you wouldn't. That's why he had to see you again and be surrounded by your love. "You could take me there."

"We'd never make it past the throne. Mother has seen fit to have eyes on who comes and leaves your room. I think she is looking for the woman to blame."

"(Y/N) won't come here," Ivar said and he could see the confusion on Ubbe's face, but he didn't elaborate. "I've probably lost her forever now."

"If she truly cares for you, she'll still be there," Ubbe argued, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "When you are well enough, I promise I'll help you back to the dock."

Ivar knew from past experiences that it would take many moons before he'd be fully healed. His eyes closed as angry tears threatened to fall. Why had the gods cursed him with these horrible limbs? The faults of his parents should not have fallen onto him. It was a cruel fate.

When he didn't continue to speak, Ubbe must have assumed he had fallen back asleep. He crept back to the door and exited the room as softly as a mouse scuttles through the kitchen.

Once he was alone, Ivar opened his eyes and took off the bracelet from around his wrist. He held it close to his lips, feeling the silk strands as he kissed the braided band. Maybe you could sense him reaching out. He decided to keep it enclosed in his hand and across his heart. If you were calling out, he would feel you in his sleep.

ooOOoo

In the many days that went by, Ivar became more frustrated with his leg. His broken bone was mending, but not fast enough that he was allowed out of the great hall. The slow progress had him taking out his anger on everyone, and they must have felt as trapped in with him as he was feeling about being locked up.

After a brief appearance to sit down to a meal with their mother, he had not seen his brothers again. This time he could admit he was to blame, and that they made the smart decision to cut and run back to the cabin. He had made the meal as uncomfortable as he could manage out of some need for vengeance. While they were free to run about Kattegat with their thralls, he was stuck in bed with wrinkled healers painting noxious salves on his body. He couldn’t be with you, so he chose to be spiteful.

Even his mother began to show signs of being fed up with him. Her smiles were now close-lipped, and she would linger by the door when she visited to make a hasty exit. He had yelled at her only once, and it had to do with her wanting to leave him just like everyone else. Ivar knew that wasn't true, and the moment she let out an anguished sob he had apologized.

Rather than continue to hurt those around him, he knew what he had to do. His leg was well enough that he could crawl again, and if he secured it tightly in his leather bindings it should protect the bone from any trauma as he moved. He had to get down to the pier himself and find you again. The call from the sea had him more desperate for water than a man dying of thirst. No thrall or guard would dare refuse him, and even his mother would not be able to stop him from going. He was doing this for her as well, even if she wouldn't see it that way. After causing her tears, he wouldn't be the reason for any more of her sorrow.

He needed the light to travel, so he began the trek from his room when the sun had only just begun to kiss the horizon. Much of the activity in the great hall had died down once the last meal had been served, and many of the thralls had already gone off to the barn. His mother was not on her throne. Ivar smirked at his good fortune and made for the doors as fast as he was able. Once he had them nudged shut behind him, he began his descent down the stairs. It was the most difficult part of the journey, guiding his body down feet first so his leg wouldn't bounce on every step down.

By the time he had cleared the treeline, the sun had set further and shadows were popping up in every corner. Ivar was more winded than he would normally be due to being bedridden, and he was mindful that he would have to work on building back the strength he had lost. But none of that mattered now. The dock was in sight. He had made it. He went together well with the solitude of the place, and when he sat perched on the end the creaking boards welcomed him home.

"(Y/N)," Ivar called out while searching for any ripple in the water. The surface remained still as glass, and he frowned while giving your name another shout.

Perhaps it was still too young in the day. He waited for the complete pitch of night to hit while letting his mind run wild with all the things he wanted to tell you about. It would be like a reunion of two lovers, and he couldn't fathom how one could be separated from their woman while gone on raids. Of course, his mother and father detested one another's presence, so it must have come as a balm to be away from one another.

The clouds parted from the moon, and one by one the stars surfaced in the sky. He called for you again, then held his breath to listen for any break in the water. Instead, he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him, and over his shoulder, he saw Ubbe approaching.

"I figured you would try coming back soon," Ubbe said once he stood at his side. "How's the leg?"

"Stiff," He replied tersely. "What do you want?"

Ubbe took an uninvited seat beside him which caused Ivar to shift over. There wasn't nearly enough room at the edge of the dock for both of them, and the wood groaned with the added weight.

"I never told you, but I've been coming back here every night after you sent me to search for (Y/N)."

Ivar frowned. "Why?"

"Because I saw how important it was to you to get that message to her, and I wanted to help. I might not be able to take away your pain, but I will still be your legs where I can."

Ivar looked at his lap as the heat built up in his face. He never knew how to take to his eldest brother's kindness. None of the rest of them had it, but from Bjorn's mouth, it was said that he inherited it from Ragnar.

"She never came back, did she?"

Ubbe shook his head. "She must only come for you."

"I don't think so," Ivar said as he looked out at the water. "It's been too long, and I've missed my chance. I don't think she'll come back."

"If she cares for you as you do her, I'm certain she'll be back."

Ubbe's words floated off him as he gazed down at the black water. He was struck with an irrational idea to force your hand if you were near. Before his brother could react, Ivar threw himself off the dock and into the water. It wasn't deep this close to shore, but it was enough that he began to sink. Ubbe was quick to follow, and Ivar tried in vain to bat away his saving hands. He was so desperate to have you come back that he would risk drowning. What a fool.

"Idiot," Ubbe cursed as he dragged them both up onto the sand. "What were you trying to do?"

Ivar turned his head away as he coughed up water. He felt embarrassed by what he'd just done and angry that it didn't earn him anything more than soaked clothes. "You wouldn't understand."

"I don't understand, and you won't help me to," Ubbe said, and his tone lightened from annoyance to mild irritation. "I need my little brother back. The one who's smarter than me at every turn, and doesn't make me fish him out of the sea."

Ivar started to laugh. It began in a quiet snicker and grew deep from his belly until Ubbe joined him. Neither of them knew what the humor was in the situation, but Ivar felt it was better to give in to the urge. He wanted to forget you weren't there, and giggling like a child with his brother in the sand was a good way to accomplish that.

"Should we head back?"

Ivar gave his leg a tug with his hand. "The bandage has soaked through and is starting to fall off. Guess I'd better have it looked at."

Ubbe crouched down beside him and indicated for him to climb up on his back. "C'mon, it'll be faster."

For once Ivar didn't argue. He couldn’t benefit from another disagreement, and he didn't want to be in wet clothes longer than he had to. Ubbe or Floki were the two he trusted most to support him. Hvitserk had dropped him one time, and he refused to let that happen twice. Sigurd never offered.

Once he was secured up to Ubbe's height, they started back home. He chanced one last look over his shoulder for as long as the water was in sight, clinging to the idea that you would spring up from the depths. The only movement out there came from the wind and the tide.

Neither brother spoke another word, but Ivar suspected Ubbe knew he had taken that last glance. How could he not? He wasn't ready to give up on you or accept the idea that you had abandoned him. Thoughts of you being in harm came to him, and he to banish those away because of the helpless feeling they gave him. You were a daughter of Rán, and the sea couldn't hurt you. Repeating it enough times had to make it true. As they journeyed through the night back to Kattegat, Ivar clung to the hope of seeing you again, and his thoughts warmed him up and dulled the pain until he found rest.

ooOOoo

Time passed by for Ivar and the pain in his legs dulled back into its usual ache. With his bone mended he could return to training with his brothers, and hunting up by the cabin. While his physical injury may have healed, it was not so for the throbbing in his heart. He had gone for sparse visits to the abandoned dock again, with each ending in the same sorrow until he had decided to give up going back. What's more, your bracelet that he had never let out of reach had vanished one day. Perhaps you had never been real, and he had dreamed you up.

What more could the gods take from him? First, it was his legs, then his father, and recently he was drifting from his brothers due to their infatuation with Margrethe. It was his mother he looked to as his constant, but she had grown distracted by visions. It was now common practice for her to disappear to her room after the last meal, when not so long ago she would be the last to leave with a chalice of wine. All of this left Ivar alone, and his thoughts had become unbearable. He needed something to dull the noise, a distraction.

More than anything Ivar longed to keep up with his brothers, and that's when he decided he wanted to fuck a woman. He approached Ubbe with the request to convince Margrethe. She had a pleasant face, and she didn't resemble you. If she had taken three of the other sons of Ragnar, he should be no different. Ubbe appeared torn when he first asked but did agree, and Margrethe was hardly in a position to refuse.

Now that the moment was approaching, and he was being brought over to the cabin by boat, he wondered if he would be the one to refuse. From what he'd always seen, men loved to hump a beautiful woman. It's what led to his parents' affair and marriage. So what was wrong with him that as he grew closer to the destination he felt ill? Ubbe certainly wasn't sharing the sentiment. He wore a dumb grin and was humming an old song to himself.

"You're happy I'm about to lay with your woman?" Ivar asked.

Ubbe laughed. "Margrethe isn't my woman, she's still a thrall. But I am happy because this is a good day for you, brother."

The day is still young, Ivar thought with a bitterness that was ingrained in his bones. Was sex such a powerful thing that it would shift who he became? Other than to have children, Ivar never dwelled on the matter. He'd never had a lover, and the closest he had come to obtain such a relationship was with you.

The boated jilted back and forth as it hit shallow water. Ubbe tied off by a tree before coming to fetch him. He was to be carried by his brother to his first tryst with a woman. Not nearly as humiliating as crawling he supposed, but the difference was negligible.

As they passed through the threshold of the abandoned cabin, Ivar stole a look around the place. It smelt like fire and driftwood, and there was a bed that had been piled thick with furs. The flame burning in the hearth let him know that Margrethe was already there.

Ubbe deposited him down on the bed and turned to get a look at him. "I'll leave now so you can be ready for her. Relax and enjoy yourself."

Ivar swallowed. That was easy for any of his brothers, they all had working parts. A handful of times he had felt his prick twitch and stiffen, but it was never a long event and he had never dared to try to take himself in hand. It was silly, but he was afraid of his cock.

He began to disrobe with haste, not wanting Margrethe to walk in on him without his trousers and his legs exposed. Once he was free of his garments he threw the heavy furs over himself and clutched them at his waist. All he could hear was his heart pounding, and he kept his chin tucked into his chest, straining to listen for the woman in the cabin.

She came to him from behind in light, cautious steps. Perhaps she was nervous, or his trepidations had seeped into the air and spoiled the mood. Ivar resisted the urge to peek until she stood at the side of the bed. When he glanced up he saw that she wore a fisherman's net as a veil. Her features were distorted, but he could make out the subtle difference that alluded to her being anyone other than Margrethe.

"(Y/N)?" He whispered and hoped.

You lifted back the thin mesh from your face, and you put on a dazzling smile. Ivar had never seen a better sight, not the first sacrifice of spring or the storms of Thor could hold a candle up to you. You donned a crisp white gown that was cinched at the waist with a strap of brown leather, and your hair was a wild tangle of waves. He had never seen you without your sodden tresses.

You took your first step to come closer, but you lost your balance and fell onto the bed in his awaiting arms. This was where you belonged.

"Shit," You cursed, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. "I was supposed to be beautiful and graceful, but these legs are too light. If I run fast enough, I'm sure I could soar like a bird."

"You have legs?" Ivar exclaimed while pulling you onto the bed beside him with all of the strength he could summon. "Let me see."

You swung your legs across his lap, careful not to rest any weight on his thighs. He hitched the skirt of your dress up to your thighs, exposing the new flesh. His hands didn't know where to touch first. This must be the work of the gods. In place of your magnificent tail were two gorgeous limbs that he was happy to smooth his hands over. You wiggled your toes, content to observe Ivar as he studied you.

"How is this possible?"

"I told you my people can choose to abandon the sea. Now I'm a soft creature like you," You said while giving his arm a playful squeeze.

He caught your hands before you could pull away and placed a kiss on each of them. They no longer had the webbing or claws, but there was a strength to them that he could feel under your touch. "Where did you go? I tried so many times to find you, and I even sent my brother."

"You had your life up here, and I had mine below," You said as your eyes grew vacant. "When I did return to the surface, I could no longer find you. All of these things left unsaid caused us to miss each other."

"Then why are you here now, like this?"

You reached for his wrist, finding it bare. Ivar knew what you searched for. "You no longer have my precious gift. Did you think I turned treacherous?"

"I misplaced it. I would never have thrown it away, even if I thought you'd left me."

"I know," You said as you ran a hand down his bare chest and over his heart. "You were in more pain than I understood that night. The blue in your eyes."

Ivar tensed. "How did you learn about that?"

"Your mother told me."

"My mother…" Ivar knew his mouth was hanging open in question, and he snapped it shut to regain composure.

"She found your bracelet. It was her voice I could hear beckoning me to the land. She must be a powerful woman to do such a thing."

You didn't have any animosity in your voice, but Ivar couldn't help but feel angry for you. His mother had taken your life from the sea by force. He had considered the heinous deed himself for a time, but he would have never risked your resentment. What if that came to pass now that the unthinkable had happened?

Ivar couldn't keep himself from looking at you now. He wouldn't let you go a second time. "She said the sea will take me. Perhaps you are meant to stop that from happening."

"Or maybe I am the sea," You said, shifting your hips as you hovered over his lap. With a firm shove you had him down flat on the furs, and he nearly lost his air as your thighs squeezed at his waist. "Come to take you myself because I couldn't stand the thought of that Margrethe touching you."

And then Ivar realized...Ubbe had known he was taking him to you. You had been on land long enough to learn to walk and find out about his pathetic setup with the thrall. His face flushed and he turned his head to the side before feeling your fingers grasp his chin. You tilted his face back around, and he saw only tenderness.

"I know the weariness from being alone. My heart has been there as well."

"You'll stay?" Ivar knew he sounded a touch petulant, but he did not want to suffer another morning with you vanishing.

"Until the gods bring you home and the sea turns me to froth, I will remain by your side, Ivar Ragnarsson."

He didn't know who's lips touched first, but when your mouths connected, it was like being awash on the deck of a ship. You were a cool drink of water with the tang of salt, and Ivar threaded his hands through your hair. The more his hold tightened, the more it pulled him in like reeds in a marsh.

You withdrew slowly, and you held his gaze, even when he wanted to look away from the thrill of what you'd just done. With careful hands, you shed the veil from your head, and then the dress, all collecting into one pile on the floor with his garments. You were naked before him. All of your scales were gone in place of smooth flesh and pleasing curves. Ivar knew he was gaping at your breasts, how they rose and fell with each rapid breath you took. As you gave a coy grin, you peeled back one corner of the furs and slithered your way in beside him. You pressed up against his side, and his body went taut as you tangled your legs with his.

"Is this alright?" You asked while your toes brushed up and down his shin.

"Yes," He said as a puff of air escaped him.

It was stifling hot under the covers, and your hand seemed to sear his flesh as you dragged it up to his thigh. Your fingers just teased next to cock before brushing up his abdomen. Ivar shifted, his hand reaching yours to halt your motions.

Your eyes flashed to his, and you smiled with patience. "Tell me what you want."

"I…" He paused, unable to form the words, and he could feel himself losing his nerve. With a tighter grasp, he took control of your hand and brought it back down to his half-hard prick. "I just want you."

"You have me," You murmured back as your hand began to fondle his shaft. He continued to grow in your hand, and Ivar let his eyes roll back at the feeling of you working him. His cock had never been so stiff, and his free hand clutched at the furs as he tried to recognize everything he was feeling. Fluid was beginning to bead out at his tip, and he struggled to push you back.

"S-stop," He sputtered.

You pulled back with a shy expression, and you were breathing just as hard as he was. You enjoyed what you could do to him. "Are you alright?"

Ivar bobbed his head, not sure if he agreed or not with your question. "I was losing control too soon, and I haven't even touched you yet."

"Is that all?" You rolled yourself on top of him, pushing back the furs while the cold air of the room pebbled your nipples. Ivar looked up at you in awe. "Touch me then."

Your slick center was rubbing on the base of his shaft now pressed up against his stomach, and he could feel his hips give a few practiced ruts. He saw the flash of delight in your eyes, and you hummed out a moan that was as long as a horn that bellowed in war.

"I'm still adjusting to this new body," You panted. "I've never felt like this before."

Ivar felt a strong sense of pride for bringing you these new experiences along with him. Even though he lacked the skill, he had a newfound confidence that had him reaching for you. His hands felt rough and clumsy against your untouched skin, squeezing and pawing to see how much pressure to apply and where. Your breasts were soft and pliable while your backside was firm and rounded, and you leaned further into him as he grasped onto your cheeks. You placed a wet kiss in the hollow of his throat that had him moaning. He wondered if you could hear his heart racing.

"Please," He choked. "I need to feel you."

Your hand reached down between your bodies, and you pulled back to watch his face as you clutched his cock. Lining it up with your slippery center, you brought your cunt down to the hilt. Ivar was under no delusions that he would last long or immediately be worthy of infamy in bed like his brothers, but being surrounded by your wet heat, he thought he'd cum right then. As you sat up straight to readjust, he let out a gasp. You did too, only when his eyes cracked open to get a look at you, your eyes were shut and your face was screwed up in pain.

"What's wrong?"

"Is it supposed to hurt like this?" You whimpered, hands grabbing at his chest. It seemed everything about your human body was new.

"For human women, it does the first time." He wrapped his arms around you and spun you down onto the bed with himself still connected between your legs. It would be difficult for him to manage this way long, but it would be better for you this time. "I've got you."

Your eyes were blurry from unshed tears, but he could feel you relax in his arms as he began to set a slow pace. On the first withdrawal of his cock he could see a small amount of blood seep out which he regretted feeling thrilled about. You were his now, and he was yours.

The strength in your legs was unmatched, and as you grew more comfortable you squeezed at his waist with your knees. He knew his end was already in sight from the tightening in his balls and the burning in his gut. You had thrown your head back, hair tousled and mouth open to show your sharp teeth. It was the only telltale sign that you weren't a human, and he bought his lips down on yours to explore the fangs with his tongue. You teased back with little nips, and you gave a harsh tug on his hair that separated him from the sloppy kiss.

"Fuck," He breathed out, and his hips began to lose rhythm. "I can't go much longer."

You ran a hand meant to soothe down his back, but it only spurred him on. His hips snapped at a frenzied pace with his thighs smacking against yours. Nothing could stop him chasing the feeling of his release, and with a few more pumps he felt himself empty deep inside you with a profane groan. All of the strain he'd put on his arms to keep from balancing on his legs gave out, and he collapsed on top of you. Your hot skin stuck to his, and he could feel you twitch beneath him.

"Sorry," He whispered embarrassedly. He rolled off of you and his cock made a wet pop as it slipped out from your folds. "You didn't get to finish."

You rolled onto your side to look at him, still breathing fast and on the precipice of your release. "Forget that. This was about you getting to enjoy me tonight."

Ivar shook his head as he turned into you. "But I want you to enjoy me as well."

His hand dove for your core, chubby fingers fumbling around in your wet pussy that was now a mix of your blood and his cum. This was the first time he had felt a woman's warmth, and he watched your reaction as he felt around your lips and the tiny bud at the top. When he stroked over it with his thumb your legs jerked and you whined. He continued to swirl his digit around the nub while experimenting with varying degrees of pressure. You were now experiencing his love for you, and he could read what you enjoyed most with how expressive you were with your body. He settled into a comfortable pattern, and your hand shot down to join his when he hit a perfect cadence.

"Yes...there," You cried.

Ivar plunged his longest finger into your depths as you began to wither and shake. He could feel your pussy clamp down on him as you came, and he knew he wanted to feel that on his cock next time. Your eyes blinked rapidly as you started to calm, and he withdrew his hand, only to bring it to his mouth for a taste. You watched him in rapt attention.

"A warrior tastes the blood of his enemies in battle, so should he not also taste his lover's in bed?"

You brought your hands back together with his and pulled yourself against his chest. "If the gods willed it, then let it be so."

You laid in silence together, and Ivar felt your little puffs of air even out as you fell asleep. He pulled a fur over the both of you, the fire had long gone low and the night air colder. Indeed the gods must have willed it. Ivar now knew he was favored by the gods above all other sons of Ragnar. You were a daughter of Rán, and you had chosen him. His mother knew it as well, or else she wouldn't have summoned you back into his arms. In his heart, he had already forgiven her for taking the bracelet.

The sea had come to take him, and he had gone willingly into the mouth of the current. It was comfortable there, like a never-ending waterfall over rocks beating him down onto your altar. You opened it up and took him in, and now you were both drenched.

The cabin grew cold and black, and Ivar went to sleep beside you that night with the comfort that the stars still shined overhead, and that when dawn came he would not have to face another day without you.

Taglist

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[ask-fantasy-sanders-sides]

Hey Roman, Logan! Side note: we just found out you guys are Fate Touched. So. That explains quite a bit. Ask her radiance if you wanna know more :) - 🗡

      ”So I can assume you already know about Virgil's situation?" Logan asks, frowning slightly as he tries to puzzle out what all he should say in this situation. Goddess or not, he's not sure if it's safe to tell her the extent of what he's seen…

      Eilistraee nods, "I know about his Sorcery. —Do not worry, Logan. I wouldn't tell the Sisters or their cults unless I had to. If I was planning on handing him over to be executed by the Gods, I would not have helped you save him."

      Logan finds himself believing her. But, before he can let the existential dread of what they’re discussing — Which amounts, most probably, to interplanar treason — settle in, he has to comment,

      "I don't remember telling you my name."

      Eilistraee smiles at that, like she knows something he doesn't. Which, Logan will reluctantly admit, is possible in this specific circumstance.

      "Virgil has told me about each of you. —And, of course, you and I are already acquainted." She smiles at Roman, who nods. 

      "I hope you aren't insulted that I haven't visited in… over a century?"

      "We were both busy~" She teases, as if a century is anything to a Goddess. 

      "I'm not sure what is going on." Logan admits, getting them back on track once he's come to terms with the fact that he is, in fact, doing this.

      "By all means, almost everything I've seen him do over these past few days should be impossible. He's wielded Mythal magic, changed the flow of time, and experienced more frequent Wild Surges than any wild magic Sorcerer I have ever heard of. I thought, initially, that he had been born with the power... But, if those spell-scars are any indication, he was not. Still, I've never seen spellscars of that shape or size."

      "And they're angrier than before!" Roman cuts in, "I had seen his arm under those bandages a few nights ago, and they didn't look nearly that bad. But we didn't encounter any wild magic between then and now, so I don't know how they could have gotten worse…?"

      "Virgil's current power is not something he was born with, that much is true." Eilistraee nods, "He was born with magic latent within him, but he purposefully pushed it down and ignored it. What he can do now stemmed from a disastrous encounter with Nethermancy, in which he was mutated by the Far Realm."

      Roman and Logan gasp, and Patton is hopelessly confused. He looks between the three spellcasters in the room, hoping one of them remembers that he is but a regular, mundane person.

      "...Ne...cro...mancy?"

      "No, Nether. Dark Magic." Roman stage-whispers, looking frightened. 

      Well, that clarifies nothing at all, Patton frowns, then turns to Logan,

      "Lo, you didn't mention that one the other day. I thought you said there were only eight?"

      “That is because Nethermancy no longer exists." Logan frowns. Eilistraee sighs and shakes her head,

      "As most things you will find tend to be… That is not entirely true. You know your magic comes from the Weave, yes?"

      All three of them nod at that, and Patton knows the beginning of a lecture when he hears one. He tries his best to keep listening as Eilistraee continues,

      "You can visualize the Weave as a spiderweb. Many threads tangle together to form it, more densely interconnected in some areas and more sparse in others. When you cast a spell, you are plucking on the web. Lesser tricks only jostle one string, while great feats of magic pull on the points where many threads are connected.” 

      "So, the less strings we pull, the lower the spell's level?" Roman muses. She nods.

      “Mystra is the spider who sits at the center, building and repairing the web, feeling the vibrations of all those who touch it and biting away those who pull too hard. After all, if you pull too harshly, the web will unravel… But the web is not the source of magic in the Universe. It is just where you mortals can syphon it from. Magic is something that has always existed, long before the gods, and will continue long after us.”

      Logan nods, "The early humanoids who tried to hone magic before the Weave was woven were all destroyed, and turned into the first liches."

      "So Mystra, with some help from my Father, created the Weave as a blanket." Eilistraee smiles, "A safety net, that holds raw power back and converts it into something manageable -- something mortals can access."

      Logan smirks, “Which is why Elves were the first humanoids to master magic. They had an insider.” 

      "So like a sieve? For flour?" Patton asks, and the goddess grins at the visual. Logan nods, almost impulsively taking over the lesson,

      "Sure. Now, imagine pulling a wire on that sieve out of place. There is a hole for more coarse clumps to fall through, yes?” Patton nods, and Logan smiles at him, “That is what we are doing when we cast spells. When you pull on a thread, a bit of this raw power seeps through, but the gap only releases as much as that thread once covered. The less you ask for, the less you will receive. And if you don’t cast a spell correctly, the thread isn’t pulled at all, and no magic happens.”

      ...Now Logan frowns, beginning to catch on to Eilistraee’s point.

      "But, Nethermancy was not like that.” Logan muses aloud, “It stemmed from the Shadow Weave; the warped copy of the Weave Mystra's sister Shar invented, by mixing magic with corruption from the Far Realm."

      "The Shadow Weave is the space in-between the windows in the spiderweb. The darkness between the threads. Hence, it's name." Eilistraee explains, "When you reach into it, there is nothing to decide how much you take out. And, since you have not disturbed the strings, Mystra cannot even sense that you’re there. It is lethal to reach your hand into raw magic like this, in the same way it was lethal to cast before the Weave was constructed."

      "Which is why it was never active." Logan adds, cautiously, waiting for her to correct him. "Supposedly, the Blue Flame burned it out during the Spellplague, before it's creator ever used it. Or, so everyone was led to believe…?"

      Eilistraee nods, "The Shadow Weave was never destroyed. Shar lost control of it, but it still exists alongside the original. A spiderweb without a spider... And, by now, you are aware that my brother's kin do not follow the same rules when it comes to the lethality of raw magic."

      "So, he was exposed to this Shadow Weave somehow, and now he keeps tapping into it on accident?" Roman frowns.

      "Yes. Without either Sister Goddess's influence to limit him, Virgil has tethered himself to the spaces between. Now he pulls at it without trying, weakening the weave around him and accessing magic Mystra outlawed decades ago."

      Eilistraee turns to Logan, suddenly very serious, 

      "You've done well to teach him control, but it is still something he will have to learn. He is the only thing moderating his contact with raw magic. He has no safety net to protect him if he takes too much, and no way to stop himself from doing it. This is not your usual pupil whose spell will fizzle out if they fail, his will combust. He must learn to hone his ability."

      "I can teach him." Logan nods resolutely, already determined to see this through to the end. Eilistraee frowns. 

      "There are already many in your world who know about his mutation. Many wish to use him as a weapon on a scale you cannot imagine, and many more wish to destroy him altogether. People who will show no mercy when they come for him, and anyone who would protect him.” 

      Eilistraee turns to address all three of them, making an imposing figure where she towers in the middle of the room, 

      “You will face more peril at his side than you have ever read about in your history books, and his powers will bring untold destruction if you fail. Are you so sure you wish to involve yourself in this?"

      "You'll find I already have." Logan stares her down, hoping he is more stubborn than she is, "I am not going to give up on him now. I knew it was going to be difficult when I first asked him to join me."

      (So, that might be a little white lie. He didn’t know it would be so difficult that a literal Goddess would warn him to pack up and go home, but… Well, no one is going to tear him away from a project he’s already started, nor a friend who needs his help. And, after all, Logan doesn’t know anyone more qualified than himself to teach Virgil how to use magic.)

      Eilistraee seems to mull over his words for a moment. Roman and Patton are keeping quiet, either letting Logan speak for them as the group’s leader or too exhausted/shocked to say anything.

      ...And, after an excruciating several minutes, the Goddess smiles.

      "Very well then. I entrust his safety to you, Professor Logan." Eilistraee — the Goddess. What is today?! — smiles, as if as amused by the situation as Logan is winded by it. 

      "Don't fail him."

      "We won't!" Patton cheers, elbowing Logan's thigh to shake him out of his surprised stupor. Eilistraee grins.

      "We?"

      "Yep! We're a bit of a package deal~" Roman nods, smiling at the other two. "And, I mean... if Logan goes on some sort of super perilous adventure and doesn't invite his resident literal Celestial, I don't even know what I would have to do! The sheer disrespect? I would throw a fit." 

      "You are both cordially invited to the 'super perilous adventure.'” Logan rolls his eyes, “Not that either of you ever need an invitation to insert yourselves into my travels..." 

      Logan tries his best not to smile, ignoring their laughter at either side of him.

      "You will need more than just the three of you, I'm afraid." Eilistraee smiles, 

      "I have full confidence in you, but the fact remains that Virgil will also need a mentor who is, themselves, a Sorcerer. There are some skills that can only be taught from experience."

      "Where are we supposed to find another Sorcerer?! It's rare enough that we found the one!" Roman whines, making Eilistraee grins.

      "You are willing to aid a man you just met last week in a plot against the natural order, but you don’t think you can find one measly sorcerer?”

      “Those are two totally different tasks! —Protecting people is my very specific skillset!! Finding them is not my job!” Roman blushes and pouts, and Eilistraee downright laughs. She shakes her head,

      “Oh, I was just teasing, d'anthe~ Don't worry: I think he will find you, soon enough." 

      Eilistrae lays a hand on Roman’s cheek, “And speaking of you... I sense something is troubling you?”

      Roman frowns for a moment. He sends an uneasy look at Logan and Patton...then sighs. 

      (If they’re all getting involved in Virgil’s surprise cosmic destiny, he supposes he might as well let them in on his…)

      “It’s my Mother.” Roman sighs, 

      “I know she’s been ailing for a long while now, but… Something’s happened to her while I was gone, I can feel it. Something’s wrong. But my powers don’t seem to have changed at all, so...I can’t really tell.”

      Eilistraee frowns, and Roman hops in again before she can speak, “I-I would contact her, but she still can’t speak to me! I don’t know how I’m supposed to help! I assume Mama has more information once we get to town, but it’s been killing me to wait in the dark. I know there are rules about how much you can meddle, but… Throw me a bone here?”

      That gives the Goddess pause. She seems to debate something for a moment… Then nods.

      “I can lend my aid to you for tonight, so long as you remain on land under my blessing. But, Sune is still in a very weakened state... Expect one of your Dreams tonight, little Prince.”

      Roman smiles softly, trying to mask his spark of disappointment.

      “...Thank you. Anything is better than no contact! But… I was never very good at deciphering those things.”

      “If you need help deciphering your visions, you can always ask one of my Dark Ladies, or one of your Heartwarders. But, your Mother is a goddess of emotion; It is unlikely any of them will be able to help you more than yourself…” 

      Eilistraee gives him a sympathetic smile, “...Or, maybe, your usual companion in that place?”

      “I doubt that.” Roman smiles back, more amused than he is dejected. 

      “It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a dream with my brother. I’m starting to think he’s purposefully ignoring them… And, to be honest, I wouldn’t put that past him.”

      “That may be so, but you two must reunite soon.” Eilistraee warns him with an unexpected sincerity, “Your Mother needs you both, now more than ever. You are aware that your Fate is joined with these three, but he has a part to play in all of this, too. He always has.”

      “My conversations with the whispers always seem to stem back to him, that much is for sure!” Roman grumbles, to himself more than anything. Eilistraee pats his shoulder.

      “The guards will lead you back to House De’anonen. The road ahead of you is long and perilous, and I don’t expect to be the last to tell you so… Now, get some rest!” 

      Roman nods, much too tired to argue on that point. Some young women in silver robes come to lead them out of the temple, and Roman and Patton meander after them out of the room. Logan follows behind them slowly... But, he pauses at the door. 

      He turns back to Eilistraee, and asks lowly, 

      “Nethermancy from the Far Realm…” he hums, still not quite sure what he’s trying to remember when he asks,

      “That he encountered here? Outside of the Underdark?”

      ...Eilistrae doesn’t answer right away. 

      A sour look crosses her face for a moment. She sighs,

      “Your curiosity is your greatest strength, Logan. It always has been.” She smiles, turning her back to him to exit the room through the farther door, “But you, of all people, should know that poking at what writhes in the grass is a dangerous game.”

      She walks out of the room, her voice echoing behind her as she disappears down a long, shadowy hallway, 

      “Be sure you are prepared for what’s hiding there.”

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Ask 97     ( @sjrose1217 , @snowydragon10 , @amazonprimebox )

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Most Recent Recap, in case you feel like you missed something!

Available for questions: Logan, Roman, and Patton! (Virgil is asleep)

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Eilistraee makes her exit as the party gets ready to sleep for the night, with few hours of night remaining and little energy to keep their eyes open any longer.

Now they have some hints for what is to come, but will they be able to put the pieces together? Or will the dangers she warned them about get the better of them...?

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: xxii

welp, it’s almost done. the epilogue is probably gonna be tomorrow before the finale. in the meantime, yes, after what i did to you last chapter, here i am. back again.

part xxi/AO3

July 21, 2014

There is no one word in the English language that is really sufficient to describe the scale of São Paulo, Brazil. Huge has a decent stab, but still doesn’t get there. When the eggheads who study urban planning and population density and civil engineering use terms like “macrometropolis” and “megapolis” to describe it, you start to realize the shortcomings. It’s not actually the biggest city in the world; it’s something like eighth or ninth, including the metropolitan area, but right now, it might be. It is a sea of endless buildings between distant blue mountains, known for its notoriously changeable weather, a city to which “diverse” likewise does no justice, a melting pot and a global powerhouse. It’s winter in the Southern Hemisphere, so it’s not very hot. In fact, the temperature struggled to get above fourteen degrees Celsius today, and a fine Atlantic drizzle is dampening the pavement outside, bleared in the endless lights. It’s ten o’clock at night in a down-at-heel bar in Vila Andrade, not far from the poor Paraisópolis favela on one side and the wealthy district of Morumbi on the other, and Garcia Flynn intends to keep drinking as long as they’re going to serve him.

Ogroman, he thinks. Maybe ogroman does as a word for this place. It’s Croatian, means “vast, tremendous, oversized, immense.” It also sounds a bit like “ogre,” in English. Ogre-man, which he isn’t altogether sure he isn’t, become something monstrous and deformed and barely human that cannot venture into the sun without turning to stone. São Paulo’s sheer magnitude is his refuge: nobody can find him here, or at least he’s fairly sure they can’t. A needle in thirty million haystacks, a completely anonymous blip on nobody’s radar. His Portuguese is rudimentary, but he knows enough to order drinks, and for now, that has to do.

The bartender passes him a glass, Flynn grunts in thanks, and puts a crumpled five-real note on the counter, as this isn’t usually the sort of place where you run a tab. He’s not even sure what he ordered, but he also isn’t going to be terribly particular, as long as it does its job. He has been in São Paulo for three days, and his wife and daughter have been dead for two weeks. No, not dead. That sounds sedate, easy, like the “passed away” bullshit that people use to make it sound peaceful and palatable. No. Murdered. Murdered in the middle of the night by a full hit squad, the muffled thump of silencers and bullets flying in the dark. He barely got out of there alive himself. He honestly wishes he hadn’t.

Flynn lifts the glass to his lips and throws down a burning gulp of whatever local poison is within. It doesn’t taste good so much as it’s a promise that eventually, with enough repeated applications, he might be numb for a little while. He has his gun back at the room if it gets too much tonight. That’s the comfort. Make it through one more day if you can think of any reason to, and kill yourself if you can’t. When the only thing burned into his brain is the image of Iris in her little flowered pajamas with a bullet hole in her head, Lorena half-fallen over her where she was trying to shield her, that’s the place he goes.

Rittenhouse. Flynn takes another drink. When he took the fairly routine corporate finance job for his old buddies at the NSA, he didn’t see anything unusual about it. Broke the encryption and discovered something about a company named Rittenhouse funneling huge off-the-books sums of money to tech billionaire Connor Mason, through multiple offshore accounts in the Caymans. Intended, of all the things, to fund a time travel project. Flynn figured they were just crazy, but not his business. He flagged the transfers to his contact, who said they’d take care of it. Flynn thought nothing more of it. Went on with his life.

Four nights later, Lorena thought she heard Iris cough. Got up to check on her.

That was when, in under ten minutes, Garcia Flynn’s entire world was destroyed.

He has no solid proof. He has nothing. In fact, when he tried to call the police, call fucking someone, as if there’s any ordinary authority that has any jurisdiction over this, he discovered that he was the prime suspect in the murder. Everyone knows the husband probably snapped and gunned down his family one night, that’s how it usually goes. The killers – Flynn knows in his gut, he knows somehow that it was these Rittenhouse people – have framed him for the crime and they want him dead or alive, and his only choice was to go off the grid and on the run. He still has a few tricks up his sleeve, so he got out of Dubrovnik and went to South America because it seemed the farthest away. He wants revenge, it’s the only reason he hasn’t stuck his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, but he has no idea how to start to go about getting it. They appeared from the shadows and destroyed everything and vanished again. How do you fight smoke? How do you even catch it?

(Nothing, the darkness chants at him. Nothing. You have nothing. You are nothing. You should just go back to the room and get it over with.)

Later, Flynn thinks. Later. It wouldn’t be the first dead body they’ve had to carry out of that place, he’s sure, though if he’s going to make a mess, he should truck up into the hills and keep it to himself. They might not find his corpse for weeks or months, and there is something morbidly alluring about the idea of dying under the stars, staring up at them until he sees Lorena smiling at him, and it’s just a bad dream, and all the world falls away and it is all gone, it is all gone. But he can’t do that just yet without at least trying to take the bastards down with him. He has to think of something.

Right now, however, Flynn has thought all day and still come up with a big fat blank, and he’s not drinking because he wants to keep doing it. He yearns and aches and pleads for oblivion, for a sweet soft coma, and he doesn’t think there’s enough alcohol in the world for it. He has a little money, and he can get more if he puts his mind to it, but unless he’s going to bounce from place to place like a billiard ball, he needs to get himself together and decide what he’s going to do. Or he could just find somewhere high and jump. Christ the Redeemer is in Rio de Janeiro, but Flynn could head up there and really make a splash. Rub it in Christ’s face for not being any sort of redeemer. Tourists gawking at his broken body, probably a few headlines. Rittenhouse would definitely know he was dead, then. Might frame it and put it on their wall. In that case, no. He can’t give them that satisfaction.

He finishes the first drink and pushes the glass back for a second one, which is duly supplied. The door opens and closes, letting in wafts of cool, damp night air, as patrons come and go. There is a group of young men with gel-slicked hair, leather jackets and flashy necklaces, who might well know where to get the stronger sort of anti-depressant, but Flynn doesn’t feel up to it right now. A few women with too much makeup, short vinyl skirts, and platform heels circulate through the drinkers; he suspects they’re hookers drumming up business. There’s a futebol match on the TV in the corner, which Flynn stares at for the simple need to look at something besides his own reflection in the dirty bar mirror. His wife and daughter are dead. He’s not the only man who this has ever happened to, but it feels like he is. His wife and daughter are dead. His future is gone. His entire world has been erased.

One of the hookers comes up next to him, trailing her fingers over his arm, and Flynn brusquely sends her packing. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want company or solace. He wants a miracle, and he knows he isn’t going to get one; the world is, as well proven, not that gracious and not that forgiving. Another drink, or call it curtains and go back to the room? He’s not sure he can resist the pistol tonight. If he’ll survive, he has to walk.

When the second drink is down to the dregs, Flynn cursorily pushes it back and asks for something else, just to change it up. The bartender looks askance at him; even in a place like this, it’s obvious when someone is intending to drink until they end up on the floor, and he probably doesn’t want to have to drag someone of Flynn’s size out by his heels. But Flynn puts another bill, of a larger denomination, on the counter, and the bartender hesitates, then pours him a third. Flynn isn’t drunk, since it takes a considerable amount, but he can feel the floating edges of not-total-sobriety. Good. That’s the point. He takes a sip, then another.

The liquid in the glass has dipped to about halfway when the door opens again. He doesn’t bother looking around, since it’s not going to be anyone he’s interested in. All he wonders is if it’s stopped raining, because if it has, he might think about leaving (how permanently is still up for debate). It might be stupid to care whether or not he gets wet, but he has to cling to whatever excuse he has by his fingernails, because otherwise he will –

“Hello, Garcia.”

Flynn almost has a heart attack. He jostles the glass of whiskey with his elbow, splashes it on the scarred wood, and whirls around. He doesn’t have his gun on him, if only because the temptation to use it might overtake him, but he doesn’t need it to kill someone. How – how – after all his precautions, his certainty that the megacity would hide him, after leaving no trace, has Rittenhouse found him? He’s had just enough to drink that the urgent command from his brain to snap into Terminator mode gets lost before being fully received by his body. Half-stumbles as he knocks the stool, prepares to fight whatever operative this is in the middle of some slovenly dive bar in –

And at that, he freezes.

The woman facing him could very well be Rittenhouse, and he’s certainly not ruling out the possibility that she is, but she has both hands up, clearly aware that she has startled him and that, given his current mental state, it might not have been the best idea. She holds his eyes as he stares at her in a confused, bleary, furious haze, waiting to be sure that he isn’t going to lunge at her. Then she says gently, “I’m sorry. How about you sit back down?”

Flynn tries to answer, but his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth for more reasons than just the percentage of alcohol in his bloodstream. She’s about his age – forty, give or take a few years – and she’s beautiful. Petite and trim, with shiny dark hair that shows just an elegant touch of silver at the temples, and a few lines around her soft brown eyes. She’s stylishly dressed in skinny jeans, a long coat, silk blouse, and scarf, and she’s spoken to him in English, with an American accent, rather than in Portuguese or any of the numerous other languages spoken in São Paulo. Some faint, attractive floral scent lingers around her, as if inviting him to lean in and take a breath. He’s not going to, of course, but the desire has briefly passed through his brain. She can’t be a hooker too, can she? No. CIA, or something in that department. Intelligence agent of some stripe.

“How do you know my name?” It’s not the most scintillating question in the world, but it begs asking anyway. He sinks heavily back onto the barstool. “Look, if you’re here to kill me, Jesus Christ, just get it over with.”

“I’m not here to kill you.” She looks at him. . . tenderly? Almost like she knows him. “I’m sorry for surprising you. My name’s Lucy. Lucy Preston.”

She holds out her hand, and before Flynn has any idea what he’s doing, he shakes it. It’s small, like her, but her grip is strong, and since it’s the first time he has touched anyone in any capacity for two weeks, it’s a shock, a reminder that there is still a physical, concrete world beyond the tortured hellscape of his thoughts. He almost wants to hold on, but this total stranger (is she a stranger?) has not come here to be his emotional crutch. He withdraws and clenches his fist on his thigh, trying to stop it trembling. Finally he says roughly, “If you’re not here to kill me, what the fuck do you want?”

“It’s complicated.”  Lucy looks at the remnants of his drink. “You might want another.”

Flynn grunts. “I’ve had a few already.”

“I suppose you have.” She tilts her head, studying him with that strange, soft look that both unnerves and intrigues him. “Do you want to talk here?”

“Where else?”

“All right.” She signals the bartender and orders a drink of her own in serviceable Portuguese, though it sounds like she’s practiced the phrase. Flynn keeps watching her carefully, waiting for any hint what her game is. When she’s gotten her glass and taken a sip, she says, “This is going to sound insane, and hopefully you’ll hear me out before you make a decision. There really isn’t an easy way to start, so. . . well. I know who you are, I know what happened to your family, and I know that you’d do anything for revenge on Rittenhouse. I’m here to tell you that there’s a chance.”

That, despite himself, snaps Flynn’s spine straight like a whip. Some of the fuddled torpor burns off, almost that fast, and he stares at her narrowly. “How do you know about – ”

“Again.” Lucy raises a hand. “Let me finish?”

He bites his tongue, though his head has turned into such a cyclone that he has to force himself to pay attention. He looks at her expectantly, as she reaches into her jacket pocket and removes a slim black leather book, monogrammed with the initials LP in the lower right corner. “This is my journal. I want you to read it.”

“You. . . want me to read your journal?” Flynn blinks. Anger is starting to replace confusion. “You come here promising revenge on Rittenhouse – when I still don’t know how you even know that name – and instead you give me your fucking diary? What, am I supposed to read about your high school crushes and – ”

“This isn’t an ordinary diary.” Lucy’s tone remains level, though there’s a certain aggravation that suggests, heartbroken and spiraling as she knows he is, he’s still frustrating her with his inability to follow simple instructions. Viz., keeping his fucking mouth shut for thirty seconds and letting her talk. “As I said, this was going to sound insane. That journal is going to help you take down Rittenhouse. And – well, we’ll start with that.”

“And how the hell is it going to do that?”

“Because – ” Lucy takes a deep breath. “Because I came here from the future.”

That, as might be expected, hits Flynn between the eyes like a bowling ball. He stares at her, waiting for her to proffer some, any other explanation, half-wanting to shout at her for thinking it would be funny to come here and pick the heartbroken, suicidal widower and bereaved father for her fucking YouTube prank show. He looks around for her cameraman. If this is supposed to go viral, he’ll kill them first. Finally he says, “I beg your pardon?”

“I came here from the future.” Lucy’s lips press together. “That’s how I know your name and about your family and about Rittenhouse. We’ve already met. We’re – we know each other.”

There are implications in that pause that make it clear she could have said any number of other things. Flynn can’t quite get air into his lungs, so he reaches for his drink and polishes it off in a long, burning slug. Then he shoves it across the counter. “Outro agora.”

The barman pauses, glances at Lucy (Flynn’s almost relieved for the confirmation that he can still see her, since he briefly started to wonder if this might be a total nervous breakdown), then figures that since Flynn has paid him enough for several drinks, it’s his department if he wants to get shitfaced in front of the lovely senhora. Once the glass is returned in an acceptable state of replenishment, Flynn takes another gulp. The tipsiness is starting to be less pleasant, a grating buzz like a nail between his eyes, and is on the verge of proceeding to full-on drunk. There’s something to be said for just quaffing it all and passing out, but Lucy hands him a glass of water, and he finds himself taking it. Finally he says, “You know there’s no way I actually believe you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Lucy hasn’t broken character, if this is an act, or summoned some hipster with a man-bun to appear from behind a video camera. “Honestly, I don’t blame you.”

Flynn debates what to say. He could be much crueler, he could lash out, he could tell her to take her ill-conceived practical joke and shove it up her ass, but something – he has no idea what – is making him hesitate. Maybe it’s just a testament to his desperation, that any lead, no matter how ludicrous, might be the difference between life and death tonight. She knows about Rittenhouse. She knows his name. Even if not from goddamn time travel, she learned those somewhere. And the way she has been looking at him, with tenderness and sympathy and care. . . perhaps he’s just too small and weak and shattered to stand up, but he can’t quite bear to remove himself from it, not yet. Even if it’s all a lie or a trick. Maybe especially if it is. Reality is too much and he could do with a few comforting illusions.

After a moment, he pushes his drink aside and takes another sip of the water instead. “The future,” he says, with something between sarcasm and curiosity. “When?”

“I can’t tell you that exactly. We’ll say the relatively near future.”

“Convenient.” Flynn toasts her sardonically. “No firm dates.”

“Time travel is very confusing.” It seems as if this is probably the understatement of the millennium, but Lucy says it simply and almost apologetically, as if she really would tell him if she could. “I don’t know what I would risk changing if I told you too much, and things have happened in a certain way that. . .” She trails off. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” Flynn considers that. He isn’t sure he wants to ask for what, or if she would tell him. “So you’re going to appear, tell me that time travel is real, hand me some magic diary, and think that this will take down Rittenhouse? You can’t know what they are, if you think that’s going to work. You can’t possibly – ”

“Can’t I?” Lucy’s eyes flash. For the first time, she looks downright formidable, a mature and beautiful and slightly terrible queen – no Snow White evil stepmother, but no gentle, naïve princess frolicking with the songbirds either. She stands half up, staring at him. “I can’t know what Rittenhouse is? Do you think, do you remotely think, that I would have done this, that I would have risked everything to come here and find you, if I didn’t know exactly who they are? They killed Lorena and Iris, and before that, they – never mind. But they’ve taken more from you than you even know. I’m here because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to stop them. Is that you too, or not?”

Despite himself, Flynn is jolted. He recognizes the anger in her voice, because it’s the same rage that has been burning unceasingly through him, turning him to ash and soot and char, stripping away and tearing up everything he used to be, any soft place there ever was. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, even as Lucy takes a considerable slug of her own drink. He almost feels as if he should apologize, though she’s the one who turned up here spouting deluded fairytales. There’s a fraught silence, until he says, “All right.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer. She wipes her mouth and leans on the counter, still too beautiful and put-together and glamorous for a shithole like this, composed and mesmerizing even in her anger. She controls it well, has taken it out and then put it back in its box, but it’s clear that it rubs raw nonetheless. She takes another deep breath, then says, “I’m sorry. I realize the burden of proof rests with me here. I brought the journal this time, I wrote everything down – well, as much as I could. It was actually your idea. Sort of.”

“What?” Flynn is thrown by that. “How can it have been my idea?”

“It. . .” Lucy debates something with herself, then shakes her head. “There are. . . there are other ways things happened before,” she says at last, unhelpfully. “We’re working on retrieving some of those, but it – anyway, it’s complicated. The best way I can describe it is the garden of forking paths. You walk in, and you see all the choices that you could have made, all the realities you could have existed in, branching off to every side. You can only walk one course through the maze, and that becomes your life. But there are echoes of what used to be, what might have been, or what was taken away. They’re still there somehow, on some quantum level, with some leftover trace that can be found in the time stream. Glimpsed, perhaps, if not recaptured. You and I, in one of those, we were – ” For the first time, her voice cracks. “There’s a reason I’m here for you.”

Flynn is even more thrown, understandably, even as Lucy turns her face away as if she didn’t mean for him to see that. He finds himself fishing out his handkerchief and offering it, some idiotic gentlemanly reflex, as she takes it, dabs at her eyes, and hands it back. “Yes,” she says, her tone once more cool and businesslike. “Anyway. It’s not random. How do you think I could have found you tonight, in a city this size, if I wasn’t here for you? If I didn’t know, in fact, exactly where you were going to be?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn says uncertainly. “You could have been looking for me for a while.”

Lucy snorts. “Do you really think that would work? Going door-to-door in all the gin joints in the world? Across this city, across the entire world?”

Flynn has to admit, the odds seem low. He doesn’t know if that means he believes her or not, so he takes a few more sips of water. He wants to judge if this seems remotely sensible at even partial sobriety, or if the alcohol is the only reason he’s entertained it thus far. There is certainly a part of him that is touched at the idea that she’s traveled through time and space to see him, that they have some sort of deep connection she can’t or won’t explain, but the rest of him is horrified. His wife died two weeks ago. He is not in the market for any other options. He wants Lorena back. Lorena. Whoever Lucy Preston is, she can’t be what he’s really looking for, what he needs. But walking into this place looking like an angel, telling him this impossible story, and seeming to think he might actually believe it. . .

He doesn’t know. There is another part of him that is well aware he was just asking for a miracle, and this seems as close as it’s possible to get. He’s prayed to God for answers, he’s begged for anything – that was, when he wasn’t screaming his pain and rage into the empty, uncaring void, swearing and cursing and bleeding. Lorena was the believer more than him, though he went to church to humor her, but Lorena is the one who was murdered in cold blood in her own home, trying to save her five-year-old daughter from men with machine guns who did not turn a hair. How can God have let that happen, if He is any sort of God worth His salt? Flynn knows the technical term: theodicy, or the question of how the existence of evil is compatible with a loving and powerful divinity. None of the explanations he has heard have ever quite satisfied him. This, even less.

There’s another silence as he and Lucy stare at each other. God, she is beautiful. Disloyal as Flynn feels, he’s a man with eyes, and he can’t quite take them off her. He glances at her hands, as if in search of a ring. He still wears his own, he can’t imagine wanting to take it off, but her fingers are bare, keeping their secrets. He wants to ask more about how they’re supposed to be connected – is this some sort of past-life nonsense, does she think they’re the reincarnations of Antony and Cleopatra, or something else to add to her clearly quite eccentric beliefs about the nature of reality? What’s even stranger is that he keeps having momentary, elusive flashes of something just below the surface, like sunlight on goldfish in a pond, that he cannot grab or hold onto. Is this hypnosis? Power of suggestion? She said something outré, and now he’s adjusting his beliefs to accommodate it? He’s been a soldier and a special operative for a long time. He can usually see mind tricks coming a mile off.

“I’m not sure if you’re crazy,” Flynn says at last. “There’s still a good chance you are. But I think you believe you’re telling the truth. If nothing else.”

Lucy seems to accept that is a start, given what she’s just asked him to swallow. She pushes the journal toward him. “Please. Take it.”

Flynn looks at it. He wants to ask if there’s a piece of Voldemort’s soul contained in it, because it seems like it might be a pertinent question, but he takes it and puts it in his jacket pocket. Then he gets to his feet, and promptly staggers enough that Lucy notices. “Come on,” she says. “How about you let me walk you back to where you’re staying?”

This is almost adorable, given that Flynn is a six-foot-four ex-commando with extensive military training, and Lucy is a five-foot-five woman who doesn’t look likely to be Black Widow in disguise. But he oddly doesn’t want her to go just yet, and he reminds himself that it’s really him doing the favor for her, making sure a foreign woman on the streets alone in a huge city, late at night, doesn’t get into any unfortunate situations. The ground, however, does feel a little farther away than usual, and he weaves his way to the door, Lucy bobbing at his elbow. He pushes it open and strides out into the night. Drops of mist bead finely in the air, but it isn’t raining anymore. Cars drone by, splashing puddles. The coolness is bracing against his hot face. For once, it feels good to breathe.

Lucy walks quietly beside him, dark hair tugged by the breeze, face intent and inward-looking. She doesn’t seem in a hurry, and he is absurdly tempted to ask where she parked the time machine (that has to be how she got here, right?) and if she has to get back before the meter runs out. The endless city lights flicker across her face. She is fine and ethereal and even more lovely in the glow, like something or someone not quite mortal or human. He keeps looking at her. He can’t stop.

After another few minutes, they reach the door between an all-night Japanese restaurant and a used electronics store, which leads up into the kind of apartment that can be rented with cash, without much paperwork, and a generally flexible occupancy. Flynn takes his key out and unlocks the door, then steps through into the shabby front vestibule, mail for previous tenants stuffed in the slot. He doesn’t expect Lucy to follow him in, but she does, and then up the narrow stairs. When he glances at her in confusion, she says quietly, “I know you have your gun in your room. I’m worried. That’s all.”

For the first time, after everything else she’s said or hinted at, that’s what rocks him the most. There is not any way he can specifically think of for her to know that – everything else could be a combination of very good intel and accurate guesswork, the kind of trick that fairground fortune-tellers use to read people and come up with something that might be relevant to their lives. He hasn’t said anything about that, about the lure it has on him, the coin toss every night as to whether he’s going to buckle and give in. Shaken, he turns away and takes longer than necessary to unlock the door. Muffled samba music drifts up from the flat below. He might mind it more if he thought there was any chance he’d ever actually sleep.

He pushes open the door into the apartment. It’s a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a battered couch, with a bathroom squashed on the end. There are definitely cockroaches, the décor has not been updated since the eighties, and the power can be unreliable, but if he wanted to leave tomorrow, he could walk out with no strings attached. He almost feels compelled to apologize, again, for its sheer dreariness, but he stands awkwardly in the middle of the floor instead, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, half-wondering if he is supposed to be presenting for parade inspection. She is even more beautiful in the slitted light of the old venetian blinds. His throat is dry for other reasons than the alcohol, but he can’t quite get his feet to move.

Lucy looks up at him, as if trying to make up her mind about something. It’s well apparent that there is tension between them, whether or not there should be, and that if she made a move toward him, Flynn doesn’t know that he would turn her down. He’s still a little drunk and he probably shouldn’t, but he is so exhausted and so heartbroken and barely holding up, and she has appeared literally from nowhere and she’s here in front of him. He feels like he should say something about his gun, remind her why she came up, but his entire chest hurts and he is blind and raw and shaking with need. For what, he doesn’t even know. Not her, exactly. Maybe what she represents. Life. Hope. Light. Any remote, wild ghost of a chance. She hasn’t said what exactly she’s offering, what the journal is supposed to do, or how it’s related to taking down Rittenhouse. He could ask her that. He could ask her a lot of things.

Instead, slowly, Flynn raises both hands. Lucy’s throat moves as she swallows, but she shifts closer, rather than away. She looks up at him with simple, vulnerable, unselfconscious trust that shreds his already crumbling resolve. He puts his hands very, very lightly on her upper arms, not quite closing his fingers. Not grabbing her, not trapping her, not trying to give her any reason to regret coming into a terrible apartment with a mentally unstable strange man who is twice her size, but because he doesn’t know what else he can do. Because the desolate, impossible, harrowing pain inside him eases the smallest bit when he does, and he is utterly desperate for that relief. He has no pride left. He is flattened. He is wrung out.

Lucy’s eyelashes flutter, her lips parting, as she tilts her head up. Flynn runs his hand up her shoulder, cupping her face. He traces his thumb along her cheekbone, still mildly astonished that she is a flesh-and-blood woman, and not a detailed hallucination. Lowers his mouth closer, not sure if he wants to kiss her or just breathe her in, absorb her in some elemental way like symbionts, like atoms, like stardust. Her lashes make dark shadows on her cheek. Her breath is soft as a whisper on his.

Flynn closes his eyes just as their foreheads touch, as a shudder racks him from head to toe and he briefly thinks he might go to his knees. But that’s when Lucy grabs his face in her hands, guides his hungry, hollow mouth to hers, and kisses him so gently that his broken heart snaps again. The sound is almost soft, a light, dry click. Then the floodgates open.

He lifts her almost off her feet, arms wrapped around her waist as hers lock around his neck, as they turn their heads and mash their noses and open their mouths and gulp and gasp and kiss and kiss as if this is the only thing they have meant to do since she arrived. Flynn doesn’t know if it’s the case or not, and frankly does not want to think about it, or anything. If he keeps his eyes closed, it’s easy enough to pretend that she is Lorena, and either way, if he is not going to die tonight, he needs this. He can add it to his sins later. He already has enough.

There is not much attempt at seduction or foreplay. This is clumsy and staggering and primal as an avalanche, and there is just as much point (which is to say, none) of getting in the way of it. He breaks away from her mouth, pressing blind kisses into her cheek and neck and shoulder, as he shucks off her jacket and scarf, throwing them across the room. She unbuttons her blouse as they keep kissing, as he pulls his shirt off and she runs her hands over the heavy muscles of his chest and arms, catching a nipple between her fingers. He reaches around to unclasp her bra, and she shucks it off her arms. His hands come up to cup and caress her breasts, and she shudders like the wind.

They walk backwards into the bedroom in a muddle, and fall on the bed in a heap. It occurs to Flynn that he does not have any condoms, and while he does not have any diseases, thank you very much, she might not want to walk away from this night with the risk of an unexpected souvenir (of whatever sort). He manages to pull away long enough to pant, “I don’t have – are you sure you want – ”

“It’s all right.” Lucy looks touched by his concern, that he is able to snap out of his mad blind delirium long enough to make sure she is safe. “I have it handled.”

“You. . . mmm. . . sure?” Flynn kisses her again halfway through asking. “I don’t – you might – ”

“Yes.” Lucy crawls on top of him and leans forward, bracing her elbows on either side of his shoulders, lowering herself onto him at full length. “I said I was here for you.”

Flynn wonders if that encompasses the possibility of what is apparently about to happen, then decides to hell with it. He would have stopped if she said so, no matter how much it might have literally killed him, but if she’s sure – he’s shaking, he’s not able to touch her enough, as much as he needs. They untangle long enough to shuck trousers, and then underpants. The sight of her naked body in the low light – God. For a second he swears, he absolutely swears, that the sight is as familiar to him as his own, that there is nothing strange or unusual about it. He’s noticed, even in their hungry making out, that there isn’t any of the awkwardness or fumbling or uncertainty about what to do where and how that normally attends a one-night stand with a stranger. There is something uncanny about the fact that they already know exactly how to kiss each other. Almost lends a true touch of destiny to whatever she’s saying, and yet. It will just make it easier, for now, to pretend.

They stand on their knees, as Flynn grips Lucy’s hips and pull her gently toward him. He nudges at her just a bit, just a little, as she takes hold of him and helps guide him, as he slides carefully into her soft warm wetness and almost loses his mind. He doesn’t know why she is here, why she is giving herself to him like this. In the back of his head, he wonders if this is a calculated ploy, if she is making sure that he will read the journal no matter what, take to heart whatever insane thing it says, and want to see her again. Something cynical and intentional, the old honeytrap game. She could be. He wonders if he cares.

Lucy rolls her hips, easing the fit of him inside her, uttering a small whine in the back of her throat that makes him want to roll her over and take her as deep as deep goes and fuck her flat into the bed. But he goes down on his back beneath her when she pushes lightly, straddling him and bracing herself, still breathing in quick, shallow gulps. Sweat beads on her forehead, her eyes are glazed. She seems almost as shaken by it as him.

Their hands reach out and meet, clasping hard, as Lucy pushes his arms over his head and starts to ride him, with long, possessive swoops that drag him against every single bit of her and make him see stars. But then she gives the control back to him, lets him flip her onto her back and brace his weight on his elbows, cover her with his height and bulk, and thrust into her hard enough to make her hips jerk. She draws her knees up on either side of him, wrapping her arms around his back, as he buries his face between her breasts. “Lorena,” he mutters indistinctly, cursing and gasping and praying all at once. “Lorena.”

He has just enough consciousness left to know that he is calling another woman by his dead wife’s name and he should probably try to stop doing that, but it spills out of him anyway. He gulps, he tries to apologize, but this is already enough of a mess, and Lucy seems somehow to have expected that he would. The pace of his thrusts increases, raw and reckless, rasping and rutting. He needs her, whatever – whoever – she is. The realization is coming to him in punching bursts, breathless, blinding, hot as the heat of their coupling. He can’t walk away from whatever she is offering. He has to read the damn magic diary and learn what it is. He has to follow her. He has to – somehow – trust in the utterly impossible. Nothing else makes sense. Nothing else is left.

All further thoughts, however, are driven out of Flynn’s head in the next instant, as he bucks and jerks and loses himself entirely, collapses on Lucy as if his back has been broken, and realizes belatedly that he is probably squashing her. Guilt percolates through him, slow and cold. That was probably the worst lay Lucy ever had in her life. If it was just to bind him to her, maybe she doesn’t care if it was good or not, but he feels the duty to own up to it. Slowly, badly, as if he has two broken arms and legs, he manages to disentangle his body from hers, roll off and collapse next to her. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He tastes the choking tears in his throat, struggles to spit them out. “M’ sorry. M’ sorry.”

Lucy rolls over and pulls his head down onto her chest, letting him rest there as she strokes his hair, as he grips hold of her side and presses his face into her. He jerks and shakes with sobs he won’t quite succumb to, his entire body torn between the sweet release of climax and the stabbing agony in his heart, his mind, his soul. He feels as if he must be hurting her, as if his hands are sinking into her like clay, molding her and marking her. She’s tiny, especially compared to him. It feels like far too much to ask for her to bear the weight of his pain.

And yet, Lucy doesn’t move, stays where she is, until he’s finally gone still, too exhausted and heartsick to stir at all. She rolls out from underneath him and goes to the bathroom, then pads back, pulling the covers out and crawling in. He manages to do the same, collapsing, as she slides up next to him and lets him rest his arm over her. He feels like a soldier that has been through far too many wars – which, perhaps, is exactly what he is. His chest heaves a few more times. His hand runs up and down her ribs, her hip, her slender thigh. “M’ sorry,” he mumbles again, eyes closed. “Isn’t what you deserved.”

Lucy doesn’t answer that, at least aloud, but he feels the light touch of her lips on his unshaven cheek. The backs of her fingers ghost along his jaw. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not.” He opens his eyes and stares at her. “It’s not, it’s – it’s not, it’s not.”

“It’s not,” Lucy agrees, admirably steady. He wants to cling onto her, he wants her to make it stop shaking. Perhaps it’s unfair of him to think that one small woman can make the whole world stand still, and yet, he almost thinks that if anyone, she could. “It’s not right now. But it will get better, Garcia. I promise. I promise.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask her how she can possibly know that, until he remembers, right. From the future. He’s too tired not to play along, is starving for any drop of reassurance, however childish or impossible. “What is it?” He has to know. “What am I supposed to do? With this – with time travel. Do I save them? My wife and daughter?”

Lucy hesitates for a long moment. It’s clear she’s deciding what to say, what sort of oracle it is permissible to play. At last she says, “We’ll say you do.”

“How?” He pushes himself up on his elbow. He desperately wants to believe her and he thinks, somehow, that he already does, has made the decision and felt the key turn. “How do I do that?”

“Read the journal,” Lucy repeats. “I’ve written down everything I can tell you there. It’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be difficult, and what it’s going to cost us, and you – I can’t possibly tell you that it’s going to be easy, or that it’s something I’m asking of you lightly. But if nothing else – ” she laughs, dry as dust – “it’s been like this before. I made another visit back to you, and that set things in motion once. I have to trust it will again.”

“What?” Flynn is confused. “I’ve never met you before.”

Lucy hesitates, then shifts his head down to rest more comfortably on her stomach, fingers still playing with his hair, a soft little gesture that seems almost unconscious. “No,” she says at last. “I suppose we haven’t.”

Flynn has a feeling that that is another one of the things she’s said which wouldn’t make sense even if he was sober. He’s closer to it than he was earlier in the evening, but the combination of alcohol and sex and heartbreak is never brilliant for a man’s brainpower. All his strength has run out of him, but in a different way than when it first left him, along with a sizeable proportion of his will to live, when he saw Lorena and Iris’ bloodied bodies on the floor. He has had to bear the shattered pieces of his world in absolute solitude and silence, barely any time to even grieve, when he needed to get out of Dubrovnik and avoid being framed and deal with the logistics of staying ahead of Rittenhouse and choosing a hideout and renting this flat and resisting the ever-present urge to eat the business end of his gun. He has not let it out, not once properly wept, because he is afraid there is no way to recover from it if he does. He still doesn’t know, in fact. And yet.

He cries so hard that his entire body shakes, face pressed into Lucy’s stomach, his tears glistening on her skin like sweat. He tries to bite it back, but he still makes horrible, hoarse, gulping noises like a wounded animal, one long, choked howl that comes out of him over and over. Lucy doesn’t make any attempt to shush him or tell him not to. Finally, she nudges him up so he can put his head on her shoulder instead, wrapping her arm around his back and pulling him alongside her. She waits until he’s finally fallen silent, drained and done, can’t even open his eyes or think about ever standing up again. It seems, even more than everything else he has heard tonight, utterly impossible.

They drift and doze. They’re still both naked, there is nothing between them in the dark, and for the first few hours since the murders, Flynn sleeps without any nightmares at all. When he wakes up, the light in the room is grey, he has a splitting headache, and Lucy is asleep next to him, curled up on her side with the quilts tucked under her arms. He stares down at her, not knowing what to do or think. Is she going to stay? Can she stay? Whatever faces him, it seems as if it might be easier with her help.

Lucy stirs as a touch of fragile sun peers through the blinds, rolls over, and opens her eyes, as he’s drinking the glass of water from the bedside table, grimacing and grumbling. Hangovers always suck, but for some reason, Flynn almost welcomes this one. It feels real, it feels like waking up from the haze of grief and guilt and alcohol, the wastelands he’s been wandering on. He thinks of the gun, one final temptation, and then pushes it aside. It doesn’t have the same hold on him anymore. Its curse has been broken. Now, he has other plans.

“Morning,” he says gruffly, seeing that Lucy’s awake. “About – everything. Last night. I wasn’t very – I wasn’t.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Lucy sits up and glances at the clock, which – given where, or rather, when, she’s come from – strikes him as oddly and unbearably poignant. “I can’t stay much longer, Garcia. I was promised only twenty-four hours in which this would definitely work, and any more than that was playing with fire. And I have other places to go.”

Flynn bites back his instinctive response that she could. “Lucy – ” he starts. “Lucy, are we – we are going to see each other again?”

“We will.” Lucy swings her legs over the side of the bed, goes to peer in at his shower, and apparently thinks better of it. “It’ll be a few years, but yes.”

“And? Then what?”

“I suppose you’ll have to find out.” She looks at him gently. “We both will.”

Flynn can’t believe he’d be visited by a woman from the future who then is no help about the future at all, when all he craves is a flicker of certainty and stability in the sea of chaos, but he can already sense that it will get him nowhere to push. He watches as Lucy gets dressed, then gets up to do the same. “Can I walk you to your – car?”

Lucy grins wryly. “All right,” she says. “I suppose you can see it work. You might as well have your proof that it’s real.”

Flynn suddenly wonders if he’s prepared for this or not, but doesn’t demur. He pulls on his shoes and jacket, and they step out into the cool, misty morning – São Paulo is once more living up to its unofficial nickname of Terra da Garoa, Land of Drizzle. It’s early enough that the streets are as quiet as they ever really are. A few fruit sellers on bicycles speed past, cardboard crates strapped precariously over their back wheels, and Flynn and Lucy walk awkwardly side by side, not quite looking at each other, hands in their jacket pockets. It’s about twenty minutes to a certain back alley, where Lucy strides up to a shrouded object at the end, pulls the lashed-down tarp off, and reveals a large grey metal eyeball. As time machines go, it looks like the junior varsity squad, and Flynn eyes it skeptically. “You came here in that thing? You’re braver than I thought.”

Lucy laughs. “Like the Millennium Falcon, yes, I did. It’s called the Lifeboat. You’ll probably want to stand back. But, well. This is goodbye for now. Good luck.”

Flynn doesn’t want to ask why she sounds as if she thinks he’ll really need it. He isn’t ready to let her go. “Lucy – ”

“One other thing.” Lucy tilts her head back to look at him. “My younger self meeting you is going to be… well, it’ll be an experience for both of us, let’s put it that way. She will ask you eventually how you got the journal. Don’t tell her about this – this night, all right? It’s going to be – well, I don’t want her to know that way. Just tell her that I gave it to you at the bar that night, and leave out the rest.”

Flynn has to run over that sentence in his head a few times to be sure he’s understood it correctly. He coughs, then nods, and holds out his hand. “Well then… goodbye?”

Lucy looks at him, then nods in return, takes it, and shakes it. Then she lets go, hits a lever, and opens the Lifeboat door, crawling in with what seems less than total grace. Flynn is almost tempted to offer her a hand up, but doesn’t. As ordered, he stands back.

The door shuts, and the bands on the outside of the machine start to whirl, building up momentum. The whine of the engine grows, and then, with a sharp backwash that rattles the windows in the nearby tenement, it vanishes into thin air. There one moment, gone the next. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s actually real. Time travel. What the hell.

Flynn shakes his head, resists the urge to rub his eyes, and stands there another few moments, as if to be sure that Lucy didn’t forget her purse and might have to come back. But the morning is still again, and there’s a faint brightness on the underside of the mist. The sun will probably come out later, and burn it all away.

After a final minute, Flynn turns his back and starts to walk. Slowly at first, and then faster, weaving through the streets of São Paulo as they’re starting to come to life, and the commuter traffic is soon to be in full and crushing throng. For the first time, he knows for a fact that he’s going to make it to the end of the day today, and then to the end of the next one. He is possessed, consumed, afire with curiosity, brain spinning fast as the Lifeboat’s gyro, as the world does not seem – not better, not exactly. It will not be better, nothing will be resolved, nothing will be stopped or surrendered, until Lorena and Iris somehow take another breath, and that night never happened, and the broken world is set to rightness. But it’s something. It’s more than that. It’s hope.

Flynn reaches his apartment, and heads up the steps. He has a feeling he won’t be staying in Brazil much longer, will be going somewhere else, and he needs to find out where that will be, needs to find out everything he can. He steps inside, shuts and deadbolts the door, and goes to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Black and rich; Brazil is one place you will never go without good coffee. He opens the blinds and cracks the window. Can smell diesel exhaust and the salty wind from the Atlantic Ocean and the whiff of roasting meat from sidewalk carts, gulps it all down. He’s ready now. Life can have him back. His head hurts with an almost crystalline clarity.

When the coffee is ready, Flynn pours it into a mug. He goes to his jacket, takes the journal out of the pocket, and carries it over to the table. Sets it down, runs his fingers over the embossed LP on the cover, and stares at it for a very long moment. Then he takes a deep breath, opens to page one, and begins to read.

[ofiscariot]

happy hexennacht/walpurgisnacht! today is the traditional witches’ sabbath, and as a devotee of frau perchta, the witch-mother of the alps, it’s a particularly special holiday to me.

frau perchta is a triple goddess. as perchta, the bright lady, she is the leader of the wild hunt and the mistress of the beasts, known at once by her swan’s foot. as holda/holle, she is the good fairy godmother of the brothers grimm, who brings snow to the mountains when she shakes out her feather bed, and rewards industrious young ladies with gold (and douses their wicked stepsisters in tar). and as the spillalutsche, she punishes those who failed to do their share for the community and the household during the year by slitting open their bellies and stuffing them with straw.

like her norse relatives, the norns, frau perchta has been associated with the transmutative arts of spinning and weaving from her very earliest attestations. i turn to her when i feel that my wyrd - my web of fate - has become hopelessly tangled. she has helped me grow more and more confident in my own power as a witch, secure in the knowledge that i am not a mere victim of wyrd, but an active participant in weaving something beautiful from it.

i wish all who celebrate today a very joyful witches’ night! whoever our deities or witch-parents may be, may we honor and remember our own power always, as much as we do theirs.