#>shakes fist< LEAF MOLD/DUST

[the-starlight-papers]

Every September: surely my allergy symptoms from the year before such as shortness of breath were simply just my anxiety causing me to stress myself out while running. With this knowledge, this upcoming fall will be different.

Every October: >holding my inhaler< by talos this can’t be happening

[impala-dreamer]

King Midas

SPN FanFic

~Dean gets hit with a curse and Y/N makes an unloseable bet.~

Dean x Reader, Sam

1,815 Words

Warnings: CRACK! It's just Crack, little smut chatter. Nothing too bad.

A/N: Sometimes you just need something ridiculous... Do hope you enjoy... ;)

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Bright light settled into a golden glow that pulsed around the room. Glass peppered the Oriental rug like shards of deadly confetti and a cold breeze blew through the now open windows; all shattered by the witch’s blast.

“Ya know!” Y/N’s voice rang through the room, annoyance clear in her yell.  

A big hand reached for her and she took it, allowing Sam to help her to her feet. “You OK?” he asked gently, hazel eyes brown in the gilded light that set around the edges of the disheveled room.

Y/N looked up and sighed, squinting up at him, aggravated. “Do you have any idea how many curses were flung at me before I met you two dumbasses?”

Dean laughed from the floor across from them and popped up on one elbow. “A few, I’m guessing.”

“None!” she yelled back, pulling a long piece of glass from her hair. “None.”

Sam held in a laugh, knowing she would calm down soon. She often called them dumbasses when she was annoyed and tired. It was like a pet name. A really rude, insulting pet name.

“Sorry, Y/N/N.” Sam swiped his hand across her shoulder and shooed away some dust and glass. “You cut anywhere?”

Y/N shook her head. “Nah, I’m fine. Just tired of getting knocked out by random colorful blasts. How come every witch we meet has the super rainbow explosion power?”

He shrugged and laughed under his breath. “I wish I knew.”

From the floor, Dean cleared his throat. “At least you didn’t take the rainbow bomb in the chest.”

“Oh shit, Dean,” Y/N cringed. “Are you alright?”

He waved a dismissive hand and then flipped over onto his stomach, pushing up on his hands and knees. “I’m fine. Can’t keep me down.” As he spoke, his lower back twitched painfully and he bowed, belly headed back towards the floor. “Gah!”

“Yeah, you’re fine,” Sam sniggered.

Dean grit his teeth and pushed hard on his hands, splaying his palms out flat on the rug. “Shut up, Sam!” A hot tingle spread down Dean’s right arm, starting at the shoulder and pushing down like warm syrup into his fingers and out the tips. “Oh…” Dean looked down and watched as the warmth left his hand and pulsed against the floor, fibers of the carpet heating up beneath his touch. “What the-”

“Dean?”

He turned to see Y/N’s annoyance gone, replaced with concern. Her eyes were big, her brow creased with worry. He shot up quickly, immediately forgetting the weird tingle.

“I’m good,” he said, shooting her a smile. “You guys hungry? I’m hungry.” He adjusted his collar and pushed passed them both, nearly knocking Y/N over as he headed for the door. “Saw a diner down the block. Daddy needs bacon.”

He may have needed bacon, but actually eating it didn’t seem like it was going to happen.

As soon as they left the witch’s house it started to happen; her curse taking on its form, showing off for the trio.

It started with the door knob but it was harder to notice since it was already metal. He lingered there, turning the knob in his hands as he waited for Sam and Y/N, and the tingle returned to his body.

Next was the iron railing coming down the front steps. They stood on the porch for a moment recounting some random information about the case, Dean leaning on his hand against the cold black metal. Again, the tingle flowed from his shoulder straight down until it left his hand.

If Dean had bothered to say something or hang out for a few more seconds, he would have seen what the warmth was doing. But as it was, he was hungry and failed to see that the things he touched turn to gold in his wake.

When shining gold began to overtake the weathered leather of the steering wheel, the Impala swerved dangerously on the country road and Dean screamed, driving off into the shoulder to park and panic.

“What the fuck!” Dean’s hands flew up and away from the wheel, his precious car becoming a victim of some quick working alchemy as he watched on in horror. He braced himself against the back of the seat, tingling beginning again as he clutched the upholstery.

“Well, that’s new…” Sam said curiously, leaning over the bench seat to look at the wheel.

The backseat squeaked as Y/N moved forward, looking over Dean’s heaving chest to see the gilded circle. It looked as if he had gold-leafed a perfect handprint on the leather.

“Whelp, guess we know what the curse was,” she said with a small laugh, sitting back and crossing her arms.

Still struggling to catch his breath, Dean’s head spun to look at her over his shoulder, brows creased, lips in a pout. “What!”

“You got the Midas Touch, my friend,” she said, nodding to the hand still clutching the back of his seat.

Sure enough, below his hand was a hard patch of pure gold.

Dean made a dying bleat noise and pulled his palm away from the seat. “Son of a bitch! My car!” Instinctively, he rubbed at his cheek, forgetting or perhaps not realizing what the strange tingling in his forearm foretold.

“Dean!” Sam barked, slapping Dean’s hand away from his face.

“What?” Dean looked from Sam to his own palm and then to the newly golden interior and his gears turned. “Oh, fuck me…”

“Not until this curse is over, Big Guy,” Y/N laughed, clicking her tongue.

Dean cast an annoyed glance in her direction. “This isn’t funny, Y/N!”

“Kinda is…”

“Is not!”

“OK, both of you shut up!” Sam commanded and the Impala fell silent. “Let’s just deal with this logically.”

Dean looked back at Sam like a boy who just found out there’s no Santa Clause. “How, Sam? How? How am I gonna eat? I need to eat.”

Y/N bit her tongue to stifle a laugh but couldn’t help making a comment. “He’s worried about food,” she said under her breath. “Wait till he has to take a piss…”

Dean found a bit of comfort in the old diner, hiding away in a booth in the back, old red vinyl seat molding to his tired ass as he sat there, forlorn and helpless. Every so often, Y/N would take pity on him and lift his burger to his lips, doing her best to feed the poor soul and not laugh in his face.

“So, it looks like the curse will wear off in twenty-four hours…” Sam swiped through the lore book on his laptop and shrugged. “Not too bad.”

Absentmindedly, Dean picked at a piece of bacon on his plate, jaw dropping as Sam seemed to brush off his predicament. “No big deal? Sam...I’m dying here. I’m gonna have to wear mittens to bed.”

Y/N shook her head. “Wouldn’t the mittens just turn to gold?”

Dean rolled his eyes at her. “Why are you so nasty this week?”

She sneered. “I don’t know. Just tired of witches and their bullshit.”

“Same,” Dean agreed with a sigh and lifted the bacon to his lips. He took a bite and immediately spit it back out. “Oh, come on! Not the bacon!”

“Everything you touch, Dean. Bacon, the car, your shirt, you! Everything.” Sam over enunciated the last word just to drive the point into his brother’s head, but Dean just slumped in his seat and pouted some more.

“This blows.”

Y/N grinned and looked at Sam. “Twenty bucks says he’s got golden junk by morning.”

Dean sat straight up and gasped. “Excuse me! I can control myself for twenty-four hours!”

“No, Dean,” she laughed. “You can’t.”

Dean lounged on the bed, fully clothed atop the comforter, propped up by pillows. He sat with his palms up, hands resting on his thighs. He was exhausted.

“Pssst!”

Sam looked up from his laptop slowly, distracted by Dean’s less than quiet call. “What?”

“What if…” He paused, looking towards the bathroom door behind which, Y/N was changing for bed. “What if I accidentally like grab her boobs while I’m sleeping?”

Sam laughed, head shaking as he wondered why Dean was such an idiot sometimes. “Just don’t touch her.”

“Yeah, but,” Dean whispered loudly, “what if I do?”

“Then that would suck,” Sam said simply. “So don’t.”

Another look at the bathroom door and Dean groaned pathetically. “Can I sleep with you?”

Sam scoffed. “What? No!”

Dean growled and pouted. “You suck.”

“Ready for bed?” Y/N appeared in the doorway, night shirt loose around her thighs but tight across her chest.

Dean drooled. “Uh, yeah.”

She hopped into the bed beside him and pecked his cheek sweetly. “No touchy.”

Her smile was both enticing and mocking, but Dean couldn’t decide which was more appealing. The idea of not being able to touch her all night was driving him mad.

“No touchy,” he echoed, silently praying that his hands would just fall off.

“Night, Sam!” Y/N called over Dean’s chest.

“Night,” Sam murmured back.

“Great,” Dean sighed as Y/N lay down and snuggled up against his side, her plump ass warm against his leg. “Just...great.”

“Oh, fuck…”

A moan tickled Y/N’s ear and she stirred.

“Goddamn, baby...mhm… just like that.”

Sam’s dream began to fade.

“Oh, shit. Shit. Shit!”

A scream woke them both and Sam jumped from his bed to bang on the bathroom door, Dean’s frantic yell making his heart race. Y/N bolted up out of bed too, right behind Sam, her breath short with worry.

“Dean!” Sam banged again, giant fist rattling the entire door. “What’s going on?”

The noise died down and the door opened up, bright white light spilling into the dark room.

Dean stood in the bathroom, his face twisted with guilt and pain, his shorts tented boldly. Y/N looked down to the fabric pop-up and saw a hint of gold glinting from the flap.  

Sam saw it too and shook his head. “Dean… no.”

Y/N rubbed her tired eyes and turned away, headed back to bed. “I called it!” She shook her head and plopped back down into bed, gathering up her pillow and closing her eyes. “I fucking called it.”

Sam looked down at Dean and sighed. “One night, man. One.”

Dean shrugged innocently and laughed at himself. “I… I couldn’t help it. I’m a man. I have urges, Sam.”

“Yeah, well now you got a golden dick!” Y/N called from the bed.

“This sucks.” Dean’s shoulders fell and he looked down at his 24 carat cock.

“Hey,” Sam said, trying to make him feel a little better, “at least you didn’t grab her boobs…”

Dean grunted and pushed passed his brother to go lay down. “Yeah… shut up, Sammy.”

2019 Forever Tags:

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[spnmcrphangirl]

Free Write Friday #17 11/27/2018

Prompt: Place of Worship

A/N: I did a church because I’ve only ever been to church. also AHHH it’s Saturday im LATE again. My mom made me go to the gym to sign up for membership yesterday (even though I don’t take my driver’s test until the 21st and really won’t have time to workout until February after my hard classes finish with the semester.) Okay done talking now.

The gravel path crunched beneath the red Honda as it rolled toward the crumbling church.  The church was set miles into the countryside, miles down the gravel path from the main road, miles away from the breath of something living.  It was once well traveled, but the worn down ruts in the gravel path had filled in again since She came to town.  

The Honda screeched to a halt, the old brakes screaming in protest, and the rumble of the engine died.  One red high heel stepped out of the Honda, followed by a lithe body in a tight black dress.  

The Woman in the Heels walked towards the front doors of the dilapidated church.  The cream front and decorative wooden flourishes were soot covered and stained a burnt black.  She climbed up the burned out, rotting wooden steps and placed a hand on the rusted door knob,.  She could hear the whispers of those who had been there before: parents hushing children, teenagers laughing, both equally unable to be quieted.  She scowled, twisting the door knob to rid the air of any trace of happiness.  The whispers turned to sad murmurs, echoes of funerals and services of sorrow.  She smiled, and opened the door. 

It slammed shut behind her, trapping the scent of leaf mold inside.  She took one step, and the floor turned jet black beneath her feet.  Oak wood flooring turned to obsidian, and long, curved horns grew from the sides of her head.  Her heels turned to hooves, as the inside of the hollowed-out church grew back to the glory of before, only this time with a twist.

Only the mocking scent of incense could be detected, the harsh chemicals would burn the throats of any mortal at that intensity.  But the air was clear and the source was left undiscovered.  

He stepped out of the pews and into the aisle.  “I thought you couldn’t be on hallowed grounds, my dear,” His voice boomed, shaking the building and rattling hanging lights that had no bulbs.  He wore a dusty priest’s outfit, covered in ash.  

“Well, I was invited by You,” She purred, hands clasped tightly together, her jagged red nails sinking to her own skin, forcing her anger back.  

“You know why, don’t you,” He breathed, blinking.  The door behind her went up in flames, only to become a wall, as quickly as it had lit.  She stood, Her shoulders square with His. 

“I’m sorry, Brother, I must have forgotten, care to enlighten me?” She teased, her eyes snapping back into her head.  

He did not speak as He approached her, but held out his hand.  “We can put an end to this.”

“Brother, you know this cannot end with both of us leaving alive.”

“Oh, but it will,” He snapped, His hand curled into a fist.  The floor beneath Her feet shone red in a tight circle around Her body, snaking up Her Legs and wrapping around Her in lethal grip.  “For this will not kill You, but You’ll certainly wish Yourself dead after what will be done to You.”

She opened her mouth to scream but the crimson snake forced its way down Her open throat, causing her body to flicker, flicker, and fade.  She crumbled into dust.  He scooped the dust into a velvet bag tied around His waist, careful not to touch it directly.   

As her body fell into the velvet pouch, the incense stopped burning and the laughter returned.  He smiled.  He could almost see silhouettes of the people who attended church regularly.  

Using the same magic, he carried the bag outside and dumped it into the only open grave, air-drawing the same symbols over the bag as He’d done before She arrived to trap Her.  He began, by hand, to shovel the dirt back into the hole, pouring salt in as well.  He turned around and saw the abandoned church once again, remembering the laughter fondly.  He breathed in the scent of flame again as the grave burned.  

And it would burn eternally, so long as She was trapped.  He smiled to Himself, and climbed into Her Honda, speeding back out onto the main road within minutes, prepared to return His vessel to its true owner. 

But He didn’t see the flames wither and die.  He didn’t feel the cold breath breathed upon that grave the moment he was away.  He didn’t see the hand with the red nails, poking through the dirt.  And He wouldn’t see Her either, until it was too late.

[phantomrose96]

A Breach of Trust: Chapter 12

(Act 1: Chapter 1-9 )

(Act 2: Chapter 10 || Chapter 11 || Chapter 12 || Chapter 13 || Chapter 14 || Chapter 15 || Chapter 15.5 || Chapter 16 || Chapter 17 || Chapter 18)

(Act 3 Chapter 19+)

When Mob woke up, it was to the soft peach color of sunlight filtering through his sheets. It was no different from waking up any other day, which he always timed just so that he’d never have to open his eyes to darkness. He shifted, ran his palm around the sheets to a silkiness that felt entirely out of place. He balled his fists in it, feeling a light shiver at the way it melted to the shape of his palms. Mob wondered why it all felt so soft.

Then Mob opened his eyes.

What he saw was not the faint wash of light through the little storm window, not the thin slit of sun that brushed his sheets at the right hour of day. What he saw was not thin triangles of light, brimmed by shadows.

No, what he saw was bright. What he saw was everywhere at once.

He threw the sheet off his body, eyes wide, drinking in the window near floor-to-ceiling that exposed not a swath of dirt and grass, but the whole world. The world. Large and stretching on forever, bathed in light and color, where the horizon spilled over the edge to a red-set sky.

Mob looked up to the source of the light, something bright and warm against his face and blindingly white. Mob couldn’t look directly at it, but he tried, because it was mesmerizing, because he couldn’t remember the sun ever being so large, so bright, so warm. It had shrunk in his memory to the thin slit through the basement window. This was so much grander, though. And it drenched him in warmth that prickled his skin, like the trailing touch of Reigen’s hand. Mob wrapped his hands to his shoulders, as though he could touch it back.

Then he looked lower, to a fuzzy horizon of tall buildings and roads which caught the light in triangular cuts on their sides. Cars vanished out of sight or appeared through the gaps of buildings, small people moved slower and hugged close to the sidewalk, all filtered through a thin covering of trees that rimmed the small patch of lawn two floors lower. People, dozens of them, moved through the streets. And Mob startled to realize they were actual people—not television characters—people with lives, and names, and jobs, whose clothes made for colorful patches and swinging shapes. Mob thought he had remembered people, but not like this.

He looked at the trees, dew-kissed where they reflected the sunlight and shifted, shimmered, their gnarled textured bark dipping down and spreading roots beneath grass blades. Their leaf edges were dipped in red and orange, curling, less wet but more beautiful. And every shift of shade became brilliantly visible in the pouring down of light, the overwhelming brightness like the kitchen lit with every light on, but more, a hundred times more.

The world was colorful, and it was bright.

Some part of Mob remembered.

He pulled back, and tried to remember how he’d gotten here. He searched through his memories of the night before, when he’d stood near the bedroom door, toes confined in the thin cut of light from the hall, while Reigen pulled and yanked and fumbled with the linens.

Reigen had finished—better yet, he’d given up—with the fitted sheet bunched up and sideways on the bed, strained lengthwise and flopping loose along the bed’s width. The sheets had made a frumpy mold of its shape, and the comforter had been haphazardly tucked, two unmatching pillows propped at the head. “Is this—just—okay for now? Can we—if you—just please? I don’t wanna get blood on—you know it—please?”

And Mob had nodded, and walked forward, and patted his hands down onto the sheets silky to the touch, and he’d crawled into the bed better-made than any he’d seen since Ritsu’s.

That had been last night.

But something had happened before.

Something slow to register in his mind, something quiet beneath the assault of color, and warmth, and green bright trees and soft okay sheets, and the gentle twitter outside of early morning birds,

Birds like robins, outside.

Birds alive and warbling a song in the branches while Mob listened, before they—before they--

Shishou.

Dead and hanging, creaking with the strain of the wooden beam forced to support it. Neck snapped and face desiccated, empty eyes staring at Mob, saying something, accusing, flash-igniting Mob’s anxiety into horror, panic, guilt, fear…

Mob let out a small horrified noise, a deflation of his lungs, and he curled in on himself. He hugged the comforter closer, and he was afraid it would shred as he did so.

The horror eased. His rapid breathing evened out, loosened, dropped off. The grief welled like a soap bubble and popped, gone. Mob pressed a hand to his chest, investigating his own feelings, looking for sorrow or grief for the man who cared for him over the last four years.

He couldn’t reach it.

It was there, buried, but it wasn’t something he could pull to the surface and feel. And it wasn’t love for his Shishou that tightened his chest so much as it was fear of what was yet to come. Mob lowered his hand, and stared instead at the window, and tried not to think much more of it. The thoughts were too muddy, the emotions too raw or else too numbed—they only confused him. He’d gotten too good at locking away his feelings for the family he’d already lost.

Mob shifted, dropped his feet to the carpet below. It was gritty against the soles of his feet, but not like the dirt and grime that roughed the cellar floor at home. It was sturdy, wooly, another sensation that sent warm shivers down his spine. Mob scrunched his toes, and the feeling pulled something almost like a smile to his face.

At the doorway, Mob looked both ways before entering the hall. He’d gotten into the habit of knowing that any misstep could be someone’s death, and it filled him with a strange wonder to think that maybe he no longer needed to. He held his hand in front of his face for good measure, squinting, flipping it palm-up then palm-down. Nothing shimmered in the air around it. None of the prickling electricity nicked his fingers, none of the charge in the air.

The reality hit him like a wall: the barrier was gone.

He raised his hand, shaking now, and rubbed his palm to the corner of his eyes, turned misty. He smiled through it and looked to the kitchen. The kind man still had milk in the fridge, and Mob felt an excited hunger he hadn’t felt in years.

The thought of food thrilled him, but he had no concept of what was in the house beside milk—he would be happy with milk, for now. So he padded down the hall, swept up again in the slanted flood of sunlight, a warm radiation, falling through the sliding glass door in back. Mob passed through the living room and into the kitchen where he pulled a mug from the same cabinet Reigen had last night, and the milk from the fridge, and stuck the half-filled mug in the microwave for 20…15…10…

He grabbed it before it beeped and hugged it close, warm, against his chest. Then he set his sights on the puffy beige couch of the living room. There was no real partition between living room and kitchen, a simple shifting in the floor from tiling to carpet. He rounded the table and climbed up on the couch, nestled into it, soft like his bed at home wasn’t, and he looked at the television.

It was a dark thing, dust covered, with the finger streaks of a few half-hearted wipes across the front. Mob considered putting the milk down for a moment and turning it on, settling in, losing himself like he always did to the mindless chatter of the television characters that were his closest thing to family.

Somehow, the urge didn’t strike. He left the television off, and stared outside instead. He set the mug close to his mouth and drank, all warm shivers, basking in the cut of sunlight that drenched the couch. He listened to the muted twitter of birdsong through the closed glass.

The slamming cacophony of feet down the hallway shattered his quiet ten minutes later.

Mob glanced over his shoulder to see Reigen, shirt half-buttoned and one shoe in hand, explode out of the hall. He froze the instant he saw Mob, suspended shoe raised like some kind of torch.

“Oh thank god kid you’re still here.” He gestured toward the hall, fingers twitching in a manner that suggested broken joints. “Your door was open and you weren’t in there and I couldn’t see you on the couch in here so—thought maybe—is it, you’re just gonna sit on that couch now for a while, right?”

Mob glanced down at the couch, at his milk cup mostly drained. “Yeah. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, perfectly good. No more running around in traffic. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment—had one—I’m late. Very late. Where’s my shoe? Dammit where--” Reigen quieted, eyes flitting to his hand and the torch-like shoe. Silently, he lowered it to his socked foot and slipped it on. He cleared his throat. “Can you just…stay in the house for a little bit? Few hours. Then we’ll figure out—something. Jun Isari already left like four voicemails. Where’s my phone now?”

Reigen’s pocket buzzed.            

“I think it’s in your pocket.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Reigen dropped his hand into his pocket, wincing when his fingers wrapped tight around the body of the phone. He thought better and reached for it instead with his left hand, dragging it out diagonally and flipping it open, clumsy. “Hello? Yes I—I said already—yes I texted! Yes I know. I overslept I-- Two minutes—no 90 seconds—I’ll be out the door then it’s—yeah that address—yeah I know the address—I worked a case for the neighbor I know the clinic. Ten minute drive. Just—relax, a second, okay? I’m your PI not your son, I—“ Reigen startled, then held the phone at a distance to investigate it. “She hung up on me.”

Mob watched Reigen’s empty twitching hand at his side. The bandages were stained and oily, crusty brown. The tips of his fingers were whiter than the rest of his hand, pruned in their appearance.  

Reigen stuffed his phone back into his pocket and muttered, mockingly, "’I hire you to tail my husband and you can’t even tail him to your own doctor's appointment.’ Well gee sorry I wonder whose fault it is I overslept wonder what I was up to last night wonder why I was awake until goddamn 4 in the morning I wonder hmmm."

Mob felt the lash from Reigen’s comment. He’d grown used to being an inconvenience to Mogami. It hurt more to be a nuisance to the colorful man.

“…Oh,” Mob whispered. “Sorry, about that. I didn’t mean to…”

Reigen stared back, bleary confusion in his eyes. They opened just a bit wider. “Oh. No I—her husband—I’m a PI—the possession—the knife—the house—that whole, I meant that. You were after. Not…you.”

Mob didn’t know what to make of the comment. He stared back until the eye contact strained him, then he dropped his eyes to the empty mug in his grip. “Sorry,” he muttered again, and the apology was a precaution. The thought scared him—having Reigen angry with him. What would that be like? He had already feared Mogami’s anger. And Reigen was someone even stronger.

And he no longer had the barrier up to protect him.

Mob looked up again, and it wasn’t anger on Reigen’s face. It was the same expression he’d worn after setting his hand to Mob’s shoulder on the sidewalk, and the same expression he’d worn after Mob thanked him for the milk. Mob had very little practice reading other’s faces, but he thought it was something like concern, or sadness, or devastation.

“I think Tetsuo and Jun can…hold my spot…for a few more minutes. They can wait. Find a seat at the table you like. You probably—I shouldn’t run out on you just yet—not before breakfast. I’ll pour us some cereal and…with milk. Do you like cereal with milk?”

Mob dropped his attention back to the mug, thinking. He couldn’t remember what cereal tasted like, but he’d used to like it. “I think so.”

“Good, I’ll pour us both a bowl.”

Ritsu had liked it more.

Reigen grabbed the milk carton from the fridge, half-empty since last night. He pulled a cardboard box from the pantry, two plastic bowls with thin painted flowers along the rim, and he filled each about halfway with cereal flakes that clinked against the bowls like pouring sand. He filled his own bowl with just enough milk to coat the bottom layer of flakes, and he filled Mob’s with more. Mob slid from the couch to the nearest kitchen seat.

“Here,” Reigen slid Mob his bowl, gingerly careful like he’s been with the milk last night, and reached across again with a silver spoon. Mob took it. He at least knew spoons well.

Mob struggled at first. His soup was only ever liquid; the flakes needed to be scooped under and balanced. He took a bite, and startled against the crunch on his teeth. It was another sensation of warm shivers—something he almost remembered. He savored it, drawing it out, chewing so slowly he almost forgot to breathe. The flakes were sweet—something soup never was. He took another bite, and another, eating quickly because the cereal tasted good, and he felt hungry for the first time he could remember.

Reigen hadn’t touched his bowl. He investigated Mob, and the expression on his face was worse.

“Did your Shishou not even have cereal?”

Mob shook his head, and he took another bite. That didn’t matter now, and it wasn’t what he wanted to think about now anyway.

“Is there…maybe more you want to tell me now, about this Shishou? About where he took you? Your parents? Family?”

Mom. Dad. Ritsu. Mob paused mid-chew. Mogami had long since stopped mentioning them. Mob had long since stopped asking about them. It made forgetting easier. It made remembering worse.

Mob swallowed, and the sweetness of the cereal felt suddenly far away. “They’re safe.”

“They need to know where you are.”

“From me. They’re safe…from me.”

“From the barrier?” Reigen almost spat the word, some kind of mockery. A hint of anger poisoned his voice. And it was like flipping a switch.

Mob’s stomach tightened. He shrunk in, spoon dropped in the bowl, cereal forgotten as his shoulders hunched just a fraction to protect the parts of him that the barrier no longer could. Tight, tense, prepared. The hint of anger—that was how Mogami’s rages started.

Nothing immediate followed. No response from Reigen. No flash of his aura.

Just a quiet exhale.

“Sorry.”

Mob’s shoulders loosened. He looked up, finding Reigen slumped just a bit forward, elbows pressed to the table. Reigen continued. “I don’t really know where you’re coming from. I don’t know what any of this is. Don’t exactly know what I’m doing, either, sorry.” He pulled back, straightening, and set his eyes to Mob. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on, but I can’t. Not when you won’t tell me.

Mob sat through the silence, unsure if he was meant to respond.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Mob muttered.

“I know, kid.”

And silence fell back over them, a gentle blanket.

Reigen jumped, and Mob jumped higher when the shrill ring of Reigen’s phone split the air. Reigen yanked it from his pocket, blinking until his expression soured. “Right. Dammit.” He declined the call, stowed it back in his pocket and stood from the table. “You can…have my cereal, I guess. I have to leave.”

Mob watched as Reigen bounced room to room, grabbing his coat, his keys, his wallet. When Reigen set a hand to the front doorknob, Mob shoved his chair back.

“Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Doctor’s appointment, I have to. You—you’re fine here, aren’t you? Just, a few hours.”

“You can’t leave,” Mob whispered, and fear permeated his voice.

That expression was back, the crease above Reigen’s eyes, that lost indecision. “I have nowhere to bring you.”

“The barrier.”

“You’ll—you’ll be okay here, Mob, okay? I promise. Please just—wait for me—a few hours—that’s all. I have to go. I have to.”

“Please don’t…”

Reigen’s hand twitched on the door. Then he opened it, and slipped through, and looked Mob in the eyes as he shut it slowly. “I’m sorry. You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.”

Mob flinched at the click-shut of the door. He heard the deadbolt lock, and listened to the clunk of footsteps descending the stairs, lower, one by one.

A car started, and its engine revved, and huffing beat of the muffler receded until the world was silent all-together.

The barrier swept back around Mob, like the curtain drawn at the close of a play.

…

This early October morning, nothing was different in Ritsu Kageyama’s life. He packed and zipped his bag, filled only with a sparse few notebooks and pencils, and buttoned the last few buttons on his shirt one-handed as he left his room. Ritsu shut his door, and he walked past the open room beside him. With a trained eye, he didn’t see it.

The main floor was empty. Both his parents worked early, and both had left half an hour before Ritsu did. Ritsu bothered only with the lights in the front hall, where he slipped his shoes back on and tightened them. The rest of the house sat in a quiet and cold slumber, lit by only a few bleak rays of dawn that seeped through the cloud-cover. The clouds would all clear in an hour or two, like they did every morning, and the blazing sun would light the house on its own. Ritsu would be gone by then.

He passed by the kitchen, which kept its four seats out of habit, with hardly a glance. Ritsu didn’t bother making breakfast, as he didn’t most mornings. He’d fallen out of the habit when it stopped being a family thing. The cereal boxes in the cabinet had gone stale some months ago.

He only went to the front door, and laced his shoes, and grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the wet frosty air alone. He shut the door and locked it behind him, like a last shuddering gasp from the house. Ritsu’s breath condensed, a trail of smoke from his mouth, a calming presence in the bleak predawn. He shivered, and kept forward. He enjoyed the cold.

It was a twelve minute walk to Salt Middle School. Ritsu had memorized the path. He had to; he’d only ever walked it alone.

Some kids walked ahead of him, in groups of two or three usually, chatting so that Ritsu could see their breath curl in front of their faces too. Sometimes they would see him and lag, let him catch up out of friendliness or a transparent desire to check their homework with his. Ritsu never checked homework with them, and he spoke very little when looped in on their conversations. They didn’t interest him. It was better that they didn’t.

Today, the kids walking ahead of him were too far along the path to hear him. That was better; that meant they wouldn’t disturb him. No calls of “Kageyama!” with a sweeping wave of the arm. Just quiet, just time to breathe in the cold.

The minutes passed, until he hit the midway point six minutes in.

He shut his eyes. He kept forward. Six of twelve, only six more before he could no longer be alone. But it was still six more minutes of pure solitude he could bask in, and use to loosen the tension in his chest, and breathe, before

“Oi! Esper!”

Ritsu’s eyes snapped open. He stopped walking, eyes set to the gaggle of students ahead of him. None of them were looking back. They had gotten farther away in fact, pin-pricks on the horizon, well out of earshot. Ritsu shivered.

He took another step forward.

“Wait! Hang on wait up! Esper kiddo.”

Another step, Ritsu kept walking. His heart beat in his throat. Because he was not “esper kid”, not with how well he hid his powers. No one had ever seen him use them, not since the first day. No one could possibly know. It couldn’t be him—

“Hey, am I invisible? Esper kid!”

A blue-green blob shot through his line of sight, and Ritsu jumped. He bit down a yelp building in his throat, arms pinwheeling through a single half-rotation as he stumbled one step back. His heart slammed, and his eyes focused on the thing now dancing in his vision. It remained permanently blurry, existing somewhere that he couldn’t quite see. A strange stain against the bleak gray sky, the muted desaturated foggy backdrop of houses in the passing neighborhoods.

“Heh, that was a joke. Because I’m a ghost. Of course I’m invisible.” The little thing winked. “But not to you, Esper Boy.”

Ritsu blinked, forcing his eyes to focus. It built a throbbing headache just behind his eyes, but he did it anyway. The spirit was the size of a baseball, perhaps a bit less, its tail a flickering blue fire. Its eyes were red. It split a grin filled with teeth.

“Nice to meet you,” the spirit said.

Ritsu angled himself slightly to the left. He stepped around the spirit, and kept walking.

“Hey! Hey hey hey c’mon rude. You could at least say hi back.”

Ritsu kept walking. The spirit kept pace, gliding effortlessly through the air.

“Leave before I exorcise you,” Ritsu answered. He’d lost another minute; he’d be at school in less than five. He quickened his step; the spirit kept up.

“Snarky. Is that the attitude you espers take to spirits in these parts? You’re all rude, you and what’s-his-name.”

“Leave.”

“You haven’t let me say anything yet.”

“Leave now.”

“Look. Look look look just—stop walking.” The spirit swung around, in front of Ritsu again, and put its hands out. Ritsu stopped. The spirit smiled—all teeth and no gums. “Thanks. See? This is easier. I’ll keep it short I promise.” It raised its little shimmering fist to its mouth and cleared its throat, smile back and plastered. “I don’t know if you’ve met many spirits before, maybe I’m the first humble little dude to cross your path. This place was a no-go zone until last night, so it wouldn’t surprise me. Big ol’ head-honcho spirit in charge of this area until someone iced him yesterday—you see, when you’re a spirit, and you’re tiny, and there’s a big powerful spirit nearby, you don’t touch his property. Not unless you wanna be gobbled up. Spirits are dog-eat-dog, literally (another good spirit pun) as in we literally eat each other. And us little guys get eaten fast.”

Ritsu looked over his shoulder. A group of three girls in his class rounded the street. He recognized them by their coats, though he could not remember their names. They would catch up to him in a few minutes. “Get to your point.”

“Yikes okay.” The spirit made some motion, something Ritsu could only assume was meant to pass for straightening a tie. “Spirits need energy to survive. That’s why we eat each other—survival. And the rule is big spirits eat little spirits. That presents us with a pretty big problem, you know? What happens when you’re the little spirit? How are you gonna survive?”

Ritsu’s lip twitched. The girls were getting closer, almost within earshot. Ritsu slung his bag over his shoulder and kept walking.

“Okay okay I’ll get to the point. I’m the little spirit. I can’t eat anybody! Everybody wants to eat me! I’m what you kids might call ‘totally fucked’.” It swooped in closer, an inch away from Ritsu’s ear. “But then there’s people like you. Naturally churning out all this energy on your own—loads of it. You could feed a spirit family for years on just the aura you throw away each day. And look, I’m not the kinda guy to ask for handouts willy-nilly. I got pride. But I’m in a pinch. And you’re…you’re not using any of this, are you? None. It’s gotta hurt, I’d think, all bottled up like that? It’s gotta burn.”

Ritsu’s chest tightened. He did not break pace.

“You won’t even feel it. It won’t even hurt. Just—if you’re kind enough—to let me skim a little off the top. Just enough to keep going, just for a little while.”

Ritsu finally stopped. He turned on his heel, eye to eye with the spirit. Silently, unblinking, Ritsu shot his free hand out. He grabbed the spirit by its tail, a vice-grip, and wondered if exorcising a spirit was something he would know how to do innately. He could try, and he could find out.

“NO! NO NO NO HANG ON HANG ON KID COME ON I WAS JOKING. I WAS JOKING! LET ME GO HOLY FUCK.” It wriggled free, its aura now a frenzy of electrical arcs. The visual reminded Ritsu of a bristling cat. “Can’t take a joke? No joking here alright good got it WOW you sure go  0-100 fast don’tcha? No hand outs! I can work for it! I’ll work for it I—an honest spirit—work for my reward. All my friends are in the same business.”

Ritsu looked back. The girls were too close—he couldn’t exorcise the spirit now without making a scene. So he returned to his first strategy, and he ignored it.

“My friends and I we all just—I mean, a spirit doing your bidding? That’s a sweet deal for a human. Us spirits can do so much you just can’t, and ordering me around? Hell that’s like you’ve got all the powers of a spirit too. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Anything I ask?”

“Anything.”

“I’m asking you to go away.”

“Come on, come on kid not like that. I mean real favors. I mean spying on people through shut doors. I mean haunting that dude in class that pisses you off. I mean possessing that one girl you’ve always wanted to go on one little date with.”

“Go. Away.”

“You’re pissy, just like the other one.” The spirit’s expression soured. It fell back a few paces. “You must be related.”

Ritsu lost his step. He stopped, wide eyes staring forward as his throat tightened. He heard the chatter of the girls creeping up behind him, lost then in a flood of static in his ears. “Wait. What other one?”

“Blondie. That guy. At least he likes asking for favors.”

Blond. So that meant it couldn’t have been…

Ritsu fell back into walking pace. The spirit swooped closer, agitated now, its fiery tail wrapping around the back of Ritsu’s head. “You two know each other? I can get messages to him. Getting messages from esper-to-esper is another specialty of mine, totally secretive mail system! Normal people can’t hear spirits, so any message I deliver is 100% confidential, for other esper ears only. My buddies have been running mail for those—what’s it—those Claw guys for months.”

Ritsu’s dark eyes twitched to the spirit, brow narrowed. “Esper-to-esper? How? How do you find the recipient?”

The spirit shrugged. “I mean, most people got an address. Psychic powers or not most people still gotta live somewhere. Why?” Its tail twitched, interest piqued. “You got a message?”

“And how do you find the esper if there isn’t an address to go by?” Ritsu prompted. He turned entirely to the spirit, stepping off-path to get in its face. The girls behind him could see him. He didn’t care.

The spirit grimaced, then smiled. “Well, that costs extra.”

“How?”

“Description of their aura, usually. I’ve got a nose like a bloodhound—not to brag. I sniffed you out didn’t I?”

“What if I…” Ritsu took another step toward the spirit, frosted grass crinkling beneath his feet. His palms were sweaty, slipping around the leather of his bag. “What if I don’t know his aura?”

“Ooooh, that’ll cost triple.”

“So you can do it?”

The spirit jumped again, frightened by the intensity. It cleared its throat. “Well I mean, if you can guess at what the aura feels like. Give me a good description of the dude. Worst case, I sweep through everyone in a some-mile radius area, and check every esper I find. Just, like I said, be prepared to pay.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“Do I pay?” Ritsu dropped his bag. He undid the cuffs at his wrist, folding the fabric down. The girls passed on the sidewalk behind him, offering a few sideways glances to Ritsu and no more as he stood in the grass, right near the cobblestone edge of the road. When they had passed entirely, Ritsu flash-ignited a violet crystal of energy in his palm. “Is this what you want?”

The spirit’s eyes widened, balking for a second. It composed itself almost instantly and flashed a smile. “Yyyyeaahh, that’s roughly my rate. I could always charge you more but, I’m an honest guy.”

The spirit whipped its tail out, and its body gleamed a harsh violet as the crystal energy vanished from Ritsu’s palm. An extra wisp of purple yanked from his wrist along with it, something just a bit extra torn away, and it bled out a small trail of smoke in its wake. Like breath frozen in the air.

The sensation hit Ritsu instantly. A hollow jolt in the space between Ritsu’s ribs, like his heart stuttering through a beat, like the air being knocked from his lung for a split moment. It caught him off guard, but it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all.

“Your friends too,” Ritsu prompted.

“Hmm?”

“Your messenger friends. I want them here too. I want everyone you know searching. I have plenty of energy. I have plenty to give away. I don’t care about it.

The spirit looked on with something like suspicion, then a mirthful smile cracked its lips. “You’re not joking, are you kiddo?”

“Not at all,” Ritsu answered, and there was a fire in his gut where the energy had been carved out. An excitement, an adrenaline rush of possibility. It was a heat he could enjoy, the first kind in four years. Espers were rare. Espers were the needle in the haystack. And if Mob was somewhere, anywhere, he could take just a metal detector to find. Something that could scan thousands and find the single esper among them.

It was a sensation Ritsu hadn’t felt in a long time: it was purpose.

“Oh I’ve got a lot of starving friends who’d love to meet you.” The spirit summoned the wispy replica of a notepad from the energy of its tail, a fake pen it clicked in its hand. The spirit was twice as big now, a pulsing brightness, dyed purple, and its slimy cracked grin returned. “So tell me a bit about this guy we’re looking for, his aura. Whatever you can guess.”

“His name is Shigeo Kageyama.” Ritsu breathed in deep, shut his eyes, shivering at the name that had not left his lips in years. When he opened them again, their black depths were blazing. “And his aura would be powerful. Incredibly powerful. The strongest of any esper you’ve ever met.”

(Chapter 13)

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [53]

“Thank you? Be thankful to you? To you?” Lavellan’s voice cracks in time with her face, the deep shuddering sundering of her mortal skin as pure power pushes and pulls through her veins in a cyclical dance of growth that will destroy her.

Green lashes out, poisonous in every hand - more so in hers for the emotion, the rawness, the unconquerable will she wields it with. She is too familiar for him to look at sometimes.

Perhaps that is why he is so - reluctantly - fond of her. Possessive, perhaps, even.

Solas admits that, quietly, privately, to himself.

Yes.

Possessive.

She is his in a way he can’t even begin to describe, to explain, to justify.

She holds his power, incubates it within her - she is changed by it, she is molded by it, she is exalted by it. And she is ruined by it, as well.

Lavellan for the past few years has been his own, personal little simulacrum.

A reflection of a reflection that was caught between shifting points of focus - a reality made out of something he had only ever dreamed, made idolized and gilded with false age.

“It is you,” Lavellan snarls, dragging herself forward by sheer force of will, “That should be thanking me, you old and miserable fool - I am the one who remains. I am the one who cleans up your mess. I am the product of the ones who refused to die in peace.”

“That you are,” Solas acknowledges, not moving even as she drags herself over dirt and stone and grass and leaf to him. He doesn’t move as she gets close enough for him to taste the electric crackle of energy - writhing and alive, shifting underneath her skin and flaying her inside out, burning her to dust. Lavellan’s hands seize into the front of his overcoat, holding her up.

Ichor stains her lips black and begins to burst the vessels of her eyes.

“I do not end here,” Lavellan hisses.

Solas doesn’t flinch as the black-tinted spittle hits his face. He meets her eyes.

She has more than earned his gaze, his witnessing of her last -

“No,” Solas agrees, “But your sacrifice will be rem - “

With remarkable strength she stands on her own, reels her fist back and punches him.

“My sacrifice?” She shrieks, a burst of power booming out of her like thunder, flattening and burning the grass and turning the area closest to her to glass with heat. “My sacrifice? What do you know of sacrifices, you selfish and weak willed fool of a man? Forget my sacrifice - what of the others? The countless people who put their lives on hold to fix your mistake? Who can never return to their lives?”

Lavellan staggers, hunched over but eyes determinedly fixed on him as she staggers, swaying.

“Tell me of Varric who lost his most true of bosom friends, cut from him by the armies made by those who used your relic to chase illusions of grandeur. Tell me of the women and children who have lost their homes, their lives, their places in this world. Tell me of the men who will never return from wars fought not because they believed they were just or right or necessary, but because they thought it would keep their women safe. Tell me of the women who went to war, too, and were shattered by it. Tell me of the children, now, who have neither mother nor father - country or kingdom. Tell me - tell me of the countless faithless who were once in love with something greater than they. Tell me of the Iron Bull who was cut from his country and his anchor. Tell me of Dorian who was brave enough to challenge his own foundations and tear them down to try and build them up again.”

Lavellan spits sticky black fluid onto the ground and bares her black stained teeth at him.

“You cannot. Because not once in your damned and miserable life have you known sacrifice - “

“I have killed,” Solas says softly, “I have lost. I have mourned.”

“And you do not know what you have done any of it for!” Lavellan bellows, “How terrible it must be! Your suffering! Your loss! How senseless,” She sneers, “How senseless all your murder without a reason, without a goal, when thrown away like apple cores and corn husks and egg shells. I sacrifice nothing for you, Wolf. Not once have I ever done anything for you - you will not take my death, my suffering, my life and use it for your cause. I swear to the gods that I will make for myself this.”

“You are dying,” Solas says, “And whether you approve of it or not - you have assisted me in my goals, my works. And in a roundabout way - your entire life, your entire history, has been preparing for this moment. You kept the old ways alive. You have bred a country of war-ready vigilant defenders, nationalists and proud, proud survivors.”

“You will not take them from me,” Lavellan says, the first crack of vulnerability in her voice, her face. “You will not take my people from my heart.”

“Lavellan,” Solas says, reaching out to touch the side of her face with his fingertips. Her skin is hot - even through his gloves. She’s about out of time. And he has none left to give her. “They will come to me willingly - after all, you became victorious through my mark. Who is to say that I will not lead them to yet another victory?”

-

“I do appreciate such an ingenious scholar such as yourself, Altus,” Lavellan says, standing a few paces away without making a move to come closer.

“Is it not impolite to yell out such conversations where you come from?” Dorian asks. “Do come closer, I don’t bite.”

“Shame,” Lavellan says, taking a few pointed steps closer, “I do.”

“Delightful,” Dorian says, “And here I thought I would miss home. Do continue with your, undoubtedly, back handed flattery.”

“As I was saying, I appreciate and respect intelligence and clever thinking such as yours, Altus. Especially when it is the practical sort that saves my life,” Lavellan continues.

“But?”

“But if you are going to use it behind the blinders of your culture - and raise such disappointing defenses such as quality of life, I will be extremely disappointed in you.”

“We could not talk about it,” Dorian points out. “It would be such a shame if I were to be assassinated for insulting the most holy of the Dales before my own parents could get to me. On second thought - no - do go for it, I imagine it would cause them so much bitter disappointment if they aren’t able to erase their mistake of a son and have to go through the tedium of somehow pretending to avenge me or demand recompense.”

“Don’t be so crude or self-depreciating,” Lavellan narrows her eyes, “It is below someone of such caliber as yourself.”

“And now you’ve confused me - am I a disappointment for my belief that stable employment and living quarters is better than starvation and degradation as a vagrant, or am I someone worthy of the Commander of the Dales’ esteem?”

“And now you’ve created a false dichotomy,” Lavellan shakes her head, “You are a disappointment to what you could be and what you could do in the sense that you truly believe the falsehoods and propaganda of slavery, but you are worthy of my esteem in that I see within you the power and possibility of breaking away from such archaic and barbaric views. Either way - talking down your own worth is beneath you. You have the power and knowledge - and better yet, the wisdom to not - rewrite time. As for slavery - we will talk about it. It is, after all, one of the main sore points between our countries. Though - at the same time, our strong disagreement there does not have to cause the rest of our combined potential to fall sour.”

“Are you capable of getting along with someone you disagree with on so profoundly?”

“Tevinter has loathed my country’s - shall we call it arrangement? - with the Qun for years. If I can get along with an entire nation and religion that I disagree with, I can certainly find an even path with one man.”

[brightblook]

Everything is gone hazy and dark when she wakes up, and it is disorienting and terrifying and has her cluttering back against the wall, mind reeling.

She knew, on some intrinsic level, that her memories weren’t all there. It’s easy to figure out, when she has month long gaps in between missions, impressions that don’t line up and slide away when she tries to focus on them.

 It’s different, though, knowing that and facing it. When divine light rips through her mind and tears the walls away, and she’s left shaking on the floor of this stupid house, in this stupid country, forcibly confronted with the fact that she hasn’t been herself in sixteen years.

 She killed her parents.

 She’s killed so many people, since then, but they were the only people she knew and loved and poisoned anyways.

 She fed them their deaths, and watched them die.

 Poison drips from her hands.

 She clenches her fist a little tighter in her hair, pulling at the strands, and scrambles back against the wall as she hears the sound of footsteps outside.

 They pass without opening the door.

 She isn’t sure why she’s in here, or where here even is. She had been –

 Somewhere else. Not here, in a cave, not here, at Ikithon’s cottage –

 She rocks back, and her spine hits the wall and sends a shock through her body that feels like clarity, almost, so she does it again, and again, and then stops when she hears the footsteps returning outside.

 There’s – someone outside the door, and she doesn’t know who it is, and if she tried to speak right now Common is out of her grasp, and there is someone there –

 “Astrid?”

 It’s Bren’s voice.

 Fuck.

 She hums, and scoots away from the wall, closer to the door.

 She doesn’t trust new Bren. Doesn’t trust that this isn’t – some test, by Master Ikithon, some strain at her loyalties while she’s really asleep at the cottage. It would explain – a lot.

 Explain how nothing feels real, even the pain from her hands scratching at her arms.

 Explain how she feels like she’s wrapped in blankets too tight, too sweltering, wrapped up and slowly boiling alive.

 But she trusts him enough.

“It’s Bren. Are you alright? Eodwulf said that you ran.”

 Zemnian.

 Ikithon doesn’t –

 He doesn’t like it when they speak it, because it ties them to their past and they need to be free for their futures.

 She still speaks it alone, with Wulf, but –

 A point in this being real, despite all evidence to the contrary.

 “Ja,” she gets out, and winces at the ripples of pain that sends through her throat.

 She must make a noise then, some exhalation of pain that clues him in to something being wrong, because his voice responds, “Astrid? I’m going to open the door, okay?”

 She flinches back, as the door swings open, and then peels her eyes open despite the pain that the light makes in her head to glare, wordless, at Bren’s – stupid face.

 Stupid, stupid, face.

 He kneels down, next to her, and shuts the door slightly, just enough so that it’s darker and she’s not still squinting.

 He holds his hand out, not touching her, not yet – he keeps talking to her about how she’s allowed to say no to things she doesn’t want. How nobody will touch her unless she wants it. How –

 They aren’t keeping her here.

 If she wanted to leave, she could.

 Part of her does.

 Part of her wants to run, and hide, and ignore how she’s shattering in slow motion.

 The larger part of her wants to stay here forever and break.

 She nods, at Bren’s questioning look, and his hand ghosts over her own before coming up, palm out, to rest against her forehead.

 He hisses, and pulls his hand back before reaching down to feel at her wrist, two fingers over her pulse point as she stares at him, heart rabbit-quick from whatever anxiety forced her into this room, back into the dark.

 “Scheisse. Alright, let’s – are you okay to move? You have a fever again.”

 Oh.

 That would explain why she feels like she’s burning.

 His hands take hers as she silently asks for help up, and as she blinks – she’s vertical, vision greying out at a pang of dizziness washes through her, and then she’s swaying and falling and with another blink she’s on the ground again, head between her knees as she tries to breathe.

 Fuck.

 No, seriously, fuck.

 She doesn’t look up, but she can hear the dull clink of copper wire as Bren twists it around his hands and casts message.

 “Wulf, can you – the closet nearest to the door. I can come and get you, if you need me to, but the others are not home right now.”

 There’s a pause, and then he whispers, “Ah.”

 It’s not a good sound, she feels.

 There’s the soft pad of footsteps, the sound grating against her ears, and she flinches back, hands digging in a little tighter against her scalp, eyes still closed.

But, a moment later, she relaxes, because she knows the pattern of Wulf’s footsteps.

There’s a tap against her knuckles, Bren’s fingers, smooth where there should be roughness because she remembers when he managed to burn his fingertips badly enough that they scarred over smooth, at the cottage, before.

 She blinks her eyes open, and the light is dim again.

 It’s too warm in here.

 She’s burning.

 But Bren’s hands, when she blinks at him, feel like ice against her forehead, and she leans into it.

 It’s too dark in here, for a second, and she forces her eyes open, staring at the glowing eyes of Frumpkin, Bren’s weird magic cat.

 The cat’s magic feels fey.

 Comforting, in a sense. Reminds her of the forests surrounding Blumenthal.

 Reminds her of –

 Tiny, buried crescent moon pendants that She and Wulf and Bren had dug up in the woods, on Midsummer, that had turned to dust and decay in her hands when she tried to wear them, old and corrupted from years of hiding in the dirt.

 Where’s –

 Wulf. She needs –

 She forces her eyes open, again, from where they had fallen closed, and stares up at Bren and Eodwulf, talking about something she doesn’t care to pay attention to because it’s in Common and if it’s in Common it’s probably not important.

 Tries to get words, to form actual coherency, in her mouth, and feels as they die in her throat.

 It’s not usually her issue, not-talking, because she’s good at talking, good at twisting her words to spin confessions out of traitors, good at using them like the poison the swims through her veins, good at using them to whisper apologies to people she’s killed late at night when she knows no one’s listening except their ghosts.

 But now – she’s exhausted, and her throat hurts, and her head hurts, and everything hurts, and it’s too dark and too bright and she’s hot, burning, and words are ashes.

 She lifts her aching hands, instead, bright sparks of pain drifting where Ikithon had broken them years and years and years ago and they had healed wrong, that she’s been ignoring for sixteen years but seems overwhelmingly present now. Her arms ache.

 Deep, and unpleasant, and sending shooting lines of fire down her arms.

 She taps Bren’s foot, and he glances down.

 “Help,” she signs, clumsy and with pain radiating from every motion.

 Then, “Bed. Safe.”

 Bren’s eyes, in the dim light of this closet, are too unlit for her to read the expressions that don’t cross his features, but she knows he understands.

 “We can get you to bed. Will you let me help you?”

 Oh.

 The hallway feels like both an eternity and a split second.

 Eodwulf half-carries her, Bren’s arms on around her shoulders, and they make a slow shuffle through the hall and back into the library.

 Bren glances, then, between the nest of blankets in the corner of the room and the secret entrance to his room, and she watches with muddled understanding as he creaks open the bookcase and starts to drag blankets and pillows into the room.

 A few blinks later, and she’s being laid down on a pair of mattresses shoved against the wall in Bren’s room, a mound of blankets strewn across them.

It’s soft.

Comfortable.

 She hasn’t slept consistently on a bed in years.

 (Weapons don’t need comfort.)

 So even just this, the pair of mattresses that she and Wulf now sleep curled up together on, with blankets and pillows that are softer than anything she’s touched in years –

 That is one of the things that make her more certain that this is reality.

 Because if this was a test – Ikithon wouldn’t give her comfort.

 Or maybe he would.

 She doesn’t really know him. Never really did.

 Eodwulf lies down next to her, pressed against her sternum, and starts up a low hum in the back of his throat, something familiar and just out of her grasp to name.

 She loses time.

  She never was the one with a head for numbers and constants.

 That had always been Bren. She’s more likely to focus on something while time drifts out of her reach, minutes passing into hours without her notice.

 Working without him, after he had broken, had for the few months until Eodwulf managed to keep time, been – stressful, to say the least.

 Showing up late to briefings because she didn’t know what time it was wasn’t an excuse.

 (There are scars, alongside her broken fingers, that remind her of that.)

 When she –

 She blinks, and there’s a damp cloth over her eyes, cold and soft and dark, and it feels nice, overwhelmingly so, and it’s another point in favor of this being reality, however terrified that makes her feel, because Ikithon doesn’t know nice.

 He is not kind, not good, not right.

  She sleeps.

 And when she sleeps –

 She dreams.

 Light shines through dark canopies and sends shadow shapes streaming against leaf-ridden ground.

 She’s running.

 Not out of fear, or to escape, but she’s running towards something, bright and brilliant in the distance.

 Her feet skid to a stop as she stares up as a tree, massive and scraping its way towards the sky.

 There are flames licking at her feet, but she doesn’t feel them as she starts to climb.

 The stars are beautiful.

 And then, as she blinks, they’re gone.

 Bren makes her cookies, burnt but still edible, in the kitchen of this place that he lives, now, and she eats them, and watches as they crumble to mold and mushrooms and rot in her hands.

 She makes bread with unsteady hands, and watches as the tiefling from before eats it, and grins at her, and grins wider as blood starts to weep from her eyes and she falls seizing and dying to the floor.

 Caduceus makes her food, and she doesn’t eat it, because she didn’t make it which means she can’t trust it, but she touches the spoon, anyway, when he offers her a taste, and she watches as her poison spreads out and contaminates everything and she lives weeks in a house of dead bodies.

   She feels –

 Not better, when she wakes up.

 Less sick, she thinks, but more unsettled, memories creeping in at the edges of the shreds she’s stitched together to create a self.

 Sitting up takes more effort than it should, but it’s accomplished with only the faintest nausea pulling at her stomach, and that’s good enough for her.

 It’s dark outside. Well –

 It’s always dark, here.

 Not a good indicator of anything.

 Wulf is still here, in between her and the wall, still sleeping, brow relaxed.

 Bren isn’t, though, and that – she wants him to be here.

 Wants him to be safe.

 She doesn’t trust this here, this place, but she –

 But he’s not here.

 She’d switched over from components to a focus years ago, after half of her components had burned away in an explosion that had left her just barely alive and she’d had to fight off waves of guards with only cantrips. Now, she uses the gem inset in the bracelet she wears on her left wrist.

 It’s just quartz. Not – anything rarer, she would have given over to Ikithon, for experiments and components and for the crystals that he was still trying to force work in their arms, before.

 She hates having a crystal that close to her skin, but the alternative, of not having her magic, is worse.

She’s already spent years with shards within her. Having one just close is an improvement.

 If she thinks, harder than just a passing perusal, she gets flashes of memory of the last few hours-days, snippets of her screaming in hoarse Zemnian while Bren holds her and burns her – that isn’t really. Furred and clawed hands on her arms, and blood.

 She knows – that isn’t real. At least not entirely. Shouldn’t mention that.

 There’s another, that’s calmer, where she’s burning but there’s ice, too, pressing into her and being carefully fed to her by soft unscarred hands. Another memory, where she’s bleary and half awake and shaking with something, fever and memories alike, while Bren’s hands hold onto her wrist and a wave of divine energy washes through her without fixing anything.

 Another, where she chokes on the poison that spills from her like a wave.

 That one probably isn’t real.

 Hopefully, at least. She doesn’t want to kill Bren’s friends.

 She raises her wrist, weakly, and musters enough magic to cast message, pointing her fist towards the direction of the kitchen.

 “Where are you,” she half-whispers, half-thinks, and then lets the magic subside as she blinks darkness out of her vision.

 She doesn’t get a response.

 Grits her teeth.

 Tries again, this time towards the garden, and is rewarded with a panicky sounding, “Scheisse – One moment.”

 He must run down the stairs, because he enters the door less than a minute later, breath wheezing on the exhale.

 She frowns, and points at him and then the bed.

 He rolls his eyes and sinks down onto the edge of the mattress, and she carefully moves aching limbs over to sit next to him.

 She leans her head against his shoulder, carefully – (poison, poison, poison, her mind whispers. You’ll kill him, he’ll die just like your parents, you’ll watch him bleed and fall – shut up.) and hums, something sweet and lilting from a lifetime ago.

 He hums back, only slightly off-pitch.

 “How long –“ she gets out, and then stops.

 Good enough.

 Her arms ache. There’s new bandages, there, and she can smell blood, almost.

 They still ache less than they did – before.

 “A couple of days. You were – the crystals were reacting. Caduceus and Jester helped to get them out, but you were –“

Bren’s voice cuts off in a cross between a sob and a sigh, and she leans in a little harder into his shoulder, humming increasing in volume.

 “Ah,” she mouths, and leans a little harder against Bren’s shoulder.

 Listens to him breathe, for a long silent moment.

 She’s glad he didn’t get sick, when his crystals came out.

 All three of them are too skinny, but he –

 She worries.

 She missed him, for so many years, when he had been broken and then had just been lost.

 His hand finds hers.

 “How about we get you some food, ja? And some for Wulf, once he wakes up.”

 She – hesitates.

 Taps him three times, across the knuckles, and he nods.

 “I’ll let Caduceus know. We can probably move a chair into the kitchen, so that you can watch.”

 Hums, again.

 Okay.

 That’s –

 Okay.

 “Caduceus is – the firbolg?”

 Bren nods. “Ja. He is a – a good egg.”

 The food, that Caduceus lets her watch him make, is good.

 Eodwulf wakes up, halfway through eating, and devours an entire bowl of oatmeal while Bren watches in half-awe, half-disgust.

 She falls firmly on the side of disgust. Oatmeal is bad.

 She has a nightmare, that night, about burning, but when she wakes up, the room is chilled, and Eodwulf is next to her, and Bren is asleep against her thigh after she had practically forced him into the bed nest.

 She falls asleep again, shortly after, and dreams of trees.