#traces of past lives are kept alive in the hands of their descendants

[highwaytothedangerzone502]

Ghost Story - Chapter 40

Pairing: Rooster x Female OC

Word Count: 2844

Warnings: Swearing, death

Summary: No one will miss a ghost. It'd been a running joke for as long as anyone could remember, something Ghost herself started, and she always said it with a smile on her face or with mirth in her voice. The untouchable stealth pilot in every sense of the word, no one could've predicted the depth of her turmoil over recent events, nor the extremes she would go to in order to protect the man she loved, not even those closest to her. Now, all that was left of the young aviator for Maverick, Hangman, and Rooster were the memories of the past, which would slowly fade with time. She'd come into their lives and made an unforgettable impression, and then, like a ghost, she was gone... Then again, ghosts can't die a second time.

Notes: Y'all, I'm so sorry for this chapter... I put in a bunch of gifs of Rooster looking pretty to make up for it.

Chapter Songs: Tally Two/What's the Plan/F-14 Memories I'm Coming Home

****

Rooster

Living up to her callsign, Ghost practically floated down the mountainside and barely left a trace of her presence. Meanwhile, like a rooster in the morning, Bradley made all sorts of commotion descending that blasted mountain, including snowballing down at one point. He would've rolled all the way to the bottom had Ghost not grabbed his leg in time and yanked him to a stop.

"Thanks," he said, shaking the snow out of his sleeves.

Ghost looked him up and down. "If we make it out of this alive, I'm changing your callsign to Snowball."

"Don't you dare."

"You have more snow on you than the ground," she pointed out, brushing snow off his hair. "Honestly, Rooster, how did you manage this?"

"My foot found a hole, and I tripped."

A small smile tugged on her lips as she shook her head. "Come on, Snowball, let's get going."

"I swear if you start calling me that-"

"Nah, Rooster is still more suiting for you."

"How so?"

"Because you're way too chipper in the morning." Ghost waited until an enemy in the distance turned its back on them before darting farther down to the entrance of the base. Rooster followed, slipping and sliding on the ice. In a whisper, Ghost reminded, "Remember, no matter what, until we're in a plane, don't say a word!"

"Underst-"

Ghost whacked him on the arm. "What did I just say?!"

Rooster opened his mouth to say something again but swiftly shut it when Ghost started lifting her hand. They slipped inside the base, the entrance turning out to be the end of a long runway. Wordlessly, they kept going, strutting like they belonged there and attempting not to look too suspicious. Either these terrorists were really stupid, or he and Ghost were phenomenal actors and found themselves in the wrong industry.

Ghost scanned their surroundings as if she understood the foreign language on the signs and the conversations around them. They passed a line of planes that Rooster recognized as Su-27s and Su-30s. Whoever these terrorists were, they had connections...

Ghost led them to a storage room full of cleaning supplies. Then, pulling Rooster inside, she shut the door and allowed them to take a breath. 

"Now what?" Rooster whispered.

"We need to take one of those Su-30s, but we need to create a distraction first, so there are more personnel focusing on that than us," she said, sifting through the different chemicals on the shelves. Ghost stood with a huff. "God, nothing here that could be of use. We'll need to come up with a different plan. I guess I could threaten one of them-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what do you mean threaten one of them? Ghost, might I remind you, you are very American with a definitely recognizable Texan accent, and these guys are very Russian. What exactly are you going to-"

The door handle squeaked downward, and before Rooster could move a muscle, Ghost grabbed his flight suit and pulled him down to her level, crashing her lips onto his. He reacted instantly, instinctively, his hands gripping her hips as a way to ground himself to reality because the idea of him kissing Ghost in the middle of an underground terrorist base seemed unfathomable. 

The door opened, and the conversation of two men abruptly stopped. Ghost broke off the kiss and smiled sheepishly at them. Rooster wasn't sure what he expected her to do because God knows his mind was mush from the kiss, but hearing her speak fluent, flawless Russian to the two dumbfounded men had not made the top ten. Hell, it hadn't even made the list. Rooster stared at her, attempting to hide his own utter surprise while she smiled sweetly at the two terrorists and explained something to them. 

Whatever it was, the men bought it and began shutting the door again. Rooster already had his mouth open to ask what just happened when an alarm blared throughout the base. Once more, Rooster had no idea what the voice over the intercom said, but Ghost turned to him and mouthed, "Air raid."

Only two people would've been sent to attack the base, and Rooster found himself equally relieved and terrified at the same time. Maverick and Hangman were here, and they were undoubtedly thirsty for blood against the people who shot down Ghost and Rooster, the same people currently surrounding the two downed pilots. 

Without a word, Ghost bolted out of the room with Rooster on her heels. She led him to one of the Su-30s, gruffly grabbing another pilot off the ladder he'd been climbing, barking furiously at him in Russian and pointing a firm finger at him, a fire in her eyes Rooster had never seen before. 

I am simultaneously terrified and turned on, and I should not be feeling this way right now. Rooster thought as Ghost climbed the ladder into the cockpit. Bradley followed suit. He waited until the canopy closed before finally releasing his pent-up confusion and demanding, "Since when do you speak Russian?!"

"I always have," Ghost replied casually, flipping switches and putting on her helmet. "See if you can get us connected to the carrier. We might be out of range of them, but maybe we can contact Mav and Hangman. Although, I'm worried our connections won't work with theirs."

"I'm already working on it, but can we go back to the fact you speak Russian? Why did I not know this?"

"Never got brought up in conversation. It's one of the reasons I was chosen to compete for the mission."

"You could've gone-" raising his voice a few octaves, he imitated- "Hey Rooster, want to know a cool fact about me? I speak fluent Russian with a flawless accent!"

"First off, I don't sound like that. Second of all, hold on." The plane jerked forward and pulled onto the runway. Without hesitation, Ghost shot forward, rapidly gaining speed and pulling into the air the second the opportunity arose.

"Fuck!" Ghost rolled violently to the left, a missile whistling past their wing dangerously close. "Rooster, tell me if you can spot Maverick and Hangman!"

He spun around, scanning the skies behind them. Almost immediately, an F-35 descended behind them. "Tally one, six-o-clock! Coming in fast!"

"Hold on!" Ghost dove back to the ground, the underside of the plane practically scraping the tops of the trees. He watched her line up with the base's entrance and fire a missile at the mouth. While it didn't enter, it struck the roof, knocking debris onto the runway and effectively making it unusable for the time being. Unfortunately, it looked like she'd been aiming for the F-35 zipping above the base, so if her plan had been to show Maverick and Hangman- whoever trailed behind them- that they were on their side, it failed. Even worse, three enemy planes had managed to take off after Ghost and Rooster, and they swarmed the skies, tag-teaming against Maverick and Rooster. 

"Are they still behind us?" Ghost asked, her voice slightly panicked.

"They're still behind us!" he confirmed.

"Shit... okay. I have an idea. I'm going to bring him in closer."

"You're going to do what?!"

"I'll bring him in closer, hit the brakes, and he'll fly right by."

"This is not a movie, Ghost! That's not how this-" 

The missile alert went off, and Ghost went up and over their ally. She hit the thrusters, shooting the plane up and into a loop. From there, she rolled over until they leveled out and faced the three enemies in the distance, who were rapidly closing in on her.

"Now what?" Rooster asked, peering around to the front. "We technically have enemies behind us and in front of us."

"Maverick and Hangman still think we're on the enemy's side. We need to prove that we're not, and we're going to take some terrorists down in the process. Those enemies in front of us think we're on their side. Let's use it against them."

Without another word, with her own missile alert blaring, Ghost ignored it and locked onto the closest SU-27, releasing a missile straight at them at a dangerously close distance. The unexpected attack caught the enemy off guard, and they had no chance to react. Rooster watched the missile strike the enemy fighter straight on.

"If Maverick and Hangman didn't know we were on their side before, they should now," Ghost said, circling around to get behind the remaining fighters. "We even have better odds now that it's three against two and-"

"We have a problem," Rooster interrupted, catching a glint of a canopy disappearing between the mountains. "I think a fifth got up and is leaving the area to find out where Mav and Hangman launched from."

"Like hell they are." Ghost deviated from the main fight, chasing after the lone enemy. The unexpected movement flung Rooster to the side.

"Is it wise to leave your wingmen?"

"I'm not. I have you. The boys have each other, too. Besides, it's one plane, and if I can't shoot it down, I at least need to keep it preoccupied and its attention off the carrier until Maverick and Hangman join us."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Would you rather I make it sound complicated?"

"Not really."

Falling silent, he let Ghost focus on flying while he kept his head on a swivel to keep an eye on his surroundings, ignoring the twinge of pain each time he turned his neck and the absolute agony in his left leg. He hadn't told Ghost this, nor had he let on except for the slight limp she'd noticed earlier, but getting shot and down and having to eject and then tripping in a hole had seriously messed up his leg. If it wasn't fractured, then something had to be torn or severely strained. He'd ignored it up until now, but Rooster prayed that when they landed, he could walk...

At the idea of landing, a realization struck him. "Ghost, does this plane have carrier-landing capabilities?"

"That would be a negative, so we're going to be in for one hell of a landing," Ghost replied sheepishly. 

How did I manage to end up in this situation again? Rooster groaned inwardly, dreading the idea of a jarring landing with his injuries. He also worried about Ghost faring through it. While she claimed her ribs were only bruised, he suspected worse with how she had clutched them the entire way to the base, how quickly she became winded, and the constant breathlessness in her voice. Moreover, if her ribs were already bruised or cracked, the forced landing would only worsen them, if not cause them to puncture a lung. Rooster shuddered at the thought.

"Talk to me, Rooster. What's going on around us?" Ghost asked, slowly closing in on the Su-30 in the distance.

"Nothing behind us and-" he bonked his head against the glass- "nothing below us except a raging river and only cliffs on our sides."

"And the sun's behind us, making it difficult for the enemy to see us. This is scarily too much in our favor." Ghost hit the afterburners, pushing Rooster into his seat. He simply took a deep breath, prepared himself for the ride, and prayed Maverick and Hangman joined them sooner rather than later.

That is, if they survived.

Of course they'll survive. It's Maverick and Texan Maverick. And I'll survive because I'm with the Female Maverick.

"Come on, get a lock, get a lock, get a lock," Ghost mumbled, honing in on the enemy jet. "Annnnd... fire!"

She released the missile and had the enemy not dove behind the other side of a mountain, the projectile would've hit. Ghost chased after him, dangerously close behind. Rooster nearly came out of his seat when she flipped the plan over for the dive. 

"Get back here, you little shit!" she snapped in annoyance, sending a wave of bullets at them. A few hit, but not enough. Not near enough.

"Damn it, I only have one missile left, and bullets are low too. Those terrorists might've had connections to get the planes but not the ammo."

"Which is both good and bad. Something I never thought I'd say," Rooster confessed, wincing as he turned around to see if Maverick and Hangman were in view yet. He could've sworn he saw the glare of a canopy far, far away, but he couldn't be sure. Besides, they'd have a hell of a time catching up to them. He and Ghost might've been in an older jet, but it was faster than the F-35. The only thing working in his dad and Hangman's favor was the fact the terrain slowed Ghost and her target down.

"Once we get out to the open ocean, I should be able to get a better lock on them," Ghost said, almost talking more to herself than to him. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," he lied, holding back the nausea caused by the pain in his leg and Ghost's mercurial flying.

"You don't sound fine," she pointed out. "What's wrong?"

"Noth-"

"Bradley."

"Nothing you need to worry about right now. Focus on that plane first."

Her annoyed groan told him she did so reluctantly, but Ghost listened, and Rooster tried to scan the skies for Maverick and Hangman. Although only a little bit larger than dots on the horizon, he could see two jets flying in their direction, and the brief glimpse of the silhouette brought him to a comforting conclusion. Informing Ghost of the good news, he let himself briefly close his eyes to acknowledge the excruciating pain in his leg. It made him want to hurl, but he swallowed the desire, thinking to himself: Ghost will get you through this. She's mini-Mav. We also have Maverick and Hangman with us. We'll be fine.

However, Rooster underestimated his pain, not having realized that when he shut his eyes, he passed out for God knows how long. Rooster only awoke because of a high-pitched noise repeating his name. Groggily opening his eyes, Rooster looked around in a daze. The ocean water blurred past, and the sun that had once been behind him now lay in front of him.

"Bradley?! Answer me, damn it!" Ghost's frantic voice turned out to be the high-pitched noise he heard. "Bradley!"

"I'm- I'm here. I'm good," he replied, dizzy from pain.

"You're not good!" she snapped worriedly.

"Annalise, are you okay?"

"No! I've been calling your name for the past few minutes with no response! What happened?"

Rooster grimaced, realizing he couldn't keep the secret any longer. "I- I fucked up my leg or my ankle, maybe both. It might be broken, and it's- the pain-"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you..."

"Jesus Ch- Bradley, if you're injured, I need to know! I can't- shit!" Ghost gasped and jerked her plane upward, but whatever happened, it was too late. Rooster found himself pinned to the seat, barely able to move as the plane lost all its momentum and went into a flat spin. Ghost frantically shouted, "We've lost both engines! I can't- I can't get them to restart! Fuck!"

"Keep trying, Ghost! You've got this!"

"Bradley, we have to eject!"

"No, we can-"

"That's an order, damn it! Eject! Eject! Eject!" Ghost pleaded with him, and he could hear her tears. He wouldn't be the reason she cried, not again. So, he listened. Mustering as much strength as he could, Rooster strained against the G-forces and grabbed hold of the ejection handle. For the second time that day, he found himself gliding weightlessly through the sky, although this time, the side effects of the ejection were much more noticeable. His neck and back swore in protest, but his leg screamed. His vision began tunneling as he looked for Ghost in the air to make sure she had escaped too. While he saw her parachute, the relief it gave him was short-lived. Rooster's eyes trailed down to her body, hanging limply by her straps. His tunnel vision disappeared, his body suddenly coursing with fear and worry. The moment he hit the choppy waters, he propelled himself foward, the adrenaline numbing his agonizing pain. Rooster reached Ghost as her body hit the ocean.

"Ghost!" He shouted, dragging her into his arms. Her head lolled against his chest, unmoving. "Ghost! Oh no, oh no! Oh god... oh god..."

Cradling her tightly so the waves didn't rip her away from him, Rooster tilted her face toward his, and bile rose in his throat. Blood trickled out of her nose, her ordinarily fair skin turning blue. "No, no, no," he croaked out. "This isn't- ghosts can't die. You can't- I don't- please, Annalise. Please, wake up."

Ghost never responded. Time slowed. The world went still. Sound disappeared. Rooster barely registered the sight of the helicopter or the soldier prying Ghost's lifeless body from his rigid hands. The moment he no longer held her, the pain finally overtook him, and Rooster passed out.

****

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[pigeon-feet]

feeling absolutely overwhelmed by the scale of the past rn

[yhwhsdaughter]

pairing: trevor belmont x fem reader

content: forced vampirism, monster slaying, main character death, pining, angst, mention of animal death, usage of the word ‘assault’ to refer vampires feeding on reader

- this was meant as platonic soulmates but it can be seen as romantic too

“It hurts…”

Feet dragging across the rocky ground, you heard screeches of pain from behind, though they soon diminished. You could only focus on the pulsing sensation at the side of your neck; it was like fire rushing through your veins.

Preoccupied with your agony, Belmont was able to sneak up. He raised his whip, ready to kill off the last of the creatures when you suddenly turned, and with glossy eyes you said, “Help me…”

The whip managed to leave a thin horizontal line across your cheek as he pulled back, causing blood to drip out slowly. Now illuminated by the moon, Belmont saw the damage on you. Skin exposed by the ripped clothes showed multiple bite marks. Blood stained the corner of your lips.

She’s been infected..

Belmont didn’t see a monster but a scared woman who’d just been assaulted by vampires. He knew what she’d turn into, but he couldn’t kill her… not when she looked at him like this. Sunrise was approaching so he had to act fast.

Draping his cloak onto your form, Belmont proceeded to carry you into the nearest building, which so happened to be where the carnage had occurred. Upon recognizing the place, you began to panic, shaking and looking at him with distrust. “You’re safe. I killed every last of those bloodsuckers.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, in that shitty stinking room. Eventually tiredness overcame your senses; Belmont felt weight settle on his shoulder. He wonder how a vampire could look so innocent whilst sleeping.

“Hungry…”

You felt parched; it felt like your throat had dried up, barely able to utter a word.

“I know.”

A rabbit was placed in front of you. Blinking at it, you directed a confused glance at the man. “I’m—this is.. for me?” He nodded. Taking the animal with traces of disgust, you raised it to your mouth. Blood gushed into your mouth; feeding made a horrible slurping that would certainly haunt you but there was relief amongst those troubling feelings.

You gulped every last drop, draining the poor creature of its life. Still, your hunger and thirst weren’t satiated. Biting your lip, you pondered on the next move. Because this man had saved you, daring to kill him or even feed off him seemed… rude. Not to mention, he seemed way stronger than you in terms of experience. Prior to this, you were a regular citizen. Maybe you could run away?

“Here.”

Trevor could see your turmoil. Most vampires needed to drain at least one human every time they fed—if they were being generous. They could survive weeks without blood but it made them weaker. Besides, it was older vampires who had this kind of self control. Newborns tended to be more unstable.

“Just take it before I change my mind.”

You did as told, though you were still unsure. Hesitating, you licked your lips before nearing towards the vein on his wrist.

Trevor let out a grunt when your fangs pierced him. Although you tried to be gentle, it was an uncomfortable feeling nonetheless. As he became lightheaded and you full, the mouth that was attached to his wrist removed itself with a ‘pop’.

After making sure he was alright, you asked for his name. “Trevor. Trevor Belmont.”

“Oh..”

“……”

“Oh! I’m (Name) (Surname).”

─── ☾☼☽ ───

“It’s dangerous.”

“I still-still want to go!”

The last remnants of sun were gone. Ever since your first encounter with the rugged monster hunter, you refused to part from him, following the latter like a lost puppy.

“I’m not much of a fighter.. b-but watch this!”

On cue, you punched the nearest tree, cracking it and making a sizable hole. You looked back proudly towards Trevor; except when you tried to pull your hand out, you were having difficulty.

“Ah. It’s stuck.”

Trevor couldn’t help but chuckle, walking away, clearly amused with your display of power. You pulled harder, “Hold on! Don’t leave me alone! It’s scary..” you muttered the last part while chasing after him. Despite being a creature of the night, the world and its evils still frightened you.

At the sound of a branch snapping, you yelped, grabbing a piece of Trevor’s cloak for security.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Belmont when you punched a head clean off, practically decapitating one of the attackers. He might have been seriously injured if you had not intervened.

“Trevor.”

Gazing at you under the moonlight, he saw the hunger in your eyes as you held a man whom was still alive but struggling. His neck was exposed. Even so, you waited.

The Belmont turned away, giving you privacy to feed.

He knew that by allowing you to live, you would continue to take blood from others. Normally he wouldn’t feel soft towards a monster but whenever he thought of you, it was different.

His guilt was lessened when you drank from scum. Before putting the lives of innocents in danger, he would offer his own.

“Are you done?”

The corpse of the man was dropped unceremoniously as you joined Trevor, a light skip to your step.

─── ☾☼☽ ───

Despite adopting a nighttime lifestyle, Trevor was still human and had to conduct business during daylight hours.

He’d left your lodgings, which was an abandoned cottage, for a while. Nobody really passed through there anyway, so he thought you were safe. Worst came to worse, you could handle yourself. But as your self proclaimed protector, Trevor felt uneasy leaving you alone.

Maybe he should’ve listened to his gut because when he arrived, the door was wide open with dirty footprints leading in all the way to your coffin.

Two men had opened it—staring at the peaceful expression on your face, unaware that they were here to end you. To them it was obvious what you were. Even with that frilly white dress that made you look somewhat angelic, they couldn’t be fooled. As they raised their weapons to strike, Trevor used his whip. His sudden entrance startled them but it gave you the chance to wake up.

Eyes snapping open, you jumped onto the other man, taking both of you to the ground. His screams echoed shortly as you tore into his throat. The remaining one had no chance; Trevor left the room, closing the door on his way out, killing the light that entered and cutting off the way to escape.

Left alone with your prey, a smile crept up your face.

When you opened the door again, the dress which decorated your body was now stained red. There was hardly a clean piece on the material. Even so, you greeted Trevor with a hug.

“Trevor..”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“M-me too..”

─── ☾☼☽ ───

Forty years passed in the blink of an eye.

“You should retire.”

“Belmonts don’t retire. The only rest they get is when they’re dead.”

“Well I don’t want you to die.”

“I have to, someday.”

“No you don’t.”

It’s been like this for the past few years; Trevor was sixty now. His body didn’t look that of an aging man, but the expression on his face did. He’d seen too much and as time passed, it was harder to fight monsters by himself.

Of course you’d noticed that and suggested turning him. It was an ongoing discussion; Trevor didn’t fancy the idea of living an eternal life but the thought of leaving this earth without you was disheartening. He didn’t say it but the situation tore him apart.

There was also the fact that he was too old for you; forty years to be exact. You’d maintained your youth, looking lovely as ever. His doubts were shot down when you immediately said that you didn’t care about that.

“I just want you.”

He always kept pushing the conversation away and you were patient. Trevor supposed that you could’ve taken him by force if you wanted and when he inquired, you told him it would be like violating him, robbing him of the choice you were never given.

As understanding as you were; the time would come for him to decide and confront you about it.

That time was now.

He should have been more careful, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Trevor watched as the sun slowly descended. Would you make it here before he passed? Would he die without seeing you one last time?

When you woke night had already fallen. Trevor wasn’t home; he’d been late plenty of times before but this occasion felt different.

Upon stepping outside, the smell of blood hit you. It reeked, staining the very air. You immediately recognized the source—how could you not? You’d fed from Trevor countless times.

Rushing in that direction, you prayed to whatever entity was listening to keep Trevor safe. The world and its gods could condemn you, but not him.

Not him.

You found him sprawled on a big rock, a creature hovering over his crumpled figure. Without thinking, you tore it to pieces. Blood rained as his mangled body flew to various parts of the forest.

“Trevor!!!”

He let out a groan, which would’ve made you sigh in relief but his visible injuries proved otherwise. You were no doctor and even if you could carry him into town, it would be too late. There was no other option. If you didn’t do anything, you might lose him.

“Trevor. Let me do it.”

Still conscious enough to reply, “I don’t want to become—”

“A monster?”

“I cannot become what I sought to destroy..”

Tears escaped your eyes, blurring the image of the person whom you treasure most. “Please.. please please please..! Don’t leave me alone!”

You begged, knowing it was unfair to pressure him in such way but you couldn’t bare the thought of existing if he wasn’t present. He was your salvation, your companion…your world. And yet, he was being robbed from you.

So soon… It’s too soon!

You always imagined Trevor living well into old age, spending the remainder of his life with you, being happy. He was destined to die peacefully, not like this. Not in this shitty place, by the hands of a shitty monster!

“I can’t. I’m sorry..”

Grabbing his hands, you lowered your forehead on them, crying your heart out. It was unfair. Life was unfair.

“Kiss me.”

Despite the pain that he was in, Trevor found it in himself to smile. For you. “Kiss me one last time.” Tears dropped slowly as you heard him. Shaking your head; you couldn’t kill him.

“I want it to be you..”

His words struck a chord.

Lifting him by the neck in a gentle manner, you pushed the collar of his shirt aside, exposing his carotid. As you bit into his familiar skin once more, your other hand caressed him, trying to make this goodbye as painless as possible.

With every sip you took, tears fell down.

I love you! I love you! I love you!

His warm hand turned cold.

You held him in your arms like he once did to you, with the outmost care, with the love he deserved.

Since Trevor didn’t say where he wanted his body to be buried, you chose the nicest spot. It was a secluded place where it wouldn’t be dug up by animals or people—but not so hidden either.

Whilst cleaning the blood that covered his body and face, you found a piece of cloth with writing on it. Staring at it, you recognized the Belmont insignia. Turning the material, you managed to read the words…

Take this. Go to Alucard.

Trevor must’ve written that in his final moments; probably in case he didn’t make it before you arrived. The letters were sloppy because of the blood but you could read it well.

Clutching it to your chest, you sobbed until the light of day began to burn. For a moment you wished to stay there and disappear. Perhaps you could join Trevor.

Together even in death..

─── ☾☼☽ ───

The journey was rather long.

Looming in all its glory, Castle Dracula. You looked at the last piece of your beloved, holding it tighter in your hand.

“Okay. Let’s meet this Alucard.”

[fanaticartisan]

The Legends always forgot how quiet he could be...

It was partly his doing, of course. When in the arena, he disengaged his shock absorbers fifteen percent so his teammates would hear him, clanking and clattering along beside them like some two-bit MRVN. That way, they knew where to look for him when shouting about their foes. They  wouldn’t jump at a crucial moment and miss their shot just because he spoke aloud. He liked when they jumped – didn’t like when he died because the enemy was still alive. So, he made himself audible.

And they forgot he could be silent.

Nights like this, where they were all aboard the ship, heading to a far-off arena in a journey that would take the better part of a day and a half, he wore that silence like an old, well-used coat. He was bored, bored, bored, and if he couldn’t kill any of his so-called companions until they got to the games, he’d settle for the next best thing: sneaking around and finding their little secrets for later torment. Sometimes a snide remark, a hint that he knew something he shouldn't and could spill their hidden weaknesses like entrails, was as good as a blade to the kidney. Some of his companions seemed like they’d prefer the latter, when certain subjects were involved.

He had to repress a laugh even now, as he crept past their doorways. He knew which Legends cried in the night. He knew who begged in their sleep, who reached for salvation that wasn’t there, for loved ones long gone, chances long lost. He knew who took comfort in ways that shamed them, and who couldn’t sleep at all for the worries that kept them up long, long after the others had succumbed to exhaustion. He’d heard it all before, a dozen times over.

But his stealthy steps slowed, then stopped, when he heard something new.

Singing.

‘Sofðu unga ástin mín. Úti regnið grætur.’

He recognized that voice, though usually its roughness and pitch were concealed through a respirator’s filter. It was strange to hear sound from within that familiar door when no light shone at the cracks.

Usually the Hound slept early, when they traveled long.

‘Mamma geymir gullin þín, gamla leggi og völuskrín.’

Revenant moved closer, drawn as if by a spider’s thinnest thread. He didn’t care if it was fascination that pulled him on, or eagerness to have caught the hunter in such a compromised situation. He didn’t let his mind calculate that far. He focused only on the stillness, the deliberation of each step placed without noise.

‘Við skulum ekki vaka um dimmar nætur.’

The metal of the door was cold against his palm as he turned the handle, slowly, so slowly. The fingers of his other hand slipped into the crack that opened just for him. He caught a glimpse of the hunter sitting on the floor – back straight, legs crossed, their form ever so slight without all that armor to protect them-

Then the axe slammed into his hand, the sparks of metal on metal illuminating a scarred face with eyes that promised death more eloquently than any spoken threat ever could. For a moment, for that flash of agony and light, he believed the promise, and knew his grunt of surprised pain would be the last noise he made before he woke up in his new body-

And then the moment was broken as a cough raked through that thin body with claws crueler than even his own. The hunter fell back, gasping and choking, fumbling in the dark until their desperate hands found their respirator. Once they’d pressed the mask to their face, once the cough stilled and their breathing steadied into a rhythm more suited to the living than the dying, did they look at him. Not the darkness, but their own self control hid their emotions from Revenant’s eye. 

Their voice had an edge of frost when they finally broke the silence. “Knocking is a courtesy that is not beneath your practice.”

“All courtesy is beneath my practice,” Revenant responded, scorn curling the edges of his words better than any smile ever could. 

He pulled his hand back through the door – or, tried to. It was stuck, nailed to the metal surface by that twice-cursed axe. He made a mental note to find another descendant of the programmer who had thought it a good idea to build pain receptors into his system and teach them the true meaning of the word, then looked back at the hunter. 

They were still standing, staring at him, one hand keeping the respirator clamped over their face, the other holding a sharp knife Revenant was more familiar with than he cared to admit.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” Revenant said. “Sounded like you were having a grand old time. Are you practicing for a concert?”

The sneer in his voice seemed to have no effect on the Hound who, after another moment of consideration, sat themselves on the floor once more, keeping the knife in plain view. “It is not for others that I practice,” they said.

“You just like the sound of your own voice that much, do you..?” Revenant wiggled his hand. Hurt zinged through his arm, but the axe stayed firm. He wondered if he could reach around with his other limb to pull it free. He didn’t much care for the amount of exposure that would grant to the blade that breathed so loudly not six feet away.

“It is not for my voice that I do this,” came the calm reply. 

Revenant hated all the Legends, but right now he hated the Hound most, for their unflappable honesty, for their unbreakable politeness. However much he needled them, they were ever unwilling, or perhaps even unable, to descend to his level of petty backtalk. “Tell me then, oh mighty hunter,” he said, using enough sarcasm for them both, “As it seems I won’t be going anywhere until you’ve had your say.”

Bloodhound watched him, their lenses reflecting the yellow light from Revenant’s own eyes back at him. When they next spoke, each word was measured, answering, but not confessing. “I would like, some day, to be able to breathe freely.” A pause. “If the gods will it.”

Revenant fell silent at that. His gaze lingered on the Hound’s face, on the hand holding the respirator over their mouth and nose, on the lingering scars that traced every visible surface of facial tissue. “...by singing to enhance your lung capacity?”

Bloodhound nodded once, some of the tension leaving their shoulders. 

That caught Revenant’s attention. 

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like understanding them, or them willingly trusting him with information he preferred to steal himself. He liked even less knowing there was nothing he could do with this confession of weakness that would be a satisfactory vengeance for his current position of compromise.

He tugged at his hand with more violence than before, making the door rattle. Bloodhound didn’t flinch, and neither did their axe.

“Get me out of here,” Revenant demanded.

The hunter stood, respirator still held firm, and walked close. They waited a moment, just long enough for Revanant to glare, and to see his own reflection in those stupid goggles, before taking firm hold of the axe handle and yanking it free with a crackle of sparks.

Their calm annoyed Revenant even more than the unwilling hiss of pain drawn from his voicebox. Without another word he slammed the door in their face, meaning to storm away and find someone more fun to bother.

But he didn’t. His feet stayed where they were, inches from the closed door.

Perhaps a minute passed this way, in silence. He didn’t let himself wonder why he stayed. He waited, telling himself he was the predator awaiting the footfalls of his prey. 

But when the noise came, it was not that of booted feet against the airship floor, but of cloth rustling as the Hound lowered themselves to the ground. It was the soft brush of a back against the door, of legs being folded. It was a deep breath taken before the respirator was set aside.

And then, once more, the rough, unfiltered voice in the darkness - but so close now Revenant could almost touch it.

‘Það er margt sem myrkrið veit, minn er hugur þungur.

Oft ég svarta sandinn leit svíða grænan engireit.

Í jöklinum hljóða dauðadjúpar sprungur.’

He was going to kill them for this. He was going to make them suffer, for forcing him to stand here and listen to their voice, as raw and vulnerable as any death cry, gentle and drifting as smoke on the wind. Were they doing it on purpose, twisting the melody so mournfully that it tugged at a soul Revenant was sure he no longer had?

‘Sofðu lengi, sofðu rótt, seint mun best að vakna.’

He was going to kill them. He would make that soft voice scream in agony.

‘Mæðan kenna mun þér fljótt,meðan hallar degi skjótt,’

He would learn the words to their song just to croon it in their ear while he plunged his fist into their chest and ripped out their heart.

‘að mennirnir elska, missa, gráta og sakna.’

He’d have to stay a bit longer, though, to study the thing properly. He wasn’t sure he remembered the beginning right.

But for a second the song faltered, and Revenant felt an unexplainable pang at the thought that it was over, and the Hound was done for the night.

A flap of feathered wings. An accusing caw. From the other side of the door came that rough voice, soft and soothing. “Hush. I know. It is alright.”

Another deep breath, and they began again.

‘Sofðu unga ástin mín…’

Revenant closed his eyes. No… killing them wouldn’t be punishment enough. They’d just be dead. Better would be to find someone else to kill, to make it very public, very bloody…

‘Úti regnið grætur.’

Then, when the newspapers reported his good work, when the survivors cried on television about a robotic voice chanting in an alien language, he would meet Bloodhound’s eye across the room, and the Hound would know, and Revenant would know they knew…

And that would surely be the sweetest revenge of all.

[lambourngb]

a skeleton of something more [malex wip]

Inspired by the promo/trailer for season 3. Spoilers and speculation ahead. 

A tumblr work-in-progress

Pairing: Michael/Alex, Alex/Forrest

Summary: Alex goes undercover to seek out Deep Sky. Starts mid-2x13.

Alex leaned his back against the solid wood of his front door, letting the heavy oak take up his weight. He kept making the standard uneven bargain with his body, of giving just a little more, going through the motions for a little longer, and then it would be over. But the tally sheet his body held was long, overflowing with so many unfulfilled promises that it seemed ever more likely he would end this journey in the red. 

If it ever ended.

At least, tonight, he had haggled wisely for some space to breathe. On the other side of the door, he had managed to escape Forrest’s hopeful and not subtle attempts to follow him inside, toward the bedroom for a long-awaited reunion. A reunion that Alex had deftly avoided without a trace of guilt. He had used the bland excuse of fatigue from a long, cramped ride from Holloman Air Force Base to Roswell on a bus that had predated the ADA by a good thirty years. It was transparent but still true, written on every line of pain in his smile as he had said “Not tonight.” that even Forrest could read it, even if only Alex knew the real source of his fatigue. 

He waited several long moments, before turning to look out the peephole to watch Forrest’s Prius silently reverse out of his driveway. Exhaling out long and low, the tension he had started carrying a little more than a year ago slipped away, letting the calm certainty of safety of his house slip down his body as he released the facade. 

Alex was almost done with this assignment, he reminded himself, as he rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth, scrubbing away the taste of Forrest Long from earlier. 

Just a little while longer, and he will have enough good will built up to finally meet the leader of Deep Sky face-to-face, after all who could resist the request of a senior member, especially one with the last name of Long? It had been a lucky find that Alex had made in cleaning out his father’s house after his death, a ring and an old photo of the members. In washed out Kodak colors was the cabal of Deep Sky. Former military men with names Alex had memorized off the salvaged hard drives from the Caulfield prison. Linked not by overlapping time on the alien project, but what had become of their careers after their military service had ended. All of them vowing to carry on the protection of Earth against an alien threat, but without the oversight of the government. 

The photo in his dad’s desk had been expected, but the silver ring? He had remembered clutching it, his hands still sore from tearing down the shed with Michael, and feeling the imprint of the symbol press deep into his skin. Searing across what Mimi had called his long-love line, singular and deep on his palm. Searing even deeper inside with the recognition that the symbol matched the ring Forrest Long wore.

The genial historian with the loose-fitting cardigan and blue-streaked hair, who had shown flattering interest in Alex, had worn the same ring. Easy on his hand, flashing in the bright sunlight when he had eagerly met up with Alex at the paintball fields with sharpshooter skills. After that date had crashed and burned thanks to a mishmash of his father’s voice and the feeling he had whenever he thought about kissing someone, not Michael, well, Alex had figured that would be the last he would see of the man. 

It hadn’t been. 

Suddenly, Forrest was everywhere he was, the Crashdown, the Wild Pony. It should have been suspicious to Alex, after months of sharing the same town with the other man without a single encounter. His heart was still bounding uselessly after Michael, while his hands had been full of his suddenly feeble father, and he had missed the snare of the trap. Not just the one his father had laid. Then after his kidnapping, two things had become clear to Alex, his father would never change from the hateful man he was, and Alex’s heart would never change when it came to his feelings for Michael.

Alex pushed his leaden body away from the door, tottering on his feet for a moment before the new prosthesis shored up his balance and he took a deep breath for the strength to move forward.

Fuck. That was a mistake. 

His house smelled like rain. Michael. The unexpected consequence of having Michael watch over his house while he had moved around the country, playing up the role of the grieving scion of the Manes family legacy. After a year of brief trips back to Roswell and long stints on the road, the house now smelled like Michael. 

Alex sucked in greedy gulps of air, chasing the taste of green and petrichor with his tongue to wash away his previous actions at the bus stop. His security system, his reinforced door and window locks, the weight of his gun still tucked in his back holster, none of it made him feel as safe as the smell of Michael in his home. It was the smallest crumb of promise, but it filled him.

Moving toward the kitchen for a drink, he clocked the changes Michael had made in his absence. His heavier luggage, shipped ahead of him, was already stored, including the set of crutches and the charging station for his back-up prosthesis. The lights in the kitchen came on with a single touch, all of them bright. Dammit, Michael had fixed the two burnt out bulbs, along with the slightly weeping fitting on the sink faucet.

There was zero sign of neglect in his house, no matter where he looked. Not even the faintest trace of dust on his guitars. The house looked warm and well tended. Loved. 

The rush of tears welled in his throat, an impossibly large lump, as Alex fought to keep from breaking down. Don’t fucking cry, don’t do it, that’s for at night, he swore creatively at himself. Tears were only allowed under the cover of dark, in hotel rooms or visiting officer quarters, not in the middle of his brightly lit kitchen.

A knock sounded on the front door.

Abruptly, every drop of tortured longing was gone, as Alex straightened his shoulders and crossed the threshold back to the door. He pasted the right amount of faked aspiration mixed with real annoyance on his face as he yanked the door open, expecting to see Forrest back on his step with a weak excuse concocted to overcome the earlier rebuff.

Michael looked up in the porch light, his black hat in hand and his curls wild with nervous raking. “Uh, hi.” He scuffed his boots against the concrete before growing still under Alex’s gaze.

He looked over Michael’s shoulder nervously, for the distinctive truck that everyone in town knew belonged to Michael, but his driveway was empty.

“I parked a few streets over. I don’t think anyone saw me-” Michael’s explanation was cut off short as Alex grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside. Stumbling from Alex’s strong grip, Michael fell forward, and then back as the front door slammed shut with them both safely inside out of view. His mouth was still open in surprise as Alex covered his lips in a kiss. 

The surprise was short-lived. Michael came alive under the kiss, opening and yielding to Alex’s hungry lips and tongue. Alex brought his hands up into Michael’s curls, cupping his head protectively as he pressed Michael firmly against the door, drinking in every sound Michael was making. 

Hours before, he had kissed Forrest at the bus station, playing up the role of a dutiful boyfriend returning home. It was the tariff he paid with his body to get closer to the roots of Deep Sky, but this, feeling Michael whole and safe under his hands, tasting him now, that was sustenance. Lifeblood. There was an evolution of difference between the two, like comparing simple bacteria wiggling toward complexity and the finished product of a man, standing upright. 

It was both a reminder of why he was doing this and a reinstatement of focus, as he slowly broke the kiss with reluctance. Michael chased at his lips, his mouth red and wet, his eyes dark with want. He could feel the heat coming off of Michael’s thin brown shirt, his hands itched to pull it off, to descend back into the physical, but Alex knew that he owed Michael an explanation for earlier.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t know he was going to be there to meet my bus. I thought it would be okay for you to give me a ride,” Alex explained quietly, as he ran his hands from Michael’s neck down to his fingertips, drinking in all the changes that had happened while he was gone. Michael looked thinner to him, as if he wasn’t eating enough despite the healthy amount of work and money. “I guess he wanted to surprise me and thought it would be romantic.” 

Michael made a face at the idea of surprises ever being considered romantic, especially to Alex. He turned sweetly toward Alex’s palm, kissing the center as Alex pushed a stubborn curl out of his eyes. “Are you sure that’s all it was? He wasn’t testing you, was he?” 

“I don’t think so.” Alex couldn’t pull his hands away from Michael, and leaned in to kiss him again. It started soft and shallow, trading breaths with Michael, lips against lips, licking deep into his mouth as his previous weariness disappeared now that Michael was here. “He saw you watching us. Now that I’m back, he’s worried about losing my attention to you. He hasn’t hidden his jealousy that I asked you to watch my house last year.” 

“Did I look sufficiently broken-hearted?” The question was light, but Alex could hear the grain of truth under it.

“You did.” Alex closed his eyes, the guilt of the situation flooded back inside. The statue of his father looking down on him didn’t make him feel nearly as sick as having Michael’s eyes on him as he let Forrest kiss him in front of the town in a cinematic homecoming moment. It was a cruel reminder to Alex that he had never been able to give Michael that, a public welcome that spelled out who they were to each other, not once in ten plus years of deployments and duty station assignments. Trading a glance across the Wild Pony was as close as they came. “I wish it wasn’t like this, sneaking around, pretending-”

“Hey, I agreed to this, right at the very beginning when I was your only back-up. Remember?” 

“We were just friends back then, you couldn’t have known that things would end up like this.”

Michael laughed, his head tilted back against the door, casting an attractive line of his throat to his collarbone. “We’ve never been just friends, Alex, but I knew what I was signing up for when you told me what you planned to do to smoke out Deep Sky. We’re in this together.”

*** to be continued... here

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night Part XXIX

It was still a few hours until dawn when Cordelia woke with a stubborn kink in her shoulder and with all of her fingers numb and tingly in her left hand where it was trapped underneath James's arm. His slow, even breath tickled the hairs at the top of her head and his diaphragm pressed against hers. Her nose was pressed against his chest, breathing in the delightful smell of cedar, mint, and the unique sweet scent that only belonged to James. It was like standing in a garden after it had rained. She inhaled deeply and traced the pale outline of a rune that had been carved just below his right clavicle.

“Did you just—“ She could hear the smirk in his voice. “—smell me?”

Cordelia stopped her tracing and slid her hand up and around his shoulder, drawing him closer. “I did. Is that odd? I thought you were asleep.”

The arm that he had lazily draped across her waist tightened. “Do you often smell people in their sleep?”

Cordelia blushed. “No, that is reserved only for you. I very much like the way that you smell.”

For the moment, they allowed themselves the chance to pretend that in a few short hours that they would not have to face a battle that might define the rest of their lives or the end thereof. For the moment, they were merely two souls in love; not bound together by propriety or social ingenuity or lies or secrets, but because they saw past all of those things to the core of the other person.

Any moment they would be called to fight; come what may, because that was who they were. Fighters. Hunters. Guardians. They were stories told at night to young children to make them feel safe from the monsters that not only lurked underneath their very beds but also from the monsters that haunted the night. They were myths and legends, born into a society that trained them to fight so that the mundane could live, but never something they chose for themselves.

For now, they got to choose to be something different— to be ordinary.

Cordelia pressed her forehead into his chest as he drew lazy circles on her bareback.

She was surprised at how little she cared when it came to modesty. She wanted to feel every part of him; to memorize the feeling of his jaw underneath her fingertips. To trace the bands of muscle around his arms down to the callouses on his hands received from hours of training with knives. She slowly explored every scar, every freckle, every part that made him tense or groan with pleasure.

She tilted her chin up and brushed her nose along his chin. He met her mouth with his and she memorized the feeling of his lips against hers. The sound that emanated from the back of his throat as she slid her foot up the inside of his calf sent a swirl of pleasure through her center.

“Everyone is probably still asleep or in their bedrooms,” she said against his mouth. “I should slip away before we’re found.”

James dragged his hand from where it’d tangled in her hair, down across her jaw, and cupped her cheek. “You’ll stay close during the battle? And if things start to turn against us, I want you to grab my mother and run. Run as far away as you can. If Belial— if his plan works, then he will not hesitate to kill you or use you in some heinous way against me. I need to know that there is a plan in place. I need to be able to hold onto that.”

There were a hundred things she wanted to say; things she wanted to promise him. Belial wouldn’t win. He couldn’t. He’d been defeated before and he could be defeated again. They would see each other after.

“We’ll go together,” she said.

James’s grip tightened. “If I can’t. If for whatever reason I am detained or— or if I’ve fallen, you must promise me that you will run.”

“James—“ Surely, he couldn’t expect her to make such a promise. “Do you not expect us to win?”

“Please Cordelia,” he pressed his forehead against hers.

She started to move away from him, a weight pooled in her stomach. “Is that what this was about? Just in case we didn’t have another chance?”

“What?” His hand slid back into her hair. “No, God, Cordelia. Is that what it was for you?”

“No,” she scoffed. “I told you, I told you the night I left how I felt about you. It has not changed.”

“And I told you last night that I am yours.” He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her mouth, her neck. “I’m not asking you not to fight. I’m not asking you to run. I just— I need to know that if something happens to me and I cannot get to you that you will do what you must to stay alive.”

Cordelia felt as if she could hardly breathe. She needed him to fight and if that meant that she had to make a promise that she may not fully intend to keep, then she would.

So she swallowed and nodded.

They dressed quickly. While he was lacing his boots, she slipped into just her dress and gathered her broken corset into her arms. She didn’t like it much anyway. She found the newly fashionable brasiers to be vastly more comfortable, but they could hardly afford them and her mother did not approve. She said they were for "girls of questionable morals".

She bent at the waist as he lifted his head to look at her and kissed him. A sweet, leisurely kiss that felt all too much like a goodbye.

“I’ll meet you in the drawing-room in twenty minutes,” she said and kissed him one more time before she slipped from the doorway.

The Institute was empty except for Bridget singing in the kitchen a somber Irish tune. The sound followed Cordelia up the stairs to her bedroom. She pressed her back against the door, closed her eyes as her clothes tumbled from her arms onto the floor. She felt trapped between both the feeling of complete elation, misery and fear in a web that she could not easily untangle herself from.

But she didn’t have time for all that.

She set her chin and went about removing her dress.

After cleaning herself up from a basin in the bathroom, she found her gear in a drawer and dressed. A pair of black, leather trousers that hugged her curves and made it easier for her to kick or run. A black blouse that swooped across her chest and a girdle that protected her center, held in place by straps that concealed an assortment of weapons. She went about braiding her hair and then twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck and secured it with pins.

She dug her boots out of the small closet and fastened the leathers with just enough room left to secure a few throwing knives.

Cortana rested against the wall beneath the window where she had left it. She picked it up and drew the blade out of the scabbard relishing in the harmonic sound it made upon being set free. With her hand wrapped around the hilt, the balance was perfectly even.

It had never let her down before; it would not let her down now.

She slid it back into its scabbard and slid her arm through the strap, so the blade lay across her back.

Commotion came from downstairs as she descended into the foyer. She looked to her left into the drawing-room and saw Matthew’s golden head of hair first. He was applying runes to James where they stood by the fireplace. Thomas and Christopher sat on the sofa while Christopher applied runes to Thomas. Anna stood on the opposite end of the room with a dark-haired girl that Cordelia quickly recognized as Ariadne Bridgestock. They were standing close to one another as if whispering in each other’s ear as Anna applied a rune to Ariadne’s forearm.

When she looked to her right from her place of the stairs, Will, Tessa Charlotte, Cecily, Gabriel, Gideon, and Sophie were all huddled in the foyer talking or rather listening to Charles who stood in the center of the group. Will kept his arm around his wife. She looked like something that could at any moment shatter at the harshest of sounds. Will looked moments away from shoving Charles into a wall for something he was saying to the group. Even Charlotte’s mouth fell open at what her son was suggesting.

Cordelia suspected that it had something to do with Lucie and imagined Will finally hitting him in the stomach. She smirked at the image and turned to her left when a hand caught her arm.

Alastair turned her and looked her over quickly. He untwisted the strap on her shoulder and smoothed the leather. “You look tired. Did you not sleep?”

Cordelia balked and crossed her arms defensively. “Yes, I slept peacefully while my best friend is trapped with a greater demon that wants to use her as a host to imprison the entire world and all of my friends and family are about to face a terrible, bloody battle to end him which might also mean the end of my best friend.”

“I’m sorry,” said Alastair.

“Don’t be sorry,” seethed Cordelia. “Help me with my Marks.”

He drew a stele from his pocket as Cordelia began to roll up her sleeves.

“How is mum?” She asked as the tip of the knife touched her skin.

“Worried,” said Alastair as his dark hair spilled into his face. “I had to give her a calming rune and dose her tea with a sleeping serum Brother Zachariah gave me to get her to rest. It’s not good for the baby.”

“Will you stay with her?”

Alastair looked up at her. “Do you think that I should?”

“I think one of us should,” she said. “If she loses one of us it will be devastating, but if she loses both of it, well, it could destroy her.”

Alastair pulled down her sleeve as he finished the swiftness rune on her right arm. She could feel its power thrumming through her veins and she suddenly felt more sure on her feet. He pushed up her left sleeve and started working on a strengthening rune. “Mother knew the world that we were being born into. She knew we would not grow to be lawyers, bankers, fisherman, seamstresses, simpletons, or the like… when I was three I held a blade in my hand and learned to disembowel Raum demons.”

“You were three?” Cordelia looked up at him. “Mother wouldn’t let me hold a blade until I was done with my first year of primary studies. She insisted I learn how to spell my name before I killed a demon.”

They both laughed. He finished with the strengthening rune and rolled down her sleeve. He twirled his fingers for her to turn around. She faced the wall and he pulled aside her collar to expose her left shoulder blade.

“What on Earth!” hissed Alastair as he pushed her head to expose her neck. “Cordelia, you have a bruise underneath your— Cordelia.” His voice hitched. “Tell me this is not what I think it is.”

Cordelia instantly clamped her hand over her neck and spun back around. She had not seen it there. She barely had time to look in the mirror as she dressed and she was too preoccupied with her hair to notice.

Her cheeks instantly turned red and she fought for a valid excuse. “I burnt myself with a curling rod.” She surprised herself with how quickly she’d come up with it. “I’ve been so preoccupied lately that I haven’t applied an iratze. It’s fine. Why? What did you think it was?” She kept her voice sweet, convincing.

Alastair narrowed his eyes and glanced over her shoulder to where James now applied runes to Matthew. He cleared his throat. “Well, it looks like—Nothing. Be more careful. Turn back around so I can finish.”

She spun back around and pressed her chilled palm to her cheeks to help cool the blush.

As the strength, fearless, and multiple other fighting runes sank into her skin and sang with her blood, she felt significantly less vulnerable. When she finished applying runes to Alastair, Charles appeared in the foyer and called to gather everyone in.

Alastair sheathed his stele and grumbled something under his breath that Cordelia could hear but the words “power-hungry” and “fraud” stood out. She nudged him with her shoulder and they walked in.

Cordelia’s eyes wandered around the faces in the room. The air hummed with anticipation and power, like the minutes before a cannon burst. She stood between Will and Alastair. Across from her stood James and Matthew. She caught his eyes and held them for a long moment before Charles began to speak.

“Here is the plan—“ he started.

Under his breath, Cordelia heard Will mutter. “Fuck this plan…”

She had heard him curse before but never intentionally in her presence. He was in the kitchen alone when he burnt himself on a fresh meat pie and yelled a string of profanities that would have made a bar fly blush. Lucie and Cordelia giggled and scurried away before he could see them.

“You all may not like it,” said Charles, “but it is how it is going to be or you can face the judgment of the Clave.”

“Fuck the Clave,” muttered Will.

Cordelia glanced at Alastair who had his head down and was noticeable smirking.

“Is there something you would like to say, Mr. Herondale!” Charles stuttered. “Or can I continue?”

“If you think I am going to let you give them the order to target my daughter,” started Will, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. "Then you are sadly mistaken. You a poor excuse for a Fairchild."

“What?” Cordelia said and stepped forward into the circle. “Target her how?”

“Our mission is to detain, Lucie Herondale,” said Charles as his voice started to rise. “By whatever means necessary.”

“What does that mean?” said James. “Whatever means necessary. Are you talking about killing her?”

“Of course it is not our intention, but if the situation deems necessary,” said Charles as voices continued to build. He closed his eyes and his mouth pinches into a thin line. “Listen to me! Listen! I understand that you all wish to save the Herondale girl, but—“

“Lucie,” said Cordelia. “Her name is Lucie. You can try to dissociate from that fact, but the rest of us cannot.”

“Lucie,” repeated Charles, “is for all we know gone already. We have no idea the kind of power that she now wields after being merged with Belial. We have no idea what she is capable of. She may not hesitate to raze us all to the ground. All that I am asking is that you extend her the same courtesy.”

“You are talking as if it would be her intent,” said Matthew. “She wouldn’t be the one choosing to raze us to the ground it would be Belial inside of her.”

Charlies rolled his jaw. “It won’t matter, she will be consumed by him.”

"That doesn't make them the same!" shouted Will.

“What if we can somehow separate them?” asked Thomas and looked to Christopher.

“It’s possible,” said Cordelia. “It’s been done before. You heard Tatiana or Tatiana’s ring rather.”

Will visibly flinched and Tessa exhaled.

“She’d have to end herself,” said Magnus. “If his host is no longer alive, then neither is he. It would mean suicide.”

The room grew quiet and the power and anticipation evaporated, replaced with an icy chill that settled into Cordelia’s bones.

“Not every bit of a good story is true,” said Lucie. Her cheeks were bright pink. “It’s the story that important.”

“If there is any way to save the—Lucie, then, by all means, do so,” said Charles, interrupting Cordelia’s thoughts. “But if the moment arrives, when it comes between ending Belial’s rampage and saving her… then do the right thing. Or suffer the consequences in the end, whatever they may be.” He glanced at his watch. “It is nearly dawn. We should all start to prepare. Magnus said the contact points could be central London, the Thames, or the Tower Bridge. I want people stationed at all of those locations and the back-up will follow upon his arrival. If there is no activity in ten hours then we will reconvene here.”

He pushed past Anna and Ariadne as he left the circle and stalked towards the door. Will had turned and was holding Tessa. Matthew had his hand on James’s shoulder who was staring with intent down at the floor.

She turned to Alastair. “Where were we when we were attacked by the demon while in the carriage?”

His eyes searched hers. “Just before we reached the bridge over the Thames. Why?”

“I think that’s where he’s going to come from,” said Cordelia in a low voice. “And that’s where we should be. I’m not going to let them kill her.”

“Cordelia—“

“The brave princess Lucretia raced through the marble halls of the palace. "I must find Cordelia, " she gasped. "I must save her."

“I must save her,” she said and hugged him so only he could hear. “Will you help me try?”

A/N: The italicized sentences are paraphrased quotes from Chain of Gold by Cassandra Clare. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I know I said we would see what Lucie is up to but there was still much to be done! We will see her again in the next chapter. Love you all!

[wouldduskwood]

Descendants of Despair Part 44

During the drive back, Jake began casting awkward glances in my direction. I hoped he wasn’t regretting what had happened. I definitely wasn’t. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me. “What is it?” I asked. “Uh...I probably should have asked this before we had sex for the first time...but…” he paused and raised an eyebrow. “You’re concerned I might get pregnant?” I asked, grinning at his discomfort in asking. Jake nodded without taking his eyes off the road. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Look, it isn’t that I am opposed…but…” I put my hand on his thigh and squeezed it gently. “We are hardly in the position to provide a good home for anyone. I have the contraceptive implant in my arm. It works for around 5 years, so I have a good 3 years left on this one...look...I am very real about what can happen when a woman is out alone. I won a lot, but I also lost some. Even though I had moved off the street...I hadn’t forgotten it...this gave me some peace of mind.” I replied warily. Everything in my life had revolved around the horrors I had faced growing up. Now, safe with Jake, it was easy to forget until I was faced with a situation like this. Jake’s hand gripped mine. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he declared. “No matter what.”

I struggled to form an answer, so instead kissed Jake’s cheek lovingly. He turned and smiled at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. We drove the remainder of the way in silence. As we arrived back home, Jake took my hand and led me through to his set up. Sitting on the floor with an arm around me, he caressed my hair as he checked everything that had happened while we had been out. Finally, satisfied we were safe, he glanced in my direction. “You look exhausted. How about we shower then we need to get some sleep so we don’t make mistakes tomorrow.” I nodded warily and allowed Jake to lead me through to the bathroom. We showered together, embracing each other as we washed. Finally, as the water began to cool, we got out, dried off and dressed for bed.

I fell asleep as soon as I lay on the floor in Jake’s arms, waking to the sun breaking. Jake was still snoozing, his arms wrapped lightly around me. As I moved, he woke quickly. “Mmh, everything okay?” he whispered as he kissed my head. “Yeah… nervous I guess.” I mumbled. “Trust me, I am too…” he acknowledged. “We will get the camera work done this morning. All going well, I will have eyes in there by this evening. If not, we abandon and...I dunno...forget Phil?” Jake grinned hopefully. I pushed him lightly, feigning anger at him then pulled myself out of his arms and began to get ready.

We left not long after we had woken, too edgy to stay around the house and complete the menial tasks of cleaning and laundry that we usually occupied ourselves with in the mornings. I dressed in the business suit we had managed to obtain during an outing one day and tied my hair back in a bun. Some glasses with fake lenses completed my business ensemble. The drive towards town seemed quick as I barely had time to get my thoughts together when we were pulling up a street away from the police station, far enough that the cameras wouldn’t pick up our car from being in the area and close enough to jam the signal. I sat quietly, allowing Jake to work and internally panicking.

This whole situation was out of my depth. Usually, when I needed something, I came up with a quick plan then barrelled head first into action. Being able to think on my feet and adapt to situations was what had kept me alive at this point. But now, Jake’s concern for my well-being was beginning to leach into my own concerns. Suddenly happy with my place in life, I wasn’t willing to lose that. “Okay, done.” Jake sighed as he leaned back in his seat. “Now, they may try and solve the problem themselves or they may contact a real firm to fix them. I guess we just need to wait and see.”

I nodded warily. Wait and see was always a tough game. We occupied ourselves by attempting small talk. It wasn’t always an easy task as the situation meant we were trying to remain light and breezy... but most of our lives before now had been anything but that. After a while, we started kissing instead. It was a lot easier than talking and made us both feel connected. Finally, after what seemed like hours, our decoy phone began to ring. Jake cast me a quick look, his eyes wide. He handed me the phone and I swallowed sharply before answering.

It was only a few minutes of my life, but it felt like an eternity, under Jake’s anxious gaze. Finally, I hung up the phone and handed it back to him, completely ready to throw it at him. “It’s set up, I’ve got access in half an hour.” I stated as calmly as I could. Jake nodded warily and sat back in his seat, his eyes closed and breathing heavy. I looked at him helplessly, unsure what to say or do to make the situation any better. Finally, he took a deep breath, turned to face me and smashed his lips against mine for a moment. Then, he turned his back on me. “You have everything you need. Go.” Jake said coldly.

I knew why he did it, but it was still unnerving. Not a good way to start. Walking towards the prison, I rehearsed over and over the routine we had established. Upon reaching my destination, I found I had never been more intimidated by a building than this one. It wasn’t the security or the fact that the building was swarming with police and criminals. It was the sudden realisation that I was completely alone in this and nothing from my past could entirely prepare me for what was coming. Being with Jake had lowered my defenses.

‘Confidence is key,’ I told myself as I made my way through the security, flashing the ID lanyard Jake had put together. I couldn't believe the idiot didn't check to make sure the ID was genuine. Making my way to the desk, I signed in, only partially listening to the complaints they were making about the downed cameras. Rather, I spent the time analysing my surroundings, looking for easy escape routes and things that might potentially stand in my way. I followed my guide through a couple of corridors and found myself in the security control room of the prison. Screens flicked between various angles, all showing black. The angles changed every 10 seconds or so, shown by a location and camera ID displaying under each blank picture. “Okay, I will just need a bit of time to work through the system and find the bug.” I stated firmly, placing myself in the seat usually occupied by security.

I logged into the network, using the details they had so haphazardly provided me. To begin with, I opened a simple command shell programme, hoping that the string commands I typed would be enough to fool them into thinking I was doing the job they had employed me for. Sitting back in my chair like I was in for a long wait, I looked towards my companions and said; “Now I just have to wait for the programme to pick up on whatever is going on. It may take a while. If you have other work that needs to be done, I can stay here and man this. This system is out of commission until it runs through anyway so all I can do is sit and stare at the screens.” I said, aiming to infuse as much conviction as I could in my statement. My unassuming form coupled with a look of boredom was enough to have them look at each other then agree to leave me to it. I knew that I wouldn’t have long alone, so I had to act fast.

Taking a USB from my pocket, I quickly plugged it into the back of the system and sent Jake a message that I was ready to go. I watched as Jake’s hack appeared on screen, various scrolling strings of complex code appeared with a task progress bar. I watched impatiently as the code ran, hoping that we would have enough time to get through before I was sprung. Around 10 minutes later, I received a message on screen claiming success. I quickly penned a message to Jake to let him know his application had been a success and I had completed my part of the mission, then I hid all traces of the application as best as I could just as the security team arrived back. Thankfully, Jake reinstated the camera network just as they arrived.

“Good timing,” I smiled. “It looks like it was just a failure from overloading. I have fixed that and given it a bit more leeway in case of overload in the future.” I shook their hands then led the way out, trying not to run as the cameras would now pick up on my face. As soon as I left the station and was clear of their cameras, I took off running to one of the escape routes I had practised. My phone began buzzing and I answered it quickly, while running. “Which route are you taking?” Jake asked urgently. “A.” I replied hastily as I jumped. “I’ll be at the fire escape when you arrive.” He announced and my line went dead just as I heard something behind me and turned to see a figure running over the building I was on. Without thinking, I jumped onto the final building and headed straight down the fire escape, landing just as Jake arrived.

Rushing into the car, I closed the door quickly behind me. “Drive,” I growled. Jake cast me a concerned look but followed my instruction. I turned to see whether my pursuer had kept up but couldn’t make out anything as we were travelling too fast.

“What happened?” Jake snarled. “I thought everything had gone well?” “Someone was waiting…” I stuttered.

Part 45

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars CXXXVII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: Book 6 was beyond complicated to write due to some artistic choices I made lmao but again I do hope you guys like it even if I don’t feel it was perfect bc I enjoyed how most of it turned out -Danny

Words: 4,005

Series’ Masterlist

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Listen to: ‘The Black and White’ -by The Band CAMINO.

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Prophecy.

Harry walked back to his chair and sat down heavily.

"Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well — not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years. I considered it almost a miracle when Emily agreed to move in next door so she could keep an eye on you..."

Even though Lord Voldemort perished that night in Godric's Hollow, his followers continue to hunt down answers for months, neither Harry nor Mel would've been safe in the wizarding world.

"You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated — to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died —and your father too, Mel— to save you. They gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother's blood, Harry. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative."

"She doesn't love me. She doesn't give a damn —"

"But she took you. She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you. And as for you, Mel, you were just a baby, therefore Voldemort's followers couldn't tell if you were as skilled as your dad. It was only until last year when Voldemort realized you were hiding great power."

"I still don't —"

"While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, Harry, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years."

"My mother isn't a Dumbledore," Mel frowned. "If that's what kept Harry safe, living with his aunt, then why did I only meet you after I turned eleven?"

"You were a direct descendant from my brother and not me, you weren't in danger as much as Harry. Once I found out about your outbursts I talked to him, I knew you'd need his protection... I'm afraid his guilt stopped him. I've been taking his place, having you come into my office for a weekly lesson as a way to make sure you would be both, protected, while also learning to defend yourself."

Harry came into a new realization.

"You sent that Howler. You told my aunt to remember — it was your voice —"

"I thought that she might need reminding of the pact she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the dementor attack might have awoken her to the dangers of having you as a surrogate son." 

"It did. Well — my uncle more than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the Howler came she — she said I had to stay. But what's this got to do with..."

"Five years ago, then, you arrived at Hogwarts, neither as happy nor as well-nourished as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well."

The memory of that small boy came to her. He didn't look much different from the Harry sitting beside her, except perhaps, for the way his gaze had darkened. 

He'd always known Harry and Mel would eventually be hunted, and he'd made sure they'd be ready. Dumbledore had a plan from the moment they set a foot in the castle. She wondered exactly how much of everything happened accidentally, and how much had been planned.

"I don't understand what you're saying." 

"Don't you remember asking me, as you lay in the hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you when you were a baby? Ought I to have told you then? You do not see the flaw in the plan yet? No... perhaps not. Well, as you know, I decided not to answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too young to know. I had never intended to tell you when you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at such a young age, just like I refused to tell Mel about the rumours surrounding our family."

'The knowledge would be too much at such a young age'. Now, after four years, Mel felt weaker than when she was eleven. Somehow thinner, and far more fragile.

"Do you see? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."

"I don't —"

"I cared about you too much. I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act."

Mel visibly deflated, a new wave of hurt crashing against her heart.

"So it's true, then?" She asked. "Caring only makes us weak?" 

"My dear, I defy anyone who has watched you as I have —and I have watched you more closely than you can have imagined — not to want to save you more pain than you had already suffered. What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a pair of young souls on my hands..."

Mel had held something similar whenever she would reach out to kiss Harry, and nothing else in the world mattered when they were alone together... but after the third task, they were always so alone.

"...You came out of the maze last year, having watched Cedric Diggory die, having escaped death so narrowly yourself... you, Mel, gave away part of your own life, selflessly risking your own well-being just for the frail chance to see Harry again, and I did not tell you, because to tell you after having almost lost each other in such a way would've been beyond cruel, though I knew, now Voldemort had returned, I must do it soon. 

And now, tonight, I know you have long been ready for the knowledge I have kept from you for so long, because you have proved that I should have placed the burden upon you before this. My only defence is this: I have watched you struggling under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school, and I could not bring myself to add another — the greatest one of all."

"...I still don't understand," Harry responded, though now his voice was a bit more quiet and fearful.

Dumbledore admitted what they already knew: Voldemort tried to kill him because of the prophecy, and he'd tried to stop it before it could be fulfilled. Now, years after and once again in a proper body, Voldemort set his mind on hearing the whole thing, looking for a way to end it.

The sun was fully out now, and as he finished, Mel felt the first glimmer of hope peering through.

"Mel broke the prophecy," Harry said quietly. "She crushed it against the ground..."

She closed her injured hand tightly without caring about the sharp pain that shot up to her elbow. 

"I knew we could get rid of it."

"How?" Harry frowned. "How could you know?"

"Because that orb was merely the record of the prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries. But the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person has the means of recalling it perfectly," Dumbledore explained, looking at her with a strange glint in his eyes.

"Who heard it?" asked Harry, though he already knew the answer.

"I did. On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog's Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous, very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be suitable for the post. I turned to leave."

As Dumbledore stood up to retrieve something from a cabinet, Mel continued her story.

"That was the reason why my uncle knew what Voldemort was looking for," She swallowed harshly. "As soon as that thing broke I recognized the figure. How could I not? We've been seeing her for three years..."

Dumbledore came back holding the Pensieve, he put the tip of his wan on one temple and pulled, Mel stood up abruptly. 

"Maybe I shouldn't be here to hear it."

"You've earned your place in this conversation," Dumbledore replied. "Your life is linked to Harry's, is only fair for you to hear it too... that way you'll be able to make an informed decision."

"Only if he agrees." 

She was used to Harry keeping her at a proper distance from his doings, nevertheless, Harry grabbed her wrist.

"Sit down... please."

Before she could reply a figure rose from the Pensieve, there stood a small version of Sibyll Trelawney with a voice Mel had only imagined thanks to Harry's tales from two years ago:

"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES... BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES... AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT... AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES..."

Professor Trelawney vanished slowly.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said after a moment. "It... did that mean... What did that mean?" 

"It meant... that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times."

"It means — me?"

Dumbledore eyed both teenagers carefully before speaking.

"The odd thing is, Harry, that it may not have meant you at all. Sibyll's prophecy could have applied to three babies, one of them being Mel."

"What?" 

"I thought it was meant to be Matthew's baby," He sighed, "an Auror and a Dumbledore... but alas, you were born at the start of the month — and you were a girl. There were still two more babies in line. Both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom."

"But then... but then, why was it my name on the prophecy and not Neville's?"

"The official record was relabeled after Voldemort's attack on you as a child. It seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you because he knew you to be the one to whom Sibyll was referring."

"Then — it might not be me?"

"I am afraid that there is no doubt that it is you." 

"But you said — Neville was born at the end of July too — and his mum and dad —"

"You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifying feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort... Voldemort himself would 'mark him as his equal.' And so he did, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse."

"But he might have chosen wrong! He might have marked the wrong person!"

"He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him. And notice this, Harry. He chose, not the pureblood (which, according to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or knowing), but the half-blood, like himself. He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times so far — something that neither your parents, nor Neville's parents, ever achieved."

In her mind, an alternate life started to take form: Mel as the orphan, Harry's parents alive and well, it was her the one facing death every time... 

Then poor scarred Neville, while Mel and Harry lived surrounded by their families, perhaps even together. The fact that the only reason why Harry was the chosen one was a matter of gender and dates... 

"Why did he do it, then? Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then — or even Mel... She's a Dumbledore — She's the strongest!"

"That might, indeed, have been the more practical course, except that Voldemort's information about the prophecy was incomplete. The Hog's Head Inn, which Sibyll chose for its cheapness, has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting clientele than the Three Broomsticks. As you and your friends found out to your cost, and I to mine that night, it is a place where it is never safe to assume you are not being overheard. Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sibyll Trelawney, that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My — our — one stroke of good fortune was that the eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the prophecy and thrown from the building."

"So he only heard..?"

"He heard only the first part, the part foretelling the birth of a boy in July to parents who had thrice defied Voldemort. Consequently, he could not warn his master that to attack you would be to risk transferring power to you — again marking you as his equal. So Voldemort never knew that there might be danger in attacking you, that it might be wise to wait or to learn more. And once Mel was born at the start of July as a girl, and you a boy, this only narrowed it down to his apparent advantage. He did not know that you would have 'power the Dark Lord knows not' —"

"But I don't! I haven't any powers he hasn't got, I couldn't fight the way he did tonight, I can't possess people or — or kill them —"

"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore replied carefully, "that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all. 

That power is what has aided Mel to know if you're in danger and allowed her to help, that power took you to save Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you. So you see, Mel," He added, "caring it's never useless."

"The end of the prophecy... it was something about... 'neither can live...' "

"'... while the other survives,' " Dumbledore concluded.

"So... so does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?"

"Yes."

They stayed silent for the longest time, Mel found her voice at the same time as her courage.

"Okay," She spoke. "We just have to make sure you're the one that lives."

Dumbledore's face hinted at a smile, but it did not form fully. Harry stared at her like the thought of surviving was next to impossible.

"I feel I owe you two other explanations," said Dumbledore carefully. "You may, perhaps, have wondered why I never chose you as prefects? I must confess that I rather thought both of you had enough responsibility to be going on with..."

Mel let out a dry chuckle, Harry just sighed. 

"The second and final... is about the decision you ought to take."

"What decision?"

"Your lifeline," He started, "I've been reading about it since the third task... It's called Unio Azoth — A universal cure for any kind of injury, you heal with life itself, and it's always effective. However, not many people dare use it because it demands great sacrifice from both sides of the connection. It's created through highly complex magic, or it can happen, as it was your case, after multiple shared near-death experiences," He paused. "It can also be removed."

There was a split second in which the students didn't know how to react. 

"You're saying," Mel started. "We've been hurting each other for a whole year — and you hid this from us?"

"You were on bad terms after the tournament, the removal can only happen if both sides consent, and you were holding onto it tightly, Mel."

"Is it dark magic?" Harry asked abruptly. "Our connection?"

Dumbledore took another long look at him.

"I believe that what you're trying to ask is if it's damaging for any of you," He replied. "Which is something that depends on the circumstances. There have been moments your connection has improved your lives, but it's also damaged you physically to a great extent. You're asking a question only you can answer, Harry."

"This could've fixed everything between us," Mel felt her anger increasing. "And you just let us argue instead? Why?"

"It was your impulsive actions that kept me from speaking, I couldn't risk one of you trying to cut it without the other knowing, it would've resulted in tragedy."

"We would've acted differently if only we’d known! The reason why we fought was because of how guilty Harry felt about putting me through extra pain — We could've just cut the damn thing — You thought I would've just decided to abandon him?"

"Isn't that what you were attempting this year?" Dumbledore asked pointedly.

"Harry and I couldn't stop fighting, I was tired — I had to keep my distance," Mel stood up. "He spent a whole year drowning in guilt thinking we couldn't change things —"

"When I found out it could be removed," Dumbledore's voice came out just as firm as hers. "You were already far too traumatized. Losing this would've felt like losing a limb. You weren't ready to make a choice then, but I can't keep you in the dark any longer, you have the whole picture now, so you can make an informed decision, but I must ask you to think —"

"I don't need to think it over," Mel said, but Harry spoke at the same time.

"I want to keep it."

"What?" She looked at him in disbelief.

Harry stared at her. 

"It's thanks to this that I knew you were having panic attacks, you've saved my life many times now, I owe you — and it doesn't have to hurt, you can control it, I just need to learn how to do it too!"

"You've been nagging me about how much of a burden this was and suddenly you cling to it as if it were a blessing?" She narrowed her eyes.

"It's just..." His jaw tensed. "It works both ways — if I give it up and Voldemort takes you... I can't leave you to deal with it alone, you'd do the same for me. You've already done it."

Mel shook her head, speechless.

"The decision is yours to make..." Dumbledore concluded. "You have until next term to tell me, and then we'll do whatever you please."

They were walking side by side without speaking. She did not wish to fight, and she felt like it would happen if they were to bring up... well, everything. 

"I'm sorry," He muttered. 

"I don't want to hear it. I'm to blame as much as you are. I ignored you — Dumbledore's right, knowing would've tricked us into thinking we could deal with it on our own, it would've killed us... I've been selfish enough this year to know I would've felt tempted to try and cut it on my own. I won't admit it in front of him, though..."

"You weren't —"

"I don't want to have this conversation," She stopped walking. "Everyone thinks I'm like my father or my uncle... and I'm not. When I was with you I was just Mel... whoever that's supposed to be. When we fought I got lost — you said awful things to me, but you were the only one who wasn't treating me like some overpowered freak..."

"I can't promise we won't fight in the future, but there are worse things than disagreeing and the thought of dying without telling you that I..." He came to a halt, voice breaking.

They wanted to talk about so many things, and yet Mel felt like they would never get to say anything at all.

"You know," She said softly. "We've gone through so much already... and it's hard, looking at you and having to pretend I can continue like this."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm feeling so alone, Harry," She forced the words out of her. "I miss you."

She'd almost been murdered that night, treated like a ragdoll, and traumatized until there was no safe place in her world. Still, nothing made her feel quite as vulnerable and tiny as Harry's understanding of her, the way he knew every single corner of her mind as if it were his own.

Harry gazed at her with hurt, he clenched his jaw and shook his head lightly. She was ready to watch him leave when suddenly, he hugged her.

Mel was having trouble breathing against his shoulder but her arms kept him close, one hand made its way up to the back of his head while the other went to the middle of his back. He was a few inches taller than her, but she still felt like they were a perfect fit.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled against her hair, and Mel knew he wasn't just talking about Sirius.

"Me too," She closed her eyes tightly. "We'll find a way through this... together."

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle

[ijustwant2write]

Never Alone-Peter Parker x Male!Reader

(GIF credit to @starkissedtom​)

Tags: @amirahiddleston​​ @bloodorangemoonlight​​ @slowkib​

Requested by @slowkib : ‘Hi! Can I request peter Parker x male!reader in zombie apocalypse au? Like from the last of us?’

Characters: Peter Parker x Male!Reader, Avengers x Male!Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Dystopian zombie future, guns, violence, mention of death, fighting, swearing, fluff

(A/N: I’ve never played ‘The Last of Us’, so I did my own thing with this)

                                        *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My fingers traced over the empty shelves as I walked down the aisles in the grocery store. It was covered in dust after being bare for the past year. There was literally nothing left, not even any rotting food. A bang broke me out of my trance, making me clutch onto my gun and duck behind another shelf. No other noise came, and I knew that if any zombies were around, I would be able to hear something; I was too used to the dragging of their bodies, a low groaning sound, even heavy breathing. Taking a risk, I peeked around the corner of the shelf, into the main aisle, not seeing anything, not even a shadow.

“Hey!” Peter whispered beside me.

I jumped, but made no sound.“Peter! Why would you do that?!”

He was perched on top of the shelf, having obviously climbed down from the ceiling.“Sorry, but at least I was quiet!”

“Yeah, I guess.” I sighed, relaxing slightly.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just living in the apocalypse, you know?” 

He silently jumped down beside me, joining me to sit on the floor.“We’ll get through this, we’ve got each other.”

I smiled as he held my hand.“But...I really don’t mean to be negative today, but I’m running out of positivity all together. This is never ending. I thought....I thought that maybe S.H.I.E.L.D or even the Avengers would be able to help with this. And I know you all did at first but once our resources ran out, and technology became vast, it just seems like the end is inevitable. Maybe the world is supposed to end like this, after everything we’ve done to it, or it’s supposed to start over again-”

“Stop thinking like that! We’ve got through this last year, right?”

My head fell back as I scoffed.“That’s the thing. It’s only been a year but it feels like forever! I’m tired all the time. We’re constantly on the run, we’re never able to settle anywhere because zombies somehow come crawling along. We’ve had to kill so many of them. We have to take turns taking watch, but even if I’m able to sleep, my body won’t let me. I’m too tense all the time. I have plaguing nightmares that I’ll wake up and you won’t be there, you’ll be laying there dead. And we’ve been trying to find the Avengers all this time, but we’re not even close!”

I hunched up into a ball, hiding my face in my knees as I wrapped my arms around them, my shoulders shaking as I started to cry. Peter instantly hugged me, holding on tightly.

“I’m always going to be here. I’m going to protect you. Even if I wasn’t Spider-Man, because that has been a big bonus, I would still protect you from the zombies. I know this is nothing like The Walking Dead, or any comic we’ve read. But it’s amazing that we’ve survived, just the two of us. We can’t focus on the loss, we have to keep moving and think about the future. They’ve got to be alive, they’re the Avengers!”

“I know. I hate that we’re by ourselves, we’re not even adults! I don’t want to live like this. I want to be back in school. I want to be stuck in a maths class again. I want to be a normal teenager.”

“Well,” Peter tilted my face up to look at him, he was smiling,“it wasn’t exactly normal to begin with. You’re dating Spider-Man.”

I chuckled, wiping the tears off my cheeks.“Yeah, besides that, I want to go back to the way things were.”

He kissed my forehead.“I know. But if we keep thinking like that, we won’t get very far, will we? Yeah, the world has turned to shit, but I wouldn’t want to be stuck with anyone else.”

“You’re so cringey.”

“No, I’m just truthful. Come on, the area is clear, we can keep moving.”

Luckily, as we continued to walk to the next city, we didn’t encounter anymore zombies. We would sometimes goes days without seeing them, maybe the odd stray, but these were the times we tried to keep ourselves calm and reserved. Obviously our guard was always up, they could be around any corner, mostly when we got into towns or big cities. Our objective was to track down the Avengers, or anyone who was part of S.H.I.E.L.D. Our family and friends were gone, they were our last hope. It was impossible to think of a future with just the two of us like this. Although being with Peter was perfect, I had imagined a more cosy lifestyle together (as cosy as you could get being with a superhero), not battling zombies like I had seen on the TV. Oh, I missed TV.

Peter gasped, pushing me back into a tree. He had spotted something up ahead, and it was a big problem for us. He kept close to me, keeping an eye on the zombies.

“How many?” I whispered.

“Uh, th-there’s a group of them. Maybe...twenty I think.”

“OK, that’s not too bad. Usual tactic?”

“Wait, there’s more of them. I don’t know where they’re coming from, or why they’re here. There’s no one here to eat.”

“Except us.”

“Yeah, but something must have dragged them out here.”

“So what do we do?” 

“We’ll do what we usually do, we can’t wait them out or get around them.”

“Alright, let’s do this. I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

We quickly kissed before he climbed up the tree, preparing the swing and distract them, before I would go in and shoot them. It wasn’t the best idea, but it’s all we had. At first, Peter’s suit was able to use all it’s gadgets, until it was so battered and it had gone ages without an upgrade, that it was useless. It was just Peter’s webbing now. I waited for him to get the group webbed together, making them stuck as they struggled in the trap. I was about to start shooting at them when I saw more approaching. Peter was about to do the same thing when a zombie grabbed his leg as he swung past. He was thrown off, sending him tumbling onto the ground, landing at the feet of the new group. Was was drawing them near here?!

“Peter!” I yelled out.

Leaving the webbed zombies, I saved my ammunition to shoot at the ones near Peter. He scrambled away from them as I took my shots, trying to web them up as well. But more and more kept coming. We were in the middle of the woods, what had attracted them?

“(Y/N), we need to get out of here!” Peter shouted as the zombies started to close in.

“How?!”

“I could swing up and-”

“They’ll grab at us before we could get away!”

“Well what do you suggest?”

Before I could answer, the sound of some sort of aircraft echoed out. There hadn’t been any noise like that since...well, since the start of all of this. It also caught the attention of the zombies, giving us a chance to shoot our way out. Once out of the crowd, Peter scooped me up in his arms, swinging into a tree to ensure they couldn’t get to us. However, we found ourselves clinging onto the branches as the plane started descending, the engines making a lot of wind and shaking the entire forest.

“The quinjet! They’re here!” I barely heard Peter say.

“The what?!”

Because the tree was shielding us, it meant we couldn’t see what was going on before us. The trees stopped and calmed their rustling as the plane landed, before mechanical noises echoed out. But we heard people, they were all shouting at each other, going over the plan, grunts sounding out as they fought. Something flew past us, I saw flashes of red and yellow, and I knew exactly who it was.

“I’m going to help, stay here!” Peter said, not giving me a chance to stop him as he jumped out of the tree.

I shakily moved my position in the tree, trying to get to a better angle to see what was going on. A huge smile spread across my face, even a gasp came out of me as I saw the Avengers fighting off the swarms. They had found us! They had found Peter and were here to get us out of this mess! Shocked by the whole idea of escaping, I was suddenly brought back to reality as I heard a groan from someone close by. My eyes darted around, trying to find the person who may be struggling. It was Captain America, who found himself surrounded. He was trying not to get bit, but needed to fight his way out. Taking a deep breath to calm my shakes, I aimed my gun at one of the zombies. I wasn’t an amazing shooter, but I had improved over the year, and had faith I could help kill some of these monsters. 

I shot at two of them, managing to hit their heads. The super soldier’s head whipped up to where the bullets could have come from, nodding at me once he saw me hidden in the tree. I continued shooting, trying my best to help. I wasn’t going to be the damsel hidden away. It as amazing to see them fighting up close, they were so strong, so brave. I was always petrified whenever we had to face zombies.

It was over in minutes, zombies were an easy enemy for them to defeat. Everyone was catching their breaths, exchanging hugs with Peter. We’d been lost for over a year, but we were finally saved. This didn’t mean our happy ending was here, the world was still a shit hole, but it was one step closer. Once Peter had been embraced by everyone, he looked up to me, quickly climbing up the tree to help me down. I was suddenly nervous, it was like meeting his family all over again...although he had always called them that anyway, so it was.

“Guys,” Peter breathed, still tired from fighting,“this is my boyfriend, (Y/N).”

“H-hi.” I nervously stuttered.

“It’s been just you two? For how long?” Tony Stark (!) asked.

We nodded as Peter spoke.“For about a year. We tried saving everyone but...but we couldn’t.”

“You two did everything you could, I just know it.” Black Widow reassured us.“And it’s amazing that you’ve been smart enough to last this long. Not a lot of people out there.”

“Where have you guys been?” 

“S.H.I.E.L.D had a plan all along. As soon as they found out about the people stupidly experimenting with all of this, they made a backup. We were called in, tried to save as many people as we could. But, as you probably know, technology has been scarce, even for them. We’ve had a few cut backs, hence why it’s taken us so long to find you.” Captain America explained.

“You’re here now.” I piped up.“That’s all that matters. We’ve also been trying to find you.”

“Is everyone there? Dr Strange? Wanda? Ant-Man?” Peter asked.

They nodded. Mr Stark placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder.“They’re all there. We’re going to rebuild this world, because we’re the Avengers.”

Peter grinned.“We’ll avenge it.”

Tony rolled his eyes.“Yeah, that’s, that’s what I was getting at kid. Come on you two, you look like you’re in need of a good meal...or three.”

We followed them onto the quinjet eagerly, holding each others hands the whole time. As we put on our seat belts, we glanced at each other, a sudden overwhelming feeling hitting both of us. We were no longer alone. We were with the safest people we could be. Peter was reunited with his family, we were going somewhere where we wouldn’t have to lose sleep over our safety, and we could eat properly. And we were still alive, and still together.

“We did it. We found them.” I chuckled, my heart racing rapidly.

He squeezed my hand.“Yeah, we did. I’m so happy that I’ve still got you.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Everyone is going to love you.”

“I forgot that there’s more to meet.”

“Don’t worry, I have a good feeling about all of this.”

[junkercrush]

“That’s Not Me”

"That’s Not Me” by junkercrush

Pairing: Roadhog x Female Reader (and special appearance of Mauga)

Rating: Slightly NSFW

Words: 1,605

Author’s Note: I’ve written this story originally in August 2019. Hurricane Dorian and Mauga were my inspirations. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Past

God, you loved this game.

You were never the exhibitionist until Roadhog changed your mind.

You stood on the balcony in your underwear under the bright, full moon. You only had a phone in your hand. It was a chilly, windy night. You were cold, a little terrified, and absolutely turned on. The heat of your arousal kept you warm.

“Take off your bra.” Hog ordered you from your cell.

What if somebody sees me?!

You ignored the voice in your mind and swiftly removed your lacy bra. It was new but quite itchy.

“Grab your luscious breasts. Caress them.” Hog ordered again.

You warmed your hands together and cupped your breasts. You closed your eyes and imagined Hog’s large hands on you. It would’ve been great to feel his heat right now.

You could hear Hog heavily breathing and chuckling in the background.

“Mako,” You sighed.

“That’s right, beg for me.” Hog said.

“Mako, come home!”

“That’s a good pig. Get ready for me. I’ll be there in a sec.”

With a tiny squeal of delight, you got off the balcony, closed the door, and climbed into the California king canopy bed you and Hog shared.

“One more thing,” You heard Hog from your phone. “Put on the blindfold.”

You grabbed the silky black blindfold tied around a bedpost and covered your eyes with it.

“Shit.” You gasped. You forgot to turn off your phone. You could hear Hog’s heavy footsteps approaching the bedroom door.

You lifted the blindfold just quick enough to turn off your phone and set it aside. Roadhog entered as soon as you laid down on the bed. He let out a heavy sigh and removed his mask.

You could hear your heart thumping in your head. He was so close yet still so far away. Your body was desperate for his touch. Hog’s massive weight shifted the bed. You felt his hot breath on your skin. His thick fingers traced the curves of your body.

“Hoggy’s here,” He whispered into your ear. “You’re safe now.”

Present

“AAAAAHHHHH!!!!”

The shrieking woman in the horror movie jolted you out of your slumber. You forgot you were supposed to stay up and wait for Roadhog until he returned from his mission fighting TALON. You weren’t worried; he’s been kicking ass in those missions. So far, Hog hasn’t texted you yet. It must be a late one.

You laughed at the damsel in distress on TV, trying her best to escape a Zomnic in her shredded outfit. Her huge breasts were about to pop out of her blouse. You hollered at the ridiculousness.

Any texts? Still, no texts.

“Hoggy, where are you?” You moaned.

You left the screaming TV to find yourself a snack in the kitchen. A huge bowl of mixed popcorn and candy corn waited for you by the microwave. It was initially reserved for you and Hog to eat together. Now, it looks like you will be the only one consuming it tonight.

PING!

You checked your phone; It was Hog!

Hog: I’m coming home.

You: You’re missing the movie marathon! :-(

It took a moment for Hog to respond. You tapped your French manicured nails impatiently on the marble kitchen island. Finally, he replied:

Hog: What r u wearing 2nite?

Wow, getting down to business already. You gobbled down some popcorn mix and sent Hog a text describing your night attire. You were wearing some boy shorts, pinstripe thigh-highs, and Hog’s oversized “FUCK YOU” t-shirt.

Hog “2 the balcony.”

You sped upstairs to the bedroom balcony. You sighed as the soft wind blew your face. The palm trees on your front yard swayed back and forth.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm was coming. Let’s hope the lightning doesn’t strike you while you were out here.

But fuck the storm! Hog was coming home! Or was he already back? His motorcycle wasn’t on the driveway, but you had a feeling he was close. Might be hiding behind the overgrown azalea bushes like last time.

You gripped the balcony rail, phone in one hand, waiting for Hog’s commands. A chorus of oinking pigs erupted from your phone. It was Hog!

“I’m here.” You answered.

You heard a dark chuckle from the other end. “You have such a pretty voice. Can you see me?”

You peered around your landscape. Not a single hint of Hog’s whereabouts. Lightning flashed across the sky.

“No,” You replied. “I don’t.”

Chuckles came out of your phone once again. This time, much more sinister. Aw man, what did Hog have in mind for you this time? Was this even him?

“I can see you.” Was the reply. Suddenly, the neighborhood lamp posts blew out. Lightning flashed closer to your house. You backed up to the balcony door.

“Stop.” Hog ordered.

Your hand was on the doorknob. You almost failed to follow orders. That was part of the game. You weren’t supposed to do anything while you were on the balcony until Hog told you.

“The door’s unlocked?” He asked.

Of course, it was unlocked. You always left the front door open for Hog as soon as he let you know he was coming home. You remained silent, your hand still on the doorknob as you watched the skies. Fear lingered in your stomach.

The wind was picking up, and rain was pelting the balcony. Hog better hurry up and say something!

“I’m coming in. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Ah, finally! You rushed back into the bedroom and closed the balcony door behind you. A thunderclap sent you retreating to the comfy bed and hide under the covers. No matter how old you were, thunderstorms scared the crap out of you.

You heard a scream from downstairs. The horror movies were still on. In a hot second, the sound was cut off.

Your phone rang. Some unknown number. You hung up on the call and placed your phone on vibrate.

You could hear Hog’s footsteps treading around downstairs. You wished he would come up fast so he can cuddle you and protect you from this storm.

A light emitted from your phone, the unknown number again. It started spamming video chat invitations.

“Who the hell is this?” You muttered, annoyed. Under the covers, you accepted the video chat, and Hog’s beaten mask filled your screen. One side of his mask had a massive dent like somebody Hog’s size punched it. The rest of the mask was riddled with bullet holes. Boy, this last mission must’ve been pretty rough. You could hear Hog’s motorcycle roaring in the background.

Wait, he was still on the road?!

“Don’t let him in!” Hog shouted. Fear hit your stomach hard like a Doomfist punch.

“What?” Your voice trembled.

“Don’t let him in,” Hog cried. “THAT’S NOT ME!”

Oh fuck. You could hear the intruder in your house coming upstairs.

“Hey, pretty lady. I can’t wait to see you.” The intruder said, making kissy noises. Awww fuck, who did you invite into your house?!

You locked the bedroom door, shoved a large dresser in front of it (thanks to strength training with Reinhardt), and pulled out a gun hidden underneath your bed.

The gun looked like Roadhog’s but smaller. It was a swell gift Junkrat made for you last Christmas. ‘Bout time you were going to use it on a real target, not training Omnics.

Hog’s motorcycle rumbled among the brewing storm outside. A heavy sigh came from the other side of the bedroom door. The doorknob jiggled.

“So close,” The intruder breathed. You could hear him descending back down the stairs.

“(Y/N)!” Mako shouted outside. You were about to meet him out on the balcony, but he already charged inside the house.

You quickly pushed the dresser out of the way as soon as Hog kicked the door down. He pulled you into a tight hug as soon as he laid eyes on you. You felt his tears dripping on your neck.

This was the first time you’ve ever witnessed Mako so worried about your safety, and it scared you.

“Hoggy, what happened?” You asked, smoothing his frazzled white hair and kissing his forehead.

“The bastard took my phone!” Hog growled. He held you so tightly you feared he was going to break you. “If you didn’t answer my call—”

“Hog,” You cupped Hog’s face and stared deep into his teary eyes. It was heartbreaking to see your love like this. Tears silently streamed down your face too. “I’m alive. I didn’t take off my clothes for him.”

He chuckled a little, then his eyes widened. “How the hell did he know about our game?”

Good question. You didn’t know. Apparently, TALON knew everything. Hog stomped to the closet and threw a suitcase on the bed.

“Pack up, piggy. You’re going to live with Overwatch from now on.”

You blinked. “Okay.”

You said nothing else as you packed your belongings. The balcony door creaked open, letting in some rain. The storm calmed down since the intruder bailed out.

You closed the door and noticed somebody in the distance. An enormous, dark-skinned man stood in the azalea bushes watching you. His open tropical shirt revealing his tribal tattoos. The storm left him soaked, but he clearly didn’t give a fuck.

Dear God, did he have red eyes? Who was this real-life monster? He smiled at you as you finally took notice of him and disappeared into the darkness.

“(Y/N)?” Hog called out behind you. All you could do was stare outside. Hog’s frightened voice from earlier echoed in your mind:

That’s not me!

THAT’S NOT ME!

THAT’S NOT ME!

                                                  THE END

[thebiasrekkers]

Shadow’s Birthright | MYG

Chapter 01: Strength of Silence

Plot: Riding in on thunder and lightning, two princes are born. But a crown cannot be shared. It can only be worn by one and one alone. The hands of man have separated the brothers, allowing one to live in wealth and comfort inside the palace while the other grows up among commoners. But Fate cannot be destroyed by the hands of man. A shared destiny reunites the brothers; one to become a king who descends into madness and the other will rise as a dragon whose journey has only just begun in order to claim a crown he does not desire to have.

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Genre: series | historical!au | fantasy!au | angst | romance | drama | tragedy

Pairing: Min Yoongi (Lee Yoon) x Female OC (Kalina Shuri)

Warnings: Historical setting, caste system, magic/sorcery, graphic violence, disturbing graphic images, religious tones, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

Previous Chapters: Prologue

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 3,964

Tag List: @luxekook​, @pinkpjmin​, @btsaudge​, @flowerwrites06​, @stillcopingxx​, @taevkimchi​, @aroseforyoongi​, @vivpurple7​, @happilystrongthroughthedark​, @sw33tnight​, @nikkitane​, 

AN: Sorry this has taken so long for me to get out. With all the madness happening in the world, I just needed a break and decided to throw myself into just writing. I’ve received so much love on the prologue for this series so I’m happy to present you all with the first chapter. It’s a hefty time jump, but who doesn’t like one of those, am I right? If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list, feel free to drop me a line!

P.S. Please bear in mind that while the historical accuracy will be mostly correct, I am setting this in a time period in Joseon history where there was no such thing as a king who had a twin brother. Obviously that’s where the fiction/creative freedom is going to come in. Everything else will be period accurate, trust and believe.

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

“Silence is a great source of strength.” - Lao Tzu

23 Years Later

Yoongi sat on the edge of a large rock, his eyes peering out over the deep grays and blues of the wide mountainous landscape. Summer mornings were his favorite and while he knew he could get an extra hour or two of sleep, seeing the sun rise above the mountain tops always filled him with a new vigor. There was just something about greeting the day that allowed him to truly feel alive. He could never fully explain it.

A soft whimper issued beside him and he craned his neck to look at the gray and black wolf seated at his feet. Pulling the sprig of barley from his mouth, Yoongi reached down to pet the wolf’s head and it panted happily in response; its thick tail swinging back and forth at the attention it received from its master. It made a small noise from pleasure, the sound of its panting intensifying little by little with each pet.

Chuckling, he scratched the canine between its ears. “You’re so needy, San-ah,” he teased, watching the wolf stand on all fours as he peered his pale blue eyes up at him. “You’ve got to be the luckiest fool in the entire kingdom of Joseon.”

The wolf barked happily, spinning in place, and then plopped his rump back down on the grass. This caused Yoongi to laugh loudly and he waved the barley sprig at the wolf’s nose. 

Growing up in the countryside, it wasn’t uncommon for wolves to linger around in the forests and mountains. But for a young cub to get abandoned during the Winter was more than Yoongi could stand. After begging his father to let him take the small wolf pup home, promising to take care of him, the two of them were inseparable. The other villagers were concerned with Yoongi raising a predator. But after being at his side for the last four years, the village came to appreciate San and often showered him with the same amount of affection as he did; if not more.

Yoongi could safely say that San was his best friend in the world. 

The wolf leaped up, pressing his large paws into Yoongi’s lap and began licking his face. San’s tongue caressed over the scar tissue on the right side of his face and he gently shoved the animal away. His fingers pressed over the scar, tracing the pads up from his cheek all the way above his eyebrow. Sighing, he tossed the barley sprig away and motioned for San to follow him just as the morning sun crested over the mountains. 

“Let’s head back,” he said, reaching down behind the rock to pick up the large wooden pail of spring water, “you know how the old man gets when he doesn’t have his morning tea.”

Again, San barked, before tearing off ahead of him to sniff out the trail. Yoongi could navigate his way through the forest and mountains with his eyes closed, but his companion always insisted on being careful. He’d barely made it twenty paces before the wolf returned and walked patiently at his side. 

The trek through the forest and down the mountain path was short, but only because Yoongi knew it so well. San barreled down the expansive green hill just as his father appeared from the doorway, a large axe draped over his shoulders. Yoongi rushed down the hill with hurried steps, cradling the wooden bucket in his arms so he wouldn’t accidentally spill the water in his haste.

“Father!” Yoongi called, to which the broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned man lifted his head just as he finished petting San’s back. “I can take care of that!” 

The lower half of his father’s face was covered in facial hair; always well-groomed. His dark eyes, while usually intimidating, always held a certain degree of warmth in them when he looked at Yoongi. Instead of answering him, he simply straightened his posture and proceeded to head toward the side of their modest home to proceed cutting wood for the fire.

Sighing, Yoongi gave up trying to convince his father to let him take care of the more laborious chores again. Instead, he shooed San into the house and started preparing breakfast. It didn’t take Yoongi long to see they were missing quite a few things from the food storage that would need to be replaced soon. Namely eggs, meat, and a few key vegetables.

“I’ll just have to do what I can,” he murmured as he began washing the barley in a small basin. Yoongi frowned. This wouldn’t be an issue if we lived closer to the village.

It wasn’t the first time he bitterly thought of how inconveniently far away they lived from the rest of the world. Yoongi only could go as far as the local village and that was a task and a half trying to convince his father to let him do even just that. When his father left every few years for days at a time to visit the Capital, Yoongi was forced to stay behind. He’d never been to the Crown City, not once. But he wanted to, insisting that he could get better books and even practice a trade or go to school. He could start working to take care of the household for a change.

Every time the matter was brought up, however, his father scowled and forbade him from thinking or speaking such foolishness. But to Yoongi, it wasn’t foolish. He believed he was trying to do his best by his father in wanting to take care of him. What father wouldn’t want that for their son? Why did he have to grow up differently from everyone else?

What little education he received was all self-taught. He kept most of his studies a secret, not wanting to anger or worry his father. But he knew that he would eventually have to marry and raise a family. Since his father didn’t want to pass along his knowledge, he had little choice but to strike out on his own and do what he could. His father wouldn’t be around forever and he couldn’t expect to spend his youth idling around.

The one thing his father did teach him, much to Yoongi’s persistence, was the ability to fight. 

A humble breakfast was completed and the two of them ate in relative silence. He watched his father sneak a few pieces of meat to San and the wolf lovingly spread itself across his lap. Yoongi shoved rice into his mouth in annoyance, chewing loudly but knowing that it wouldn’t actually bother either of them into paying him any attention.

“Weren’t you the one who told me to stop doing that?” Yoongi asked mid-chew. “He’s spoiled now because of you.”

His father leaned back and released a hearty chuckle that never failed to warm Yoongi’s heart. “Did I? I can’t recall.”

He scoffed, grabbing some of the spinach out of one of the wooden bowls. “Of course you can’t.” 

His eyes caught the scars on his father’s arms as he rubbed his hands lovingly over San’s fur. They were sword scars. Yoongi knew this, even if his father never told him so. Training him in martial arts was a clear enough indication that his father must have been a seasoned warrior in his younger years. The harshness of his training regiment was proof enough for Yoongi.

Min Dojin. 

His father never spoke much about his past, or even about Yoongi’s mother. After a childish tantrum, he came to accept that his mother must have died sometime after he was born. Those were the words that the villagers passed on and they never pitied Yoongi. It wasn’t because they were heartless. It was just a factor of life in their country. If anything, he was fortunate to still have his father, freeing him from the shackle of being branded an orphan. 

But on lonely nights, Yoongi missed the warmth of a mother’s embrace. Something he wasn’t familiar with, but felt that it was a distant memory that refused to fade from his mind. 

“There’s some money in the lock box if you need anything,” his father said suddenly, slicing through his thoughts.

He blinked, realizing that his father already cleared the dishes away. Had he spaced out that much? Scrambling to his feet, he tried to follow after his father and nearly tripped over San circling in between his legs. 

“Are you leaving for the Capital?”

A frown touched his father’s features. “Yes.”

Yoongi felt his brows furrow. He knew how much his father despised going to the Crown City and never understood why. Even though he offered to run his father’s errands for him, he was denied every opportunity to travel that far from home. It clearly wasn’t for his own safety. Yoongi could more than take care of himself. But he didn’t have the heart to accuse his own father of keeping anything from him.

“How long will you be gone this time?”

“Two weeks.”

Again, he blinked. This time from surprise. “T-That long?!” His eyes followed after his father as he began gathering his traveling satchel and walking cane. “You’re going to leave me here alone?”

His father chuckled as he turned and raised his brows at his son. “You have San.”

Folding his arms across his chest, he frowned. “You’re just so funny, Father.”

He laughed again. “Kali promised she would come by to check on you if you needed anything.”

“Kali-ssi?” A soft warmth touched his cheeks at the mention of Kali and he quickly averted his gaze. Yoongi cleared his throat loudly as he placed a hand on the back of his neck. “She needn’t bother.”

He could see his father’s cheeky grin without even having to look at it. “I asked her to.” Yoongi whipped his head around to peer into his father’s eyes. “She said she had some interesting stories to share with you.” His grin widened a measure. “And maybe a gift or two?”

Yoongi slid his fingers through his cropped bangs, tugging at them for a measure. “I see,” was all he said as he rubbed his hair between his thumb and forefinger. 

With a grunt, his father shouldered his satchel more comfortably and made his way toward the entrance of their home. San followed after him but stopped at the entryway, his tail wagging as he uttered a guttural whine from his throat. Yoongi watched his father lean down to pet the wolf between his ears, his eyes lifting to meet his own.

“If anything happens--”

“I know,” Yoongi replied softly, “take everything in the lock box and abandon the house.” He sighed. “Have a safe journey.”

He felt his father’s large hand fall onto his shoulder and for a moment, all they did was share a silent look. His father’s smile looked noticeably more solemn than usual. He patted Yoongi’s shoulder, then turned and made his way toward the edge of the forest. San barked after him before bolting off to chase a cluster of butterflies. Yoongi waited until his father disappeared from view before retreating back into the house. 

No matter how hard he tried, Yoongi couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten with worry.

Yoon sat perched in one of the large magnolia trees in his palace garden. He cradled his plum colored crown in his arms, the rich cobalt of his silk robes reflecting from the sunlight. The silver dragons embroidered in his clothing seemed to shimmer against the morning light and he sighed as he peered through the tree’s canopy. Eunuchs and maidservants alike were running around through his palace courtyard and he remained silent - purposely ignoring their screaming pleas for him to come out from hiding.

He scoffed, sliding his hands behind his head as he leaned back further into the trunk of the tree. No one’s hiding, he thought bitterly, you’re all just too incompetent to find me.

“Cheo-ha,” came a sharp whisper from above him, causing Yoon to sit up abruptly. 

“Who’s there?” he called back quietly, glancing every so often down to make sure none of his attendants heard him. “Reveal yourself!”

A long plaited braid suddenly dangled from above as he saw his younger sister’s face flashing an upside down smile. His frown deepened, not sure what her intentions were but Yoon knew he wanted nothing to do with them. She made a satisfied noise before dropping down hard into his lap. Yoon grunted, his arms flailing to both keep his balance and to maintain a hold of his crown. The princess plucked it easily from the air, preventing it from falling.

“You shouldn’t be so careless with your things, Crown Prince,” she said while smiling up at him. 

“It’s none of your concern,” Yoon snapped, attempting to snatch it back from her but she stretched her arms up and away from him. He threw her a harsh glare. “Saeryung-ah…” His tone dropped in a clear warning.

Saeryung pouted before she sighed. “Fine. You’re always no fun.” She motioned for him to lean forward a bit. “Let me put it back on for you.”

“Do as you like,” he said, leaning forward so she could replace the crown over his platinum blonde hair. Once it was situated comfortably, he peered at her as she continued to pout, kicking her legs up and down while still in his lap. “Why are you here, Saeryung-ah? Don’t you have lessons to attend to with your teacher?”

The princess puffed out one of her cheeks defiantly while folding her arms across her chest in a completely unbecoming fashion for female royals. “I’ve already memorized The Book of Filial Piety!”

Yoon sighed. “There are other books that you need to study from.” He reached out and pet his sister’s head and she turned to look at him. “Being a princess isn’t just a title. You have other responsibilities.”

“Not nearly as many as you do, Orabeoni.” 

The term caught Yoon off guard and he could only blink in stunned silence at her. The Princess must have realized her slipup because she quickly covered her mouth and gasped sharply. However, instead of chastising her, Yoon poked at her nose. Ever since he became Crown Prince, his studies and responsibilities steadily increased. His father was still able to rule the country, but there were disturbing rumors in the palace walls that spoke of his failing health. If that were the truth, then it would only be a matter of time before he was left to ascend to the throne.

Saeryung wouldn’t have any more opportunities to call him “big brother” when that day came.

“Forgive me, Crown Prince! I didn’t mean--”

“It’s fine, Saeryung-ah,” Yoon replied in a soothing tone as he petted her head again, “until I’m King, you can call me your Orabeoni.”

Her apologetic expression melted into one of pure joy. He smirked, then narrowed his eyes and pointed at her nose. She crossed her eyes at the sudden gesture.

“But you can only call me such when it is just the two of us. Understood?”

She nodded happily and was about to hug him when sudden outcries reached them from below.

“Seja Cheo-ha! Gongju-nim!”

“You both must come down from there at once!”

“We will be in terrible trouble if His Majesty finds out we were not at your sides!”

The two of them gazed down at their attendants frantically shifting below them. Rolling his eyes, Yoon scooped up his sister into his arms. Gasping slightly, she clung to his neck as he shifted to a standing position in the tree. His attendants continued to move about fearfully, screaming for him to be careful. He bit back a growl before leaping from the tree and into the air. His robes fluttered around him and he landed easily on the ground, setting his sister down and her servants were immediately at her side to straighten out her hair and robes.

“Princess, you shouldn’t be climbing trees like that!” her maid fussed as she finished tidying up Saeryung’s appearance. “Her Majesty, the Queen, would be appalled if she discovered it.”

Namgil, Yoon’s eunuch, appeared at his side and also adjusted his royal robes. He waited patiently for him to finish, not really listening to the slew of things flying from his attendant’s mouth. However, one particular sentence stood out and caused Yoon to pause, craning his neck to look straight into Namgil’s face.

“What did you say?” he asked, raising a curious brow.

The eunuch bowed his head low, unsure if he’d offended the Crown Prince or not. “Your Majesty requests your presence in his study.”

Yoon was suspicious. His father never called for him in his personal study. Let alone in the middle of the day. The King was fully aware of his itinerary for the afternoon. Yoon was scheduled for martial arts training and riding lessons. Was he supposed to rush through whatever matter his father wanted to speak with him about and make his instructors wait? 

If Father is in his study, then it’s a personal matter, Yoon surmised, sighing as he clasped his hands behind his back, which is surprising all by itself.

Narrowing his eyes, he gestured for Namgil to lead the way. He took two steps forward and paused to look around. “...where’s Bidam?”

Just as confused as he was, Namgil spun his body in every direction before groaning. “Curse that Bidam! Leaving the Crown Prince’s side for even a moment!”

Leaves rustled to his right and Yoon quickly pivoted on his back heel to avoid whatever was aimed for him. A sharp whistle tore through the air and he dipped down, his knee crashing to the grass as his shoulders tensed. He was on high alert now after two attacks were propelled in his direction. There would not be a third attempt while he was unarmed.

Namgil screamed after him as Yoon dashed toward the edge of the steps leading to his palace. Reaching underneath the wooden floor panels, he slid a sword from the sheath with one clean motion just as another object hurled itself directly at his head. Lifting the blade up, he blocked the object and felt the handle rattle between his fingers. Something landed at his feet and Yoon recognized it as a throwing knife. Smirking, the Crown Prince took a breath and swept the blade across his body.

Focus, he told himself, you know that he’s here. You just have to pinpoint his location.

The heavy thud of his own heart ached inside of Yoon’s chest. A bead of sweat formed on his brow and he was keenly aware that Namgil and the servants fled the scene. Probably to go fetch the Royal Guard. It was so unnecessary. He wasn’t defenseless. He’d made damn sure of that. 

Yoon licked his lips, the flutter of sparrow wings the signal he needed. Launching from his position, he roared at a nearby cluster of bushes. Seconds before he swept his blade down over the hedge, a body leaped from behind. Metal clashed against metal as sword blades made contact. Yoon felt his crown shift on his head before falling to the ground, revealing his pale hair in the morning sunlight. His muscles tensed when the sword clashed against his blade, forcing his boots to skid along the ground and he was now face to face with his assailant.

He grinned. “There you are, Bidam-ah.” Yoon’s voice was slightly strained from the force pushing against him.

Bidam, his bodyguard, grinned back at him. His dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, his thick brows lifting teasingly as he continued to push all of his weight behind his sword. “Good Morning, Seja Cheo-ha,” he said, sweat falling from his temple, “you’re a little slow this morning. Is your mind elsewhere, Your Highness?”

Yoon scoffed, taking a step forward and forcing Bidam to take one back. “My mind is always elsewhere. Haven’t you realized that by now?” 

He swung his leg out to kick Bidam but his bodyguard predicted this. He watched as Bidam backward somersaulted into the air. Just when Yoon was going to unleash his counterattack, several sets of feet thundered into his palace garden. He lowered his stance and Bidam immediately sheathed his sword as the Queen and her attendants rushed inside, followed swiftly by the Royal Guard. Yoon bit back a groan at the fearful expression etched over his mother’s features.

“Seja!” she cried, all but running to him. “Are you alright, my Prince?!” He stood patiently as she looked over his entire body to make sure that he was, in fact, free of injuries. “I feared the worst!”

A small measure of guilt welled up inside of Yoon’s heart. He wished his mother would stop needlessly worrying over him. “I am fine , Mother. I was training with Bidam.” He cast a casual smirk to Bidam who met his gaze briefly before lowering his head. “Right, Bidam-ah?”

Bidam immediately fell to one knee, one arm crossing his chest as he pounded his fist into his collar. “Forgive me for stirring up chaos in the Palace, Your Majesty.”

The Queen’s shoulders visibly sank and her attendants were at her side to keep her from losing her balance. Namgil retrieved the prince’s crown and handed it back to him. He held it out to his mother who took it in her trembling hands as she watched Yoon lower himself at the Queen’s feet. Some of the servants gasped and whispered to each other and the Prince continued to stare at the patch of grass around the hems of his mother’s robes.

Hearing her sigh, she gently set his crown back atop his head, her gentle hands framing his face. She lifted his head so that he was now staring up at her. “It is good to train your body and mind, My Prince, but please be careful. You are the future father of this nation. If your body is harmed, your people are harmed. When your people are sick, you are sick. Do you understand, Seja?”

“Yes, Mother. I understand.” Standing to his full height, he let his mother take his hands into hers. Her fingers caressed over his knuckles. 

“Your Father was asking for you, wasn’t he?” The Queen looped her arm through his. “Would you allow your mother to accompany you?”

“Of course,” Yoon said with a wide flourish of his arm, “but I thought you were scheduled to have tea with the Queen Dowager and the princesses?”

The Queen hummed and nodded as they moved through the gardens of his palace and out over the bridge leading to the main palace. “I can take the time to escort the Crown Prince to his own destination.” 

Yoon’s entourage walked alongside his mother’s and they all chatted together in polite levels so as to not disturb the Queen and Crown Prince’s conversation. The days were peaceful, but mostly in part to how well-guarded the Palace was from the chaos of the outside world. But Yoon was no fool. Ming was growing restless because of Japanese opposition. It would only be a matter of time before Japan would attempt its invasion of Joseon in order to sink their claws into Ming.

He wondered if his father had any contingencies in place if such a thing were to actually transpire.

Arriving at the main palace gates, the Queen released Yoon’s arm and smiled. “Enjoy your time with your father, Seja.”

Yoon bowed, as did the rest of his servants. “Be well, Eomma Mama.” He waited until his mother and attendants were out of sight before turning back to face the main gate. “Let’s go.”

[atinytokki]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Chapter 3: Welcome Aboard 

“Unchain me.”

Lieutenant Byun’s head shot up from where it had been nodding off as his lucky prisoner’s request drew him back to alertness.

He scoffed at the boy’s bluntness and pulled his book up from where it had been sliding down his lap.

“No.”

“Won’t you let me go to the window?” 

Now he sounded desperate.

“Not after the stunt you pulled,” Byun scolded, returning to his book but not really reading it.

Hongjoong had almost jumped overboard last week because his hands were small enough to slip out of the restraints. Not that he would’ve gotten far, considering the fact that his legs still didn’t work properly, but these new chains were much tighter, chafing his wrists until they bled and tiring him out with his attempts to escape them.

So he relaxed in his bonds and tried to lay back, resting in the rocking of the ship where it was anchored in the harbour.

Only an hour or two more and they’d be at sea, nowhere for him to run to.

A knock came at the door and the lieutenant dropped his book, peering through the keyhole to see who was calling before ushering three officers in.

One was Lieutenant Park, newly promoted and very excited to meet the rumoured Lucky himself. The other two were the stoic duo, Surgeon Oh and Steward Doh. Both undisputed professionals and the best in town at their respective duties.

“Did anyone see you?” Byun whispered, closing the door tightly behind them.

Lieutenant Park answered quickly, “Just two midshipmen. Both already sworn to secrecy.”

Byun relaxed and hovered in the background while the surgeon began his daily checkup of the prisoner.

Hongjoong was quiet throughout the process, shivering once at the touch of the surgeon’s hands before fixing his gaze on the tiny porthole opposite him and refusing eye contact with anyone.

It was taking a bit longer than usual.

“How is he?” Byun asked, mouth suddenly dry.

“Looking pale again,” the surgeon reported, waving his hand in the steward’s direction. “My surgical knife, if you please.”

All of them watched with baited breath as Surgeon Oh hiked up Hongjoong’s shirt and made a precise incision in his side. 

Park and Byun moved to hold the patient down when he began to squirm and protest while the surgeon collected blood.

The smell of it pervaded the cabin and made Byun begin to grow nervous.

“Remind me not to let you tend to me if I’m ever injured,” Lieutenant Park jabbed at the surgeon with a smirk.

“Isn’t that too much blood?” Byun muttered. “He was haemorrhaging a few weeks ago with all that internal bleeding, I thought he needed to conserve his blood—“

“Will you two let him work?” The steward sighed, wiping off the knife as it was handed back to him.

“You said it didn’t matter if he was dead or alive,” the surgeon reminded Lieutenant Byun with a quirked eyebrow, stitching up the wound smoothly.

“Well,” Byun spluttered. “The Admiral has gotten used to the idea of him being alive. He’s not your experiment, don’t be careless.”

“If the Admiral cares so much, you can tell him I’m only checking for infection,” the surgeon shot back, annoyed, before getting to his feet and carrying out his medical supplies. 

The steward and Lieutenant Park both followed him out, but hearing a groan from Hongjoong, Byun elected to stay.

“So you aren’t nursing me back to health just to kill me?” Hongjoong mumbled, a trace of sarcasm on his voice. He masked it well, but Byun could see him struggling to readjust his clothing without hurting himself.

“Well... no,” Byun answered, trying to sound distant from the whole thing. “But if the Admiral needs to kill you for whatever reason, he’s prepared to do so.”

Hongjoong’s eyes landed on the porthole again. The tiny patch of blue he could see was comforting to him.

“I always wanted to die at sea.”

He closed his eyes and wished he could go back in time.

At first Hongjoong had thought some sort of angel was descending upon him in his last moments. He could not have been more wrong.

The thankfulness that exuded him as he was hurried to safety and healed with expensive medicine decreased significantly when he discovered to whom he owed that gratitude.

It had been Lieutenant Byun, leaping into action when the square was invaded, and noticing the prisoner being impaled by the collapsed wooden structure on top of him. The stage he stood on was to be his downfall. Hongjoong had survived the noose but would likely not survive the battle.

Out of a strange and sudden pity, the Lieutenant scooped Hongjoong up and brought him to the Black Crow where it was anchored, handing him off to the surgeon and contriving an excuse before he faced backlash for it.

He decided to keep his regretful compassion a secret and presented the rescue in a light Admiral Kim would understand- a lucrative opportunity.

This was the most acclaimed pirate of the past decade, surely his skills would be very useful in winning the Admiral praise and war hero status. If not, they could always execute him again.

Though the second option was presented humbly as a last resort, seeing as how Byun wasn’t sure he could let Hongjoong die now.

There was something about saving a life that suddenly put the responsibility in one’s hands. Now Hongjoong was indebted to him, and Byun had to face the consequences of his own spur-of-the-moment actions.

He agreed out of respect for his superior to Kim’s single condition— that the entire turn of events be kept secret from the men. No one was to know what he had done. The stranger in the depths of the Crow was just an injured soldier. The Pirate King was dead.

Otherwise they might be facing uprisings and mutinies and, well, Kim’s bid for fame depended on privateers to do the work for him.

It was jarring, flogging a pirate within an inch of his life one day and holding a rag to his bleeding wounds the next, but Lieutenant Byun was a man of honour, even if his profession didn’t create much space for personal discernment.

Again, the door opened and Steward Doh entered, this time with a bowl of soup to feed the prisoner once he had helped him into a sitting position. 

Byun stood awkwardly in the corner while Hongjoong chatted with the steward. The former had become quite familiar with the officers of the Crow and it made Byun uncomfortable how easily he got under everyone’s skin. How much earlier would he have been moved to save the boy’s life if he’d been given the opportunity to charm them back on Namhae?

“What’s in here, exactly?” Hongjoong asked, mouth still full of bread.

“Oh, I’m not sure you would recognise all the ingredients,” the steward let him down gently. “They’re quite expensive.”

Hongjoong laughed so suddenly he almost choked on his soup. “Mr. Doh, I haven’t always been a pirate. Try me.”

“Well, the meats are blue crab, prawns, clams, mussels, scallops, monkfish and octopus...” here the steward poked at a protruding tentacle. “And for the base there’s fish sauce, lemon juice, anchovy broth...”

Byun watched Hongjoong’s face as he took it all in, nodding at the mention of each soybean sprout or fermented cabbage. It made him wonder what had led to his becoming a pirate if he was indeed so well versed on high society.

“It was very good,” Hongjoong thanked him when he was finished, voice quieting as he added, “Seonghwa should take advice from you.”

Both officers glanced at each other knowingly before rushing to change the topic of conversation.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to. 

The door cracked open and Midshipman Moon poked his head out.

“Admiral Kim’s compliments, sirs, and you’re needed on deck. Weighing anchor.”

The steward looked at Byun in alarm. “But we were told not to leave Lucky alone like last week—“

“He’s weak and he’s tired from the meal, he’ll be fine,” the Lieutenant assured him, pulling him outside and closing the door before muttering, “Prince Seonghwa is present, it will be suspicious if officers are unaccounted for.”

Because even if he fudged the rules about not interacting with the prisoner or not feeding him the same portion as the rest of the men, this order was a serious one and blowing it would land them all in deep trouble.

Both rushed to the quarterdeck, Byun quickly assuming proper posture and running through scenarios in his head in case the prince were to address him.

But he wasn’t in any danger of needing to fabricate a quick lie, because Seonghwa wasn’t paying any attention to the ongoing procedures.

His eyes were on the sea ahead of him.

Byun tried not to think about the fact that just a few decks beneath them was a person the prince believed to be dead.

As always, Byun knew too much. He knew how Seonghwa had become mixed up with the pirate band he had fought so ardently for back in Namhae.

It had been one of those lazy days at the Admiralty a few years ago. Byun was a young midshipman at the time, and nothing exciting had come along in weeks.

Until the captain of a merchant ship burst into the office with reports of piracy. Through stuttering words and shaking breaths he explained how the small pirate vessel, bigger still than the last time it was spotted, had overtaken them and forced them to surrender. 

The ATEEZ had made off with their gold, a chunk of their food supplies, some storage barrels, and one of their men.

But it wasn’t just any of their men. It was the lost prince, entrusted to the merchant by the palace nurse who switched her own child out for him— a preposterous story, most certainly contrived to prioritise the Navy’s search for this crewman, but one so unique it captured Byun’s interest.

And it also moved him to stay the Admiral’s hand when he had the pirates cornered in the inn until after Seonghwa had left.

At so many points along the way, any of his actions could have changed the entire outcome of multiple lives.

Here he was now, because of his insistence that Admiral Kim spare two individuals in two separate events, both of whom could ruin them all given the chance.

And perhaps they still would, a notion which didn’t terrify him as much as it ought to.

Byun remembered having a hard time believing a mere pirate could bewitch his crew to such an extent, but having interacted with him over the course of the month, he was beginning to understand.

Seonghwa had gone from his captive to his friend, Byun could easily go from his captor to his ally.

The prince suddenly turned to Admiral Kim, squinting in suspicion. Lieutenant Byun caught his breath.

“Why are we heading north? I thought the plan was preemptively striking Haemin’s border fortresses.”

“Yes, that remains the plan,” Kim answered dryly. “However, Admiral Lee has called for men to help defend Panhang. He’s a chicken for putting in the request, given how unlikely it is that beach will see action, but the Crow already carries three times as many hands as are needed to crew her, so we can spare them. Then we’ll rendezvous with the rest of the fleet and sail for Haemin.”

At the mention of Panhang, the prince stilled. No more was heard from him until the officers were dismissed and he retreated to his chambers. 

Lieutenant Byun shook off his nerves and tried to return to his duties.

It was a long journey to Haemin but only a day to Panhang. One thing at a time.

... 

By the time Yeosang paid the carriage driver and watched him leave, the sun was already rising.

He had travelled through the night back to the estate, with Jungwan carefully disguised in the luggage carrier among baskets and blankets.

“Are we there?” The boy murmured, stretching his sore legs and standing at his full height. Taller than Yeosang remembered him being.

“Yes, but we still need to exercise caution,” Yeosang told him sternly, ushering him out of the road and towards the side of the mansion. “My father might still be here.”

“And he doesn’t know you’re back?” Jungwan whispered as they rounded the corner to the servants’ entrance.

“No,” Yeosang scoffed. “He thinks I’m still in Doljeon, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Jungwan nodded and stepped into the cramped hallway.

Yeosang still knew the secret passages and shortcuts through the estate from days exploring them in his youth. Though their original function was to help servants move around unseen, they would be useful for the purpose Yeosang had in mind.

“In here,” he whispered, cracking open a door tucked away in a corner of the top floor and ushering Jungwan in. “This is where you’ll stay. I’ll tell the housekeeper, Sohyun, about you. She can be trusted.”

The room was small, but compared to the conditions those boys faced every day, it would do just fine.

Yeosang shuffled about, collecting food, piling boxes and blankets, and wiping away dust where he could while Jungwan looked around the room. 

“Where are you going?” The boy asked suddenly when Yeosang turned to leave.

“To rescue the rest of your friends and bring them here,” Yeosang responded, mouth set into a firm line. 

“But... you could be caught,” Jungwan’s voice became even quieter. “You could be hurt, or-or even killed—“

“If I don’t save them, no one else will,” Yeosang insisted. “You don’t have a better idea, do you?”

Jungwan cracked a small smile and tilted his head. “You’ve changed.”

Yeosang’s shoulders dropped and he looked out the tiny cracked window, relaxing. Becoming part of something will change you, he knew from experience.

“For the better?”

The younger boy considered it for a moment and nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

Yeosang turned to leave, but Jungwan called after him, “Please be careful! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if you don’t come back and one of your servants finds me...”

“Give me three days,” he called back before closing the door tightly behind him.

Three days should be enough.

...

Yunho took a deep breath and collected all three plates of breakfast, balancing them in his arms.

Dooeun, Hanbyeol, and some of the other crewmen had offered their help, having grown accustomed to preparing their own food in the month they’d spent stagnated here, but Yunho refused them. He was back onboard the ATEEZ now, and he wanted to do things himself.

It was reminiscent of their last meal together, even the floppy eggs were shaped the same. But Yunho shoved the thought aside and entered Mingi and Jongho’s room. 

Only Jongho was present, sifting through all the belongings in his trunk. He hadn’t seen any of them in a month, but there wasn’t much to begin with.

“Where’s Mingi?” Yunho grunted, lowering his armload precariously onto a small table. 

“Captain’s room,” Jongho answered, eyes widening gratefully as he accepted a bottle of rum with his breakfast. “Bless you for this.”

Yunho smiled fondly, even as he handed his own bottle over to the younger so he could open it for him. He already knew where Mingi was, but it didn’t hurt to ask. 

“Anything good in there?” Yunho asked after taking a swig, nodding towards Jongho’s chest.

“Some guns I stowed away before leaving, my nicer shirts and vests, old taffy...” Jongho procured a small book and flipped through it with a smirk on his face. “This diary. Mostly empty, except for the pages I wrote back when I was afraid of forgetting all of you.”

Yunho chuckled and stabbed a sausage with his fork, peering into the trunk to see the last item nestled at the bottom in a bed of embroidered coats. 

“Your pan flute.”

Jongho gazed at it, biting his lip, before returning to his meal. “Right.”

That flute was special, and out of everything in the box, had the most memories attached to it.

Yunho coughed uncomfortably and took Mingi’s plate in hand. “I should bring it to him before it gets cold,” he reasoned, leaving Jongho to his dusty chest and broken memories.

The Captain’s cabin felt hollow despite everything remaining exactly where it always had been. Yujin hadn’t touched it. Mingi wasn’t planning on touching it.

“He’s always survived against all odds,” a soft voice surprised Yunho until he turned to see Mingi sitting on Hongjoong’s bed, hands in his lap.

He looked like a different person with his hair newly dyed a flaming red.

Yunho’s jaw fell open in shock.

“There was extra red laying around,” Mingi explained, blushing and looking away. “I thought... to keep him alive.”

Yunho nodded and moved to embrace him. There wasn’t much either of them could say, and the moment passed in quiet remembrance.

“So,” Yunho said, pulling back. “What’s the plan?”

Mingi gestured to the trunks and piles of gold scattered throughout the room. 

“There’s enough in my share to provide for my family,” he pointed out. “I’m going to bring it ashore and give it to them. After that... I’m still not sure.”

“My little brother could use the money too, wherever he is,” Yunho mused.

“Then we should make finding him our next move,” Mingi decided, turning to face him. “Do you think Jongho will want to come?”

Yunho laughed outright. “He’s already put the men on a training regimen. And it’s not like he has anywhere else to go.”

“And the crewmen? They’ll follow me?”

Yunho gripped his shoulder and smiled. “We’re with you Mingi.”

...

San was in the thick of it. His attention was currently split three ways between the ammunition he was loading, the cannon fire raining down, and the man bleeding out next to him.

He’d been struck in the arm and had a chance to live, but not if he stayed there writhing on the ground and screaming San’s ears off. 

San dropped his bag of powder to haul the injured soldier up but was promptly yelled at by an officer, presumably for leaving his post, which meant his attention was now split four ways.

“He needs help!” He tried explaining, obviously not getting through the language barrier. “Look at him, he’ll bleed to death!”

San presented the dying man to the officer, who squinted at him and dragged him along to the infirmary. It seemed he had figured things out.

Together they hurried up the stairs to the second deck, ducking when a fiery cannonball tore through the banister and was quickly doused by a swarm of soldiers.

Haemin’s Navy was completely hectic from what San had seen.

The men around him were clearly untrained or unexperienced or both. Fresh recruits, prisoners of war, and a drunken captain who rarely showed his face on deck. 

San had a feeling that even if he could understand the officers’ orders, he wouldn’t be impressed by their military discipline.

The chaos was unmitigated on arriving at the infirmary, and the gunner in charge of him had to bring along another officer who spoke San’s language for him to explain his medical qualifications to.

“I need a saw or a knife— something sharp,” San enunciated. “Sharp! You know...” he tried to draw the shape in the air and the officer nodded slowly before his eyes lit up and he ran away, returning with a saw.

“Good,” San sighed, rolling the injured man onto a table. “Now clean it with something. Ointment, alcohol— what’s this? Whale blubber soap? That’s fine, clean it with that.”

The officers made eye contact once before nodding and complying.

“Where’s your surgeon?” San asked as he quickly and efficiently tied off the bleeding limb and snatched one of the officers’ jackets for the man to bite into. “I’m assuming you have one?”

“Dead,” the translator answered, pointing to a fresh bloodstain on the floor that a body had clearly been dragged out of. “His head...” the man mimicked an explosion and indicated his own head, as if trying to demonstrate the event.

“I got it, thank you,” San said quickly, wincing and returning to his patient. “Tell him not to squirm, I’ll try to make it as painless as possible.”

The translator complied and the injured man looked up at him with fear in his eyes before trying to relax. It was his best shot at survival, there was no other choice.

Even as much as he hated slaving away for this foreign nightmare ship, as long as San survived the battle, it didn’t matter to him who won the war. He could clean wounds on both sides without feeling guilty about it.

And so he gripped the saw comfortably in his hands and began the work he was made for.

...

Waiting in the stables was one of Yeosang’s old friends.

“Yuma!” He breathed delightedly, almost dropping his bag of supplies in his excitement to reach the horse.

Sure enough, Yuma remembered him. He nuzzled him affectionately while Yeosang searched for his saddle.

“Oh Yuma, I thought maybe Father had sold you or worse...”

Once the horse was ready to go, Yeosang took his long face in his hands and hugged him tight. “I know you’re old and tired but... I need you to take me away. One last time.”

Yuma nickered agreeably just enough to make Yeosang smile softly before swinging himself up and giving the command.

They tore out of the stables and back through the woods, headed east. Yeosang knew the shortcuts back to Doljeon and from there, they would follow the river to where it met the sea.

The naval shipyard of Kon.

The pair made good time, only stopping once or twice briefly for a break and walking when they had to. 

By mid-afternoon, Yeosang had dismounted to offer his steed some water and rented out a cart to hide the rest of the powder monkeys in when he had them.

Yuma had earned his break and waited comfortably in a nearby field while Yeosang hurried off to the docks.

He hoped he wasn’t too late.

The port town was crowded and running wild behind what seemed to be a fresh draft notice.

Yeosang overheard the news on his way down to the ships, but with everyone talking about it the entire length of the street, the news was hard to miss.

“A notice from the palace. All privateers are instructed to report to the Admiralty and join the naval fleet, and all independent pirates who submit themselves to the ranks will be pardoned for past crimes, even awarded if they perform exceptionally in the King’s service.”

Exciting for some, but Yeosang knew the true implications of this draft. No matter how the Admiral framed it, he was still putting children in harm’s way when he could easily deploy his own men or recruit more.

The blabbering sea sponge peddler debating the order with his neighbour seemed eager enough. 

Determined not to let those boys be forced to the front lines, Yeosang made his way to Si-Hyuk’s ship, relieved to find it anchored close to the main street.

It was a place he could never forget.

The last time he’d been on it, he was running away in the dead of night, stolen maps clutched close to his chest and his entire life laid out behind him.

He’d had no idea what awaited him then, but today’s plan was clear. Break in, find the boys, break out.

No pirate worth his salt would ever dream of coming into port at Kon, which meant little security and easy access.

Nearly all the naval attention was focused on the shipwrights and their floating skeletons, all of them growing into new warships while the privateers waited alongside them, readying themselves for battle.

The dockworkers were chatting with each other animatedly and it was almost too good to be true, so Yeosang initiated the distraction tactic of yelling “stop, thief!” and then directing everyone in his vicinity up the hill, clearing out the area so he could freely board.

He knew the quartermaster had eyes on the back of his head, so he moved swiftly and silently into the lower decks.

It was a part of the ship he had never frequented, but the powder monkeys were found where powder monkeys usually are, huddled around in a cramped circle whispering to each other, surrounded by their hammocks in the lowest deck. 

“Let me guess, you don’t want to go to war?”

A dozen heads snapped to attention, eyes widening as they realised who was in their presence. 

“Kang Yeosang? Is that really you?”

Yeosang ducked under a hammock, trying not to be slapped in the face by the dirty feet hanging out of it, and nodded his affirmation.

“I’ve come to get you all out of here.”

Even more puzzled whispers broke out at this, and the first boy who had spoken shushed them all so he could speak again.

“Are you just taking us to another ship? Your father, the navigator— did he put you up to this?”

Yeosang sighed and scrubbed his face. “Yechan, right?”

The boy nodded and crossed his arms.

“Listen, Yechan,” Yeosang said quickly. “If any of you have good parents or a decent home, I’d be glad to take you there. The point is, I’m not letting you sail into gunfire. You’re all too young for this and none of you signed on for it. Jungwan found me and he’s already safe back at the estate, waiting. Anyone who needs somewhere to stay is welcome there until we can arrange something permanent. But there isn’t much time, so all I can ask is that you trust me.”

There was a beat of silence before a younger boy, Myungjoong, stood and faced him.

“We’ve nowhere else to go and I don’t fancy getting my head blown off. I say we go with him.”

A murmur of agreement swept the group.

“He did run away and live with pirates,” Heeseung warned, eyeing Yeosang suspiciously. “It could all be a kidnapping scheme.”

“To what end?” Yechan argued back. “Any pirate with a head on his shoulders is sailing away from this war. I’m with Myungjoong on this. Anyone else?”

A few boys filled their pockets with what little they had and stood to leave. But still, some of them hesitated, and Yeosang tapped his foot impatiently.

“The dockworkers are probably back by now,” Yeosang groaned. “It’s now or never.”

The rest of them communicated silently with each other before coming to a consensus and joining.

“How are you planning on sneaking us out?” Another boy asked. Taehyun, if Yeosang remembered correctly.

The question was a rational one, and it had Yeosang scratching the back of his neck in frustration.

“I can’t just walk out with all of you, it’ll turn heads.”

“Inhong has an idea!” Myungjoong spoke up, nudging an even younger boy who blushed shyly and pointed at the big stack of empty barrels behind him.

Yeosang blinked, impressed.

“Alright, into the barrels, all of you. I have a plan.”

...

Mingi adjusted his grip on his chest of gold until he was holding it as comfortably as possible.

It was a cumbersome load that he and Yunho had taken from the captain’s quarters but it was going to a good cause.

Mingi tried to quell his nervousness and find comfort in Yunho’s presence as he rowed them both back to the beach.

He was thankful Yunho hadn’t given up on him in all his bouts of sullenness and dejection.

It was difficult being here in such a meaningful place, walking on sand that reminded him of another time, taking paths that led directly back to his past.

They stopped at the top of the cliff to appreciate the view and, for Mingi, relive some of the happier moments of his childhood before turning away and following the road home.

Together they stood facing the cottage, one of the window shutters hanging slightly off its hinge, but everything else in the condition Mingi had left it.

“Is this the place?” Yunho prodded gently. 

Mingi nodded and took a deep breath before knocking on the door.

As they waited for an answer, he began having second thoughts. What if his parents didn’t want to see him? What if they did but were angry with him for leaving? What if his proffered chest of gold was an insult to them? What if they weren’t even there and the house had been sold or abandoned for good?

The door flew open and there his mother stood, hand coming up to her mouth in shock.

“Mingi?”

He nodded and placed the chest on the ground so he could wrap her in a hug. He could see Father standing in the hallway behind her, equally surprised to see him and his eyes watered as he pulled him in, too.

They stood there together for a minute longer before remembering their manners and inviting Yunho inside.

“Who is this?”

“Where have you been?”

Both parents asked their questions simultaneously before laughing and letting Mingi speak.

“It’s a long story, but this is my friend Yunho. We... we worked together for the past few years, along with some others.”

“Doing what?” His father asked, ushering the guest into a chair. “Fishing?”

Yunho coughed awkwardly and looked to Mingi for help, unsure how much he was planning on divulging.

“Something like that,” Mingi dismissed, presenting the chest of gold with a deep breath. “We’ve managed to acquire a significant amount of wealth in our travels and... well, we decided to come here to offer some of it to you.”

Mingi’s parents looked at each other with wide eyes before his mother carefully took the box in hand and opened it to see if it was, in fact, true.

Shining gold reflected off of her shocked face and she closed the lid quickly. “Mingi, we could never take this, it’s far more than we need and you earned it. It’s yours.”

“No, Mother,” Mingi insisted, taking her hand. “It’s for you, I’ve made up my mind. You don’t need to work in those conditions anymore, you deserve to live in comfort for everything you’ve done to save our family.”

For a moment, Mingi’s father looked too ashamed to even speak, but he grasped his son’s shoulder in gratitude and told him he was proud.

It was all Mingi wanted to hear.

“Please be careful if you go back out there,” Mother told him when the sun was long gone, their bellies were full, and both boys were on their way out. “With all this talk of war, I would hate for anything to happen to you.”

“And visit when you get the chance,” Father asked him. “We’re always concerned about you.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Yunho smiled confidently. “He has me looking after him.”

As they walked the path back to town, Mingi finally let happy tears fall.

“Do you think they know what you’ve been doing all this time?” Yunho asked softly.

Mingi chuckled and wiped his face.

“I don’t doubt it. They did raise me, after all.”

“I think I had better treat you to a drink,” Yunho hummed, grabbing Mingi’s face and brushing away any excess tears. “You did well today.”

So he slung his arm around his shoulders and led him off to the tavern, the door swinging shut behind them.

...

“Hello Lucky.”

Hongjoong looked up at the sound of the door but didn’t acknowledge the voice addressing him.

Lieutenant Byun, dropping by for no reason. From among the four officers who visited, Byun did so the most frequently and most needlessly.

At least on this chilly evening, he had no reason to be here save for his own inquiring. 

Hongjoong wasn’t dying at the moment, didn’t need to be fed or washed, and wasn’t currently required to help strategise against enemy soldiers.

“You’re curious about me,” he concluded, running a hand through messy bleached hair. The pink had long since disappeared, and an icy sort of white remained.

The lieutenant scoffed and averted his eyes, gazing out the small window at the passing waves.

“I’m curious about the pirate king,” Byun admitted, shuffling back and forth. “Who was he and how did he go from high society to the scum of the earth?”

Hongjoong shook his head with a small smile and obliged.

“A desperate orphan with nowhere else to go, and he met a notorious pirate who was somehow still a better parent to him than his own relatives were. I think you get the picture.”

“But why are you— were you— public enemy number one?” Lieutenant Byun pressed. “What did you do to make the Admiral hate you so much?”

Hongjoong’s smile fell and he looked away, body going limp again and piquing the officer’s interest even more. He regretted it, whatever it was.

The door suddenly opened again for the surgeon, bringing his box of supplies in himself this time.

Byun frowned in confusion. “You already did your daily checkup, what’s all this?”

The surgeon began to lay out his tools without answering, which was answer enough for the lieutenant.

“No, no, no, I said no experimenting!” He insisted. “He’s healthy enough now, so unless your bubbling concoctions and strange looking corkscrews can make him superhuman, don’t expect help from me!”

“I knew you wouldn’t be assisting,” the surgeon chuckled, pushing his patient down and keeping him there with an iron grip. “That’s why I summoned Lieutenant Park.”

Byun pinched his nose in exasperation and attempted to wrestle away a pair of bent scissors. “What are you even trying to induce? Madness?”

“A haircut, Byun!” The surgeon fought back, reaching for Hongjoong as he tried to wriggle away. “It’s just a haircut!”

“Why don’t I believe you?” The lieutenant retorted sarcastically, confiscating the scissors and then whining again when the surgeon snatched up a knife.

“Terribly sorry, I’m here now,” Park panted from the doorway, closing the door behind him and hurrying over. “What’s all the ruckus?”

“Lieutenant Byun won’t let me do my research,” Surgeon Oh said sharply.

“Go steal from a grave instead, I need him alive,” Byun snapped back. “I-I mean the Admiral needs him alive—“

Suddenly the surgeon’s hand was covering his mouth and the room fell quiet. “Listen,” he whispered. All Byun could hear was Hongjoong’s shallow breaths and the scrape of the metal chains as he curled himself into a protective ball.

And then the faint sound of footsteps.

The surgeon suddenly released him and ran to the door to look out the hole.

“You were followed,” he grunted to Park before turning around lightning quick, voice barely a whisper. “It’s the prince.”

The three of them leapt into action, the surgeon muffling the patient’s protests and injecting a sedative into him while Byun silently dragged a card table and pair of chairs over.

Lieutenant Park went about sorting the cards quickly into piles to look like they’d been playing already and when he didn’t have a place to sit, threw a blanket over the prisoner and plopped down on him, ignoring Byun’s glare.

All in all, it took about fifteen seconds. Better than when they’d practiced. The knock came right on cue.

“Come in!” the surgeon called, the door opening a second later.

Prince Seonghwa crossed his arms but stayed in the doorway to voice his complaint.

“Admiral Kim neglected to give me the report. How close are we to land?”

“Another forty minutes, Your Highness,” Byun responded, bowing his head to avoid eye contact.

Seonghwa looked like he was about to leave, but turned to face them once more and tilted his head, almost amused.

“And what are you fine officers doing down here on the lowest decks in secret?”

“Gambling,” Surgeon Oh supplied the prepared answer with finesse, his voice brittle like it was admitting a lurid secret. “The Admiral strictly forbids it so... we hope you’ll understand.”

“Forget you saw anything!” Lieutenant Park laughed nervously, almost too nervously, but the prince seemed to take the bait.

“You should make your play now, surgeon,” he quipped. “None of Lieutenant Byun’s cards are high enough.”

Byun pretended to be put out as if he was surprised the prince knew gambling games or hadn’t known his cards were on full display because he couldn’t hold them properly in his shaking hands, and the trio laughed awkwardly until Seonghwa was safely gone.

Lieutenant Byun abandoned the act and immediately hissed across the table at Park, “You could have cracked his rib, you giant beansprout!”

“A cracked rib is better than the prince deciding to investigate the mysterious lump in the corner for himself!” Park defended himself. “Admiral Kim would shoot me dead before the report even finished leaving my mouth and you know it.”

“Just get off him and let’s see the damage,” Byun huffed, dropping his cards and scooting the table out of the way.

Thankfully, there were no new injuries. Just wounds that had been healing slowly but surely during Hongjoong’s time here. Byun recognised one or two scars he had put there himself a month ago. 

A month or a lifetime... it was difficult to tell.

“He’s asleep,” Lieutenant Park sighed, relieved.

“I need him awake for my pain tolerance study,” the surgeon tutted, putting his tools away once more.

“Pain tolerance!” Byun spluttered. “Focus on getting him back on his feet, then maybe I’ll let you do your job.”

Oh rolled his eyes and saw himself out.

“Do you think his pain tolerance is better than average?” Park posed the question after a moment of silence.

Byun turned to face the prisoner and blinked away the mist in his own eyes. “I tortured him myself before the execution. It was difficult to tell either way.”

“Why do you care so much?” Park asked quietly, and the question echoed in Byun’s head.

He tried to shrug it off. “You would too if you’d seen him that day. Underneath all that wreckage, seconds away from death. I just got this feeling that his life wasn’t meant to be taken from him this way... like we’d made a mistake.”

Park watched the prisoner sleep a minute more before laying the blanket on him again. “I see what you mean.”

Carefully he collected the playing cards and set them up for a game for two. “Go get some rest. He’ll probably destroy me at this, considering he’s a good-for-nothing pirate, but I might as well keep him entertained when he wakes.”

Byun smiled at his friend’s willingness and went to get some hard earned sleep before they docked. 

At least he wasn’t the only one torn between two sides of a secret dilemma.

...

Yeosang quickly found that counting heads was not as easy as Hongjoong made it out to be back in the good old days.

He was already scatterbrained from keeping their volume low while also managing the entire operation.

“Yechan, Heesung, Myungjoong, Inhong, Taehyun, you’re all ready to go. Hello, Sunghoon, keep an eye on Byungwon, there’s a loose nail in his barrel and I don’t have medical supplies...” 

Ten of them rolled past before he began to see faces he didn’t recognise.

“I don’t think I’ve met you, what’s your name? Hansol? Alright Hansol, proceed with caution. Jaehyuk, Changsun, Jisung, are your groups present? Right, who are we missing then?”

Juna.

Juna, the eight year old with the dirty feet. The youngest of their group but most experienced due to the fact that he was born on the ship, and probably also the most vulnerable of them with his hacking cough.

Yeosang helped the boy into his barrel and warned him to be quiet before rolling him out to meet the rest.

Twenty-seven barrels, each with their bottoms carved out and a powder monkey hidden inside.  

It would take some very convincing acting to get them all off this ship.

Just as they’d been instructed, one by one they silently crept up the stairs through the decks until they reached the top, stopping and freezing in place any time another sailor got too close.

Yeosang brought up the rear and once they approached the main deck, it was his time to shine.

The boys all assembled in an orderly fashion in front of him, tucking in their feet and preparing to be rolled down the gangplank as their hero lashed them all together.

“Patience,” Yeosang whispered. “We need to encounter as few people as possible for this to work.”

The moment the man in the crow’s nest became distracted with the sails, they took their chance, rolling down onto the dock and stopping when Yeosang ordered them to.

Unfortunately, he was correct. The port workers were back and much more alert than they had been the first time around. They stopped Yeosang and his barrels and immediately asked why he was unloading the ship instead of loading it.

“Gunpowder,” he lied smoothly. “It’s expired, lost its potency.”

The man reached down to check for himself before Yeosang blurted out, “Very dangerous! I wouldn’t do that.”

Hand halted mid-air, the worker nodded and stepped back so he could pass.

Just when he thought he was in the clear, Yeosang suddenly heard a loud coughing sound from below him, slightly muffled through the barrel boards.

“Juna!” He hissed. “Quiet!”

“What’s that?” One of the dockworkers called out. 

Yeosang forced a smile and turned to face him. 

“Nothing!” He coughed a few times into his elbow for good measure. “Just a little cough. This powder irritates my lungs, I had better get rid of it quickly.”

The port men waved him on again and Yeosang tried to relax, rolling the barrels as quickly as he could without looking more suspicious than he already was.

Yuma was excited to see they had company, and it was all Yeosang could do to keep everyone quiet and get them inside the cart before someone in the area got curious.

A few of the boys were arguing over space and pushing each other around so Yeosang stuck his head in to silence them and hurriedly attached the cart to a restless Yuma.

They turned onto the main path, leaving behind a field full of empty barrels, and set off for the Kang Estate.

Yuma wasn’t accustomed to pulling so much weight, so they took the slower but safer main road to Doljeon and past it. They would have to ride through the night, but it was better than getting lost in the woods with twenty-seven powder monkeys and no emergency supplies.

“Good work, Yuma,” Yeosang encouraged the horse, sitting back with the reigns in hand and listening to the boys converse quietly before they dropped off to sleep.

It was his responsibility to stay awake and keep them moving. He was their guardian now, however unqualified he felt for the position.

The sunset beckoned him and so he followed it.

 ...

San found himself sitting alone with blood coating his arms and the front of his shirt.

It wasn’t his, it was the men’s. One patient had turned into three, then seven, then the entire infirmary was his workspace and some of the men he treated were saved fast enough that they could go back into combat.

These Haemin soldiers weren’t well trained, but they were fighters. They could hit and run nearly as well as any pirate, and so thanks to their combined efforts, they had won this round.

Many had kept their lives, and San had kept his as well.

“Water.��

A voice behind him shook him out of his thoughts.

The translator stood there with a bucket of clean water for San to wash his hands with.

The surgeon took it gratefully and rinsed off the crimson stain, paying special care to his wrists, raw from their chains.

“I suppose you’ll be returning me to the prison deck?” San sighed. His work was done for now, all patients dead or in stable  condition, and the attacking Navy ship had long retreated.

The translator nodded with a small frown and hauled him to his feet, escorting him back. If he didn’t know better, San would think the man felt sorry for him.

San wished, not for the first time, that the Navy was in the habit of taking prisoners. They could attack the ship and drag him away to a ship of the line he recognised. Then at least he’d have someone to talk to.

...

Jongho had to catch Yujin by the back of his collar and drag him to the fitness session. The pirate complained about needing to collect freshwater for the evening meal but Jongho would have none of it.

“We can’t just sit around drinking forever,” he told the gathered men in his most intimidating voice possible. “The Navy is building a garrison just up the beach and that means we need to be ready to face them or flee when they get close. Daehan, when’s the last time you even rigged the sails without Yunho here to tell you to?”

“Um... a month and a half ago?” The pirate coughed uncomfortably.

“Exactly,” Jongho snapped. “The time for being lazy slobs is over. I’m here to whip you all back into shape and prepare you for the fight of your lives. Because I may not see the future anymore, but I still know what’s coming, and you’re in no condition to stand a chance when it does.”

By the end of it they were all sweaty and gasping for breath, but the decks were spotless, the ship careened, the sails repaired, the guns shining and ready to be fired, and every man aboard had been drilled and drilled again in combat manoeuvres and self-defense. 

Jongho took his work seriously, there was no question about that.

When finally Yujin was released to the longboats to row ashore, buckets in hand, his arms were so sore it took him twice as long as usual.

He finished his work quickly and prepared to leave, neglecting to check whether the beach was deserted or not.

That was his first mistake.

...

Panhang.

It was a place neither Hongjoong or Mingi had ever desired to speak about. It was a name that slipped through lips that were soaked in rum and loosened enough to reveal the past.

And it made Seonghwa curious enough to disembark when the men were marched out to the half-constructed garrison. Panhang was situated on a beautiful stretch of coastline and as the wind swept his hair, Seonghwa was hit with that same feeling that came over him in the market. Something reminiscent of his childhood, a desire to explore.

With a glance in the Admiral’s direction, Seonghwa concluded that he wouldn’t be missed if he went for a stroll down the beach and gathered his things.

Some money in case he got hungry, a change of clothes should it snow, and everything needed for his weapons. He never left those behind under any circumstances.

His wanderings took him far down the beach until the Black Crow and the lighthouse were out of sight and the distant arch of weathered rock jutting out from the cliffside had grown closer.

It was a little bit too far, and Seonghwa was considering going back or heading into town when the ocean breeze became a bit too cold for his loose clothing, but when he approached the arch something caught his eye.

There was a ship out there, barely visible from the beach except for from the specific angle at which he was standing.

It was the ATEEZ.

Emotions conflicted inside Seonghwa and squeezed his heart painfully.

There she was, the ship that he considered his home, the place that he had missed so much in his days at the palace— but at the same time, he knew every man aboard it was a traitorous snake, and the thought that they had all left Hongjoong to die at the first sign of trouble was a bitter one.

Sounds from the other side of the rock caught his attention and he drew his gun silently.

Someone was loading a longboat with freshwater and humming to himself carelessly.

Seonghwa could only see the back of the man’s head from where he hid, but it was enough. That was Yujin’s signature headband— it was him.

Before he lost his chance, Seonghwa jumped out from behind the arch and pointed his gun at the traitor.

Yujin squeaked and turned around, almost dropping a bucket of water.

Fire blazed in Seonghwa’s eyes and he pressed the barrel right up to the man’s forehead.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”

...

Taglist: @serendipityunho @celestial-yunho @atzjjongbby @89staytinyzen21

A/N: Wooooow hi everyone, I know this took awhile to get out but just FYI I’m going back to classes tomorrow so I can’t promise the updates to be any faster but, as always, I’ll be working on them :) Let me know what you thought!!

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[fromkaermorhentolettenhove]

The Eternity of Bliss - Chapter 1

Summary: Jaskier has been living in the non-magical world for several years now, protecting it from anything that might sneak though the barrier that separates this place from the one he calls home. 

When clusters of monsters begin to appear, threatening both worlds, it’s then Jaskier is assigned to partner up with Geralt, the best Hunter known on the continent, to clean up this mess.

In an instant, Jaskier’s life is turned on its head as he and Geralt deal with Destiny, deadly attacks, and falling in love.

Rating: T

Genre: 1920s Urban Fantasy, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Fate&Destiny

Words: 2871

A/N: on ao3 the rating is M because there’ll eventually be one chapter of smut, i just don’t know when yet

(also 100% inspired by joey’s role in war of the worlds;;;;)

-

AO3

or

Jaskier’s life was as normal as they came. 

A cushy office job, a number of acquaintances, and considering the economy, he was doing well for himself. 

The clacking of typewriters was a nice familiarity day to day, noisy car horns in the streets, and needing to wrap his trench coat around him when the wind blew. He was thankful that of all places to be assigned, it was right in the middle of London where he could have his days of excitement amongst the regimented schedule. 

It was one rather ordinary day when Jaskier was sitting at his desk, typing up the latest reports from management. One line in particular was giving him trouble and it was now his fourth time typing up this single page. Jaskier was about to give up when the sound akin to bursting flames caught his attention. 

Sneaking a glance around, Jaskier tugged his desk drawer open and flipped the cover of his star-studded notebook to the first page. 

Come at once was all the message read and Jaskier checked the large grandfather clock at the front of the room. It was close enough to his lunch and he gave a friendly nod to the men in the desks around him as he tucked the notebook into his front pocket. Grabbing his hat and coat, Jaskier left before anyone could question.

Once in the busy streets, Jaskier kept his head down, hands in his pockets as he weaved through crowds. He glanced over his shoulder every so often before he took his next turn, eventually finding himself down a dingy alley. 

The door at the end was dilapidated, barely hanging on its hinges and mice scurried out from it. Placing his hand on the door, Jaskier muttered a single word, watching as his hand glowed. The door shifted, shuffling into place as the wood became speckled with gold, the frame around it molding back together. Taking a step back, Jaskier waited until the door swung open and he stepped inside to a grand entrance. 

Large steps descended before him, the upper floors above packed with people as they bustled to and fro. The ceiling arched high, a glass dome that allowed sunlight to pour in. Jaskier followed his path down the stairs, only interrupted by a group of fairies that flew past him. Frowning at the group, Jaskier continued on, past the department of Magical Mishaps where he could hear explosions from behind several doors. 

Down, down he went until at last he reached a gate guarded by two wolves. 

“Triss sent for me,” Jaskier told them and the wolves gave him a wary look before stepping aside. 

Opening the gate, Jaskier approached a table where a woman stood, several maps opening with the wave of her hand. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she examined them and she didn’t notice Jaskier until he cleared his throat. 

“Oh, Jaskier,” she smiled and waved the maps back onto the table. “Timely as always. Just waiting on your partner and then I’ll begin the debriefing.”

“Hello, Triss. Um, partner?” Jaskier asked, his heart jumping with nervous excitement. 

It had been a while since Jaskier was required to work with someone else. He was always happy to make a new friend, even if this was supposed to be just work.

The gate behind him opened and Jaskier froze when he recognized the face. This couldn’t be his partner, yet there was no one else trailing behind the man who walked in with an intimidating stride. He took off his hat, a nod as his greeting as he took his place next to Jaskier. Golden eyes bore into Jaskier for just a moment before he turned his attention away. 

“Geralt,” Triss acknowledged him before snapping her fingers and a trail of golden dust circled above the table. “We’ve had a breach in one of our borders.”

She swiped her hand across the dust, a map of London appearing with intricate accuracy. “Nothing too miserable got out, but there’s a lot and not much time to contain them. Jaskier is your Tracer.”

Jaskier smiled at Geralt, only getting a raised eyebrow in return. 

“Report back when you’ve cleared them out and we’ll check the city once more,” Triss continued on. 

Jaskier’s stomach turned and he slowly raised his hand. “Is the breach just in London?”

Triss sighed. “Unfortunately not. There’s been reports coming in from all over the world. We’re looking into it, but right now, it just seems like the usual case of overlooking.”

Nodding his understanding, Jaskier found himself having to catch up with Geralt as the man quickly stalked out of the room. Once they were back above ground and out of the building, Geralt led them into busier streets, stopping so suddenly that Jaskier crashed into him. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier mumbled, readjusting his coat and hat as he stood next to Geralt. “I must say it’s an honor to finally be working with you.”

“Is it?” Geralt spoke, harsh and low, his eyes darting about. 

“You’re the best Hunter there is, you’re legendary, Geralt,” Jaskier couldn’t help himself, recounting every story he ever heard about the man.

Geralt grunted, but didn’t stop Jaskier from jabbering on for the next few minutes. The man humored him, not interrupting once, and it was then Jaskier calmed his racing mind with a shy smile.

“So, are we just standing here then?” Jaskier collected himself. 

“I was waiting for you to start the Trace,” Geralt replied. His mouth had formed a thin line, yet his eyes shone with something kinder and Jaskier cleared his throat. 

“Right, of course.” 

Taking a breath, Jaskier focused the energy within him before he snapped his eyes open. To the common observer, Jaskier appeared to be staring at the crowd with heavy intent. However, only Geralt could see the blue flames bursting from his eyes, encapsulating even the whites. 

“Shipyard,” Jaskier nodded towards the water. “Looks like goblins.”

The two men quickly made their way to the docks, Jaskier keeping his Trace on in case the goblins started moving. Luckily, Geralt was at the advantage and he was quick to pounce on a couple, sending them back to the proper world with a golden portal he pulled from thin air. 

Jaskier kept his distance–having learned his lesson of staying out of a Hunter’s way–and observed the area, still thick with goblin residue. He followed a few trails, finding only dead ends and eventually headed back to where he had left Geralt. 

Then, a sharp jab hit him in the stomach and Jaskier turned to the source. Magic was spiking all around him, poking at his skin as Jaskier scratched at nothing. A warehouse loomed not too far from him, the darkness in the windows foreboding. With a swallow, Jaskier crept over to the warehouse, peering over the edge of a sill. White flashed before his eyes and Jaskier covered his mouth to stop his scream. His chest began heaving with panic as he ran to find Geralt, nearly tripping over the man, who was searching crates for any last goblins. 

“There’s something,” Jaskier gasped between breaths. “In that warehouse over there.”

Geralt’s head snapped up and he marched over to the warehouse, Jaskier trailing behind him. As they got closer, the stabbing sensation began again and Jaskier twitched in annoyance. Geralt threw open the door to the warehouse, nothing but darkness greeting them. 

“Stay here,” Geralt motioned, drawing a silver sword out from his coat. 

Jaskier had no intention of that. To identify the creature was necessary, for records, for Jaskier to be able to stop the invisible needles that jabbed at his skin. Rushing in after Geralt, Jaskier strained his eyes, the small patches of light providing hardly any at all. Wind rushed past his ears and Jaskier ducked just in time. Silver swiped over his head followed by a snarl from Geralt. Lifting his head, Jaskier caught flashes of a dark-haired woman, pale skin, caught in the flashes of sun that peeked through broken rafters. Her hands swung at Geralt, missing, but a breath away each time. 

Jaskier’s eyes blurred as his pain intensified, screams clawing at his ears. His legs wobbled, his body shifting as he reached out for something to grab onto. Then, a veil lifted and Jaskier could breathe again. All was quiet, too quiet, a shiver running down Jaskier’s spine.

Jaskier fidgeted, his attempt to call for Geralt caught in his throat. The darkness began to morph and Jaskier took a stumbling step back. Geralt emerged, covered in blood but otherwise unharmed. Hunters never did kill unless there was no other choice and the thought sat heavy in Jaskier’s mind. With a sigh, Jaskier let the flames in his eyes die down as he rushed to meet the man halfway.

“How the hell did a fucking bruxa get past the wards?” Geralt ground out.

Jaskier could only shrug, just thankful that Geralt was alive and well. He pulled them both out of the warehouse, breathing in when the sun hit his skin.

“Get Triss. She needs to hear about this.”

Nodding, Jaskier pulled out a small golden container and unlatched the cover, trails of magic springing into the air. Triss’s face soon appeared as the colored dust collected itself into her form. 

“What’s happened, Jaskier?” She frowned. She looked frazzled and almost miffed by Jaskier’s call. 

“Bruxa,” Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hand to make the container face him. 

Triss’s eyes went wide before she ran a hand down her face. “I was afraid of that.”

The two men waited as she collected herself, poised to her professionalism. 

“I ask that the two of you remain together and find a secure place to stay for now.”

Jaskier nodded as Geralt grunted, seemingly upset about the situation. 

“We’ll find out what’s going on. Then you can have them all to yourself, Geralt,” Triss glared at him. 

With that, she blinked out from the dust and the container snapped shut. 

“I should probably quit my office job then,” Jaskier commented as he put the container back in his coat pocket. 

“For the best,” Geralt agreed. “Come with me.”

A portal, once again laced in gold, opened in front of them and before Jaskier could protest, Geralt had taken hold of his arm, dragging him into the portal. Jaskier stumbled when they landed on a cobblestone street, a wave of nausea hitting him, yet Geralt gave him no time to recover. Long rows of buildings sat on either side of them and Geralt finally pulled them towards a black door, placing his hand on it. The door swung open allowing the two men in before it shut firmly behind them. Up a set of stairs, it was then there was one more door until Jaskier found himself in the middle of a living room. 

“My safehouse,” Geralt explained as he flicked his hand. 

Piles organized themselves as curtains shut and furniture rearranged. Geralt went around the room, murmuring a few more words, symbols shining in the air before dissolving. 

“Smart,” Jaskier finally spoke. “What will become of my flat?”

Geralt turned to him, holding his hands out for Jaskier’s coat and hat. “We’ll sort that out later.”

It wasn’t a comforting thought, but Jaskier couldn’t protest. After all, Geralt had brought him to a secret hideaway with no questions asked. After their coats and hats were hung up, Jaskier walked around the place, observing the kitchen and then the hallway that presumably led to a bathroom and bedrooms. He couldn’t help run a finger along a shelf, grimacing at the dust that coated his finger. 

“Bedroom on the left can be yours,” Geralt called from the living room. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier replied, then searching about the kitchen. 

He took off his suit coat, draping it on a nearby chair, and unbuttoned his vest, finding the atmosphere just a tad stuffy. Things clearly hadn’t been moved in a while and Jaskier tapped his fingers on the counter, letting his magic take over. A teapot flew past his head, filling up in the sink before settling on the gas stove, blue wisps swirling around the steam. Jaskier leaned against the counter once a towel wiped it off and stared at the fixtures and wallpaper. It was too modern for his tastes. He missed his cottage in the other world, the simple stonework and fireplace. 

While the non-magic world was getting along fine with their inventions, Jaskier could never get used to the horseless carriages and the dullness of telegrams. Non-magical folk just seemed to want more and more, never happy with what they had already. However, Jaskier could only critique from the sidelines, content with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to stay in this world forever.

The kettle was soon boiling and Jaskier prepared two cups of tea for Geralt and himself. Not wanting to disturb the other man, Jaskier sent Geralt’s cup floating into the other room while he settled down at the kitchen table. 

As he took his first sip, Geralt appeared in the doorway with his cup in hand. He had taken off his suit coat as well, tie loosened, but still hanging around his neck. The blood on him had been vanquished, leaving clean, yet wrinkled clothing behind. 

“Thank you. You know my kitchen better than me.”

Jaskier laughed a little at this, resting his head in his hand. “The magic helps. Tell me, Geralt, did you always want to be a Hunter?”

Geralt pulled out a chair and sat diagonal to Jaskier, his expression neutral. “I didn’t really have a choice. What with my lineage and all...”

The family of Rivia was well-renowned for their Hunters, so much so that Jaskier had grown up on stories about them. It had been his dream to one day work with someone from the family and now he had finally gotten his chance. 

“What about you?” Geralt interrupted Jaskier’s thoughts. 

With a small grin, Jaskier sat back in his chair. “I was too restless to be a Healer. Tracing just works best for me. I get action but with how clumsy I can be with weapons, I don’t have to take that additional risk.”

The two drifted into silence, regarding each other over their cups of tea. Jaskier couldn’t help but study Geralt when the man wasn’t looking. How stern his face was, but he was an expression of calm as they sat together. For just a little while, Jaskier forgot that he was supposed to be in hiding and rather, that he was just spending a nice afternoon with Geralt. 

“Are you always this happy?”

Jaskier laughed. “I try to be. Oh, I can be serious when the situation calls for it, but why deny when my heart feels light?”

Geralt let out a small hum, his eyes flickering away from Jaskier. There seemed to be the faintest trace of a smile on his face and Jaskier was sure it was one of the most beautiful things he had seen all day. 

“Well,” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Any house rules I should be aware of? Pet peeves?”

“Just pick up after yourself,” Geralt mused over the rim of his cup. 

Jaskier couldn’t help the laugh that left him. “You know, Geralt, I think this is the start of something exciting. If only all flatmates could be like you.”

“You wouldn’t want that,” Geralt teased back. “I’m insufferable once you get to know me.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Drinking the last of his tea, Jaskier set to cleaning up the small pile of dishes that had accumulated in Geralt’s sink. 

He started humming as he rolled up his sleeves, flicking his wrist to levitate the soap and washcloth. 

“I can do my own dishes,” Geralt was suddenly beside him. 

“Well, today I’m doing them. I believe you’ve got some piles in the living room to sort through, so you go and do that.”

“Are you my housekeeper now?” Geralt retorted.

“I should hope not,” Jaskier laughed. “But since I’m living with you for the time being, we should split the chores.”

“You’re my guest.”

“And this guest wants to do the dishes.”

Geralt pursed his lips but fought no further, leaving the room to let Jaskier do as he pleased. Delighted with his win, Jaskier finished the dishes before conjuring more magic to organize and scrub down the entire kitchen. Time was forgotten and it was after sundown when Jaskier had finished. When Geralt re-entered the kitchen, he froze in the doorway, his eyes darting about. 

“Got a little carried away,” Jaskier gave a sheepish smile. 

“It’s...nice.”

“Oh, look,” Jaskier threw open a cupboard. “There wasn’t any real system here so I put the mugs on this shelf and plates on this one. Bowls and saucers are here.”

Jaskier continued to show Geralt his new kitchen, receiving only hums and grunts in return. Geralt took to it all quickly and when dinner came around, he proved that he did indeed listen to Jaskier’s every word. 

Despite the day’s events, Jaskier was starting to feel at home and he could only hope in time that Geralt would become a very dear friend.

[haikyuu-scenarios-box]

Hi. I'm the anon who asked about au's. I'm just shy, so don't take offense my apology! You're great and friendly! I'd like a scenario request though! I've been into vampires since the Halloween season, and wanted to request one. A little late, but I guess any time is a good time, haha. I'd like it to be with Tsukishima being vampire and spending the night at his crushes house, and he ends up feeding on her in her sleep? You can do what you like with this idea! I'm very interested to see it!

A/N: omfggg i went so so overboard with this,, im just so damn weak for vampire!tsukishima. TW: blood obviously. Also, keep in mind that this request involves a character coming into the reader’s bedroom to p much prey on her while she’s asleep. There’s nothing sexual involved, but if you suspect that that type of scene may trigger you, then I suggest you either don’t read this or read at your own discretion. Ok?? ok,..,, you’ve been warned and you’re on your own now. Word count: 1,870 (lmao my bad)

UNDER THE CUT.

____________

His fingers were akin to glass; their delicacy threatened with a shatter as they brushed against the daisies. Traces of pollen were dusted along his palms, petals of ivory stroking the length of his legs. Sparse grass had buried itself into the folds that rested within his clothes, lightly pricking his skin. 

Discarding the vivid memory, Tsukishima recalled that he hadn’t seen the cottage by the meadow in over a century. 

To Tsukishima, those memories resembled scratched segments of dusty videocassettes. He remembered that he had a brother named Akiteru, a seamstress for a mother and a labourer for a father. Their faces, however, were permanently forgotten. It didn’t bother Tsukishima, though - he preferred it over death. If it weren’t for Yamaguchi turning him, he would have died following the pillage. 

Prior to meeting her, Tsukishima never kept track of time since he had all of eternity to live. In the past year, he’d grown attached enough to maintain his relationship with her, but not attached enough to risk getting his head severed from his body. Tsukishima planned to cut her out of his life soon.

‘Look at you all zoned out,’ she teased, ‘I didn’t take you for an art critic.’ 

‘You want a critique?’ Tsukishima sneered, ‘this painting’s really ugly.’

‘It’s not ugly!’ she exclaimed, ‘Ojiisan gave it to me. He bought it from an artist in Nagiso long ago.’ 

‘Well, he had awful taste,’ he knew that that wasn’t his real opinion. What else was he supposed to say, though? That the painting of a cottage by a meadow reminded him of his first home? That he was alive before her grandfather was? 

Of course not.

‘You have a lot of nerve saying that…’ she poked the bridge of Tsukishima’s glasses, ‘… when you’re the one who’s wearing those. Get nicer frames.’

‘I’m sorry I like to see,’ he sarcastically said with a smirk, ‘is this how you treat your guests?’

‘You’re the one who said my painting’s ugly,’ she shrugged, collapsing on the couch. ‘I think ojiisan said he met a vampire when he visited Nagiso.’ 

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Tsukishima sneered, joining her, ‘there’s barely any in Japan.’

‘Yes there is,’ she asserted, ‘they used to live savagely centuries ago, but they’ve integrated into human society.’

Tsukishima was almost taken aback. She was right - creatures of his kind still existed and they integrated well. Too well, to the point where they were widely considered to be an extinct being.

‘Let me guess, your ojiisan told you that,’ Tsukishima masked his surprise with a taunting tone, ‘do vampires also disappear in mirrors and wear black cloaks?’ 

She crossed her arms as she stuck her tongue out childishly, ‘Make fun of me all you want, but he said that he knew what he saw. A young woman in an alleyway,’ she shuddered, her spine graced by a shiver, ‘her fangs buried deeply within a mangled cat, slurping up all its blood.’

‘How scary,’ Tsukishima mocked, pretending as though he hadn’t done such a thing. He was repulsed at the idea of feeding on animals, but centuries ago, there were times where he found himself desperate. All he fed on nowadays were suicide victims beneath a nearby cliff and from blood banks. Yamaguchi did the same.

‘Whatever,’ she stood up, stretching her arms out with a yawn, ‘don’t come crying to me if you ever do come across a vampire.’ 

‘Because in that situation, I’d definitely come to you,’ Tsukishima sarcastically remarked, ‘I’d feel safe with your wooden stake and silver.’

‘You realise I can make you sleep on the couch instead of the guest bedroom, right?’

____________

Every attempt he made to quiet his mind had failed; it descended, further, further and further into an obsession with the possibility that a long blade would soon sever his head. 

Tsukishima was never aware that she possessed any knowledge about his kind. Vampires became less of a reality and more of an old tale. Not many knew that they ate human food, drank human drinks - the only difference was that it was all tasteless and that his nutrition could only be obtained from fresh blood. Put simply, human foods were a useless filler. 

Although she didn’t mention it, Tsukishima believed it was likely that she was aware of that fact. As his pupils fixated themselves to the ceiling, a year was suddenly no longer a fleeting moment to him. A year’s worth of a close relationship with a human was a long time. Especially when the human belongs to the minority that believed that vampires still lived amongst them. 

Yamaguchi had warned him of this, urging him to recall when hiring vampire hunters was common practise, when suspected vampires (and any human who sheltered a vampire) were burned at the stake, begging for any form of mercy. 

Tsukishima began packing away the belongings he brought with him to her home, concluding that her memory of him had to turn into a mirage, just like the faces of his family. As he made his way out the guest bedroom, he realised how he loathed how fond he grew of her. Tsukishima wanted to fully remember the arch of her brows, the lashes that curved away from her waterline, the wit of her tongue, the outline of her lips.

He passed by her bedroom, knowing that he couldn’t rely on his memories. Eventually, the centuries to come would led them to disintegrate into ashes, where they will never arise again - memories bore no similarity to a phoenix.

Turning around, Tsukishima quietly placed his duffle bag on the floor and carefully opened the door. He was unsure as to whether he could remember her once he left - but he was confident that he wouldn’t forget the flavour her blood carried. 

Her body had already been lulled into a deep state of sleep - after all, Tsukishima possessed heightened senses and could hear her slow and rhythmic breathing. 

The emotional attachment Tsukishima held towards her was constantly denied by him, until he envisioned his pillow beside hers. He falsely hoped to share that blanket with her for the nights to come, perhaps even bicker over blanket-stealing the following morning. Maybe she snored sometimes and he could tease her about it. Would they wake up at the same time, or would he wake up first? 

Tsukishima didn’t want those thoughts to exist anymore. He wanted them to burn with intense fury and relief; identical to the burning of suspected vampires centuries ago. 

She was already asleep on her side, her body facing the wall. Kneeling beside the double bed, Tsukishima warily placed a hand on her shoulder. The thumb of his other hand rested along the angle of her jaw, gently pushing her head further away from her neck. For a couple of seconds, Tsukishima merely stared at the skin he was about to pierce. She’ll keep him in mind while the marks scab over and bruise, but after that, she will forget about him; because he’ll be long gone by then. 

The longer his fangs grew, the more reluctant he became to bite into her. This wasn’t going to be the first time that Tsukishima fed on someone alive - there was a time when he was forced to do so. He knew his neck anatomy quite well, he wasn’t an idiot who recklessly bit into people and accidentally killed them.

Tsukishima’s felt the tip of his fangs touch her neck. This situation lacked any similarity to his past feedings on sleeping humans, for it was completely unrelated to survival. Rather, it was a feeble to cure his illness of melancholy; the fever that forced him to breathe the air that, to him, resembled the very salts of the ocean. Every inhale filled his lungs with blue hellfire.

That was what drove him to finally abandon his loyalty to cautiousness.

Tsukishima haphazardly sink his fangs into her neck, memorising the intensity of the iron. He knew that if he were to suddenly pull his head away in that moment, he’d rip her neck wide open. But he had to bite down with that much force. He had to remember her. 

As hot, thick scarlet slid down Tsukishima’s throat, he began to actually consider the consequences. With the mark, she’d easily have the power to report him. Although the probability of anyone believing her was slim, his actions were still creating the possibility of his death. For a mere second, Tsukishima even pictured himself turning her.

Once a low yelp was heard by Tsukishima’s hypersensitive ears, he rid his mind of those disorganised thoughts. He was sure that his absence of self-control had awakened her, yet he began to question whether he really was scared of getting killed. Tsukishima’s lived for centuries. He’d seen it all. 

With that realisation, Tsukishima strengthened his grip and pushed her head even further away from her neck. He noted that as his gulps turned longer and deeper, her whimpers grew louder and her knuckles curled themselves into the sheets.

When he finally pulled away, he watched her reluctantly place her fingers on the wound, smearing the bloody marks in the process. Tsukishima’s lips were still warm, a crimson trail slowly dripping down his chin. 

Tsukishima sat up, retracting his fangs back into his gums. He headed towards the door, wiping away the blood with the back of his hand. He forced the turmoil within his chest to be replaced with apathy, since he already knew the facial expression that will rest upon her face once she turned around - forehead wrinkled, eyebrows knitted, lip corners pulled downwards - sheer terror.

‘You…’ she trailed off, her voice uncertain, ‘… if you wanted to bite me that bad, you could have just asked.’

For the first time since Yamaguchi turned him, Tsukishima was the one stunned by a human. His eyelids drew themselves back slightly, his mouth agape with an intense confusion. Tsukishima didn’t want to look at her - he had no desire for her to see the breach of his facade. 

‘I already knew.’ 

After a long pause, Tsukishima snapped. ‘And you didn’t tell me,’ The apathy within his chest started to dissipate, an immeasurable confusion and fury settling in. ‘Instead, you decided to have a casual conversation with me about my kind.’ 

‘Kei,’ she said, ‘turn around and look me in the eye,’ she’d never used his first name before. He never did, either, although he always wished their relationship would reach a point where he could. 

Tsukishima obliged with her command. ‘You think I’m a fool, do you?’ his skin almost sizzled against his bones, overwhelmed by every form of hurt he’d experienced throughout the centuries. ‘All this time, you acted like you’re oblivious to what I am and spoke to me as though I’m a human.’

Mainly, it was the hurt that was buried within the sense of imminent loss.

‘Well, I’m not a human,’ Tsukishima revealed his fangs once more, clenching his teeth in anger, ‘and that means that I’ll kill you right now.’ 

‘You won’t,’ she said, her smile soft enough to be mistaken for a smirk. She was smug about the fact that her suspicion was true, though - this was Tsukishima’s crush, after all. 

She slowly stepped closer to him until she was able to firmly press her chest against his. Tenderly placing an open palm against Tsukishima’s cheek, the pad of her thumb gently stroked his cheekbone; an attempt to induce tranquillity within him. Once her gentle gesture ceased, she hooked an index finger underneath the fabric of her shirt, pulling it away from her neck to expose the bare skin of her shoulder.

‘Drink.’ 

[trvelyans-archive]

past and present

a comm for the wonderful @dauntless-necromancer of morrigan and kieran and their warden elrich cousland <3 thank you for commissioning me ! 

also for context because i didn’t post the first one, in this fic morrigan and kieran live in the mountains while elrich is searching for a cure for the calling ! and kieran’s a teen now, iconic ! i hope you enjoy !!! <3

-

It was just supposed to be a walk. 

Kieran often walked across the mountain vistas surrounding his and Mother’s new home – it was his only escape whenever they were in an argument or she needed a few hours alone after receiving another letter from Father with bad news. He had a few paths he liked to walk the most, but sometimes he explored a little further than the last time; a little higher up the cliffs than he was able to reach when he was younger. 

He was 19 after all, now, and growing into his own. He was a short child – he hadn’t been taller than Mother until he was 14 or 15 - but now that he was (finally) an adult, he was gangly. (At least that’s what Mother said.) He had strong arms and legs, plenty strong enough to be able to pull himself up and over the higher ledges on the mountains, but they looked thin and ropy, and Mother always told him that he was much stronger than anyone would ever assume he was at a glance. 

“Which isn’t entirely a bad thing,” she’d said after, kissing him on the forehead as she brushed past him to reach the cupboards where they stored their herbs while they two of them made dinner. “It will be much easier for you to take them by surprise that way, after all.”  

She said that with a twinkle in her eye, then, and that always made everything better. 

Today, though, things were different. Kieran left in a huff after they’d gotten into another one of those arguments they seemed to have every couple of days at that point – there were messages and letters from Father that Mother sometimes kept quiet despite Kieran practically begging to see them, and he had had enough. He wanted promises too, after all. He wanted Father to tell him that he was okay, that things were okay, that he would return to his family one day soon when his work was finished. He didn’t want to hear it from Mother – of course she would tell him that. She would do everything for him.  

Or… most things, at least. Except read him Father’s letters or let him write one of his own in return. 

So he left, wrapped up in his favourite cloak with a full waterskin, a pack full of food, and a journal that Father had sent him several years, and Mother stood at the doorway, watching him go with a frown on her face. He was entirely intent on returning before evening fell – because, really, there was no where to go - when he found himself stuck in the middle of a blizzard. 

A few years ago, when he was younger, he would have been much more scared of being stuck out in the snow by himself. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t scared this time – he was, especially because he quickly realized that he accidentally forgot his warmest mittens back home – but he knew how to deal with this kind of thing much better. 

After all, there wasn’t much else to do up in the mountains but explore. Read, write. Take a walk.  

Get caught in a blizzard. 

He laughed to himself and pulled his hood up higher over his face, trudging through the quickly rising snow into a thick grove of pine trees. On every couple of branches, every couple of trees, hung little clay ornaments Kieran sometimes made when he was desperately bored in the middle of summer, and the sight of the few that he could tell were made by Mother calmed him a little. Blizzards ebbed and flowed quite often up here in the mountains, so it would only take an hour or so for this portion of it to pass. Of course, that meant Kieran had to take shelter somewhere to wait it out safely, but he did not mind very much. It just gave him time to think about the letter he would write Papa when he returned home, whether or not Mother wanted him to or not. 

She didn’t have to know… 

Not that he liked keeping secrets from Mother. She was all he had – for now, at least, until Papa would join them in the mountains one day soon and they’d be together again – and they had to trust each other to stay alive. They were as close as a mother and her child could possibly be, she always said. They had respect for one another, even though they had seen each other in their lowest moments, and they tried not to keep any secrets between them, no matter how dark or scary they were. 

No secrets, and yet she always hid Father’s letters. 

Kieran frowned. He wasn’t going to apologize first this time. 

After all, he always needed some sort of distraction nowadays to keep him from dwelling on all the thoughts in his mind; so he could ignore the voices that he sometimes heard at the back of his head even though he knew no one was behind him. Though Mother didn’t like to talk about it very much, there was something different about him – something that had always been different about him. For the longest time, he thought it was normal, that everyone felt that way – especially after he had gone to Skyhold with Mother to meet the Inquisitor and tried to befriend some of the other children there - but around the time he turned 17, Mother sat him down and told him… well… a lot. A lot of things he never expected to hear but also, somehow, that he saw coming at the same time. 

He huffed as he leaned against a tree and slid down into the snow, pulling his cloak around his body and swinging his pack down from his shoulders to hug it against his chest. He had a book in his bag, but he wasn’t content on bringing it out right now – the snow would surely melt against the pages, and he had no intention on smearing the ink when his books were the few prized possessions he actually had. Instead he tipped his head back against the tree and looked up, at the flurries of flying snow, at the muted grey sky beyond them. 

And then, somehow, he fell asleep. 

He did not wake up on the mountain. 

The first thing he thought when he awoke and his vision cleared was that, somehow, he was actually very thankful he hadn’t brought his warmest mittens along. They would have made his current condition much, much worse, as every other part of his body was sweating. 

He squinted as he glanced up, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight streaming through the leaves in the trees – not pine needles, he noted, actual leaves – and staring into the sky. There was no trace of any clouds above him, grey and stormy or otherwise, and, in fact, it seemed like quite a beautiful day. So beautiful, in fact, that he was lulled into a foolish sense of security for a moment before bolting upright.  

He was far, far away from home. 

Before he started moving, he shed his heavy coat and draped them over his arm after pushing up the sleeves of his shirt but left his cloak on, pulling his hood higher up over his face. He could not remember if it was summer or not – he often forgot such things because they lived so high up in the mountains that the seasons didn’t mean much besides it being slightly colder in Wintermarch and vaguely warmer in Justinian - so perhaps he had no reason to be too worried. It could be that he was somewhere in the foothills of the Frostbacks and it’d only take a week or so to return to Mother – well, if the weather held out like this… 

But he knew the treacherous roads of the Frostbacks as well as anyone, and he knew well enough that once he reached higher altitudes the trek would become much harder. 

So, then, knowing that, perhaps instead of a week it would be more like… three. Give or take a few days for the weather, any issues with the roads, and especially considering that he wasn’t certain he was in the foothills, anyway. After all, the terrain felt much different; the flora was unlike anything he had seen in recent memory. Based off of his knowledge of the world alone, he could’ve been in… the Free Marches. He could’ve been in Orlais. He could’ve been anywhere. 

And everywhere, right now, seemed very far away from home. 

But there was no point in worrying about it in the meanwhile, at least not until he started moving and got a sense of where he was. He couldn’t undo… whatever it was that had just happened – or, at least, it was very unlikely he could undo it, especially since he didn’t know how it had happened in the first place - and sitting here, dwelling on it and twiddling his thumbs meant he was wasting precious time. Kieran heaved a heavy sigh and started off towards a gap in the trees, figuring that it was as good a place as any to start. 

Kieran liked to consider himself an optimistic person – he had forced himself to be when he started growing older - but after only a few minutes, he was beginning to realize just how much he sounded like his mother. 

That hurt more than he wanted it to. 

Thankfully he had his waterskin, and a book in his bag he could read if he got bored. This was not the type of forest he was used to – there were no swollen roots or long, overhanging branches – and, if he felt so inclined, he could probably take out his book and read while he walked without it slowing him down too much. Perhaps tomorrow he’d take his mind off of things by reading while he travelled – that is, of course, if he didn’t have to use his book as kindling tonight. Which made him feel… more miserable, somehow.  

He was out of the forest within an hour, and across a meadow in the next. The cloak was slowing him down slightly – it was heavy, thick wool – but he thought it would be best to keep his face hidden for now, even as he descended down a short hill into another thicket of oak trees. Pausing, he leaned against a tree and pulled out his waterskin, uncorking the top and tilting his head back to pour a stream of water into his mouth. 

When he felt the tip of a knife against the back of his neck, he couldn’t help but choke. 

He recovered quickly, though, and wiped his mouth on the back of his neck while he turned around slowly with his hands raised in defense (one still holding his waterskin, which he was dangerously close to spilling).  

“Ah,” the man said quietly. He was an elf, with tanned skin and golden hair, and though he was considerably shorter than Kieran and quite a bit smaller, the knife at Kieran’s throat didn’t do anything to make him feel less intimidated. “I must admit… you looked much more threatening from behind.” 

Kieran frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that perhaps I should not run you through right now,” the man replied, taking a short step back. “Not that I was planning to, really – the man in charge would not approve – but, if you had posed a threat… well, the thought crossed my mind.” 

Kieran crossed his arms over his chest. He could be plenty threatening. This man didn’t know what he was talking about. 

“Who’s this ‘man in charge’ you’re speaking about?” he asked. 

The man laughed, and Kieran felt his annoyance grow even stronger. “I do not think I am at liberty to disclose that information to anyone quite yet,” he said. “At least not without getting a fair punishment in return. Saying that, I do suggest you move along – some of our friends are, well… not very open to strangers, and –“ 

“Zevran?” 

A woman stepped out from behind the elf, a woman with bright orange hair and a medium build who looked unsettlingly familiar. “Who’s this?” she said, eyes narrowing and nose wrinkling. 

“Perhaps a bandit,” Zevran said. “Does not quite look the type, to me anyway, but appearances can be deceiving, no?” 

The woman rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just a villager from the nearby town,” she told the elf before turning to Kieran. “Is there something wrong? Have you lost your parents to the Blight?” 

The Blight? 

The Blight was almost 20 years ago now – the Blight, Mother said once, is the reason Kieran was born in the first place; the reason he had the abilities to read things and feel things the way he did. 

How did he end up here? 

“No,” he answered hesitantly. “I mean… Yes, I have. My mother and father are…” 

He didn’t finish. He didn’t quite know exactly what to say. 

“I am sorry to hear that,” the woman said, taking a step closer. “Would you like me to keep them in my prayers tonight?” 

Zevran, the elf, cleaned the flat side of his blade with his thumb, never taking his eyes off Kieran. 

“Yes, I would appreciate that very much.” Kieran shifted uneasily on his feet, glancing at the woman from underneath his low-hanging hood. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” 

“I am Leliana.” She smiled at him. “And you are…?” 

Leliana. Of course. Kieran remembered Leliana well from his time in Skyhold – she had been in several strongly-worded discussions with Mother late at night when she stopped by their quarters. She looked younger, now – happier. And much, much less tired. 

Kieran knew that time travel was a possibility – he’d heard some rumours about Tevinter Magisters travelling through time several years ago – but he wasn’t well-versed in how it worked enough to be able to have done this himself. 

There had to be a reason he was here, and he was determined to figure it out. 

“Kier,” he said after realizing she was waiting for a response. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Leliana.” 

“You, as well.” She glanced over at Zevran. “See? He’s not a bandit. If he is, he’s certainly better at conversation than the rest of them.” 

“Yes, yes, he is a wonderful conversationalist,” Zevran replied. “However, Leliana, I do believe we have duties to attend to, hm?” 

“Ah, yes!” Leliana offered Kieran a dazzling smile. “Well, I’m sorry about your parents, Kier. May the Maker watch over you.” 

Leliana and Zevran had been two of his parents’ companions during the Blight. Leliana was one of the few people who had tried to reach out to Mother after her and Kieran left the Inquisition following the defeat of Corypheus, even if they had never quite become friends. If they were here, that must have meant his parents were around, too. 

And he wanted so badly to see them, to see what they were like when they were younger… 

“Do you have room for another person to travel with you?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. 

- 

And Kieran thought Mother was suspicious of outsiders now. After seeing what she was like during the Blight, he’d never think that again. 

It had been a few days of travelling with them – which still felt incredibly weird and alien to him – and though she glared at him less and less in camp, she still glared at him every chance she got. It made him feel sick to his stomach to see her glaring at him like that, and each time she did he felt like there was something he needed to apologize for.  

There was, really, a whole list of things to say sorry about. I’m sorry for not respecting your privacy. I’m sorry for letting my emotions get the better of me. I’m sorry that I just miss Father so much – 

And then, well, he stopped finding things to apologize for and instead found things he wanted her to apologize for, so it was a little bit of a moot point. Especially because this wasn’t the right version of his mother he had to apologize to. 

And perhaps he wasn’t helping by always keeping his hood up in camp, but there was nothing else he could do, really. He couldn’t very well wear a mask without arousing even more suspicion. And though Leliana took a shining to him, and Zevran was about as nice to him as Kieran wanted, Mother and Father – or Morrigan and Elrich as he had begun to force himself to call them – didn’t pay very much attention to him at all. They were too wrapped up in each other to notice. 

While he sat in the opening of his makeshift tent, he watched them. It was nice – in his time, he had only seen them together when he was a young child, and he scarcely remembered any of those times very well. But here, during the Blight, they talked and sat together. Even if they didn’t sit too closely or too intimately – even if Morrigan kept her distance – they were… together. And that was what mattered to him, really, in the end, even if he couldn’t be a part of it. He just wanted his parents to be together and for him to see it. It made him happy when they acted like a real, true family.  

They hadn’t done that in a very long time. 

Besides that, though, there was still a tension between his parents that he couldn’t deny, but he didn’t quite know why it was. He’d known that his grandmother – whatever she was, in the end – wasn’t very kind to his own mother, but he didn’t understand how that affected her. After, Father was sitting beside her in front of the fire with a hand in the short space between their bodies, and Kieran could tell he wanted to reach out for her. So why didn’t he? And if he did, why wouldn’t Mother let him? 

One night, when rain trickled down from wispy gray clouds and left a thin mist over the camp, he sat in the mouth of his tent as always, watching them, and this time he was close enough to hear. 

“… Even you aren’t immune to my charms, are you, Morrigan?” 

Morrigan glanced away, down at her hands. “I am immune to every man’s charms, Elrich,” she answered. 

“You don’t have to be,” he said softly. 

She looked over at him and smirked, but Kieran could tell there was a sadness behind it – a sadness he had seen himself in their time. “Oh?” she said. They were sitting closely together – much closer than Morrigan sat with anyone else in camp – but she wasn’t close enough to rest her head on his shoulder or hold his hand. “You think you know everything I’ve been through, do you?” 

“No,” Elrich responded, “I didn’t say that. I meant, rather, that you don’t have to be immune to every man’s charms – certainly not mine.” 

Morrigan sighed. “Have we not been over this enough?” she asked quietly. 

“We have,” Elrich answered before offering up a small, sad smile of his own. (Kieran realized how much he looked like his father, in that moment – the colour of his eyes, the shape of his hair. He used to look much more like his mother as a child, but now the gentle slope of his jaw had turned sharp, and he had to shave quite often in the golden looking glass Mother had displayed in her room.) “I just thought I would remind you.”  

“Your reminders are… welcome.��� She stood up suddenly, reaching up to adjust the cloak around her neck so it hung more tightly across her shoulders and chest. “I should turn in for the night.” 

“I should, too.” Elrich stood up beside her and tilted his head down to look at her, eyes roaming across her face for a long moment before he backed away with a slow, approving nod. “Goodnight, Morrigan.” 

“Sleep well,” she said, turning on her heel and heading back towards her tent. Not without shooting Kieran another glare, first, but this time he didn’t care. He pulled his hood higher over his head and inched back into camp, closing the tent doors behind him. 

There must have been some reason that Morrigan did not feel safe initiating a relationship with Elrich – there must have been something to inevitably draw them together, as well. The rings that his mother and father both wore in his time were not worn by either of them right now, so he supposed that that should have been his first step. 

After he got some sleep, of course. 

As always, his dreams were plagued with phantom faces looming over him and shadows that slunk into darkness at the corners of his eyes. Voices that somehow sounded distant and close at the same time whispered in his ear, and he could feel the ground vibrate with every step one of the blurry figures took towards him from a cloud of dense, green fog. Some of it was Elven – he had known how to speak it since he was a child – and some of it sounded older; more ancient. He knew what the language was and who it belonged to, but he just couldn’t put it into words for himself. This is how he had slept every night. And as always, when he finally awoke, his brain was tied into knots that took him several long moments to pull apart so he could finally breathe again. 

It helped to have Mother around to sing him lullabies when he woke up. He suspected he would not be able to ask her now unless he wanted to risk being flayed alive. 

That day, the voices echoed in his head as they climbed small mountain in the foothills of the Frostbacks (too far away from Mother for him to turn tail – he didn’t think it would work, anyway). They were heading for Orzammar, Elrich had told Kieran that morning when he emerged from his tent covered in a thin sheen of sweat. They had business with the Dwarves to attend to. Kieran was neither pleased nor displeased at the announcement – it gave him time to figure out with the words floating around in his head meant; what exactly they were trying to tell him to do. 

It was hard when Elrich kept asking questions.

Not that Kieran didn’t want to talk to him - he really, really did. After all, that’s what had gotten him into this in the first place. It was just... well, this was the wrong version of his father to talk to, and he didn’t want to give anything away.

But his emotions won out, in the end - instead of telling him to leave him alone like he should’ve, he sat down around the fire with him and made breakfast. Well, watched Elrich make breakfast.

“So, are you from Ferelden?” Elrich asked, glancing over at Kieran.

“Yes,” he answered.

Elrich smiled, eyes crinkling around the edges with amusement. “You don’t sound Fereldan,” he commented. “Can’t imagine this is a very nice time to see the country.”

He sounded the same as he always had - dignified, confident, and most of all kind - but his voice was much higher, and Kieran couldn’t help but snicker at how hard his father was trying to sound mature. 

“Well, the company is good,” Kieran replied. “I cannot get any safer than I am travelling with two Grey Wardens.”

Elrich leveled an even, unflinching stare at him, though Kieran could see a flash of fear in his eyes. “You know?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kieran said. “It’s not that hard to tell, really.” 

Elrich laughed. “What gave it away? The Griffon breastplate?”

Kieran laughed, too, and then realized how much it sounded like his father’s and stopped. “Perhaps,” he said. “My mother always says - er, said - that I’m very observant.”

“Well, your mother sounds like she was a smart woman.” Elrich pulled the pot of soup off of the fire and set it on the ground, where it melted the thin layer of snow around it. 

“She was,” Kieran replied, tilting his head to hide his smile.

“What happened to her?” Elrich questioned. “Darkspawn?”

“You could say that,” Kieran responded.

“I’m sorry.” Elrich scooped a spoonful of porridge into a bowl and handed it to Kieran. “If it makes you feel any better, something worse than Darkspawn killed my parents.”

Kieran flinched. He knew what happened to his father’s parents, but he and his mother had always agreed that, selfishly, they were slightly thankful - they would not be here if it wasn’t for them. However, hearing his father talk about it now, when the wound was still fresh... it hurt.

Especially because Kieran felt the same.

“I’m sorry,” Kieran murmured, looking down into his bowl while his eyebrows drew together in thought.

“It’s alright,” Elrich replied. “Thank you, though, anyway. I do hate the Darkspawn - more than anything. I hate them for destroying beautiful Ferelden land and killing villagers - like your parents. I hate that they’re leaving young people without a family.”

“You’re not that much older than me,” Kieran pointed out with a laugh.

“True.” Elrich spooned some porridge into his own mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m trying my best to be strong, but... it can be hard sometimes. Knowing that I carry the weight of the country on my shoulders, that so many people’s lives are in my hands...” He swallowed hard, glancing down at his bowl with a bitter laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining. Things have turned out better for me than they do for most, and with any hope, this should all be over soon so I can...” He cleared his throat. “Settle down once more.”

Kieran winced and hoped Elrich didn’t notice - he had no idea how much longer he would have to wait to do the settling he wanted.

“You’re doing a great job,” Kieran offered quietly, than quickly added, “from what I have seen so far, anyway.”

“Thank you.” Elrich smiled at him. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Just... make sure you don’t lose sight of what is most important.” Kieran let out a gentle sigh, losing himself in his thoughts. “Family. The people you hold dear. They are what you’re protecting, after all.” He frowned. “They are worth more than anything.” 

“That they are,” Elrich replied, then glanced over to where Morrigan’s tent was opening. His eyes lit up, and a hopeful smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Speaking of which... I need to go speak with Morrigan. Excuse me.”

He stood up slowly as he assembled a second bowl of porridge, and when he hurried over to Morrigan and handed it to her, she stared at it for a long, long moment before taking it tentatively from his hands and smiling up at him. A small smile, but a smile nevertheless.

Kieran looked away, ignoring the ache in his heart.

He packed up his own tent, rolled it up, and watched as everyone prepared for the day - Leliana stretching in a warm patch of sunlight, Zevran sharpening his knife with his tongue between his teeth. They looked so normal and calm - Kieran had no idea how they did it. Although, he thought, they didn’t know what was going on in his head either - they probably wouldn’t be able to live with the thoughts and the voices as well as he did.

That made him feel better, at least.

At midday, when the sun was at it’s highest point, they were about to begin ascending a mountain pass towards Orzammar - the first of many, he remembered, having studied the map of the Frostbacks several hundred times - when, suddenly, they heard a guttural roar in the distance and a burst of flames blazed across the path in front of them, leaving melted snow and charred rocks in their wake. 

A dragon. 

No wonder the voices had been so loud. 

Up ahead, everyone drew out their weapons, but Kieran kept back – he had nothing more than a simple dagger Leliana had given him, and he wasn’t sure he could wield it efficiently enough. Wynne, the older mage who came from the Circle of Magi, summoned an ice field to separate the dragon from the group while Leliana notched one of her arrows and aimed it at the creature’s neck.  

It swooped down in front of the group. Alistair and Zevran rushed forward to slash at it, led by Elrich, and Wynne and Leliana attacked from the sidelines while Morrigan watched, creating a dark purple sphere of shifting magic in her hands that she flung at the dragon with unnatural power. It wailed and wailed but did not relent, reaching out to swipe at them again, but Elrich got a hit in before it could hurt any of the party.

Kieran pulled his hood higher up over his head, unsure of what to do. 

Zevran and Alistair continued assaulting the beast’s legs while Elrich slid underneath its stomach, hacking at the dragon’s underbelly which seemed to be covered in a thick layer of dark, heavy scales. Morrigan and Wynne flung balls of spirit magic at it over and over in quick succession, and Leliana aimed her arrows to try and pierce the dragon’s eye – they bounced off like flimsy pieces of metal, but she did not give up. They were shouting at each other over the roaring – directions and suggestions and cries that the others stay safe or be careful – and none of them seemed to notice that Kieran was not joining the effort. If they did, they didn’t notice. 

At one point, deep into the battle, Morrigan hurried to Elrich’s side and casted a shield around him while Wynne tended to his wounds. Though their faces had all been creased with battlehardened lines, when his mother and father looked at each other in fear, Kieran could see a fear there. After Elrich had been healed and stood up on shaky legs to attack the creature again, Morrigan held him back by the arm. When he turned around to look at her, a bolt of lightning came forth from the tip of her staff and struck the beast on the nose. A current of electricity tore through it. 

The dragon let out a guttural cry and reared up on its hind legs, futilely lashing out at the party, but they all stumbled back from its reach before it could land a blow. It squirmed and thrashed in the cold air, claws scraping the rocks on either side for leverage, before it finally slumped down onto the rocky ground, chest heaving as it took one last breath until it lay there, dead. 

A tired cheer echoed through the mountain pass, and the party looked at one another, giving them relieved smiles or grateful pats on the shoulder. 

Except for Elrich and Morrigan, who were hugging tightly. 

Kieran smiled. 

He hadn’t seen that for a long, long time.

That night he lingered in the mouth of his tent like always, pretending to sharpen his dagger while he listened to his parents talk around the fire. 

Well, there wasn’t much talking. They set up camp a few hours after slaying the dragon so everyone could tend to their wounds, and Morrigan never left Elrich’s side while Wynne stitched up the larger ones that Morrigan said she didn’t want to touch. She didn’t leave his side through dinner, either, and now, in the dark of night when neither of them were supposed to still be awake, she held his hand tightly, staring into the fire. 

“What are you doing?” he asked with a laugh, nudging her shoulder with his.  

“Considering whether or not to flay myself alive,” she answered with a slight smirk. 

“Always so dark,” Elrich said, shaking his head while he chuckled. 

Suddenly, Morrigan turned to him, a crease between her eyebrows. “I have something for you,” she said, blinking. 

“What do you mean?” he asked with a grin. 

“I mean that I have a gift for you,” Morrigan said. She reached over to her pouch, where she slid her hand inside while keeping her eyes trained on him, and then fished out a smaller pouch from inside. “’Tis… a ring. Now, before you get any foolish notions, let me explain.” 

Except she said nothing further until Elrich prompted her with a nod of his head.  

“Yes, um… Flemeth once gave me a ring because it allowed her to find me wherever I went, in case I was ever captured by hunters.” She passed it back and forth between her hands. “I disabled its power as soon as we left the Wilds. Recently, however, I thought to change it. Now…” Morrigan glanced up at him. “I will be able to find whoever wears it, instead.” 

Elrich tilted his head, reaching out to place his hands over hers. “That’s a sweet gift,” he said. “Thank you.” 

She blushed. “’Tis not given out of sentimentality,” she said. “I believe you are too important to risk. If you were captured, the ring would allow us to find you quickly.” 

“Does it do anything else?” 

Morrigan pulled it out of the bag and looked at it, squinting slightly. “Flemeth used to say it was a link between us; one that I presumed worked both ways. I never tested it, but I doubt she would have lied over such a thing. So it would mean that I am linked to you as much as you to I.” 

He inched closer, taking it from her gently. “So I could find you, if need be?” 

“I… do not know.” She frowned. “As I said, I never tested it. Perhaps.”  

“I’m glad to know you care,” he told her. 

To Kieran’s surprised, she looked offended. “D-do not read more into it than is there,” she said. “You have supplied me with equipment, certainly this is not very different, is it?” 

“Thank you for the gift, Morrigan,” Elrich replied, placing it in the palm of his hand and curling his fingers tightly around it. 

“You… are welcome,” Morrigan replied, clearing her throat. “Perhaps it will be useful some day.” 

They said very little after that – instead they sat beside each other, arms and legs and shoulders touching like they were connected at the waist. 

Occasionally, Kieran could see his father glancing down at the ring and smiling.  

Elrich retired to his tent first that night, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear before leaving, and just when Kieran thought that perhaps his mother was going to follow, she didn’t. Instead she turned around and frowned at him. 

“Enjoy listening to other people’s conversation, do you?” she asked, stalking over to his tent and looking down at him. 

“No,” Kieran answered, wrinkling his nose. “I respect other people’s privacy.” 

“You don’t fool me,” Morrigan said. Though it was said harshly, Kieran didn’t think it was an accusation. “There’s something you’re not telling everyone else – they have not noticed, but I have. Why are you travelling with us?” 

“I had to,” Kieran replied, staring her down for a moment before shuffling into his tent and closing the entrance tightly behind him. 

He woke up, to his surprise, in his own bed back home with the same woman leaning over him. 

-

“Foolish boy,” Mother was muttering, tucking in his blanket between his bed and the wall. “Foolish, foolish boy.” 

“Mother?” Kieran asked, pushing himself up from the bed. 

Mother glanced over at him and sighed. “How could you scare me like that?” she asked quietly. “You could have frozen half to death, or –“ 

“I’m fine, Mother,” Kieran said. 

“No, you’re not. You nearly have frostbite. Foolish, foolish boy – what will I do with you?” 

“Mother,” Kieran began, “I would like to write father a letter.” 

Mother stopped what she was doing, hesitating for a long moment before turning towards him. “I don’t think that is a good idea,” she replied softly. 

“I want to write him a letter,” Kieran insisted. “I know you don’t want me to be disappointed that he has not returned to us yet, but I won’t be. I’m more disappointed that I haven’t heard from him in several months.” 

“Well, neither have I.” Mother frowned, looking down at her wrinkled hands. “He is far away from here. He’s alive, but I… I fear he might not be for much longer.”  

“He will be.” Kieran drew his chin up. “I know he will be. I can feel it. And I would like to write a letter to him.” 

Mother sighed once more and glanced over at him, and just when he thought she was going to get mad, her lips curved into a wickedly pleased smile. 

“Very well,” she responded. When she moved to stand, Kieran followed, but she waved her hand at him in exasperation. “You stay here,” she said, smiling. “I will bring it to you. You need your rest.” 

“Thank you, Mother,” Kieran said, smiling. “I love you.”  

Mother squinted at him. “Perhaps you hit your head as well.” 

“Mother!”  

“I am just kidding,” she said. “I love you too, you foolish, foolish boy. Now lie down.” 

When Mother left, closing the door softly as to not disturb him, Kieran’s eyes fluttered shut despite himself, and he nestled down beneath the blankets, already thinking about what he would – and definitely should not – write to his father about.

[novamm66]

From Earth to Sky - Chapter 2

Arriving in Haven & Working to Close the Breach

--

The sun had just dropped below the horizon when they rode into the village of Haven. Cullen and his soldiers dismounted and immediately began setting up their tents outside the village walls. As Cassandra dismounted, the gates opened, and Sister Nightingale descended the steps to greet them.

“Welcome back, Cassandra,” Leliana said, “I hope your trip was successful.”

The two women clasped arms in greeting before Cassandra replied. “I couldn’t find Hawke, but I did find us a Commander, and hopefully, Divine Justinia can get answers where I failed.” Cassandra glared over her shoulder at Varric, who was watching the camp set up with interest. “Also, we were delayed by an ambush by soldiers from Tevinter,” she continued.

“On Ferelden roads? That’s unexpected.” Leliana’s eyes narrowed.

“I agree. The timing is too close to the Conclave not to be suspicious.” Cassandra shook her head. “How did the first day go?”

Leliana sighed. “Everyone is posturing like peacocks, trying not to show too much of their hand. You would have hated it.”

Cassandra snorted. “I guess I should be grateful then.” Her fingers traced the barely healed scar on her face.

Leliana laughed then gestured towards the path leading to the temple. “The Divine is waiting to speak with you and the Commander. Shall we…”

Cassandra gripped Leliana’s arm as every hair on her body stood on end. She recognized the feeling of magic being drawn together, but she had never felt anything on this scale before.

“What...?” Cassandra’s question was interrupted when the magic was released. A column of energy arched from earth to sky, followed by a cloud of fire. Then the shockwave hit. Glass shattered, horses and people screamed, and everyone was knocked to the ground. The sound that followed, of the very mountains moving, drowned out all the rest.

Cassandra clawed her way to her knees, a ringing silence in her head. Her eyes were blurry, unable to focus. When they cleared, she was barely able to process the world around her. As she climbed to her feet, her hearing returned. People were shouting, calling for help, but all Cassandra could see was the vortex of fade magic that had swallowed the sky.

The temple. The Divine.

Without another thought, she broke into a dead run up the valley.

—

Varric wasn’t even pretending to clean Bianca anymore. His crossbow sat armed and ready on his knee as he watched the restless crowd outside the Chantry. All they needed was a spark, and an angry mob would be born.

Things had gotten worse in the days since the Breach opened. Everyone who could stand and hold a weapon fought the tide of demons that kept appearing from the fade rifts. But the number of able-bodied fighters was dwindling, while there was no end of demons.

Fear permeated everything.

Varric’s presence was largely ignored. He spent his time fighting alongside whoever was going up the valley or helping with whatever he could in the village. The Seeker, Curly, and Nightingale were simply trying to keep peace in the town and to stem the tide of demons that threatened to wipe them out. If something didn’t change soon, they would fail.

The Chantry door opened, and Cassandra stepped out into the sun. Varric watched the crowd break up as her eyes swept the square. No one wanted to risk the wrath of the Seeker. Varric relaxed his hold on his crossbow when she crossed to the fire, where he sat and collapsed next to him. She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her head in them with a groan.

Varric stood and filled his empty bowl from the pot over the fire, cleaned his spoon off in the snow and then sat back down next to her. “Here. You should eat something.” He said, holding the bowl out to her.

Cassandra raised her head and stared at the bowl a moment, her eyes hazy, before finally accepting it. Varric sat, watching the people milling about in the square as she ate. Neither spoke as she finished and handed the bowl and spoon back to Varric, who cleaned and stowed them away.

“Why are you still here?” Cassandra asked. Her eyes were unfocused as she stared into the fire, and while the question was blunt, her voice was soft, almost sad.

“Are you sick of me already?” Varric chuckled, retaking his seat.

“I am sorry, that wasn’t…” She sighed, her cheeks turning slightly pink. “I simply mean that you are free to go if you wish.” her eyes drifted up to the hole in the sky. “It would be wiser to be as far from here as possible.”

Varric chuckled, “Wiser, yes, but I’ve never been known for my wisdom. And anyway, if I left now, someone else would get to tell this story, and I couldn’t live with that.”

His reply startled a laugh out of her, and Cassandra’s voice was light. “Yes, that would be tragic.”

Varric’s heart gave a sideways thump. He would have to be dead not to admire the strength and beauty of the woman next to him, and sarcasm was something he always found attractive. Before he could pursue that line of thought, the Chantry doors opened with a bang, attracting Cassandra’s attention. A messenger paused on the steps until his eyes found the Seeker, and he hurried across to where they sat.

The messenger saluted, then spoke. “Seeker Pentaghast, the prisoner is awake. Sister Nightingale is waiting for your return before speaking to her.”

“Thank you.” Cassandra rose quickly to her feet. “Master Tethras, would you inform Solas and accompany him to the first rift? I will bring the prisoner to meet you.”

The moment Varric nodded his response, Cassandra was turning away, but she paused and turned back. “Andraste, protect you, Varric.” She said. There was something in her eyes that Varric could not pin down, and it disappeared before he could get a handle on it.

Then she was gone.

—

Varric’s reputation as a storyteller made him immensely popular in the village of Redcliffe. The mages were preparing to move to Skyhold, but until then, Redcliffe was busting at the seams. Their party’s’ fireside was always filled with people hoping to hear news and stories from Varric himself, and they were rarely disappointed.

But tonight was different. Varric had disappeared after Kiaya had woken up. Kiaya was finally past the worst of the poison from the knife wound she had sustained. Once awake, she told them more details of the future she and Dorian had been thrown into against their will.

Cassandra had noticed that when they spoke of the spread of red lyrium, Varric had gotten quiet. Every time they came across the stuff, Varric would withdraw, and it was always a while before he would join in the fireside banter again. But tonight, he had simply disappeared. Now it was getting dark, and Cassandra was growing concerned.

Her feet carried her towards higher ground and eventually up towards the abandoned windmill that overlooked the village. As she got closer, she started to hear the thump and crack of someone chopping wood. Rounding the last bend, she saw exactly that.

Varric was wielding an axe expertly as he split logs. His shirt and coat were tossed over a stump, the sheen of sweat on Varric’s skin gleaming in the light. It was the expression on his face that gave Cassandra pause. Varric was furious, a deep scowl etched into his features. He swung the axe with more force than was necessary, burying it deep into the block with each stroke.

She didn’t interrupt him. Instead, she sat down. The tension in Varric’s back eased a little, but he didn’t say anything and continued his work as the light faded. When it was fully dark, Varric buried the axe head into the block with a loud curse. “I should have dropped that shit down a deep hole when we found it. For that matter, I should have spit in Bartrand’s eye when he told me the plan for the expedition. He might still be alive if I had.” Varric angrily snatched up his shirt and dried off while pacing across the clearing.

“All the pain and suffering that that shit caused in Kirkwall, I could have prevented it. It was just too easy to let things lie after Meredith got her hands on it. I thought that it ended with her. I was a fucking fool.” He sighed and sat down next to her. “However long it may take, I’m going to fix the damage I have done.”

Cassandra had never been good at offering comfort. She couldn’t disagree with anything he said, but her heart ached at the defeat in his voice. Cassandra missed the joy of life that he always seemed to have, and for the first time, Cass wondered what it cost him. Right now, she simply wanted to make him smile again.

Varric sighed and spoke, the rare uncertainty in his voice wringing at her heart. “You never did tell me why you dragged me to Haven, Seeker. I mean, what could I have told the Divine that you couldn't say yourself?”

“I thought she needed to see your chest hair for herself.”

Varric’s jaw dropped, and he gaped at her. Cassandra was starting to regret opening her mouth until his face split into a wide grin. He burst into laughter until tears formed in his eyes, and he was gasping for breath. “Maker. Think she would have been impressed?”

Cassandra answered his grin with one of her own, although it felt rusty. “Certainly. I also knew she would ask you to help us.”

“Me? Help the Inquisition?” Varric said, wiping his eyes.

“A crazy thought, I know, yet here you are. The Inquisition has done great things, and you have been a large part of them. Don’t forget that.”

Varric’s grin melted into something softer, warmer, and Cassandra got lost in the hazel of his eyes. Whatever was happening, Cassandra wasn’t ready, so she looked away, swallowing, her throat suddenly very dry.

“It is getting late. We should return to camp.” She said, her voice only shaking a little.

Varric’s usual expression had returned by the time she looked back at him, but something had changed, and Cassandra needed time to think.

“You’re right, Seeker. I am suddenly starving,” Varric said as he put on his jacket and picked up Bianca.

“You may regret saying that. Dorian is cooking, and he raided the Alexius’s foodstuffs. I expect it to be interesting.” Cassandra said as she stood and stretched.

“Oh, I hope it’s spicy.” Varric laughed. “It’s been ages since I’ve burned out my stomach lining.”

--

Chapter 1

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