#(also i’ve forgotten how to draw flare-less legs)

[thegalaxyinapaperbag2]

reunion <33 pt 1/2

(panels)

[alittlebitmaybe]

comme un écho

AKA whoops i talked to @yoursummerfrost about orpheus and eurydice and then tripped and fell on this very weird ficlet that is only sort of what i meant it to be. uh oh. (title lifted from “it’s never over (oh orpheus)” by arcade fire because i’m incredibly literal sometimes)

warnings: off-screen major character death

*

The mage had told him to perform the ritual in a field of wildflowers.

“Plenty of life,” she said.

Jaskier had asked, “For what?”

“To feed it,” she said, and did not elaborate.

And as he follows her instructions, surrounded by blooming weeds and swaying grasses, he sees that she was right. As the herbs and other unmentionables in the bowl burn, scorching the wooden sides, the green around him darkens to black. He feels the magic tugging at his energy and resists it. The ruin spreads from his epicenter, cursing the very dirt on which he kneels. A slow but inexorable exchange, and Jaskier thinks it fair. Geralt had watered the earth with his blood and now the earth must give back.

“You’re out of your depth, bard,” the mage had said as he turned to leave, her lips pursed. Was she amused or disapproving? Jaskier didn’t care, nor, he suspected, did she. Her pockets were full, and his own empty.

He hefted the lute higher on his back, clutched at the strap across his chest.

“And yet,” he said.

“He will not come easily,” she said.

“He never did,” Jaskier replied.

The flame in the bowl burns out with a flare of noxious smoke that stings Jaskier’s eyes, makes him cough. The world hums. It’s a tune of his own, as of yet unsung, plucked from his consciousness. It reaches out to him and burrows under his skin. Pulling. He follows it.

Between two gnarled, ancient trees, in the arch of their overlapping branches (Which belongs to which? Where does one stop and the other begin? If one was broken, would the other suffer for it?) the air shimmers.

The tune fades and in its place is a whisper saying, Come.

*

The stairs spiral downward for hours, days. Jaskier’s legs do not ache and he does not hunger, but it is ever so quiet. He takes the lute from his back and plays every song he’s ever composed in Geralt’s honor. Maybe Geralt can hear them. Maybe he will know Jaskier is on his way.

“Get ready, Witcher,” Jaskier says to the darkness. “Gather your underworldly things. You won’t be coming back any time soon. I can promise you that.”

And he says, “I’m sorry that you were alone. I’m sorry that I was too late.”

And he says, when the darkness presses upon him, when it seems the stairs will never end, “I don’t know when I began to love you, but it has been long enough that I don’t know how not to.”

And he says, “I’ve done this for you. You deserve to have a better life. You deserve to live.”

And he takes one more step and trips, for there is no stair where he expected there to be one. He taps the toe of his boot against the ground. It’s solid. He lifts his hand in front of his own face and it is invisible. There is no breeze, no sound, no smells, no light. There’s nothing down here.

In the face of such vastness, Jaskier is insignificant. He is nothing. You are nothing. You are less than a flea clinging to the fur of a great beast. You will be mine. You will become a part of me. You will cease. You will be forgotten.

“Hold on now,” Jaskier says, head whipping around. “Who’s there?”

I am everything that has been. I await everything that is. I anticipate what will be. I am.

“You’re Death,” Jaskier realizes, perhaps belatedly.

There is no such thing. I have no name. I have no need of it.

“That’s okay,” Jaskier says. “I don’t give a rat’s arse who or what you are.” His heart thumps arrhythmically, and sweat drips from his brow. He swipes it off on his sleeve. He is far under water. His lungs fill. He ignores it, swallows. Throws back his shoulders. “I’m here for Geralt of Rivia.”

There is no Geralt of Rivia.

“Bullshit.”

You are insolent.

“I’ve been told.”

You will be mine.

“Perhaps.” Jaskier licks his lips, an unbreakable habit. “But I will live on.”

You will not.

He laughs a little, despite himself, a nervous little giggle that he stifles as quickly as he can, clearing his throat. “On the contrary, I am an artist. I shan’t die as long as my art lives. And art does not die.”

Art? Art is not living. I have no use of it.

“Exactly,” he says. “Yes, precisely. It does not live or die. It simply is. Whatever you—whatever you are, being of, ah, all-ness…or what have you—whatever you are, whatever comprises you, you have none of art. You have no music, no stories, none at all. You will always lack it.”

There is a thoughtful pause.

I desire it.

“I can give it to you. Did you hear? I played my whole way down.”

I heard.

“Did you enjoy it? Three words or less.”

It was pleasing.

Jaskier exhales. “That’s actually a decent review, as these things go. I’m glad. I mean, would you like more? I could write you a song. Got a decent hand at improv, me. Won’t take a moment.”

A song. For me?

“Yes,” Jaskier promises, feeling the weight of it as it passes over his tongue, “a song, only for you. I shall never play it again. Well, um, on one condition.”

You want Geralt of Rivia.

“Oh, you were paying attention. Smart one, you are, Your…um, Majesty.”

I can retrieve him. If I am careful. He is me. I am him.

“Truly, I understand. His loss, for me, was…” Jaskier struggles for adequate words. “Irreconcilable. But you will always have the memory of your song to take his place.”

You sang of him.

“I do. Rather habitually. Every day of my life, in fact.”

Hmm.

“You sound like him already. So, whaddaya say?”

Play for me.

*

He plays, and every note that vibrates out from his lute, every note that leaves his mouth disappears from his mind. It is absorbed from him upon conception. He doesn’t know what the last measure was, nor what the next will be. He does not know what key or time signature his song is in, but he knows it’s a song. And that is all he promised.

It ends, and Jaskier does not notice. Possibly his jaw hangs open stupidly for minutes after it is over. He closes it.

“Was, um, was that…”

Yes. I will give you your reward.

“You will?” Jaskier asks, surprised despite himself.

I will release Geralt of Rivia, for you have given me something in return. And I will regain him, as I will gain you. We will meet again, bard.

“I—How do—”

You will walk forward. You will ascend, and he will follow. Until he emerges above, he is still a part of me. You may not look upon him, as you may not look upon me. You must not look back.

“How will I know he is there?”

He will follow.

“How will I know it is him?”

You must have faith.

“How—” Jaskier chokes now, tears welling up. He is glad no one can see. “Will he be—himself?”

Entirely. Once he emerges.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers.

It is time. Walk forward. In three paces, you shall begin to ascend. Be well, bard.

*

Jaskier climbs. The stairs remember his tread, the shape of his feet. It’s easy.

There are footsteps behind him. Are they Geralt’s? Do they match the way he shifts his weight, the deliberate heel-toe steps that Jaskier has been hearing for decades? He’s not sure.

Jaskier is afraid. More afraid than ever before. There could be anything back there. Anything at all. He must not look.

But he is not forbidden to talk.

“Geralt?” he says, tentatively. “Geralt, is that you?��

A grunt. “It’s me, Jaskier.”

And it is, thank the gods, it is. “Sounds like you,” he says, voice carefully measured, lest he sob in relief.

Silence. Four, five more stairs. They will not end. When will they end?

“How’ve you been, Witcher? It’s good to hear you again, my friend.”

“Where are we?”

“Well, who’s to say,” Jaskier says lightly. “Tell me, what do you last remember?”

“Bleeding out in a forest. I couldn’t get up. I waited to die. I…died. I died, didn’t I, Jaskier?”

Jaskier chooses to take that as rhetorical, and does not answer.

“Anything else?”

“Not until now. Is this a dream?”

“To my knowledge, no, Geralt, it is not. I pray that this is not a dream.”

“Then where—?”

Jaskier picks up his foot, sets it down. One stair at a time. There have been hundreds, there will be more. Is that light above? No, a trick of his eyes. He is still blind.

“Not to worry. We’ll soon be outside. It’s a beautiful day, you know. Big blue sky. Everything in bloom. Your favorite time of the year. We’ll have to do some foraging, stock up for potions. I have your things, of course, but I don’t know the shelf life of your concoctions.”

“A quarter year.”

“Ah, might have to make fresh, then.”

But no, it is growing brighter. Jaskier can see the faint silhouettes of his hands, the edges of the stairs to come. If he were to turn back he might be able to see the gleam of Geralt’s eyes, but he mustn’t.

Why mustn’t he? Oh, yes, the warning. He—can’t look back. He must not—

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. “I’m dead.”

“You are, Geralt, yes, is that what you would like to hear?” Jaskier says, a little hysterically. “But you won’t be for much longer, if we just keep going.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where? Where?” His pitch climbs with the staircase. Around and around. Dizzying. So many circles. “Above, Geralt. Back home, of course.”

“Why?”

Jaskier has to stop himself from whirling around. “Good gods, you ask me why? I follow you for decades, I immortalize you in song, and the witcher asks me why.” He draws in a great lungful of air, releases it. “I love you, you great idiot. I have loved you.”

The response comes, so softly, a mere rumble, “I know. That’s why I asked.”

The stairs are made of warped stone. He can see that now. They are well worn, dipping in the centers. It can’t be far. “Please, Geralt, we’re almost there.”

“You haven’t answered me. Why you would do this.”

“I was supposed to let you rot, huh? I was meant to live on as if it was fine? As if nothing was missing?”

“Yes,” says Geralt. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come back.”

“Of course you did. Of course you do.”

“I don’t,” says Geralt.

Jaskier stops, and behind him the second set of footsteps also halts.

“It was peaceful. It was my time.”

“It wasn’t,” Jaskier whispers. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

There is a touch to the small of his back, a gust of air across the nape of his neck. So familiar. He aches.

“Jaskier.” A strong hand closes around his wrist. He doesn’t look down at it, not even a glance. “The world doesn’t need me anymore.”

“What about the monsters? The wars?”

“There is Yennefer, and Ciri, and Eskel and the rest. There will always be someone.”

With dread creeping through his limbs, Jaskier says, “You’re telling me you don’t want to come back. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He can almost hear the creaking of the intertwined, ancient trees above. It is just a few more steps.

“You can’t tell me that, not when I—”

Arms come around him, and he shuts his eyes. “Jaskier, I would rather have done what I have done and no more, than continue on and overstay my welcome. I would rather have my peace.”

“What if I need you?” Jaskier breathes.

“I am with you.”

“You weren’t.”

Geralt’s hand comes to rest over his heart. It is not cold nor hot through Jaskier’s doublet. It simply isn’t much of anything at all. There, but insubstantial. It trails its way up his jaw, traces over his bottom lip. “You forget,” Geralt says, “that I am in your words. That I will live on. Isn’t that what you said? Art does not die.”

“You heard.”

“I must have.”

“That’s not fair.” Jaskier sniffles, knowing full well he sounds like a child. “I came all this way. I have always followed you. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“I will sing of you until I can’t any longer, to anyone who will listen, and to many who will not.”

A smile, pressed to his ear. “I can think of no better way to be loved.”

Something nags at Jaskier, and he can’t say what. He is surrounded by a body he knows as well as his own, yet it’s not right. Why?

The body releases him. It says, “Look at me, Jaskier. That’s all you have to do.”

“You’re not Geralt, are you,” he says with trepidation, eyes still squeezed tight. “Are you? Don’t lie.”

“Jaskier.”

He breathes in. Opens his eyes. Grips the lute strap in both hands. Turns.

Silvered hair, sad golden eyes, a sharp nose, wispy around the edges.

“Geralt,” he whispers, reaching out even as the form dissipates. Called back to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” it says, and then it is gone.

[carewyncromwell]

((Previously on “Quest for the Quidditch Cup…))

As per Chiara’s instructions, Carewyn spent the next two days in the Hospital Wing, chugging down three different kinds of Healing Potions every four hours to mend the damage caused by Erika Rath’s Bludger. Although the Wiggenweld Potions were pleasant enough, the other two were considerably less so, with one tasting like undiluted vinegar and the other feeling like it was burning Carewyn’s throat every time she ingested it. Despite this, Carewyn tried her very hardest not to complain -- Chiara had more than enough on her plate already trying to take care of the entire castle in Madame Pomfrey’s absence, and she felt rather guilty for giving her more work to do.

The Inter-House Quidditch Cup ceremony was scheduled for Monday evening, just after dinner. The weekend after the Quidditch Final had been very rainy, as if the bad weather had been waiting patiently for the match to finish before it thoroughly drenched the grounds. By early Monday morning, the rain had faded away to a drizzle so light that you’d likely taste the moisture in the air before physically feeling it.

Before dawn that morning, like all other mornings, Orion Amari was alone at the Quidditch Pitch. Since it was no longer storming outside, he was able to properly fly around the pitch, rather than simply stick to his usual exercises and meditation while balancing on his broom. The wetness of the air made the May morning oddly muggy and hot -- Orion had to shrug off his usual brown poncho half-way through his practice because of how much he was sweating.

It was while he was weaving through the three goal hoops on the right hand side of the pitch that he spotted it.

Out of the slowly dissipating darkness came a brilliant light. It wasn’t dawn -- dawn was gold, red, or pink, not this dazzling sort of white. It seemed to soar through the air like an enormous bird, bobbing up and down in the air as if galloping down an invisible road toward him...

It was a pure white, gleaming Patronus, shaped like an Abraxan Winged Horse.

Orion’s dark eyes widened as the beautiful white winged steed flapped up alongside him, its rippling pearl-colored eyes moving over his face, before it abruptly took off again, galloping away toward the commentary box.

When Orion looked down, he saw the sparkling horse stop as if to greet someone sitting in the stands. In the flickering white light, he could make out a familiar mane of ginger red hair.

The Slytherin Quidditch Captain dove after the Patronus. He came to a stop, hovering on his broomstick over Carewyn sitting in Murphy’s usual spot, just as the Abraxan disappeared in a puff of white mist. 

“Carewyn Cromwell,” he said. Despite the low, level tone of his voice, it still betrayed some fondness.

Carewyn beamed. “Good morning. Happy Ceremony Day.”

Orion nodded. “A very happy day it is, seeing you’ve recovered.”

“Mm. I’m not supposed to carry anything heavy or push myself too hard...and Chiara’s still going to have to make me Healing potions for the rest of the week...but I should be able to just take them at lunch and dinner now.”

Her ruby red smile became a bit wryer as she added, “And at least now I can actually wear what I want again -- except at the ceremony, of course.”

Orion grinned mischievously as he leaned back on his broom, resting his hands behind his head.

“Ah yes...I’d forgotten your fairy-like tendency to always want to have the brightest-colored wings in the room.”

Carewyn covered her mouth to hold in her laughter. “That’s not true!”

Orion’s smile softened, though his eyes still sparkled with amusement.

“...Today it appears you took inspiration from your Patronus animal, however.”

He gestured to the white feathers decorating her dress.

Carewyn smiled. “Well, Abraxans are my favorite.”

“Are they?” said Orion.

“Mm-hmm. Winged Horses have always been my favorite, since I was little.”

“Ah. Then your Patronus suits you very well.”

Carewyn shifted her focus to the wicker-basket purse on her shoulder. Sliding the strap off, she opened up the latch.

“Here...you want to come sit down for a bit? I figured you probably haven’t had breakfast, so I stopped by the Kitchens before coming back upstairs...”

She unfolded the red-and-white-checkered napkins inside. Orion noted the two bottles of Butterbeer also sitting on the bench next to her. 

With a slight smirk, the Slytherin Quiditch Captain deftly swept his broom out from under him and leapt down into the commentary box. Leaning his broom against the side of the box, he took a seat next to Carewyn, crossing his legs on top of the bench.

“Thank you,” he accepted the flat-looking pastry Carewyn passed him. He looked it over with interest.

“It’s a pikelet with an apple compote on top,” Carewyn explained, demonstrating how to hold her own. “Just fold it a bit, so the filling doesn’t spill out, and eat it like this.”

Orion followed her lead and took a bite.

“Mmm...! This is good.”

Carewyn looked very pleased by his reaction.

“I kind of had to improvise,” she admitted sheepishly, “since I couldn’t carry anything big and I didn’t have much time. Pitts tried to convince me to take up some sandwiches, but Mum always loves making pikelets in the morning. Of course she usually serves them with tea, but there’s no way I was going to be able to lug a whole tea service up here.”

Orion chuckled as she passed him one of the bottles of butterbeer. “Butterbeer for breakfast is not a luxury I’ve ever indulged in...but perhaps that’s all the more reason to do it.”

Carewyn tapped both bottles with the tip of her wand to open them and clinked her bottle against Orion’s before they both took a sip.

In the distance the sun had just started to rise, scattering beautiful gold and pink flares over the horizon. Orion watched the sky for a moment, his mind drifting as his eyes ran over the brightening clouds.

“...It’s hard to believe that it’s all over.”

Orion glanced at Carewyn. Her eyes had also moved away from him and rested on the horizon.

“What ‘it’ are you referring to?” he asked very softly.

“...Everything,” Carewyn said at last. “This year. The Quidditch season. The match. ...Your time at Hogwarts.” 

Her blue eyes were locked on the horizon, but there was a noticeable regret in how they seemed to slide down away from the sky and down toward the distant forest trees.

Orion’s eyebrows knit together over his eyes, his gaze very thoughtful upon Carewyn’s face. He took another bite of his pikelet and turned his gaze back to the sky.

“When one thing ends, another always begins,” he said very levelly. “When one home is left behind...another is always found.”

“I know,” Carewyn murmured, “but you’ll still miss it, won’t you? The Magpies are great and all...but I know how much you love your team here. To never play Quidditch with that same team again...”

“‘Never’ is a word I cannot believe in,” said Orion very gently. “Even the best Seers in the world can’t guarantee what the future holds. Even a master at Divination can only predict where the wind will blow, what seeds will take root, what storms will brew...”

An almost bittersweet glint flickered through his eyes.

“...I will...always miss my family here -- for it was the first family I’ve ever had to call my own. But I’ve lived too transient of an existence not to know that one day, I would have to physically leave them.”

He turned to Carewyn, his mouth spreading into a small smile.

“Leaving them physically, however...doesn’t mean that my spirit shall leave them. Nor does it mean that I can’t selfishly hoard part of their spirits for myself, and always keep their memory near.”

Carewyn’s eyes on the horizon softened visibly. She turned to look back at Orion, her own red lips spread in a gentle smile. Putting down her bottle of Butterbeer, she reached out her hand and rested it on top of Orion’s.

“...I’m glad you’ve made peace with it,” she said softly.

Orion’s gaze drifted away. His hand lay flat under Carewyn’s, not moving for a moment -- then it twitched almost uncomfortably. Carewyn kindly withdrew her hand without drawing attention to it: Orion probably wasn’t used to people trying to hold his hand.

Orion finished off the pikelet in his hand before speaking again.

“It’s a bridge you yourself will have to cross soon as well, with the family you’ve found. Do you think you’ll be ready for it, when that time comes?”

Carewyn bit her lip. Her eyes fell down to her lap.

“...I guess it’s like you said. I mean...yeah, school will be over...but I can still write to my friends. I can still keep in touch. And...well, maybe by then, the Aurors will have caught Rakepick and dealt with the Vaults. So even if we won’t be as close as we were...”

She brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

“...We’ll...have freedom, too. A kind we don’t have here.”

Orion’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s true. You’ll be free to do a lot more, outside of these walls. But remember...not all of the walls that imprison us are physical barriers.”

Carewyn blinked up at him. Orion looked noticeably more serious.

“What do you mean?”

Orion’s eyes ran over her face carefully as he considered his response.

“Do you remember...when I told you about how I grew up, before our match against Hufflepuff?”

Carewyn nodded.

“Well, one thing I didn’t tell you is that growing up ‘parent-free’ without rules or regiments wasn’t always easy. At the...institution where I lived...the lack of adult supervision made the whole place kind of a free-for-all, with the older kids taking charge of the younger ones. It was like living in a den of Runespoors. One never really knew what arbitrary ‘rules’ the kids who’d taken charge would decide to enforce when, or on whom.”

Orion could see the concern welling up in Carewyn’s eyes -- he tried to mitigate her feelings with a wry smile.

“As you can imagine, it was not the most balanced place to hang your hat in. But I don’t tell you this to elicit pity, Carewyn -- I tell you this because, despite the anxiety I’ve struggled with, thanks to the unique magical beasts I’ve battled in my life...I got through it not just due to my own determination, but because I reached out for help.”

Carewyn smiled empathetically. “I know what you mean.”

‘Without Duncan...without Bill and Charlie and Ben and Merula being there, when I fell apart...I don’t know if I ever would’ve come up for air again...’

“I’m sure you do,” said Orion, and his own voice echoed her empathy.

He glanced down at her hand resting on the bench. Almost uncomfortably, he placed his hand down on top of hers in much the same way she had his. With a sympathetic smile, Carewyn adjusted her hand so that her fingers could wrap around his thumb, so they were holding hands properly. Interestingly, this time, Orion didn’t move away. His shoulders relaxed.

“Have you considered going to therapy?”

Carewyn frowned. “Therapy?”

“Yes. I know the beasts we fight are different, but I cannot overstate how much it’s helped me find balance, after being raised in the midst of a storm.”

Carewyn glanced away uncomfortably. “Mm...I can see how it would. But I’m not like you, Orion -- I haven’t gone through half of what you’ve gone through...”

“One cannot quantify a soul’s suffering,” Orion cut her off patiently.

“Yeah, but...I had a family. I had a good childhood. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but I had a lot to be grateful for. And the bad times...I got through them okay.”

“Yes. And that strength is admirable, Carewyn. You have every right to be proud of that. But just because you were able to soldier the claw and bite marks of the beasts you’ve fended off doesn’t mean they haven’t left damage. And sometimes...those small cuts and bruises, in your mind...can be far more dangerous than an open, bleeding gash. Because it’s tempting to just pretend they’re not there -- to let them fester and give way to infection...or worse still, simply scar over...at which point you’re host to them forever. And why should you have to host them, when you more than deserve to live as a fully healed person?”

His hand adjusted slightly, taking a more secure hold of Carewyn’s.

“I understand if you decide not to pursue it,” said Orion, “but please, at least consider it.”

Carewyn, unable to look Orion in the face because of how uncomfortable she felt, rested her gaze to the left of their joined hands instead.

“...All right,” she murmured. “I’ll think about it.”

There was a short pause. Then Carewyn bit back a small laugh.

“You know...when we first met, in my third year, you kind of reminded me of Jacob.”

Orion raised his eyebrows. “Your brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm. One could take that as quite a compliment, considering how fond you are of him.”

“It was,” said Carewyn, grinning wider still. “You reminded me of him at first because of how in your head you seemed -- how you sort of saw the world in your own brilliant way, even if it was different from everybody else’s. But...”

Orion was taken aback when Carewyn burst into giggles.

“But -- “ she laughed, covering her mouth with her free hand, “but after a while, I realized...you two are nothing alike. Jacob’s brilliant, don’t get me wrong, but he’s an idiot about people -- including himself! He can never get into someone else’s head, or analyze someone’s emotions, or predict someone’s behavior based on their personality. He’s memorized every book he’s ever read front to back and can use Switching Spells on himself during Wizard Duels...but he’d never be the sort of person to realize that surfing around on your broom could give you an edge during a Quidditch match, simply by psyching out your opponents. He’s not patient or analytical, or even the least bit wise...which is hilarious, since he was a Ravenclaw...”

Carewyn giggled even more behind her hand. Orion’s mouth spread into a large grin of his own, his dark eyes becoming a little smaller.

“Ravenclaws value wisdom, it doesn’t mean they are wise,” he pointed out coolly.

“No kidding,” said Carewyn.

She bit her lip, managing to contain her laughter at last.

“But yeah...I realized you’re not really like Jacob at all. If anything...I reckon you’re a lot more like me.”

Orion looked up at Carewyn, looking noticeably surprised for the first time. Then, almost at once, his expression softened again, as he turned back to the horizon.

“...Yes. I have thought that, previously.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I thought it first, right after you left the Slytherin team. Your choice of preserving our team over winning an argument...it was something I thought I probably would’ve done myself, in your place. As time went by, as well, you gathered more and more people around you...took them under your wing...created your own family, out of the friends who surrounded you. And you protected that family with fire and tenacity, while also caring for them with patience and loyalty. That too...reminded me of myself.”

He bowed his head, his gaze resting on the edge of the commentary box as he smiled fully.

“...I think the reason I lamented you not returning to the team earlier...was that I knew you love your Hogwarts family as dearly as I love mine. Still...what’s done is done. Although the stars decided we must fly in different directions...”

He looked at Carewyn out the side of his eye.

“...I am glad, at least, that we were able to meet in orbit more than once.”

Judging by the brightness of her eyes and the softness of her face, Carewyn was very touched.

Orion gave a light shrug as he grinned a bit more wryly. “I admit, though -- practice seemed quite a bit quieter, after you left. The team missed your voice whenever we took time to meditate.”

Carewyn raised an eyebrow. “You missed me singing?”

“Of course. Calming music is very helpful, when trying to find your center of balance.”

Carewyn glanced out at the horizon once more.

The sun had come, and so with it had the dawn. The beautiful sunlight painted the remnants of the stormy gray clouds, sparkling like gold dust on some marble statue.

Keeping her focus ahead, Carewyn took some slow, deep breaths. Chiara had said she needed to practice breathing, even if it hurt a bit...

Once she’d gathered enough breath, she opened her mouth and started to sing.

“We’re walking in the air --

We’re floating in the moonlit sky...

The people far below are sleeping as we fly...”

Orion closed his eyes, but he was clearly listening. His head had tilted that bit toward her to hear better, since Carewyn had to sing more quietly than normal so as not to strain her lung. 

“We’re holding very tight --

I’m riding in the midnight blue...

I’m finding I can fly so high above with you...

La da da da da...la da da da da...

La da da da da...la da da da da...da...

All across the world, the villages go by like trees,

The rivers and the hills, the forests and the streams...

Children gaze open-mouthed, taken by surprise --

Nobody down below believes their eyes!

We’re surfing in the air -- ”

Orion gave a soft, delighted laugh in the back of his throat at the metaphor. Carewyn reckoned he was thinking of his trademark Quidditch move.

“We’re swimming in the frozen sky...

We’re drifting over icy mountains floating by...

La da da da da...la da da da da...

La da da da da...la da da da da...

La da da da da...la da da da da...da...

Suddenly, swooping low on an ocean deep,

The rousing of a mighty monster from his sleep...!

We’re walking in the air --

We’re dancing in the midnight sky,

And everyone who sees us greets us as we fly...”

When Carewyn finished, Orion opened his eyes. They were sparkling and crinkled up with the ghost of a smile.

“Did you pick that song specifically for me?”

Carewyn raised her eyebrows in cool amusement. “I’ll let you decide that.”

x~x~x~x

That evening Orion, Carewyn, and the rest of the Slytherin team gathered in front of the trophy case in the Great Hall. Waiting for them was Madame Hooch, Snape, Skye, Murphy, the Ravenclaw team, and about fifty more Quidditch fans. When the spectators caught sight of Carewyn, quite a few of them burst into applause and started chanting.

“CROMWELL! CROMWELL! CROMWELL!”

“Settle down,” Snape quieted the crowd of students with a very sharp voice.

Despite his usual cold affect, however, he did address Carewyn when she approached with the rest of the team.

“Good of you to finally be available, Cromwell,” he said sardonically.

Carewyn smiled wryly. “Sorry, Professor -- I wasn’t allowed to levitate myself out of the Hospital Wing.”

“You’re fortunate that you are even here to make smart remarks,” said Snape very coldly. “See that you get your Potions assignment to me by the end of this week, as agreed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, now,” said Madame Hooch, “gather ‘round, please.”

Orion, Carewyn, and the Slytherin Quidditch team moved out of Hooch’s way and back to the edge of the circle so that the Flying professor could stand in front of the trophy case. 

x~x~x~x

Madame Hooch: “Everyone please give a round of applause to Slytherin house!”

[As soon as she spoke, emerald-and-silver-colored ribbons materialized over the trophy case. On the silver Quidditch Cup in the center, Carewyn could just barely make out the word “SLYTHERIN” in all caps, as well as some tiny lines of lettering underneath that likely was each of the players’ names.

Madame Hooch turned to Orion.]

Orion: “It is.”

[Orion strode forward, taking Hooch’s spot in front of the trophy case. His voice was as level as ever, even through the pride and emotion rippling at the back of his eyes.]

Orion: “Mistakes have been made, and lessons have been learned. Rivalries have flared, and bonds of friendship have been forged. Accidents have pulled our team apart, and yet also brought us together. Through it all...we somehow always regained our balance...facing this journey with patience, tenacity, loyalty, and fire. I’m truly grateful to all of my teammates. Our youngest member, Ashok, who has gone toe to toe with Chasers twice his size without fear -- our Seeker, Kaylisa, who continues to top herself in every match -- Night and Quinn, the most protective and brilliant Beaters one could ever hope to find -- my fellow Chasers, Cara and Skye, who I couldn’t be more proud to have flown alongside in so many wonderful matches...”

[Orion’s gaze drifted over his team proudly, before landing firmly on Carewyn.]

Orion: “Without her deciding to selflessly fight for our dream as passionately as she would her own...I would not be accepting the Quidditch Cup for our house.”

[Carewyn’s eyes welled up with emotion looking up at Orion.]

‘Oh, Orion...I’m so glad I could give this to you. Even if my chest does hurt like Hell...seeing you reach your dream...knowing I helped you reach it...’

[She brushed some bangs out of her eyes, trying to hide the small traces of tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.]

‘...It really makes me feel like I can be someone worthwhile.’

[The crowd all burst into applause. The Ravenclaw team was applauding much more quietly and with much more restrained expressions, but Carewyn was pleased to see that at least they didn’t look like they wanted to beat the winning team within an inch of their life, like losing Quidditch teams sometimes did.

The crowd slowly dispersed. Eventually only Carewyn, Orion, and Murphy remained. A moment later, Skye came over to join them. Slytherin’s Star Chaser passed Rath as the Ravenclaw team left -- the two caught each other’s eye, but for once, only Rath looked particularly surly. The blond Beater stared Skye down for a moment and then strode away with the confidence of a tank.

Noticing the questioning look Carewyn was shooting at her, Skye frowned uncomfortably.]

Skye: “I tried apologizing the other day -- you know, properly. But she didn’t forgive me.”

“I told you it was probably going to take time.”

Murphy: “(grinning) At least Rath doesn’t look like she wants to hit you anymore! I’d say that means you’re about 35% on your way toward earning her forgiveness.”

Skye: “Only 35?!”

Murphy: “Your rivalry has been around for years.”

Orion: “(gently) Remember the Flobberworm’s lesson, Skye -- patience can be an effective way to reach your goal, even more than frenetic action.”

[Skye gave an aggravated sigh.

Murphy turned his focus to the Slytherin-decorated trophy case and gave a loud, much happier sigh of his own through his broad smile.]

[Carewyn smiled at the trophy case too.]

“Me too.”

[She knew it wasn’t really an ending for any of the other three, given that Murphy would become a junior commentator for the Quidditch League, Orion would join the Montrose Magpies, and Skye would join the Wigtown Wanderers with Rath that next year...but in that moment, Carewyn was happy to think of it as that “happy ending” the Slytherin team so rightfully deserved.]

((OOC: Whew! Done at last! *collapses*

Referenced one last time are MC players Night Rhea @nightrhea-hphm​, Sabrina “Quinn” Mercurenius @danceworshipper​, and Cara O’Donnell @unfortunate-arrow​.

In my headcanon, Orion suffers from anxiety. According to the research I’ve done on people who grew up in orphanages or other environments lacking proper parenting or attentiveness, many end up suffering from anxiety or panic-related disorders. One notable body language “tell” for anxiety is clasping one’s hands in front of them -- which, yeah, Orion does constantly! It can look confident in some situations, but it sometimes also can hint to someone feeling anxious. Some common therapeutic self-help techniques to deal with anxiety include exercising regularly, connecting with others, and meditating, all of which Orion also does in canon. Following this headcanon, in the last gameplay section, I wrote Orion having an anxiety attack -- like a panic attack, anxiety attacks usually require great sensitivity toward the person experiencing it, but unlike panic attacks, anxiety attacks often have outside triggers or stressors. (Gee, I can’t imagine what was stressing Orion out, in that moment.) Since Carewyn struggles with depression and self-loathing, it does make for an interesting contrast.

And yes, I love Orion Amari with all of my heart and soul -- however did you guess? 8D))

[galvatronsthighs]

Continuing from here: (x) “Greetings” The strangely familiar mecha spoke, cocky grin stretched wide, “my name is Megatron and you’re all going to die” “G-Galvatron? What is this?” Sky-Byte “You’re, uh or rather you WERE Megatron… weren’t you?” “I think Galvatron has something to explain” Optimus stepped in.

“Wh-what!? Why are you all looking at me when HE’S here to kill us all!” The pale mecha backed away from his former nemesis and former SIC. “Oh no no” The being that claimed to be Megatron held their hands up, “Do go on, I’ll wait I want to hear this go on Gigatron tell the-” “YOU can’t call me THAT anymore!” Galvatron bristled, wings flaring as he stepped forth as if ready to fight the strange apparition of a bot, “It’s Galvatron, it always HAS been Galvatron” “Oh, still touchy, aren’t we!” He cackled. “Gigatron? What’s he talking about?” Sky-byte stood nervously behind his commander, this was just meant to have been a portal inspection to see if any more monsters appeared, not another Cybertronian!. “I’ve heard that name before” Optimus mumbled. “What? Where?” Sky-Byte eagerly snapped at the first opportunity of some sort of explanation. “If what I HAVE heard is true, it’s nothing pleasant” Prime’s voice didn’t raise a jolt. “Oh, deary me, are you still that useless you’re going to make ME explain for you?” ‘Megatron’ made a mock gasp gesture before his body crumbled, it cracked and broke up into a red-tinged smoke which immediately reformed again a inche before Galvatron, the entire process happening before an optic could be shuttered, “Murderer” That seemed to set Galvatron off and the now-dubious-commander of the Predacons surged forwards, shoulder hitting roughly into the newcomers body and sending them both flying. Except instead of clattering to the floor ‘Megatron’ burst into smoke again letting Galvatron smash into the ground and scrape forwards. With his back to him ‘Megatron’ spun around and hit Galvatron with a stream of energy paralysing him and keeping him out the way. “Well that won’t work twice now will it?” The new guy had such an air of arrogant cockiness to him, but it was the kind of cockiness of someone who knew they had something to back it up. He sauntered over to the gathered group, it was almost forgotten that there was a group there as they stood on in stunned silence at the bizarre scene unfolding before them. “By the damn AllSpak! You all should’ve known it wasn’t me!” ‘Megatron’ roared in anger, “Look at those pathetic Scraplets!” He screamed a gaseous blast of energy streaming at the Predacon trio who yelled in surprise the combined gang of Autobots and Predacons only just making it out the way as the blast tore a huge chunk out of the ground, flinging Slapper and Prowl off into the distance. “I’d never make a team of such incompetent cannon fodder! And you!” He turned on Sky-Byte a gaseous tendril flying out and ripping the shark from the sky, “Look at you” he sneered, “Did you even finish your command training with Thrust? You puny jellyfish” Sky-byte yelped in horror at the question and whined at the insult “H-h-h-how did you know!?” he wailed. ‘Megatron’ snarled as he threw the shark, tossing him into the advancing Team Bullet Train as they tried to jump him. “BECAUSE I AM THE TRUE MEGATRON YOU FOOLS” “Back off my bro’s!” Gas Skunk charged the mech but green lightning bristled from Megatron and speared the furious skunk, a spinal-strut shattering blast only averted by X-Brawn swinging in to grab the terrified Predacon mid-air. “You’re all pathetic… PATHETIC, I can’t believe anyone would believe I’d take orders from the Predacon council let alone make a team from the rejects of my own army, that council listens to ME, and none of you four are worth the Energon rations I deigned to give you” ‘Megatron’ sneered, “Teaming up with these Autobots is just more proof you’re worse than the scum scraped from the bottom of a barrel!” The smokey entity went fuzzy before reforming as a larger more monstrous form, the bestial creature bellowed before charging the group. Whatever this person was, if it truly was Megatron, it fought like a true warlord, devastating brutality combined with the power to take on a non-solid form made him hard to hit but his hits went harder than the gang ever felt before. Immediately the other Autobots, not present and the remaining Cyclonus were summoned to battle. ‘Megatron’ was overwhelmed by enemies, but he didn’t care, he seemed to relish the battle, a few times he let the blasts hit, chortling at their feeble attempts. No matter what they tried it seemed useless, he just wasn’t affected by anything they threw at him, forming a impassable wall, keeping them all at bay. It wasn’t a fight it was a play for him. “Guys I think I’ve noticed a pattern” Team Bullet Train had attempted to hit them with their combined form but ‘Megatron’ had glanced past every attack, now two of them stood behind Midnight Express as he spoke, “He’s not the powerhouse he’s making out to be, he’s only letting one attack hit him, never any combined blasts, nor any blasts from our combined forms either. It must be for a reason!” “You’re right, ever since I powered up he’s been giving me a wide berth too” Optimus nodded to him, “T-AI what do you make of this?” The holographic battle computer’s AI came over all of their intercoms “I’ve been examining him as you’ve fought him and you have definitely picked up on a distinct pattern if anything he’s also examining all of you fighting too, simply playing a game of cat and mouse!” “Well, how do we get rid of him! He’s scary!” Dark Scream cowered behind Sky-Byte who was doing a somewhat adequate job of pretending he wasn’t scared of the ghostly mecha too. “The portal he came through is still open, he’s drawing power from there, I don’t know from WHAT he’s drawing power from but it’s awful whatever it is, It just has some kind of sickly aura to it, and it’s limitless” “That’s impossible” Prowl growled, “No power source is limitless!” “Well, whatever he’s getting power from is certainly near-limitless at the very least then” The hologram shrugged, “I can’t say much more than that” “If the power is coming from the portal then I know what we must do” Optimus whispered, careful of the gleeful ‘Megatron’ whose attention seemed elsewhere, “We need to open a space bridge over his portal, it should cancel his out, or at the very least I hope it will” “Best plan we got at the very least” Cyclonus nodded, “Keep ‘im distracted as yer computer lassie cancels his power out” “Uh, right” Optimus nodded. “GRAAAAAAAAH” ‘Megatrons’ roar brought all their attention back to him. “M’lady!” Cyclonus cawed in shock and panic. Galvatron had indeed risen again, with the others distracted by their distanced group huddle of let’s-make-a-new-plan, ‘Megatron’ had turned his attention back to the downed Galvatron as evidenced by a patchwork of whip-like lashings upon the mecha’s back. Except now Galvatron had bitten back, taking on his ‘Devil Saurer’ mode the beast form had it’s paws wrapped around ‘Megatrons’ chest and waist his jaws clamped over his shoulder, causing the metal to buckle and crumble. “Ugh, you at least got more powerful since we last met, but I suppose leeching power from others does that, hm?” ‘Megatron’ squirmed almost struggling to free himself. “You should know!” Galvatron hissed, suddenly dropping to the ground. A familiar purple light shrouded the area around them specks of light falling to the ground as gravity in the affected area was warped. ‘Megatron’ was flung up into the air before being flung at high-speeds back to the ground but he avoided the attack by morphing into mist again. Galvatron rose up before furiously blasted the ground with fire, a flame that danced and pulsed under the pressure of the augmented gravity within the circle but billowed out viciously when it left the area, it made approaching them dangerous. Yet as the fire continued, ‘Megatron’ was unable to reform under the dual-gravity and heat assault but it left another problem. “T-AI, can you activate a space bridge?” Optimus barked over the comms. “I can try but the gravitational distortion is making it hard to pinpoint!” She warned. “Just do it!” Optimus gestured and gradually the large team shifted closer to the mini-arena trying their best to avoid the baying flames the poured out from it, “He can’t keep up this assault much longer” He was right, coolant dripped off Galvatron like bullets, whizzing to the ground at rapid speeds due to the gravity but evaporating before they even got close from the fire. The wingbeats that kept Galvatron airborne were getting slower and more laborious as his altitude slowly dropped. Soon the rip in space that ‘Megatron’ had entered through fizzled dangerously. The dwindling flames layering the ground leapt anxiously almost fomring a face as ‘Megatron’ cried out. “No! My lord needs it bigger to enter, not smaller!” He howled, his gaseous body billowed out wildly a tendril wrapping around Galvatron’s leg and throwing him to the ground immediately ceasing the dual-attack. Instead of reforming, however, ‘Megatron’ leapt through the portal. As soon as it closed the Space bridge sprung up in its place, leaving silence in its wake. Looking over the motley crew Optimus told T-AI to get ready for a lot of patch-ups. By the time everyone had their dents, gashes and bangs patched up Galvatron was canveniently nowhere to be seen. Cyclonus slipping out was less subtle as his tail feathers were spotted turning a corner. Optimus held up a hand, signalling the others to stay and followed. Galvatron had snuck off to a rather unused room, but it seemed to be one their sparklings had taken a liking to and had been blissfully unaware of the fuss of the outside world. Still in his large Devil Saurer mode, Galvatron had the twins between his forelegs, wings gently curled around them, as Cyclonus leant on one leg also cooing over them. Optimus watched the parents for a while, aware of Galvatron trying to ignore him. “What was that!?” Optimus jumped a little as Sky-Byte jumped up having followed him regardless of his ‘stay put’ order. “I’d rather not discuss it” Galvatron bowed his head. “T-AI broadcast this across the base” Optimus made a gesture for the AI, “This is serious, we’re not leaving until you tell us exactly what your history with that mecha is” Galvatron flinched and curled in on himself, the sparklings peeped curiously and Cyclonus patted his neck. “O...of course he’d whip me…” The ten-shifter whispered mostly to himself, claws fumbling with nothing on the floor. “What’s Gigatron? How did that guy know about Thrust? Why does he have, what I assume to be, your name?” Sky-Byte rattled off the questions burning at his processor. “Gigatron is the name given to a specific type of SLAVE, Sky-Byte, Or did you really think I just happened to have so many alternate modes? The more modes a slave has the more use they are to their master!” Galvatron hissed, “I was Megatron’s personalised Gigatron slave, he ordered me to look like him and be a powerful plaything.” “Uh, buh, what?” Sky-Byte suddenly shrank down and looked around as if a magical sign would appear and explain it all in an instant. “I… I thought as much” Optimus mumbled. “Yeah… Happy? That WAS the real Megatron, back from the dead somehow…” Galvatron’s toothed lip curled as he thought about it, “He used me as a toy for whatever whim and desire he wanted, to fight or play, to bring him fuel and entertain him. I had no life, he didn’t even care that I had a name, he never called me it, he only called me ‘Gigatron’ forever making sure I knew I was nothing more than his pet!” “Now I understand your desperation to change your perceived fate” Optimus spoke putting on his best, most gentle voice. “Well, fine, you want the rest of the story, here we go. I snapped, okay? I couldn’t take it and when he was busying himself ranting at me for another mistake I jumped him, I managed to smash the back of his stupid helm open on the floor and I didn’t stop, I kept going. It burned me, my slave coding ripped away at my internal systems and burned at my processor! It was agony but I couldn’t take it! His incessant demands and constant whipping! I just… I killed him… And where did that leave me? I was a slave who managed to break my control coding juuust enough to kill my master, I’d be slaughtered the moment I left. So I lied, I used my similar appearance to my advantage… I claimed to be Megatron. It sort of worked, Megatron was an arrogant blowhard, he had his army, his empire so he lazed around his mansion all day and hardly made public appearances doing nothing but bathing in his luxurious ill-gotten gains. So not that many people really knew what he truly looked like. So I got away with it for a while, when people made a remark I passed it off as getting some upgrades and modifications. Yet, my slave coding still functioned, it needed orders, and luck saved me! As some bots were getting suspicious the Predacon council alerted me to rumours of a super weapon on some barely noticeable planet far away, so I took it, the order satisfied my slave coding and got me away from the main citadel. As for troops, of course, I picked the ones who’d never recognise me for what I really was, they were all the runts of their respective field with little privilege never given a chance… Thrust was going to fail you, by the way, Sky-Byte, your panicking and his short fuse just didn’t… yeah… I just ran away and dragged you all with me! Then I realised the Autobots were here, so I did as little as possible and hid in the base whenever I could fearful that they would recognise me for what I was, and I forced you all away and tried to ignore you all so I could distance myself further from my perceived problems… But of course, I felt as if I had Fortress Maximus I could use him to rule! Then no one would make me their slave ever again! I wouldn’t be captured and executed for killing Megatron! I thought he’d be a key…” “And then when you thought you found a way to change fate you abandoned Fortress Maximus in favour of something that could ‘change your fate’, it makes sense now” Optimus nodded. “F… fail me” Sky-Byte merely whispered to himself, “Slaves? Falsehoods? B... but Meg-ah, Galvatron! I… you… is this true? I… Thought this was so much more, while Thrust was teaching me the ways of being a commander, I, I had such a sense of unfulfilled yearning! I felt like there was something missing! Then when you offered me a place on this team it felt like I had a purpose was this all for nothing!?” “Oh, Sky-Byte… I’m afraid to some degree, yes. I lead you all off on a merry little adventure for nothing and then I was cruel and shut you all out emotionally as I feared the repercussions of my actions, but, we did find Fortress Maximus! We did have a mission! I was just not the right one to lead you all… I hope I did at least, even if it was founded on a lie, give you some sense of purpose to fill that emptiness. I hope the four of you found some sort of happiness...” “But Galvatron” Optimus stepped in cutting off any response from the Predacon, his tone dark, angry, “If you started your life knowing nothing but slavery and cruelty, why did you corrupt the Autobot stasis pods? Why did you fill them with evil!? Why did you strip them of agency!?” “What!? Prime you can’t be serious!? Fill them with ‘evil’, are you listening to yourself? They were already dead! All of them!” Galvatron looked up at him a glare in his optics. “No, they were alive! We all saw it!” Optimus snapped back. “Get a grip Prime! They died before we even found them! I merely planted an AI of my own design into them! It animated the bodies and copied the remaining lines of code in their processors to mimic attitudes! The AI just… got a bit too ahead of itself, started running errors and acting out on its own. I just reset them when I got them back. They were walking talking shells!” “T… Then Scourge…” “That’s right he’s likely just dropped and reverted back to his lifeless shell already. You’d think I could inflict the same thing I suffered to others?” “How would a slave know how to program AI?” Sky-Byte piped up and immediately looked away when Galvatron glared at the mention of ‘slave’. “I had free time when Megatron didn’t need me or was at rest, I busied myself with books and tinkering with devices, I’d been making prototypes of my little bats for millennia!” His wings puffed out with a sense of pride. “And in the end, you bungled everything and started treating your own underlings more like your own protoforms despite your lies to them” Optimus seemingly accepted his answer or at least had done for now and his tone had returned to something lighter. “That’s not a lie is it Galvatron?” Sky-Byte, however, took a more morose tone. “What!? No!” Galvatron flared up again. “Ey don’t think that of y’ mother” Cyclonus piped up for the first time for the entire story. He’d picked his place long ago and it was at Galvatron’s side regardless of his past. “No, no, that wasn’t a lie Sky-Byte, I… I did get attached to you all, I didn’t want to, I thought it would all end in tears, I mean if this failed I’d certainly have been found out and killed and then you’d be left alone with the knowledge of… this, I didn’t want that I didn’t want you left alone, so I tried to keep you away. But, we’re all the screw ups of our times and I couldn’t help but see parts of myself in you all and want you to be safe. It just took featherbutt here to finally make me come to terms with it and notice your reciprocating behaviour and the somewhat unintentional low-level bond that was building” Galvatron sagged down again, looking to the floor his head only turned away slightly when Sky-Byte approached him. The Predacon said nothing advancing on his former leader, his face was droopy too as he processed all of this information and would likely spend a while longer thinking about it, but for now, he knelt down and flopped against Galvatron’s free side and silently curled up next to him only reaching out a little as Rupture scooted over to peep and grab at their favoured brother. Optimus sighed, he knew he wasn’t getting anything else out of him today, and might not for a while yet, he uttered a small thank you before telling T-AI to cut the audio feed. He quietly headed back to the command centre by himself only briefly passing the Predacons who rushed to join their patchwork family. He could believe a lot of the story, his suspicions about ‘gigatron’ were correct, but that still left some answers. How did Megatron come back? How did he get these powers? And, who was this ‘lord’ of his? All in due time likely. Personality: Megatron is used to being ‘lord of an empire’, so he is arrogant and lazy, very content to let his new monster lackeys pick up the slack whenever he simply does not want to bother getting his hands dirty. After his death, his aggression only mounted, rather than conquer and rule all he’d rather see it all die and be reduced to nothing. Total and utter destruction is his pleasure, as is pain, he greatly enjoys tormenting and playing with his enemies and cares not for the emotions of those around him unless they’re cowering in fear. He is a frightening madman bent on brutal senseless destruction. Notes/Extra:

It might be obvious for some but his ‘lord’ is Unicron.

The creature from the previous part scanned Galvatron’s processor as it drained his energy and Unicron picked out Megatron from his memories to bring back and make his pawn. However, Megatron turned out to now share Unicron’s views upon his resurrection and doesn’t need to be tortured into obeying, he wants to see everything destroyed.

He can no longer transform but he can reform his body at will into whatever he needs, within reason.

His goal is to open a portal wide enough so Unicron can enter their realm and consume it all.

[berrodarmstrong]

Take a Breath and Count to Ten.

Berrod felt like a mountain had come down on his body. The Highlander laid flat on the dusty training ground, located to the north of the lochs just above the last vestiges of the cloud sea. He was a miserable sight, dressed in a Pacifist’s vest and some other improvised attire to complete his training gear. Sweat drenched him, and dirt threatened to provide him with a mucky shell. The tie that held his hair up had come loose, leaving the ruddy side-shaved mane to spill onto his back and shoulders.

Ronsen Armstrong stood not ten yalms away, arms clasped behind his back with the usual bored, disappointed expression that was reserved for watching Berrod struggle. Shirtless and barefoot in a pair of wind-whipped quan, He seemed to refer to a large ring of beads on his neck and shoulders for patience. Unlike Berrod he showed no signs of exertion – not a drop of sweat nor a speck of dirt marked anywhere above his feet. All signs of wear on his massive frame were from times long passed. None of the scars that littered his body were too recent. "You should at least be able to get to your hands and knees," He complained, "All of that power and for what?"

 Berrod grit his teeth -- or at least he wished to. There may as well have been a Roegadyn's foot crushing the side of his face into the floor. His arms splayed on either side of him, nigh fused to the floor and useless. No matter how much he flexed, strained or pushed, it was all in vain. Large muscles stood out in sharp relief to absolutely no avail. The aetherial pressure Ronsen had exerted on him was immense . It usually was, in all fairness, but this application of it seemed even more brutishly dense than before. It was hard to breathe. His spine suffered a discomfort that astonished him, usually he trusted in his back to bear the most dire of burdens.

 The pressure increased. There was no way -- absolutely no way he would survive this. It was like being crushed under the weight of Ala Mhigo itself. How was he expected to just stand? Fear and anger gripped him. Ronsen was unreasonable. Unconscionable. Abusive. Cruel. Powerful. Berrod envied that power. He coveted it in ways he would barely even admit to himself. Yet if he died there, he'd gain nothing -- and there was no mistake that Ronsen was willing to let him die...to kill him, even in the name of getting stronger. If he could not live through this, then this was as far as he could go – which was worth nothing to anyone.

 His eye flicked in Ronsen's direction and beheld the other man. Strong, imposing and disappointed, yet smug. Somehow the other Highlander’s rough, lined and copper-bearded face managed to convey a perfect mix between disdain and righteous haughtiness. It incensed Berrod. Hatred bubbled in his gut; a transient thing, but very, very real. Whether it was that hatred or the pressure that had gotten to him, for a moment he beheld a giant, looming shadow behind his master; just the vaguest of silhouettes that came and went in the hazy way that imagination tended to influence. "If you can give me that look, you can stand up," the older monk barked, "This is your last chance."

 How Berrod wished he could retort. How he wished to rant and rail at the man, to let him know exactly where in the seven bloody hells he could get off. It was a task alone to draw breath for himself, much less speak.  

 Ronsen took a step forward. It was an interesting thing, how much terror that injected into Berrod's soul. The cold creep of it gripped every bone in his body. That man was death, and if he was allowed to get too close...it was all over. His family. All his friends. The Company. Ala Mhigo. He’d not see any of them again – his family in particular would be left to grieve. It was a maddening, sickening thing to think of, and it made the man glad that his stomach was empty.

 Another step. Berrod struggled. He had to get up. He had to get up. Yet, the wish to stand was not enough. It was not nearly enough. Even with his will to stand dictating his third, it was not enough. Fear crippled him…and then the realization shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Fear had no business inhibiting him. He had mastered his fear. Fear was drive. Anger was fuel. Envy was ambition. Very carefully Berrod took control of what little breath was left in his lungs and closed his eyes. Envy...anger...fear...he fed them into his will to survive and carry on. Within him those six seats of power flared to life. His will fed the fire of his heart, with combusted and rushed wind to his throat. The monk opened his mouth and breathed.

 Ronsen delayed his third step to observe what had happened -- but still Berrod did not stand. To that end, he continued forward.

 "If you think I'm gonna lay down here an' die, yer crazy. I've got work to do! I've got people to protect, an’ a home an’ a order to help rebuild!" Through the throat he made those declarations; they echoed loudly and carried across the mountainside with unnatural and augmented clarity...though they came to very little, given that he was still flattened upon the slope.

Ronsen took a fourth step, the distance between them now halved. Berrod called upon his sixth light -- but not to see. Just to live. The monk shone like a beacon as every last one of his chakras flooded his form with power; the crushed, helpless feeling was gone. He no longer felt like his back was going to break, or like his rib cage was going to be pushed out through his chest onto the floor. He was ready to stand, and ready to meet whatever attack his master bore with full force. Again he grit his teeth, planted his palms down and pushed up. Muscles swelled and strained...for naught. The pressure was too much. His body had gained resilience against it, but it was still not enough to push up and through. It was certainly not enough to survive what Ronsen had coming if he was too helpless to even move. Still, even as his master drew closer he tried, again, and again, keeping every gate open and flaring, holding back none of his strength in a desperate struggle against the sheer -presence- of the other monk.

 Three yalms to go. Berrod glanced at Ronsen again and beheld for another moment that giant, looming shadow. Was it death? Was it a visualization of his master's strength? There was a familiarity to it that he could not quite connect; with good reason -- he had more pressing concerns such as not dying. With a final push he roared tp pour his mind, body and soul into getting the hells UP.

 The land responded. It was a sudden rush of power simply pushed every mote of aether released from his active chakras down into his calves -- every last bit of it. In that moment Berrod was sure that he was going to lose his legs. His roar became a scream -- though there was no pain. It was just a wild, unleashed expression of every thought and emotion that raged within his mind. Within his calves, a new chakra opened with the force of an aetheric detonation. The outward push did away with the pressure for a moment, like a boulder thrown into a lake would clear a spot of water for a short time.

 Ronsen stopped in his tracks, wary -- observant, and very clearly no longer bored or disappointed. There was tension there – readiness. Berrod was too preoccupied with his own happenings to note it at first. It was a pity, the younger monk would have gained savage satisfaction from seeing the older hesitate.

The boulder that was the opening of his fourth shadow chakra provided only a momentary reprieve. Ronsen had compensated quickly, and set the pressure to return in crashing waves. Yet, Berrod got up. To one knee at first as the pressure threatened to flatten him once more. The power that coursed through his own body was so much -- he had forgotten what it felt like to have such a staggering increase. The terrifying volume of it, the potential. Still, he had trained for decades, and knew very well how to handle massive additions to his flow. It didn’t matter if he looked like a sweaty, dirty, wild-haired animal. 

 He could feel it. He could feel the balance tipping. He could feel that he had just gained enough to give as good as he got. And so, he expanded his own presence and sought to turn the tables on his Master.

 Ronsen appeared genuinely impressed -- but he was no slouch. Their aether clashed in a blast of concussive force that sounded as a clap of thunder through the Abalathian slopes. The older monk actually smiled a little. It was an expression in an odd manner that depicted a man who had finally found a bit of a challenge. The pressure he exerted doubled. Berrod found himself on the back foot as those waves rushed around him once more, threatening to leave him on the ground where he began. Momentary panic took him -- and then he realized. He was using only the lower fourth. When the aether from his other chakras had rushed into it, he hadn't bothered to harness them after that. They sat dark, yet ready to be tapped again. He'd just managed to match Ronsen...with one. Granted, one that had been gifted the power of the rest.

 Envy, Anger, Fear, Survival, Indulgence, Will, Passion, Expression and Observation -- they all joined with the fourth below-- and pushed back.

It was enough. Enough at least, to make Ronsen actively lift an arm to defend against it, enough to make him have to defend himself. Unfortunately it was also enough to gouge quite the groove on the mountainside. Ronsen stood before the damage, harassed-looking but unharmed. "It's about bloody time," He grumbled.

 Berrod was annoyed. He had struggled so much, and there Ronsen was, standing with naught but a hand outstretched to endure the counter-assault. “I’m not done!”

 The pressure was an extension of his own reserves. An extension of him. And so, he brought his will to bear and shaped it as he dared. Arm of destruction indeed. Berrod directed all of it above Ronsen and slammed down.

 Every bit of suffering he had endured was paid for the by sight of Ronsen pushed down to a knee. The older monk was clearly astonished – at least so it seemed before the plume of dust obscured him entirely. Berrod was forced to shut his eyes against the sweeping wave of it. When he opened his eyes, he beheld it – the looming, massive shadow, silhouetted in the dust above the darker, more distinct shadow of his master. Bright eyes stared at him through the haze, two large red circles with long lines underneath them that made him think of running tears.

Berrod’s concentration was shattered. What he was seeing couldn’t be possible – there was no way he could even reconcile enough of what he knew to formulate an explanation. “Bo—“

In a flash his master was right in his face. The old monk seemed more annoyed and harrassed than ever, and made a short, sharp sound between his teeth. “Annoying,” He grumbled, “Sleep and forget.”

 So it was that the looming spectre became just a muddled, uncertain recollection, ascribed to imagination rather than actual memory. Berrod hadn’t realized when the hand hit his chest, and was quite unconscious as he’d pelted several yalms backward through the air. For a mercy, Ronsen had run to catch him – and so their training ended. There was much to be done when he awoke. Far too much for him to be concerned with fancies of a shadow of something he might have seen.

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

By the Dim and Flaring Lamps: Part One, Chapter Four

Previous: One | Two | Three

JULY 4, 1863 GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

When Mulder wakes, late on the morning of July the fourth, the first thing that he sees, when he rolls over, is Private Scully, curled tightly into a ball on the ground, less than a foot away from him. He's momentarily confused- Scully hadn't been in his tent when he'd gone to sleep last night- but then there's a fuzzy memory, suddenly, of Scully coming in sometime in the middle of the night, his face ashen and his hands shaking, and asking Mulder (who hadn't even woken up fully) whether he might sleep in here with him. Mulder had agreed readily, and had gone back to sleep at once.

Now, watching the slight, red-haired man sleep, curled in on himself as though in protection from the world around him, Mulder is reminded just how young his friend really is. No one has had a spare minute, over the past three or four days, to sit in front of a mirror and shave, and yet, Scully's face is perfectly smooth, not a shadow of stubble on his pale freckled skin. He could, Mulder realizes with a start, be as young as thirteen or fourteen.

Most of the time, Mulder gives little thought to figuring out just how young Scully truly is, mainly because he always seems so mature and capable- more so, frequently, than most of the much older men under Mulder's command. But after the past few days... after the ferocity of the fighting on Little Round Top, after the bloody slaughter that they had witnessed together from the branches of the oak tree above Cemetery Ridge, and especially after the hour following last night's dinner that Scully had spent copying the late Private Halsey's final letter to his family onto a fresh, blood-free piece of paper... Mulder wonders if maybe the best thing that he could do for his friend would be to blow the whistle on him, to have him sent home... or, at the very least, placed in the fife and drum corps.

He knows that he probably should... but, selfishly, shamefully, he doesn't want to. And not just because Scully's shooting is invaluable in a fight, either. Everything just seems to be so much more tolerable when he's got Scully around to talk to, to laugh with, to share a comfortable silence with, and Mulder, ashamed as he is to admit it, is loath to give up his sole source of happiness and comfort.

As he watches, Scully stirs, stretches, and opens his blue eyes, blinking sleepily at Mulder. A soft, languid smile plays across his fine features... and Mulder feels, not for the first time, something unquantifiable, something pleasurable but also slightly odd, as he returns Scully's smile. He pushes it away, not willing to dwell on it, and sits up on his sleeping roll, stretching his sore arms up over his head and twisting his back, which pops audibly. He groans and slumps over again.

"I think that I've forgotten what it feels like to sleep in a real bed," he observes, and Scully chuckles.

"It's become a foreign feeling," he agrees wryly. "Just wait, we'll return home, after the war is won, and our poor families will be so confused when we keep climbing out of our nice, comfortable beds to sleep on the bare wooden floor." Mulder laughs.

"My family was used to me wandering around the house at all hours of the night," says Mulder. "I imagine that it won't be too much of an adjustment for them if I continue with it, after the war."

"I was always the soundest sleeper in my family," says Scully. "My mother says that even when I was a very young child, I could and would fall asleep at any time, in any place, and in any position I chose."

"It's definitely a useful skill to have, these days," says Mulder. "I envy you the ability. Right now it's easy enough for me to get to sleep, as exhausted as I am... but you wait and see, when we're camped for the winter and not doing much more than drilling during the day, I'll be wandering around the camp half the night, every night."

"I'll be sure to take naps during the day, then, so that I'll be awake enough to keep you company on your late-night ramblings," says Scully, and Mulder grins at him. The idea of being camped for the winter, with little to do and nowhere to go, is somewhat less dull, with the prospect of Scully's company.

Scully heaves himself heavily into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and scoots across the ground until he's right next to Mulder. "Let me have a look at your head," he says, reaching for the handkerchief still wrapped over Mulder's wound, and Mulder turns obligingly as Scully carefully removes the wrapping. Mulder feels his friend's fingers carefully prodding at the injury, but the discomfort is far less today than it was yesterday. Scully makes a small, satisfied sound and draws his hands away. "It's going to be fine," he tells Mulder, folding up the soiled handkerchief and tucking it into his pocket. "It will probably itch a bit while it's healing up, but it shouldn't cause you any pain."

"Thanks, Scully," says Mulder. Scully waves him off and sets about gathering up the gear he had cast off last night, when he'd ducked into the tent and had asked if he could stay. Mulder does the same. He's shrugging on his uniform coat when suddenly, a thought occurs to him. "You know, Scully," he observes, "I don't think that I've ever seen you take your jacket off to sleep. Don't you get uncomfortable? Especially as hot as it is, this summer?" Scully looks down, not meeting his eyes... and Mulder could swear that his friend's pale cheeks go just the slightest bit pink.

"I don't get overheated all that easily," he says with a shrug. He stands to finish fastening his belt. With a heavy sigh, Mulder rises to his knees, rolls his sleeping roll back up, and straps it to his back, above his pack. Together, he and Scully duck under the tent flap and out into another muggy, overcast July morning.

With no orders to move on yet, the men of the regiment are milling about aimlessly or sitting in groups around the cooking fires, taking advantage of the quiet to finish the job of recuperating from two days of fighting immediately after days of hard marching in high heat. Mulder and Scully settle by a fire alongside other men from their company, but before long, a light rain begins to fall, and they're forced to retreat under the cover of the nearest copse of trees. Sitting and watching the rain, none of the men seem to feel a pressing need to fill the silence with conversation.

"I've been by the field hospital this morning," one of the men, Private Jorgensen, offers, after a time. "Seen some of the men from our outfit. What's left of 'em, anyways."

"That reminds me, I was thinking of doing that myself, before we move on," says Mulder, but Jorgensen shakes his head.

"I wouldn't," he says emphatically. "I wish to God that I hadn't."

"Why's that?" asks Mulder.

"It's a damned disaster over there. Piles of limbs outside the hospital tents, stinkin' to high heaven, covered with flies... the men inside screamin' and cryin' while they die...." He shudders at the memory. "They call those men with the knives surgeons, doctors, but sawbones is all they really are. You get hurt on the arm or the leg, 'take it off,' that's all they say. That's all they know how to do."

"You know nothing about being a field surgeon, Jorgensen. Cutting off the injured limb is all that they can do, most of the time," interjects Scully angrily. Mulder whips his head around to look at him, surprised, and he's not the only one. Jorgensen himself is taken aback; Scully does not often have much to say to Private Jorgensen, in spite of their having shared a tent for months.

"Yeah? And just what would you know about it, Danny Boy?" Jorgensen shoots back, glowering. Scully seems to suddenly feel that he's said to much, and he pauses before he answers.

"My father had... had a friend, back home in West Chester," he answers, somewhat haltingly. "He was a doctor before the war and he volunteered his services as a field surgeon when the fighting broke out. He told us stories of what the field hospitals are like, when he was at home one time, visiting my father. He said that with the number of wounded men that the hospitals take in during a battle, and the dearth of doctors qualified to treat them, more often than not, it's a choice between cutting off the injured limb or allowing the patient to die a slow death from blood poisoning or infection."

Private Jorgensen, having nothing to say in response to that, lapses into a brooding silence, but Mulder looks at Scully curiously. He senses that there is more to this story, that there is something important about this friend of Scully's father that he's choosing not to share. He makes a mental note to ask Scully about it later, hopefully in such a way that the younger man doesn't immediately shut down and stop talking, the way that he usually does when the topic of his family comes up.

The morning drags on into the afternoon with little change in the weather, until at about two o'clock, the bugle call finally sounds for the regiment to break camp and assemble to march. Mulder assists in breaking down the tents and dousing the fires, and then makes his way back to the road with the rest of his men.

It's sobering to see the regiment formally assembled in the light of day, their losses more evident in the drastically contracted size of their companies. The men have closed ranks, and there are no gaps, no holes, but still, the visual proof of the reduction in their numbers is a painful slap in the face.

"I've heard that it's even worse in some of the other regiments," Scully tells him in a low voice, as they take their positions. "Someone told me that the Twenty-Fourth Michigan had three out of every four of their men killed, wounded, or captured." Mulder tries to imagine it, tries to picture a regiment shrunken down to a quarter of its original size in the space of a day, ten companies of men reduced to three, and it hurts his heart. He glances sideways at Scully, and the guilt of knowingly leading someone so young into battles where men face those sorts of odds hits him all over again.

"Scully," he says, his voice low enough not to carry, "I've been meaning to have a word with you." Scully looks up at him, eyebrows raised.

"What about?" he asks. The private next to Scully, a short, stocky man by the name of Emerson, glances over at Scully, smirks, and elbows his neighbor. Mulder curses himself; now is most definitely not the time or place for a private conversation.

"Never mind," he says hastily. "It's not important."

The command is given to march, and they set off. Mulder wonders, distractedly, where they're headed, what's coming next. Colonel Skinner is at the head of the regiment, mounted on his horse, but he hasn't shared the day's plans with any of his captains yet. Mulder has a strong suspicion that even Skinner may not know exactly what's going on. To the best of Mulder's knowledge, no one has officially been given command of the Third Brigade, with Colonel Vincent gone, and for all he knows, Skinner is simply following the regiment in front of them and hoping that they've managed to get sound orders from somewhere.

Without warning, only minutes after the march has begun, the light rain suddenly becomes a deluge, and in no time at all, the packed dirt road upon which they're marching has turned into a river of mud. The going becomes slow, the already-exhausted men having to work even harder to put one foot in front of the other as the mud pulls at their boots, and when whining swarms of mosquitoes find them and begin to set about feasting on whatever exposed flesh they can find, the regiment's misery is complete.

"Times like these," Scully says to Mulder, as he swats yet another mosquito from the back of his hand, "I almost think that maybe my mother was right when she told me that running off and joining the army was a terrible idea."

"It's not too late," Mulder replies. "You can always run off into the woods when no one is paying attention. You're short. This mud is  pretty deep. I could tell Colonel Skinner that you got lost in it. I doubt that he would question it." Scully chuffs out a laugh, shaking his head. Inwardly, Mulder marvels: that makes twice today that Scully has brought up his family completely voluntarily. Mulder is definitely going to have to try and capitalize on that later, if he can find the time, and see how much he can get his friend to talk.

The rain tapers off just before sundown, and the men let out a hoarse cheer as the clouds at last begin to disperse. To their collective dismay, however, they soon find that the lack of precipitation makes the marching conditions worse and not better. The road is already nothing but six inches of sticky mud, splashing up at them as they march and flying all over their hands, uniforms, and faces, and without the rain to continually wash it away, it sticks and dries instead.

About an hour after the sun sets, the order is given to halt for the night.  Word goes through the ranks that there is a lake less than half a mile off of the road, and many of the men immediately head out in that direction, nearly wild for the chance to cool off after the day's march, to shuck off their filthy uniforms and shed as much of the crusty mud and dirt from their hair and their bodies as possible.

"What do you say, Scully?" asks Mulder, grinning. "Fancy a nice, cool, moonlight swim?" A peculiar look comes over Scully's face, and he shakes his head.

"I'm so hungry, I feel like I might pass out at any moment," he says. "I think I'm going to find something to eat first. I'll go and bathe later." And with that, he's gone, weaving between much taller men until he's lost to Mulder's sight. Feeling more than a little bit perturbed at Scully's odd behavior, Mulder turns with a sigh and starts to follow the men of his company to the lake.

Before he's gotten more than a few feet, though, he's stopped by Colonel Skinner.

"Captain Mulder, I need a word," Skinner says, his face set and grim. Mulder nods shortly and follows him away from the road, away from the regiment, and away from the men heading for the lake. Skinner says nothing until they're well out of earshot of anyone else, at which point the colonel turns to face Mulder.

"I would have preferred to wait until we had a bit more privacy before I spoke with you, Captain," says Skinner, "but the word is that we won't be pitching any tents tonight. We may need to be ready to move quickly at a moment's notice."

"Have you found out anything more about where we're heading, Sir?" asks Mulder, and Skinner nods.

"We're near the back of the line at the moment, so it's unlikely that we'll be the first to see any action... but we're chasing General Lee's men as they retreat to the Potomac River and attempt to cross." Mulder frowns.

"If we're chasing them, Sir," he ventures, "shouldn't we be moving a bit more quickly than this?"

"Should we? Most definitely," says Skinner. "Are we? Clearly not. I honestly have no idea why General Meade is being so cautious. Lee's forces are exhausted and weakened; I have no trouble believing that if we were to press him hard and fast now, we might be able to end this war right here before the week is up." Skinner sighs, shaking his head in disgust. "In any case, however, that's not what I wanted to speak with you about just now." He glances around them, making sure once again that no one else can hear him. "You know, of course, that this brigade does not currently have a commander, with Colonel Vincent on his deathbed."

"Yes, Sir," says Mulder. He thinks that he might know where this is going already.

"I have just been informed that I am to assume command of the brigade, effective immediately." His suspicions confirmed, Mulder's face breaks into a wide smile.

"Congratulations, Sir. It's well-deserved." Mulder means it, too; Colonel Skinner is an excellent leader, strong in tactics, calm in a fight, slow to anger, and utterly devoted to his men.

"Thank you, Captain," says Skinner. "But that's only part of it." Mulder waits, curious. "Our division commander, General Sykes, has asked me to recommend an officer to replace me as colonel of this regiment. My choice will need to be officially approved through channels, of course, but I have been assured that as long as my candidate has no egregious offenses on file against him- which he doesn't, by some miracle- it's guaranteed that the command will be his." Still, Mulder is confused. "I've given General Sykes your name, Captain Mulder. You have my outgoing vote as the new colonel of this regiment."

Mulder's ears, all at once, are filled with an indefinable buzzing sound as he freezes in place, his mind racing to catch up to his hearing, struggling to comprehend what Colonel Skinner has just told him.

"I'm sorry, Sir... what did you say?" Skinner smirks.

"I said that I want you to take over as commander of the Eighty-Third Pennsylvania, once my promotion to the head of the Third Brigade is made formal, Captain Mulder," he says. Still, the information is not quite sinking in.

"You want me... to be a colonel?" asks Mulder haltingly. "In charge? Of all of these men?" Skinner's eyebrows arch at Mulder's confusion.

"You know, Mulder, your obvious intelligence was one of the factors that played into this decision, but if you're having this much trouble understanding me right now, I may have overestimated you." He shakes his head, as though in exasperation, but he's smiling. "Yes, Mulder, I want you to take charge of all of the men in this regiment. That is, generally speaking, what being in command entails."

"I just... Sir, I..." Mulder swallows hard. "It's not that I'm not flattered, Sir, but... why me? What have I done to merit the honor?"

"Aside from your obvious bravery in battle two days ago, when you put yourself in danger to retrieve more ammunition, rather than sending your men in your place?" Skinner asks. "You're smart, you can see the whole picture where others can only focus on the piece immediately in front of them, you inspire loyalty in your men, you'll take risks when necessary but won't needlessly sacrifice a single soldier more than you absolutely have to, and you don't lose your head the moment that the enemy's guns begin to fire."

"But Sir...." He's still having trouble comprehending it. "That's just commanding a company, no more than a hundred men when it's at full strength. Putting me at the head of an entire regiment, though?"

"I'm confident that you'll be able to handle it without any problems, Mulder," Skinner says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And really, I only have one piece of advice for you."

"Sir?"

"Keep your Mr. Scully with you," Skinner says firmly. "It hasn't escaped my notice that he has something of a grounding influence on you, that he reins in your more impulsive tendencies. Every commander needs a man like that by his side, and for you, Private Scully is absolutely that man." Mulder frowns, somewhat bothered by this.

"I don't dispute that Private Scully has had a very positive effect on me, Colonel, but... well, to be honest, I've always seen him as a potential commander in the making, himself. To be perfectly frank, I've always expected that Scully would rise above me in rank at some point, that he's destined to be far more than just my second-in-command."

"I absolutely agree with that assessment, Captain Mulder... but as you'll soon find, when you name your own successor as the leader of your company, it's also important to take the wishes of your men into account." Mulder begins to swell with indignation.

"Are you saying that Scully shouldn't advance because the men under him wouldn't approve of it?" he demands, bristling at the notion. "Why? Because of his age, because he's so young? The majority of my men are older than I am, but that doesn't stop them from obeying me when I give orders." Skinner holds up a hand, forestalling Mulder's further protests.

"You misunderstand me, Mulder," he says. "I am not speaking about the wishes of the other men. I'm talking about the wishes of the man being considered for the promotion. And I happen to be in the unique position of knowing that Private Scully does not want to be promoted to a position of command." Mulder is astonished: as close as they are (or, at least, as close as Mulder thinks that they are), Scully has never confided any such thing to him.

"He really told you that, Sir?" Skinner nods.

"Yes, Mulder, he did," the colonel confirms. "I once had occasion to ask him, when it became clear that his competence as a soldier was far greater than what his age would suggest, whether he had ever given any thought to a future in command, and he was very emphatic that it's something to which he does not aspire." Mulder mulls this over in silence for a moment. It's not a question that he's ever thought to ask Scully, and now, suddenly, it seems terribly short-sighted of him. Skinner is right that Scully is an excellent soldier, a natural choice to move up through the ranks, and yet, it's never occurred to Mulder to discuss such a possibility with him. Shouldn't a good leader be on the lookout for emerging talent among the men under his care?

But, then, he thinks, he's never really given any thought to his own advancement, either. It had come as no less of a shock to him, when he had been promoted to captain, as Skinner's intentions for him are proving to be now.

"I suppose that I should ask whether you have any similar aversions to being promoted," Skinner muses, almost as an afterthought. "Do you? Would you rather remain where you are?"

"I'm not averse to the idea, Sir," says Mulder quickly. "I'm just... I'm surprised, that's all."

"Well, take a day to think on it," Colonel Skinner advises him. "I believe that you would do well at the head of this regiment. And if you do decide to accept- which I sincerely hope that you will- I also hope that you'll take my advice with regard to Private Scully, as well. You will need a lieutenant, a right-hand man, and I can't think of anyone better suited for the position." Colonel Skinner moves off without another word, leaving Mulder to mull over his unexpected offer in stunned silence.

A whole regiment. The very idea of it is almost overwhelming... but, then, he reminds himself, the idea of commanding his own company had seemed to be far more than he would ever be fit to handle, once, but he feels that, all in all, he has risen to the challenge. He must have, if Skinner believes him to be a good candidate for colonel.

Still, it's a momentous decision, one that he doesn't think that he should make lightly. And so Mulder decides to do what he does before making almost all of his decisions, these days: he sets off in search of Private Scully, to get his friend's opinion on the matter.

He's still somewhat bothered by Skinner knowing something about Scully that Mulder himself did not know, but not nearly as bothered as he is by the idea of Scully not being interested in his own advancement. The army needs brave, intelligent men who can lead well, and Scully is all of these things and more... so why would he back away from being put in charge? It seems wholly out of character for him, Mulder thinks, as he wanders through the regiment's makeshift camp, seeking his friend's familiar face and red hair.

One quick circuit around the camp, however, is enough for Mulder to know that Scully is not present. Thinking that perhaps he might have already finished eating and gone down to the lake to wash off, as he'd said that he might, Mulder doesn't worry too much about it, deciding to have his own dinner while he waits. He heats up his ration of bacon at a cooking fire and eats it resting against the trunk of a tree, then drinks a cup of overly bitter coffee and sucks at a piece of hardtack while he watches the perimeter of the camp, waiting for Scully to return.

When a full hour has gone by with no sign of his friend, though, Mulder starts to grow nervous, and he decides to go in search of Scully. He stops Private Jorgensen, whose mud-free countenance suggests that he's already been out to the lake to bathe.

"Did you see Private Scully down by the lake, when you were there?" he asks, and Jorgensen nods his head.

"Saw 'im wanderin' north, around the shore, though," he says. "Not goin' in for a swim with the rest of the men. He told me that he just wanted to walk a bit." Mulder thanks him and heads off, being sure his face doesn't betray any of the nervousness that he's beginning to feel. According to Colonel Skinner, General Lee's army is not very far away; if Scully wanders far enough, he chances running afoul of a picket line or a patrol, or even enemy cavalry. And there's always the possibility, in the evening darkness, that their own scouts could mistake him for a rebel and shoot him. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that it's happened.

A few men are still splashing around in the shallow water near the shore of the lake when he arrives, but Scully is not among them. The moonlight, shining through a break in the clouds, is bright enough for Mulder to make out a narrow footpath worn through the trees and dense undergrowth at the lake's edge, no doubt trodden into being by the feet of the farmer who owns this land, or of the local men who fish here, and Mulder sets off along it, in the northern direction that Jorgensen had indicated. Behind him, the voices of the men swimming close to camp fade away, leaving only the nighttime sounds of the seemingly-empty woods. Mulder tries to walk as quietly as possible, keeping a sharp lookout for enemy patrols, unlikely as it is that they would dare to get this close to a Union encampment.

Here and there, the path branches off towards the lake shore, and Mulder follows it each time, arriving at a clear space along the water, most likely favored fishing and swimming spots for the locals, but he doesn't see Scully in the water at any of them.

Mulder has gone perhaps three quarters of a mile around the lake when a new sound makes him stop and listen intently. There's a soft, liquid rushing and a more distant splashing, but it's constant, the sound of a brook or a waterfall. He decides that it's likely that he's approaching the stream, probably a tributary of the Potomac River, that feeds this particular lake, and he's about to continue on his way when there's another splash, this one louder, separate from the other sounds that the rushing water is making. Carefully, silently, Mulder continues along the path. It could be Scully... but just in case it's not, total quiet on his part would be prudent.

Ten or fifteen yards along the lake's edge, Mulder comes to a small inlet where, as he had suspected, an offshoot of the lake narrows briefly before widening again into a pool, almost a pond, in a clearing in the forest. Water from a burbling stream runs down a gently sloping waterfall at the opposite end. In the middle of the pool, which must be relatively deep, Mulder can just make out the head and shoulders of someone swimming slowly, leisurely towards the shore, hair slicked back, features obscured in shadow. When the swimmer turns enough for his profile to be easily visible in the moonlight, Mulder relaxes. It's Scully, he's fine, he's just decided, for whatever reason, to get as far away from the other men as possible before washing off in the water. Mulder supposed that he can understand that well enough; privacy is nearly impossible to come by in the army, and he can't begrudge Scully for wanting a little peace and quiet.

He steps forward, about to make his presence known, when Scully, brushing his wet hair back off of his face, begins to ascend the riverbank, still ignorant of Mulder's arrival. The water recedes from his chin... from his shoulders... from his chest... and Mulder freezes, gasping in shock loudly enough for Scully to hear him, flying backwards into the cover of the dark water with a splash, more quickly than Mulder would have thought possible.

It's not quite quick enough. What Mulder sees, in that brief glimpse, is more than sufficient for him to be quite certain of one very important fact:

A lack of interest in advancement is, arguably, the smallest secret that Private Scully has been keeping from him.

[shmengels]

A Passion for Life

Fullmetal Alchemist

Word count: 2074 - FF.net - AO3

The narrow dirt tracks, barely wide enough to accommodate a small cart, ran alongside the fields of Resembool. The weather mild and fair, the birds sang their hymns and the sun basked all with its glory.

Towards the end of this quaint country road, sat a yellow house. The Rockbell’s call this home, and by extension, so do the Elric’s. And that’s exactly what they were now.

Home.

Nothing about this scenario could have seemed more perfect. Life was peaceful now. No wars. No death. No danger. Just the quiet serenity of the hills and the joys of life. And best of all, Edward had come home, fulfilling his self-imposed duty to bring his brother Alphonse with him in the flesh. Oh yes, everything was perfect…

…And Winry Rockbell was livid.

“YEAH?! W-WELL YOUR YOUNGER BROTHER IS TALLER THAN YOU!”

“Eh, I got used to looking up at him in the armor anyways.”

With a dramatically loud huff, the fiery blonde mechanic stomped her way out of the parlor and up the stairs, leaving behind a very confused elder Elric brother.  

Since Al, and more specifically Ed, had returned, things were great! No. better than great! But at minimum once a day, she and Ed got into a spat about something. Well, really it was mostly her yelling at Ed while he stood there baffled. But that’s beside the point. Was this unusual? No, not by any means. What was peculiar is that she had no idea why she was mad at him. Always there was something. Whether it was ‘Ed doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut’ or ‘Ed didn’t keep up on his maintenance’ or worse ‘Ed tried putting all the blame and responsibility on himself again’ and at the expense of her own sanity, the classic ‘Ed was a selfless idiot who put himself in harm’s way without a thought for his own well-being’. No matter what, there was always a reason.

Yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t find one. In the few months Ed had been home now, he had been better behaved then she even dreamed possible. He volunteered to help with menial chores. He went out of his way to do something nice every once and a while for them or treat them all with sudden compliments. He’d laugh it off when someone insulted him, joking or otherwise. On a bad day, the worst she received was some grumbling and a scowl when she asked a favor of him. But he never attempted to shirk his responsibilities. One afternoon, she nearly fainted upon entering the kitchen to find Edward performing his own maintenance on his leg. Al insisted he hadn’t told him to do so, and Granny claimed that she hadn’t seen him all day, which left her with the unthinkable third option that Edward Elric actively chose to take care of her automail. This behavior just didn’t sit right with her. Something had to be wrong and that idea alone was infuriating her with every passing day. Trouble was, no one believed her when she attempted to explain her plight. Apparently, she was the only one who could see his very un-Edward-like behavior. Granny told her she worried too much and Al had the gall to laugh in her face. Sweet little Alphonse had clearly been influenced far too much by his older brother these past few years!

Even though by this time it was only mid-afternoon, her workroom remained dim and the air still. It was a sharp contrast to the breath of life that swept over the countryside recently. She wished she could simply appreciate it, but she was a Rockbell, and she’d be damned if she ever let a problem in need of fixing go so easily.

She shuffled some of the various schematics and diagrams around her desk hoping something in the pile would kick-start her mind. From deep within a stack of old designs, slid out an old diagram.

She could only stare at it numbly for a few moments.

It should have been tucked away somewhere safe; this was quite possibly her most precious design and here it was, lost among a clutter of forgotten plans and failed projects. She wanted to kick herself for not taking better care of this one.

In the lower right hand corner, written as neatly as an eleven-year-old could, were the now fading words ‘For Ed’.

It was her original schematic for Edward’s right arm.

She caressed the paper fondly, remembering how proud she had been when she finally completed her draft. Granted, Granny had helped her with it but it was still primarily her project. She recalled how she couldn’t wait to show him. She had bounded up to him, blueprints in hand as he sat on an old armchair doing his best to thumb through a book with only his left hand. He had been elated as she babbled on and on about all the intricate details of her masterpiece. She knew he couldn’t care less about the inner mechanisms of his replacement appendage, but she could feel the excitement radiate from him as he came to realize everything he’d be able to do again. His attitude had been so infectious then that it seemed to have bled straight into her as well. He was overjoyed to finally get moving and brimming with determination to move mountains to return what they had lost. Admittedly at first, she thought they were in over their heads but with each passing grin and reassurance she became more and more convinced that Edward could make even the impossible happen.

Her lips turned up slightly as she traced her hand down the drawing, stopping as her fingertips came into line with the sketch’s own. Though she may still have his leg, she secretly missed Ed’s mechanical arm. It had become a part of who he was after a while but she could only be wistful for so long. After all, Ed moved mountains and he achieved the impossible. She could never have doubted him if she tried. But that was also just who Ed was. As tactless as his methods might be, he inspired determination and hope wherever he went. It seemed at times like Ed’s purpose in life was to take the weary and downtrodden and those drowning in the pits of despair and drag them kicking and screaming if necessary to the surface. He’d never give up, she knew him better than that. As long as she could remember, Ed wore that trait on his sleeve…

Or more specifically, in his eyes.

The way his brow furled and his eyes lit up when he really got fired up over something was awe-inspiring at times. She enjoyed it, there was no denying that. She dare even say that she maybe, possibly, could have potentially picked a fight or two or dozen in her life just to see his eyes flare up so she could again find the warmth of the flames that were there. She knew it wasn’t seeing Ed angry that she enjoyed so much, it was what that fire symbolized. His conviction, caring, valor and strength. It was his…

Passion.

That’s what was missing.

She’d been searching for it behind his Iris since he got back.

And she had yet to find it.

Nearly knocking over her chair as she quickly stood, she marched briskly out of her studio to find the former Fullmetal Alchemist. She could picture every time his eyes flared with fortitude; from when she had first instilled hope in him with her automail to the day he walked off her porch to save the country. Winry Rockbell was not about to sit back and let Edward Elric’s flame die out.

Winry opened the front door hurriedly but found herself apprehensive to step out onto the porch. Admittedly she was too caught up on having finally figured out what the problem was, she didn’t even stop to think about how she was going to solve it. Mentally she berated herself for not thinking this through beforehand. For crying out loud, she was a mechanic. A proper engineer. A problem solver. This was not like her to go charging in without a plan of attack. That was more Ed’s style. But, she supposed, some things took precedence. Ed was definitely not okay, and to her, that was definitely not okay.

Surveying the scene before her, she could only gasp. It was so beautiful it was heartbreaking. The sun had begun its descent and early signs of reds and oranges illuminated the horizon. Wispy clouds floated endlessly above them, making their way to some to some other corner of the earth. Birds sang from the tree tops, the breeze accompanying their symphony with the gentle rustling of leaves. The winds made waves across the fields, as if an ocean of greens, browns and tans were laid out before them. The sweet aroma of the vibrant flowers which skirted the fence lines met her senses. In her front yard, Alphonse Elric, newly acquainted with his human form, laughed gleefully as Den bounded her way back with the branch he had thrown. And only a few feet in front of her, as the breeze lightly swayed his hair, sat Edward.

From the top step, he leaned back on his two flesh hands, his gaze not visible but trained somewhere out ahead of him. Winy felt a pang in her heart to think that he could not enjoy the spectacle around him.

Timidly she approached and sat beside him. He made no motion to acknowledge her presence, which was only making this whole scenario more difficult on the girl. She’d have to just be blunt and direct. But as she opened her mouth to speak,

“You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve had nothing to do.”

She lost whatever words she had had in her throat, leaving her mouth somewhat agape.

“It’s just for so long, getting Al’s body back was the only thing I had on my mind.”

Well, so far this was going exactly where she wanted it to, and without prodding. To say she was surprised was an understatement, though it would appear more outwardly that she was just letting him continue.

“There was plenty of time to do nothing, but I never allowed myself to really relax, I guess.”

She tried to lean forward to catch a glimpse of his eyes but Ed’s lengthy bangs hindered her attempts.

“But now, everything’s over and I have to decide what I’m going to do, at least for a while anyways.”

Her hands tightened on her legs. She dreaded to hear Ed say he had no direction in life.

“And you know what?”

She had leaned towards him more than she was probably aware, awaiting his words.

“I think I’m happy right here.”

At last, he turned to her, and she felt an intense chill overtake her body like a shockwave.

She saw something she had not seen in nearly eleven years.

Ed was smiling.

A truly genuine smile.

And his eyes seemed to glow brighter than ever.

It was then that Winry understood.

So much of his drive was built on hurt, loss, regret, and pain that the fire she had always known was a raging, crackling inferno. Wild and untamable. The fire burned in such brilliant concentration that it seemed everything around it had dimmed.

He had stoked the flame with every bit of suffering he carried, and when at last he ran out a fuel, the fire diminished to embers and ash to be blown away. When the intensity of the flames left, they made way for what the blaze had overpowered. The sun peered through the fading smoke, and the whole world was alight.

Deep in his eyes, she could see it all. Like a phoenix rises from the ashes, so does one’s spirit from anguish.

It seemed now as if the sun itself had been eclipsed by his pupils and she felt nothing but the comforting warmth of its rays.

Finally, she smiled back as well.

Together, they sat in peaceful company, both able to enjoy the tranquility which befell the land.

Granny and Al were right, there was no need to worry.

After all, she knew Edward Elric better than that, he could never lose his passion.

Now, he only carried a passion for life.

[arriyire]

Learn to Fly - A Fairy Tail Fic Ch. 2

Summary: The world is split into two realms - the mortal and the spirit. In this world, demons attack humans and the winged protect them. When Levy gets shoved headfirst into the spirit realm, she will have to adjust her whole way of living and learn to deal with a moody dragon winged Gajeel. AU vaguely based on the manga plot.

Rated: T

Chapter 2

Elsewhere another pair of dragon-like wings flexed. The wingspan alone distinguished the owner from Natsu – never mind the metallic black colouring, or the small iron studs littered across the edges in between 3 razor sharp metal spikes, evenly spaced along the top of each wing.  Gajeel sighed as he rolled his shoulders; his foes lay fallen at his feet, as he turned they began to disappear into dust slowing dispersing into the air.

"Weaklings." Gajeel huffed; demon hunting just didn't give him the same thrill any more, there was just no challenge in hunting down three new demons barely formed. They didn't even have any control over their magic and Gajeel barely had to resort to any of his more advanced moves deciding to fist-fight his way to victory. As he turned away he came face to face with a large white-winged ebony cat that hovered close by; sword and guard up.

"Well that took no time at all" Panther Lilly muttered as he lowered his buster sword and looked around in slight disbelief.

"Hmph can say that again" Gajeel replied, Lilly noted how disappointed the iron dragon looked - this had been the third mission in a row which had been ‘too easy’ by the man’s standards. Granted anything that didn’t leave him in a hospital was too easy so Lilly wasn’t going to complain.

"I'll have to have a few rounds with Salamander if I'm gonna get a proper workout, Gihi” Gajeel suddenly grinned to himself, the prospects of a decent fight putting him in a terrifyingly good mood. Lilly simply sighed; of course he wouldn't stay down for long, the Exceed allowed his body to shift to his smaller form and began drifting in the direction of home.

"Let's go then; Mira promised there would be a new delivery of kiwi today." Both Lilly and Gajeel took to the sky and in the direction of home. It wasn't long before the two soon entered a friendly, but by no means gentle, race to see who would make it to the guild first. Taking advantage of the changing air currents Lilly gained a small lead, using his more flexible body to move with the air, but it was a trivial thing to the wings of a dragon. Strong muscles contracted, shooting Gajeel forward and in front of an unhappy Lilly.

Before the Exceed could attempt a comeback the race was over with Gajeel crashing through the guild's main door, narrowly avoiding a collision with several other guild members, before landing rather roughly in the middle of the hall. Lilly floated by soon after, humoured by the fact no-one had even batted an eyelash; this was Fairy Tail after all, it took more than an almost-crash landing to cause a scene.

The place was rowdy as ever; people were talking, drinking, flying, brawling and everything in between. As Gajeel dusted himself off and made his way to the bar, he noted the fire dragon slayer being lectured by a pissed off Erza – clad in her standard (or casual? Gajeel wasn't sure) armour. Her wings were a combination of various sword-like feathers sharp and poised for any unfortunate soul who wondered too close. They were flared out in anger as she scolded Natsu for yet more damage done to the building. Only when he saw her pointing to the ceiling did Gajeel notice the gaping hole in the roof from where Salamander had decided to nosedive into the guild. He grimaced; Natsu would be too busy fixing that under Titania's watchful glare to have any kind of brawl with him – not that that had stopped him before.

Gajeel ordered his usual drink from the bar and watched as Mira turned to grab a glass. As soon as she turned her back, Gajeel heard the tell-tale noise of Salamander and the Ice Princess trash-talking - in front of Titania no less, earning yet another metal-clad scolding from the woman.

"Dumb-ass’" Gajeel sneered. He briefly considered not perusing his goal of kicking their collective asses. Two on one would definitely give him the challenge that he desired. But with Erza's continuous surveillance it was more likely he would get his ass kicked for causing a fight. In spite of this, the itch for a good brawl outweighed any common sense he had. Slamming back his drink and Gajeel began to make it way towards the heated argument still occurring between the three winged ones.

Lilly continued to sit happily munching on kiwi and chatting to the ever smiling demon-winged barmaid Mira, their conversation had inevitably turned into a gossip session about the occurrences that had occurred while he had been away. He interrupted briefly to question where he partner was storming off to; upon realising it was to his inevitable doom Lilly merely continued his pleasant conversation with Mira. One day the man might learn not to pick a fight but today was clearly not that day.

However before Gajeel could even make it half of the way there, a low cough caught his sensitive ears. A swift glace to the end of the bar showed an apparently sleeping Makarov, crossed legged on the bar top and a large wooden staff in-hand. The guild-master was a short elderly fellow, and while his bee-like wings and sleepy posture may fool some people; Gajeel, unfortunately, knew better. With an overdramatic sigh he redirected himself to sit on the closest barstool to the snoozing master and waited for what he knew would be a day-ruining conversation.

After a brief moment Makarov apparently 'woke up' and smiled at the scowling man, impervious to his moody temper "How'd the mission go?" He innocently asked.

"Too easy, they didn't stand a chance, Gihi" Gajeel allowed himself to grin back at the master, before his gaze darkened. "Cut the crap old man, what's happening now?" Gajeel's gaze moved upward and focused on the ceiling, something big was coming he could feel it in the air.

"I was hoping you could answer that for me." Makarov paused and looked up alongside the iron dragon; the hole Natsu had conveniently provided allowed them to see the gradually darkening sky. Blue's mixed with orange as the sun began to set - sadly such beauty was lost on the two men who spoke of more sinister things.

"The council have reported a huge surge in demon sightings, but few attacks – it's like he's being picky about who they go after." He continued, keeping his voice low in an attempt to not to draw too much attention.

A moment of silence passed as Gajeel offered no input to the master's statement. As Makarov realised Gajeel was actually refusing to speak on the subject in their current environment, he decided they should move to his office where they could discuss more freely. As they slipped out of the guild hall Makarov noticed a few of the more nosy members taking a keen interest in their movements. ‘No wonder Gajeel elected to stay quiet’ Makarov mused, appreciating the man’s consideration, this was not a matter for his family; yet.

As they both entered a small but cosy looking office, the master repositioned himself cross-legged on his desk, while Gajeel leaned against the far wall deep in thought. After a long pause Gajeel spoke up. "Jose hasn't contacted me in a long time. Last I heard he wanted me to 'build up trust' while he attempted to plot with Hades and Ivan" Gajeel said while Makarov let out a sigh in response.

"I imagine he will want an update soon" Gajeel added, almost reluctantly.                                                    

"He will know that we know about his movements, he isn't exactly subtle" He resisted the urge to groan in despair. The master felt helpless; there must be something they were missing. "What about the demon dimension?" This had to be their end goal, Makarov was certain, demons craved power and that was the biggest source of it. As an added plus Jose had always being vying for the attention of the larger more powerful demons; what better way to get it?

"Nothin' so far" Gajeel replied, equally frustrated at the lack of information. "Sorry old man – they've been limiting contact, might be getting suspicious" Gajeel offered a rare look of sympathy – he knew the stakes here, a lot of humans/winged could get hurt if they failed to stop whatever they were plotting.

"Can't say I'm surprised, demons aren't known for their trust and companionship." The pair sat again in silence before the master spoke up again "I'm sending you to where most of the sighting have occurred – let Jose know we've given you a patrol area for a few months as a sign of trust, maybe he'll get you involved in whatever they are searching for." Makarov nodded to himself

"Is this an actual sign of trust?" Gajeel ventured, his hands sure as hell weren't clean but this was the second chance that could save him from the edge. So what if he was a little hopeful?

"I've trusted you from the start, brat. Forgiven however…" Makarov's voiced faded, the threat clear as the wrinkles in his skin.

"Whadda ‘bout Lilly?" Gajeel asked, slightly uncomfortable with the death glare coming his way. Saying that, he was also concerned for his cats safety – sure the badass feline could easily take care of himself; but he wasn't about to go getting him mixed up in something he shouldn't be involved in.

"Take him if you wish; you can split up the area observe more of it while giving him the space to get out should things turn hairy. He would be a useful messenger as well." At Makarov's reply the tension was gone but not forgotten. Gajeel grunted in response and turned to leave; somewhat disappointed that his brawl would have to wait. As he prepared to leave Makarov spoke once more. "Gajeel… Take care; things are going to get harder." The old man was staring upwards now deep in thought when he heard the door close. "Damn brat…" He muttered to himself.

Gajeel took a moment outside the office door – he looked down at his fellow guild member's and felt a slight pang of guilt (yes the big bad iron dragon felt guilt). The feeling did not last long, now was the time to do some right, not sit in self-pity. Deciding not to waste time he stormed past the bar grabbing Lilly by the scruff of his neck before further storming out the main door. Along the way Gajeel spied an opportunity for a bit of tension release, slamming Natsu's face into the plate of flaming chicken he was gorging on (He probably deserved it, Gajeel justified). Laughing as Natsu screamed threats to his backside; Gajeel spread his wings and headed home.

The Exceed; clearly unhappy at being treated like a ragdoll, struggled out of Gajeel's vice like grip to fly alongside him. "Mind telling me what the rush was? I was rather enjoying my kiwi juice." Panther Lilly huffed; annoyed their break was cut short.

"New mission, we're going on a month long patrol" Gajeel replied rather bluntly his facial expression giving nothing away to the flying cat.

"Any more detail?" Lilly ventured as Gajeel landed on the rocky outcrop of their home, Lilly followed closely behind as they entered the cave  watching him with every predatory instinct he had as Gajeel stuffed extra clothes into a duffel bag dumping it by the entrance to their humble abode (or as Lilly likes to call it their 'scrapyard')

"None you need to know. Be back later." Gajeel left without a second thought leaving Lilly to himself. Panther Lilly stared after him for a while before walking to his "bedroom".

Their home was a large cave in a cliff side which over looked a valley. The cave itself was loosely divided into typical rooms, while the door was a gaping hole; Gajeel conjured a metal sheet to cover it during the cold night. Currently it was currently left open due to the summer winds keeping the place plenty warm and no demon was stupid enough to come wondering into "dragon's lair" as Gajeel liked to put it. Said 'lair' was basically an open plan flat, they had a functioning kitchen, bathroom and lighting courtesy of magic of course. Gajeel's bed lay at the back of the cave and was an unruly mess surrounded by several piles of scrap metal which he claimed were 'sorted'; although by what Lilly would never know. Fortunately it was relatively contained around his space – many an argument between dragon and Exceed led to an understanding of sorts in regards to his excessive hoarding.

Lilly's smaller bed; which lay to the left side of the cave, however was pristine; his few belongings were kept on either the side shelf or the set of draws nearby. All kept in military perfect condition of course. When it was clear Gajeel would be longer than an hour, Lilly decided to make sure they were prepared for their patrol. Grabbing a few pairs of spare shorts, he proceeded to re-sort the bag folding everything and ensuring they would have everything they would need; Gajeel never was one for proper planning.

The little Exceed wasn't stupid; he knew Gajeel was working on something for the master. He didn't know what or why but that was to be expected. Gajeel wasn't going to involve him if he didn't need to be involved. The Exceed let out a sigh as he zipped up the bag. "I've got a bad feeling." he muttered to the open room.

Gajeel sat on the cliff edge above their cave, overlooking the valley. He tried to be patient, but with nothing but the wind to keep his company it didn’t take long before he felt antsy. He was thankful for the quite evening to a degree, the warm air helped calm him and made it easier to focus on the task at hand - he had a part to play after all. A slightly flicker to his right told him it was show time, turning towards a holographic image as it began to form Gajeel maintained a stoic front. After a few seconds a clear thought projection of a tall slim man in a rather jester like get up appeared; thin black bat-like wings sprouted from his back.

"Ah, Gajeel wonderful to see you!" Jose grinned as his dark eyes gleamed demonically; his red pupils studying the man in front of him. Gajeel felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, instinct shouting that something was wrong; clearly something had put this guy in a good mood.

Gajeel grunted in response, waiting for whatever instructions the malicious man had for him.

"Chatty as always..." Jose's face fell slightly at Gajeel's lack of enthusiasm, still he wasn’t deterred. "Well, I won't waste your time. I'm sure Makarov as spotted our movements." His lips curled back to form a cruel grin. "Tell me… what are his next steps?" He practically purred like a rattlesnake before it struck you down.

Gajeel weighed up the form in front of him for a moment, Jose must have discovered something; he was grinning like Mira when she had blackmail and a reason to use it against you. "The Fairies are all in a panic. They're spreading themselves thin trying to find what you're looking for." Few white lies were sure to stroke the demons ego after all the feeling of being powerful was all they craved. "I'm going on patrol where the sightings have been, been told to find out what's going on" Gajeel continued – he grinned evilly as he spoke. Oh, he knew how well he played the part of the villain.

"Really? All on your own? He must really trust you!" The man grinned chuckling Gajeel practically heard the glee in the madman's voice. "I shall not waste this opportunity; you will cover our tracks keep Makarov from suspecting anything, soon we shall be more powerful than ever!”

Gajeel maintained his stoic appearance; it was time to get some answers. "Found the damn door? The hell you even looking for now, then?" Gajeel said, he tried to look uninterested while keeping his ears sharp.

"Why, the key to it of course!" Jose proudly announced.

Full fic here - I own nothing except a vague plot, feel free to review/ask/be inspired and share with me anything you find :)

[cheryllclayton]

Til' There Was You - Chapter 2 Courage

Also available to read on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12212982/chapters/28910982

 After two more performances and an encore, Betty retreated to her dressing room. She was done work for the evening but she still had a test to study for, so she threw her hair up into a loose ponytail and changed back into her more sensible skirt and sweater before grabbing a Mountain Dew from the mini fridge and settling in on the soft suede chaise with her books.

She hadn't been at it long and was just reaching the point where her mind, hands and highlighter were working together in a synonymous motion when Chuck sauntered in, his head down, scrolling through his phone as he walked.

"What are you doing?" he asked, pocketing his phone as he sat down next to her, resting one long arm along the back of the chaise while his other hand found purchase on her bare knee.

"What's it look like?" she replied, holding up the book so he could see the cover as she continued to read, clearly annoyed by his interruption.

"It looks like you're wasting your time when we could be celebrating instead" he told her suggestively, sliding his hand further up her leg.

Betty closed the book but kept her thumb between the pages to mark her spot, "And what exactly are we celebrating Chuck?" she asked, choosing to ignore his first remark completely as she pulled her reading glasses off her face.

"A successful night, a packed club….You" he grinned, giving her thigh a squeeze. "You're definitely becoming a crowd favorite" he acknowledged, "Though you could be a little less handsy with the clientele" he frowned.

"Isn't that my job? What they come here for?" she questioned, "To satisfy their craving for something they can't have and the very appeal of wanting something that's just out of your reach—untouchable, isn't that the draw?" she pressed, "The very allure of the unattainable that has enraptured men and woman for decades."

"Well aren't you poetic" he snorted, "I really don't care what brings them through the door, as long as they spend money while they're here and they keep their hands off the merchandise. And you're right, it's important for appearances sake, that the merchandise remains unattainable as well" he added, "to most people at least" he smirked, sliding his fingers under the hem of her skirt.

Betty swatted his hand away, "Not happening Chuck" she enforced, clearly uninterested, "And I'm not an object so quit referring to me like I'm a piece of office furniture." She put her glasses back on and flipped the book open on her lap again, "Now if you don't' mind, I have an important test coming up."

He scoffed, "I don't know why you bother, you make decent money here and I told you I'd take care of you, do you really want to spend your days working with mouthy delinquent kids anyway?"

"I used to be one of those mouthy delinquent kids" she stated blatantly, "Or have you forgotten. And who knows what my life could have been like if I would have had more options and support back then. So yes, that's exactly what I want to do! I appreciate all your help, really I do, but I want to eventually make my own way and not have to rely on the courtesy of others" she disclosed.

"So what would you do if I said no?"

Betty looked at him confused, "What do you mean no? No to what?"

"To paying for this" he said, tapping a finger against her text book, "As I fail to see how any of this will benefit me in the long run, maybe I'd rather keep you for around for myself instead."

Despite her growing anger, she paled slightly at his words, "You don't own me Chuck" she said quietly, eyes narrowed as her chin tilted up in defiance.

"Oh Betty dear, that's where you're wrong" he pitied, grabbing her chin between his thumb and forefinger, "Everything you have is because of me, your job, your schooling, your apartment….which I allow you to rent at a very low cost, might I add, so you see, I do own you" he enlightened, leaning in so close that she could feel his breath hot on her ear, "And you'd be best to remember that because it can all disappear…just-like-that" he whispered, snapping his fingers.

She tore her face away from his grip, "Don't threaten me Chuck" she hissed, "Neither you, nor anyone else is going to dictate my life! I survived a long time without you and if I have to, I'll do it again" she told him proudly.

"Survived?" he chuckled, amused, "Oh darling, you weren't surviving, you were drowning. If I hadn't found you and thrown you a lifeline you'd be floating in the Hudson by now and you know it."

"Fuck you, Chuck!" she spat.

"Maybe later babe" he threw back, having the audacity to wink at her, not at all affected by her outburst, "Right now I have business to attend to" he advised as he pushed himself up and gave her a two finger wave as he walked out of the room.

Betty shut her eyes tightly, her fists clenched as she screamed internally then took a few deeps breathes, trying to suppress her rage.

"Asshole!" she muttered angrily before getting up and packing her items back into her large purse. She was too pissed off to try and concentrate on her studies now, so she grabbed her coat and made her way to the bar.

She took a seat at one of the stools at the far end and waved at the dark haired bartender as she placed her purse and coat on the seat beside her.

"Hey Princess" he greeted, leaning across the bar and kissing her on the cheek before settling back on his elbows.

Betty grinned, "What was that for?"

He shrugged, "You look like you needed, plus it turned that frown upside down so mission accomplished!" he beamed, running his hand back through his hair to push the fallen strands from his face.

"Always the charmer, Joaquin" she mused.

"Only for you doll" he winked.

"If only you were straight" she sighed wistfully, making him laugh.

"So what's eating you?" he probed, setting her usual bowl of cherries in front of her before starting on her drink.

"Thanks" she told him, plucking one of the fruit from the bowl, "And it's not what, but who, as always" she huffed.

"Let me guess, Chuck-I'm-Gods-Gift-to-the-World-Clayton" he said sarcastically, as he set her drink on the bar then opened a beer for the man down the way from her, "What did the pompous ass do this time?"

"Same old crap, 'School's a waste of time', 'I'll take care of you'" she said, one hand waving dramatically, "and now he's added threats like 'Remember, I own you'" she sighed.

"I don't know why you put up with his bullshit" he stated, shaking his head, "Like seriously, why don't you just tell him to fuck off and quit?"

"You know why Joaquin" she exasperated, "I still owe him money for my GED and he's currently footing the bill for my course, all of which I want to pay him back for as I refuse to be indebted to him forever, plus he owns the apartment I live in and I can't afford a different one as I'm currently stretched thin as it is" she admitted, pausing to take a sip of her cocktail. "So unfortunately, until I can finish up my course and can stand on my own feet, I need him" she resigned.

"Couldn't you get a different job, one that distances you from him a bit?" he questioned.

Betty snorted, "No, besides the fact that there isn't many decent paying job opportunities for someone like me, he already threatened to take everything away, including my course and my apartment, if I ever forgot that he "owns" me" she air quoted. "And I can imagine he'd make good on that promise real fast if I ever quit on him."

"Fucking asshole" Joaquin muttered, "that's bordering on abuse, you know that right?"

"I know, and as much as I don't like this whole arrangement, it's currently my only option. I just have to tough it out until I get where I need to be, then I can pay my debt and cut my ties" she said determinedly, Joaquin nodding in response as he filled another drink order.

Betty tapped her nails on the bar top, "Is it terrible that I don't feel guilty?"

He paused, his brow furrowing with confusion, "Guilty about what?" he asked, leaning on his side and elbow against the bar.

"About wanting to cut ties completely" she replied as she worried her bottom lip.

"What? No, it's not like he's your BFF or something, and you know as well as I do that Chuck isn't doing any of this out of the goodness of his heart. The only reason he's helping you is because he sees something in it for himself and his business" he told her honestly.

She nodded, "I know, I know you're right, I just can't help but feel a little shitty about it, you know."

"That's because under that tough exterior you put on Betty Cooper, lies a heart of gold" he acknowledged, tapping two fingers against the left side of his chest, "Albeit deep, deep down" he teased.

"Fuck you" she laughed.

"Ah there it is! Shining bright as always" he joked, "But seriously, don't feel bad, he's getting his fair share out of it trust me. Hell, you've almost doubled his clientele, well the male population anyway, and let's be real, yes, the other woman can hold their own, but you my dear are a total smoke show, the main attraction" he rolled his hand with a flare, "And Chuck knows it, and I've seen the way his is with you and he's hoping to get more out of this than just a boost in business if you know what I mean" he alluded, raising his brows at her as he started cutting up limes to replenish the almost empty container.

"Oh trust me I know, he is anything but subtle" she scoffed, "and he definitely doesn't like to be told no" she acknowledged before popping another cherry into her mouth.

Joaquin stopped what he was doing and frowned at her, "What do you mean, what happened?"

Betty looked down as she played with her straw, "Well, before the show tonight he tried to kiss me, but I stopped him, saying he'd ruin my lipstick and he backed off, so I thought the excuse had worked but before he left he grabbed my face and kissed me hard on the mouth before informing me that I don't get to tell him when he can or can't kiss me" she said, rolling her eyes as she tried to appear unaffected.

"Fucking prick, that's sexual harassment Betty" he told her seriously.

"It wasn't that big of a deal Joaquin, really. Sure, he can be…." she paused, trying to find the right words, "aggressively forward and yes, he's definitely getting more 'hands on', but you don't think he'd actually hurt me or force himself on me, do you?" she questioned.

"Honestly Betty, I don't know…just promise me you'll be careful okay? And that you'll tell me if anything else happens" he pleaded, squeezing her hand as he ran his thumb across her knuckles, showing his concern.

"I will" she promised, "Besides Quin, who else would I unload all this shit onto? You are my BFF after all" she smiled at him sweetly, batting her eyes.

"Oh Sweetie, we need to find you a man" he sympathized, shaking his head as he patted her hand, "That's not Chuck" he added.

"Well if you find any decent straight men, you send them my way" she winked.

"Will do" he chuckled, giving her a salute before walking away to help the other server with last call.

Elizabeth, he mulled, rolling her name through his mind for the hundredth time tonight, securely cementing it to memory. It suited her he thought as he sipped on his drink only half-listening to his friend's discussions while sneaking glances at the blonde now seated at the bar. She was having what looked to be a deep conversation with the bartender while Jughead tried to decide if he should approach her or not, his earlier determination waning.

He had been observing her since she had emerged from backstage, she looked different now, dressed down with her hair up, but there was no mistaking that it was her, and her more casual appearance did nothing to dull her beauty.

He had felt the pull as soon as he'd seen her walk out, like something magnetic, drawing him to her and making him just about jump from his seat, however, he had caught himself, quickly putting the brakes on as he watched the dark haired man lean across the bar and kiss her on the cheek. The gesture planting apprehension in his gut, along with, to his surprise, a feeling of unjustified jealousy towards the stranger.

Were they together he wondered, watching them banter back and forth as he lit a cigarette and sunk further back into the plush booth. They certainly looked close he mused, frowning as the man took her hand and ran his thumb affectionately across the top before letting it go. He continued to smile at her, giving her his complete attention as he listened to what she was saying, laughing out his own reply before giving her a salute and walking away to help the other server.

Jughead wasn't aware he was still staring at her as she twirled her straw in her drink until he felt the sharp jab of Archie's elbow in his side.

"Dude!" he exclaimed, "If you're not going to go talk to her, you at least need to stop staring because its making you look like a creep" he informed him, quirking an amused brow.

Jug tore his gaze away, clearing his throat as he looked down at where his fingers were spinning his glass against the table top, "I wasn't staring" he muttered before lifting his drink to his lips.

"Man, you've been gawking at her since she walked out" Archie chuckled, "Not that I'm blaming you, she's smokin' hot, hell if I were single—"

"You're not single dear" Veronica clipped, cutting him off.

"I'm well aware" he placated, dropping a quick kiss to the top of her head before continuing, "I'm just saying that I see the appeal" he shrugged turning back to Jug, "Why don't you just go introduce yourself?" he asked, giving his friends shoulder an encouraging bump.

He sighed, knowing full well that Archie wasn't going to drop it, "I was going to, but after watching her…and no, not in a creepy way" he added, "I'm pretty sure she's with that bartender" he resigned, gesturing to the man behind the counter.

Kevin snorted, "She's sooo not with him" he said shaking his head knowingly as everyone turned their attention to him.

"What?" Jug asked hopefully, "How do you know?"

He scoffed at the question, "Because my radar is impeccable Jughead Jones, and that girl is definitely not his type."

"Seriously?!" Josie inquired as she studied the man behind the bar, "You can tell he's gay from all the way over here?" she questioned, raising her brows, "How positive are you?"

"One hundred percent" he said with confidence.

"Wow" she uttered, "That's impressive…but at the same time it makes me sad for the female population" she attested, sighing dreamily.

"May I remind you that you are also not single" Reggie said, a small scowl on his lips.

"I know babe, and apparently it wouldn't even matter if I was" she teased lightly, before kissing the grimace from his face.

Veronica reached over, placing her hand on top of Jughead's to get his attention, "See, just go talk to her Jug, what's the worst thing that could happen?" she coaxed.

"Oh I don't know Ron, how about utter embarrassment, humiliation and brutal rejection, to name a few" he said sarcastically.

"Oh don't be so self-deprecating Forsythe" she scolded, making him cringe at the use of his christian name, "You're intelligent and sweet and you have this whole dark and broody thing working for you" she praised, waving her hand over his body in emphasis, "Any woman would be damn lucky to have you" she encouraged.

"Thanks Ron" he said, giving her a small smile, "But I don't know, maybe I should just leave it—" he trailed off.

"Oh for Christ sakes, Pony Boy" Reggie cut in, slamming a fist down on the table and startling the group, "Just grow a fucking pair already and go talk to the girl!" he burst out.

"Jesus Reggie!" Josie reprimanded, giving him a displeased look.

"Spoken with true class as always, hey Reg" Jughead retorted, glaring at him.

"He may be crass but he's right Jug" Veronica pointed out.

"Yeah dude, just go talk to her already" Archie added as the rest of the table nodded their agreement.

"Fiiiine" he mumbled in defeat, sliding himself out of the booth, "But if this goes south and we can no longer frequent this fine establishment, you'll only have yourselves to blame" he advised, pointing a finger around the group before turning to make his way towards the bar.