#Eyes that see the truth dragon teeth which will not yield

[characteroulette]

If you don't write Apollo as ready to bite someone at the drop of a hat then what is the fucking point

Capcom gave this boy such a feral backstory he probably didn't even get proper schooling for the first ten years of his life he was a rebel since he was a baby OF COURSE HE BITES

[mewrising]

Ayshe had never seen anything like it.

Of course, she was used to finding new things.  Every turned season saw fresh species spring into the public eye, sometimes out from under her very own claws.  Still, she couldn’t keep her heart from quickening when the burrow she unearthed had something unfamiliar hidden inside.  The sensation was always a thrill, and she couldn’t get enough.

With careful claws, Ayshe lifted the peculiar beast from its winter home.  The Windswept Plateau was a rich but underutilized herping ground, its mercurial temperatures often driving local reptiles to an early torpor.  Researchers like herself could study them in ease and safety with enough cautious digging, replacing the creatures in their burrows once the data was collected.  She’d been scouring it for almost as long as she’d been a zoologist, but it had never formally yielded up something so novel.

She scarcely dared to breathe as she set the little reptile gently down on the grass.  Her many eyes studied it critically, cataloguing every feature as her heart thundered eagerly.  It was every part as foreign as she anticipated at first glance, all slender limbs and graceful curves.  It was clearly a more magical species than the average creature she catalogued, possessing a set of budding branches--almost like horns--atop its graceful head.  ‘A waylaid nature species?’  she wondered, carefully turning it over.

She felt close to yelling in shock when she glimpsed wings on its back.

She had studied many six-limbed, non-dragon creatures in her lifetime.  There were manticores and sphinxes, not to mention centaurs and gryphons and talonok.  The problem was that not a single one had been reptilian--not without also being a dragon.  To discover a true lizard with four legs and wings...it was the discovery of a lifetime.  A discovery that would bring her acclaim from Sornieth’s many corners.

She didn’t consider herself a very prideful dragon, but the thought of seeing her name in every zoological publication across the globe was one she couldn’t help but savor.

With trembling talons, she unclipped a specimen box from her belt.  She usually buried the creatures she uncovered again once she was done with them, but, if there was any time to make an exception, this was it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Her assistants took on the rest of the creatures under her care without asking questions, a fact for which Ayshe was extraordinarily grateful.  The new find required her full attention, in part because she knew nothing about it and in part because she was too fascinated to devote the proper amount of attention to anything else.  Within the day, she had rigged terrariums of all shapes and sizes, each ready to suit the needs of the creature once it awoke from its torpor, whatever they might prove to be.  She checked the heated tank where she had placed it every few minutes, hoping to catch its first moments awake.  Something in her soul resonated with the newness of it.  Every moment would be discovery.

A thin, melodic trill was what ultimately signaled its return to wakefulness.  Ayshe nearly tripped over her own talons in her rush to see it--to truly see it--for the very first time.  It waited patiently right where she had left it, in the small, empty warming tank where other reptiles were routinely roused from their torpors for study.  Its movements were sluggish in the most graceful way, and it stretched out its doubtlessly tired muscles with the ease of a Floracat.  Even as Ayshe watched, it yawned, revealing needlelike teeth and a small forked tongue.

Its eyes were a bright, intelligent green, like those of a familiar.  Ayshe’s heart stirred just to look at it, both out of excitement and something more unnatural--like magic.  Her mind was a flurry of questions and guessed answers, and her claws grabbed for paper and quill reflexively.  She had so much to mark down and simultaneously not enough.  She loved it.

She unrolled her first scroll as the little lizard began to explore its temporary housing, and she marked down a running title for what was bound to be an extensive document,

“Ayshe’s Pseudragon: A Study”

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The pseudragon, as Ayshe experimentally titled it, was moved into a much larger terrarium without too much delay.  It seemed to be an arboreal species moreso than an aquatic or desert one, so Ayshe’s engineered environment contained some false greenery and driftwood.  Its initial reaction to the space quickly and thankfully confirmed her initial assumptions, and the following days consisted largely of the introduction of many plants local to the Plateau in hopes of simulating its traditional environment, as well as hours of careful monitoring.

Ayshe tactfully refused to reveal the creature to anyone else, hoping to preserve its novelty until her initial publication.  Any assistants who became too curious were given sharp warnings or outright letters of dismissal, and the door to Ayshe’s office was kept locked at all times, whether she was out or in.  Her observational document grew larger by the day, consisting mostly of scattered hypotheses and assumed truths.  Only when she was sleeping did the Ridgeback abandon the effort of learning more; otherwise, her time was full of watching, writing, and reading through obscure bestiaries in search of any archaic mentions of similar creatures.

She learned that it could eat almost anything put in front of it without issue.  Small pieces of seafood were consumed just as readily as insects, and it took plants and meat with the same degree of eagerness.  It never showed any particular sensitivity to what she fed it--another staggering relief--and the routine medical spells she leveraged on it always turned up fine.  She couldn’t understand how such a hardy creature could also be so scarce, but there was no denying that it was the only of its kind in living memory.  She could find no mentions of it anywhere, and her routine trips back to the mainland of the Plateau proved that, if any others of its kind existed, they were very carefully hidden.

She could feel its eyes on her any time she was nearby, and that was the only thing about it that ever concerned her.  Its eyes were, frankly, unnerving, sharp and analytical in a way that few non-dragon creatures’ were.  They almost seemed to study her, watching her every move with interest.  At first, Ayshe assumed that it was merely understimulated, but its eyes never left her, not even as she introduced it to novel items and fresh terrariums.  She grew increasingly certain that it wanted something out of her, and she couldn’t even begin to guess what that something might be.

She never anticipated that such a small creature, and such a tremendous discovery, could strike genuine concern into her heart.

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Dynamis bided her time with a cautious ease, unwilling to move until she was certain of the outcome.  There was no telling how long she had been asleep--months, years, decades?  She could scarcely remember the world before her torpor, a fact which convinced her that she’d been dozing for far too long.  She’d never thought that the Plateau would be so cold and so empty.  Without her swarm, she’d never even stood a chance against the world outside the Wood.

Not until now.

The creature on the outside of the glass was one that she supposed was probably a dragon, a fact which boded well for her purposes.  They were impossibly large and bulky, with spines in all the wrong places and too-long claws.  She thought they might be of Lightning descent for how much they resembled the thunderous Stormcatcher, though the pale color of their eyes was much more reminiscent of the Southern Icefield’s stern denizens.

Eyes.  The sheer quantity of eyes on the dragon outside Dynamis’ prison was something she found confounding and intriguing in equal measures.  She’d never seen such a strange phenomenon; it confused and delighted her to see something so genuinely new.  She could believe new dragons without too much effort, but new magic was something so thrilling she couldn’t even put it into words.

And the fact that it took the form of eyes was just too perfect.  The poor dragon wouldn’t even stand a chance; no, they wouldn’t.

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Ayshe was fully prepared to believe that the lizard’s wings were vestigial and useless, so seeing them put to work one day as she entered her office was shocking enough to elicit a yelp of surprise.  The graceful creature flitted about with a fitting ease, its wings beating with the speed and maneuverability of a hummingbird’s.  Her claws were around a quill and at work on her scroll almost before she could fully comprehend what she was seeing, and the eyes along her neck observed the phenomenon farther as she endeavored to write out the tumult of thoughts in her brain.

She didn’t realize that she had stopped writing until the quill physically dropped from her paw, leaving a trail of jagged ink across the paper.  Her body felt lethargic and clumsy, almost paralyzed.  She found herself turning, training her foremost eyes on the creature as it flew.  The act was hypnotizing!  The glitter of its wings and the grace of its movements...she felt like she could watch it all day.

In an instant, she decided that she would.

It wasn’t a decision she made wholly on her own.

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With a sigh of contentment, Dynamis landed on the nearest branch and willed her hapless jailer to undo the locks and let her free.  Not a single one of the dragon’s eyes blinked, a sure sign of their utter enthrallment.  A Veilspun’s chief weakness was the proximity they had to keep with their vessels, and that weakness was resolved in the face of the new dragon’s peculiarities.  She could be in their peripherals almost anywhere; nestled in their wings or clinging to their tail, she’d never be wholly out of sight.  So long as her magic held, and so long as her vessel remained in good health, she had easy access to the rest of the world.

Settling on one of the dragon’s jagged shoulders, Dynamis explored the room freely and with wild abandon.  She cared well enough for the trinkets lining the shelves, but the scrolls were her real target, the true object of her attention.  She could see them lying all over the tables, each one drenched in the ink of a thousand spilled thoughts.  She saw red just thinking of how much damage even misinformation could do to her kind.

Her first free act was to destroy them all.  She delighted to see them engulfed in neon foxfire, to watch them dissolve into scraps and ashes.

The secrets of the Veilspun were not hers to give.

[sailorshadzter]

when the wolves come, you must yield.

chapter 2. 

follow me on ff.net for future updates to this story and more!

a continuation of this prompt. anon, i hope you come forward someday to lay claim to the idea you gave me. thank you for the inspiration. <3 

 thanks for all of the support, guys! your comments, reblogs, and likes mean a lot! i hope you all enjoy chapter 2!

It's strange, waking up beside Jon the next morning.

She's not slept beside him since the night he left for Dragonstone, the night the baby asleep in the cradle across the room was conceived. A smile curves on her lips as she props herself up onto an elbow, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of him softly snoring beside her. It takes all of her self control not to reach out and trace her finger along his jaw, simply to feel his skin against hers. There's not much time before the morning call will come and she wants to enjoy him asleep beside her, for she knows he must leave today.

But, before another moment can pass, Robb lets out a shrill cry from where he lay in his cradle. Sansa is up and moving, gliding across the room to reach for the crying babe, tucking him carefully into the crook of her arm as she gently bounces him back into happiness. From the bed, Jon is stirring, the Robb's cry naturally waking him from his slumber. He sits himself up to look across the room where Sansa now stands, the morning light spilling in through the frosty window framing her in the most picturesque of ways. Standing there in her snow white night gown with their son in her arms, red hair a long braid pulled across one shoulder, she is a sight he never wants to look away from. As if she feels his gaze upon her, she looks up and offers him a dazzling smile, one that fills him with warmth.

In the days since his return to the North, he's done little else but plan what his next moves will be. Every time he looks at Sansa, looks at little Robb, he knows what he must do. In a world with Daenerys Targaryen upon the Iron Throne, his family will never be safe. He's not a stupid man, he knows what they whisper in the remaining six kingdoms... He needs no Master of Whispers to know what the world thinks of their dragon queen. "I wish to wake to this sight every morning," Jon finally speaks, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for his discarded breeches that lay on the floor at his feet. Sansa laughs and turns her face back to Robb as the baby lets out a gurgle, the only thing precious enough to disract her from the man that she loves.

When Jon approaches them, it's to slide his fingers through the silky black hair that covers Robb's head as he wonders how he can ever part with them, even for just a handful of weeks. "What will you do?" Sansa asks softly and Jon raises his gaze from the baby to her, those sapphire eyes of hers dark with worry. He turns back to the baby and shakes his head, as if he means to remain silent. She sighs and he feels her hand on his arm, warm and strong, the gesture forcing him to look at her once again.

"I don't know," he lies, even though he knows. He knows, he just doesn't want to involve her. Not more than he must. Jon knows he shouldn't lie to her, not now, not about this. But he can't risk her life and he can't risk Robb's, either. "I'll go back for now," he speaks truthfully, venturing on with careful consideration. "I won't tell her about Robb, but it's only a matter of time before she finds out the truth." She pales, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she turns her head to look at Robb. "I won't let her hurt him. I won't let her hurt you." He vows, leaning in so he might press his forehead against hers, Robb cradled between them as he breathes in the smell of her.

"I know," Sansa replies, softer still, another sigh escaping her lips. "I worry about you," she says pointedly, pulling away a few moments later. Jon offers her a sheepish sort of smile and waves her comment away, shaking his head. "I'm serious Jon." She holds his gaze for a long moment before he sobers, giving her a nod.

"I'll be careful," he says, it's a promise, after all... He's got something important to come home to.

[ x x x ]

His chambers in King's Landing feel cold, lonely...

He's been back only an hour and he already longs for Sansa's warm touch. He longs to caress her soft skin and run his hands through her silky red tresses. For a moment, he thinks of her as she had been that night they spent together; her head thrown back in pleasure, her hands clinging to the sheets as her lips quivered with his name. His thoughts turn to his last few moments with her, private moments he spent holding their son while she hovered at his elbow, her eyes full of the love she felt for the child.

Already he's shed his Northern image- his furs are draped over the back of a chair, Longclaw in it's sheath on the table. He thinks of Ghost, left behind in Winterfell where he belonged. The South was no place for a wolf.

Knock, knock.

It's a crisp knock, a solid knock. Jon blinks a moment before crossing the room, boots heavy on the floor. When he opens the door, it's Tyrion Lannister standing there. "Jon Snow, I had heard you returned to us today." The imp says as he steps into the room, moving past Jon to stand beside the chair where Jon's furs are draped. He sees the direwolf proudly stamped into the now worn leather, made for Jon with the hands of someone close to him. Sansa, Tyrion thinks, the very subject he's come to discuss. "I trust your travels went well," he says, hands clasped behind his back as he turns back around to face the ever gloomy Stark bastard. Tyrion can't help but to think of him as such, despite knowing the truth of his birth.

"Aye, they were," Jon replies, short, but there is no anger behind the sharpness of his three words.

"So, tell me... How does the Queen in the North fair?" Tyrion goes on, thinking back to their last conversation before Jon had left. Jon's eyes widen ever so slightly, but then he lets out a breath, crossing the room to drop into the chair his furs are draped across. "Our queen is quite anxious to know," he adds, to which Jon arches a brow, though he still does not speak. Our queen, he thinks, forcing himself to keep from rolling his eyes. "I will report to her whatever you say." Tyrion knows keeping the dragon queen happy is not the easiest of tasks, especially not now... Not since she claimed the Iron Throne. He also knows what she will say and do if she learns there is a child born in the North, especially a child born of the wolf and dragon. A child who's true destiny would be to sit upon the throne she calls her own.

"It was as you suspected, a mere rumor." Jon finally speaks, holding a steady gaze with the Lannister man standing before him. He speaks so candidly that for a moment, Tyrion believes him. But only for a moment. "Perhaps our attention should be upon the true problem at hand. I heard about the Prince of Dorne." Tyrion does not move, but inwardly he flinches. The matter with Dorne has been a sore spot for him these few weeks Jon has been gone and has only worsened in the last few days. It is only a matter of time before they revolt entirely.

"I have sent envoys to pacify the Dornish prince and his people," Tyrion says, though they both know it won't be enough. The only true way to find peace among Westeros was to overthrow the queen they all feared. "Daenerys has even spoken of wedding your sister to him, in hopes it will solidify the peace between us."

"No," Jon barks, his tone sharper than he means. "No," he repeats, calmer, this time with a shake of his dark head. "Sansa is not to marry against her will ever again. No matter who wishes it." Tyrion regards him for a long moment before he nods. He should have known better than to speak of such a thing to this man.

"I told her as such. Besides, a union between the North and Dorne does little for us here, not when there is much unrest among the kingdom." He knows Daenerys only wishes to marry the Northern queen off out of her own petty hatred of her. "Dorne would stand behind Sansa as queen, you know." Tyrion speaks off hand, casually even, the words catching Jon's attention. "If they were to know the truth..." He means of Jon's birth, of course.

"There is already a queen of the Iron Throne," Jon says dismissively and after a long pause, Tyrion gives a quick nod.

"Yes, of course." Tyrion backs away and then turns, heading for the door. "But if it were to protect her... You would take it, wouldn't you?" Tyrion turns back, looking at the young man there in his chair, dark curls a mess around his somber face. It takes a moment, but Jon gives a nod. Of course he would. Tyrion says nothing else, but rather turns back and heads out the door, leaving Jon alone once more.

[ x x x ]

It takes only a day for Daenerys to summon him to her.

His footsteps sound hollow upon the floor as he walks through the double doors and through the restored throne room towards where she sits upon her throne. The proud dragon queen is settled upon her throne of swords, built by their ancestor Aegon the Conqueror hundreds of years before. "So you've returned to me." Daenerys greets as Jon approaches, violet eyes narrowing slightly as she waves away the attendant behind her. It's just the two of them now. He's surprised that not even Tyrion has joined them for this conversation. "I thought I might have to send for you, I thought you might not wish to return to me." This is a test, as all of their conversations are now. Once she trusted him, now she knew better. Once, she loved him, now she despised him. But, better to keep your enemies close.

"I have no reason not to return, your grace," he says simply, giving her a quick but courteous bow fit for her rank as queen. Though, she wears no crown, even still all these months later. "My sister, the Queen in the North, sends warm regards." Daenerys' smirks, she knows Sansa has sent no regards whatsoever, but she appreciates the sentiment behind Jon's words all the same. Sansa Stark was only the Northern Queen because it was the only way to keep peace with the North, it was the only way to keep peace in Westeros. Daenerys knows the redheaded Stark girl is well loved by her people, as well as others. And though it was the last thing she wished to do, she gave her a crown, if only to keep the peace.  

"I trust you have determined if the..." She pauses, shifting on her throne, silver hair falling across her shoulders with the movement. "If the rumor holds any merit." She finishes, eyeing him with a dark, untrusting gaze. Tyrion has already reported to her what Jon has said, but she must hear it from him. She must hear him say it. "I trust you to tell me the truth, Jon Snow."

For several long moments, Jon does not speak, but rather keeps his gaze steady upon hers. Those violet eyes tell him everything her words do not- that she is untrusting, that she is hateful, that she is as violent as the father that came before her. Jon knows what she will do if his son is discovered. But he won't ever let that happen. "It is as you say, your grace, just a rumor." He says carefully, keeping his eyes upon hers. If he looks away, she will know.

Daenerys holds his gaze a moment longer, but she gives a nod. She does not trust this man, not hardly, but she trusts in Tyrion. And if Tyrion believes him, then so does she. Besides, she has more important things to wory about... Such as the Dornish prince and his constant threat of rebellion. "Good," she speaks finally, flipping a stray lock of hair from her face. "You are dismissed," she waves him away like she did the attendant earlier and Jon gives her a bow before he turns and escapes the throne room, striding through the halls until he's at his own door once again.

Once he's inside, he shuts the door and leans against it, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. He looks up only when he hears the softest tap upon his window and to his surprise, there is a small black raven there on the windowsil. Blinking, Jon pushes away from the door and crosses the room, slowly opening the window in an effort to not frighten the small bird away. Instead, it hops side to side, making a throaty sound that only a raven can. That's when he sees it, the smallest of rolls of parchment attached to the bird's leg. Slowly, Jon reaches for the bird and unties the note, stepping back from the window with it clutched in his hand. The raven lets out a cry and then soars away, heading back the way it had come. Heading back North.

Closing the window, he returns to his usual chair and sits down, his hands shaking slightly as he unrolls the small paper. The handwriting it tiny, but he knows it at once to be Sansa's.

Jon, I miss you already, so does Robb. He grows so fast, even in the weeks since you've left, I wish you were here to witness him grow as I do. Every time I look at him, I see you, and it lessens the hurt of being apart.

I write not only to tell you of our son's growth, but to warn you. The Prince of  Dorne has written and he intends on rebelling. He claims to have an army ten thousand strong and has the backing of the Iron Islands. He asks for my help- my army, my people. We have already fought one war, must we fight in another? Fear not, I burned the letter without reply. I will not risk our son's safety by playing this game with the other nations. Not unless I can assure our victory.

But Jon... We both know who truly deserves to sit upon the Iron Throne. Westeros needs a kind, but noble King. Our son deserves to grow up in safety, in happiness. Will he ever be safe in a world where a dragon rules?

I write this not to guilt you into what you don't want, but as I look at Robb I think I would do anything to keep him safe from those who would cause him harm. I vowed to always protect him and once, you vowed the same thing to me. Write me when you can, and please... Just stay safe. 

Love always, Sansa. 

He rereads her letter three times, committing to memory every word that she's written.

Jon knows she speaks the truth and he knows she will fight for what she believes in, even if it's dangerous for herself. Jon won't allow her to put herself into any danger. It was as she wrote herself, once he had vowed to keep her safe...

Now he would keep that promise once again, but with little Robb in mind, too.

[emospritelet]

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9][Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15]

AO3 link

We’re getting closer to a confrontation and some truth-telling between Weaver and Lacey, but it isn’t this chapter

x

Weaver was glad he had the distraction on his day off work of having arranged a play date for Tilly with Neal Nolan. He felt as though he was going slowly mad, but he knew that spending time with his daughter would do him good, not to mention it would give Nolan a chance to talk some sense into him. He needed that more than ever.

They spent the morning at the park, followed by a picnic lunch in the lounge while watching a Disney film. Nolan had suggested a painting session before their trip to the swimming pool that afternoon, and as it was his house Weaver figured it was up to him how much mess was made in it. They set the children up with a plastic sheet spread over the kitchen table, paint pots and brushes and a ready supply of old rags to mop up any spillages. After twenty minutes or so, Weaver left Nolan supervising the building chaos and went out to the garage, where his whiteboard was growing more cluttered by the day. He needed to add a good bit of information to it following Lacey’s visit to the station and his own research.

He had pulled a series of mugshots of local criminals who were known to be for hire to bigger fish, and lined them up at the base of the board, looking them over. Further investigations into the Black Fairy hadn’t yielded much from his informants, but there was general agreement that one of the men rumoured to accompany her during her visits had been dark-haired and fairly good-looking. He wasn’t sure which of the six potential candidates he had chosen would be the one, but he hoped that seeing their faces would spark some sort of connection in his brain.

“Daddy, look!”

Weaver turned at the sound of Tilly’s voice, smiling as she held up a piece of paper, dripping watery colour on the granite floor.

“Here, sweetheart, let me take that off you,” he said, grasping the edge and holding it level. “Wow, that’s great! Is that a dog?”

“It’s Wilby,” she confirmed. “Can we get a doggy?”

“Uh - I don’t think you can have pets in the apartment,” he said, and she pouted.

“That’s stupid.”

“I know.”

He studied the painted dog, a dark blue mess of colour with a bushy tail and a lolling red tongue about half its size. Perhaps there was a way to get a dog for her. It would mean getting his own place, perhaps a tiny house in the suburbs, but that would be better for her, right? Space to play outside, to rough and tumble with a dog, to be a kid. It was about time he gave up apartment living and thought about what was best for his daughter. Commuting to and from the precinct wouldn’t fucking kill him.

While he was thinking over their possible future, Tilly had walked over to the whiteboard and was staring up at it.

“Bad man!” she declared, and Weaver turned.

“Who’s bad?” he asked, and Tilly slapped one of the pictures.

“Bad!”

Weaver set down the painting carefully, moving to join her.

“This man?” he said, plucking the picture from beneath its magnetic button. “Have you seen him before?”

Tilly screwed up her face, then nodded.

“Where?” asked Weaver. “Did he come to the apartment?”

A pause, then another nod.

“Did you talk to him?”

“No,” she said decidedly. “He smells.”

“Good girl.” He ruffled her curls. “What about these other men? Did you see any of those?”

Tilly frowned at the pictures, then shook her head.

“Okay,” said Weaver. “Hey, how about you paint me a picture of Dragon while I make some lemonade for you and Neal?”

“Yeah!”

She ran back to the kitchen, and Weaver frowned at the photograph in his hands. A dark-haired man with a close-cropped beard and a faint scowl looked out at him. His name was Arthur Penn, according to the mugshot. A history of petty thefts, witness intimidation and assault convictions. It would be interesting to find out what he had been doing in Lacey’s apartment.

x

“So you definitely have it, then?”

Arthur’s voice was a drawl, the tone of someone who had heard it all before and suspected he was being lied to. Lacey felt her jaw protrude in annoyance.

“I said I’d get it, and I did,” she said curtly. “I’ve booked a flight out tomorrow morning.”

“In that case I’ll have someone meet you in Boston,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you to get lost, would we?”

“Fine,” she said wearily. “Whatever.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about it.”

“I just want this over with, okay?”

“Alright,” he said. “Text me the flight details, I’ll make sure there’s someone waiting for you.”

“Great.”

She rang off before he could say anything else, texting the flight number and arrival time before dropping the phone on the bed. The apartment seemed very empty with Tilly gone, and she sat for a moment, staring at her hands where they lay folded in her lap, slim fingers threaded together. She couldn’t keep putting it off forever. It was time.

Fingers trembling a little, she picked up the phone again, this time to call Weaver. Every cell in her brain was screaming at her that she was a coward, that she should at least have the decency to look him in the eye when she lied through her teeth, but she knew she couldn’t do it. The faceless distance of a phonecall was as much as she could manage. At least it wasn’t a text.

“Hey,” he said, when he picked up, and she squeezed her eyes shut. He sounded - cautious. Could she blame him?

“Hey,” she said. “How’s Tilly?”

“She’s fine,” he said, after a pause. “We’re over at Nolan’s. Play date with Neal. They’ve been painting, so once we get them cleaned up, it’s off to the pool. I told them we’d go for burgers afterwards. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course,” she said. “You don’t need my permission.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “Look, I’m glad you called. I wanted to talk about this weekend—”

“Yeah, about that,” she interrupted. “I know I said maybe we’d do something, but I can’t. I need your help.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.

“Nothing,” she lied. “At least, nothing serious. I have a funeral to go to, and it’d be easier if Tilly could stay with you for a few days.”

“Funeral?” he said. “Whose funeral?”

“Old friend.”

“Which old friend?” He sounded suspicious now, and she wished she could have come up with something more convincing. “The only friend I’ve ever heard you mention was in Maine.”

“Yeah, it’s not Maine,” she said quickly. “It’s Vegas. And - and it’s not really a friend, okay? It’s a family member that I’m not sorry is dead.”

“Right.” Silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” She sighed, running a hand over her face. “No, it’s fine. Can’t decide whether I’m going to pay my respects or just make sure they’re really in the damn ground, you know?”

Weaver was quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Lacey.”

“Don’t be,” she said wearily. “Just - can you look after Tilly for a few days?”

“Of course. You don’t have to ask.”

“I know you have work, that’s all.”

“I can take some time off,” he said gently. “Just go and deal with your - family thing.”

“Thank you.” She bit her lip, clutching at the phone. “You’re good to me, Rafe. And to Tilly. You’re a good father. A good man.”

“I don’t know about the last part,” he said. “But you both make me want to be better.”

She screwed up her face, eyes stinging, and Weaver sighed.

“Lacey, I meant what I said. You can tell me anything.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’ll be back by Tuesday, okay?”

“Are you flying?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need money?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “When do you go?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “First flight out.”

“Call me when you get the chance,” he said. “I’d like to know you got there okay. Safe trip.”

The phone clicked as he hung up, and Lacey tossed it aside, covering her face with her hands and wondering if she would ever hear his voice again.

x

Weaver slipped his phone back into his pocket, mouth twisting. The chatter of the children behind him was light and cheerful, an odd counterpoint to the dark clouds that seemed to be swirling around him. He glanced at the jug of lemonade he had prepared, condensation starting to form on the glass as the ice cooled it from within.

“You okay?”

Weaver started at the sound of Nolan’s voice, turning to face him. Nolan was staring up at him from the chair, concern on his face, and Weaver jerked his head towards the garage before striding off. He heard the squeak of Nolan’s chair as he followed. The whiteboard stood where he had left it, one of the pictures having come free of its button and fluttered to the ground. Weaver snatched it up, crushing it into a ball between his palms as anger and frustration made his breathing quicken.

“Whatever’s going on with her, it’s happening this weekend,” he snapped.

“Lacey?”

“Yes, bloody Lacey! She just called up to tell me some bullshit about a family funeral!” He fired the ball of paper at the wall, watching it bounce off and fall forlornly to the floor. “What the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t leave Tilly and go chasing after her, even if I knew where she was going!”

“Didn’t she say?”

“Oh, she said she was going to Vegas, but that’s bollocks.” Weaver began striding back and forth. “No, I reckon she’s going to Maine. Storybrooke, to be precise.”

“What for?” asked Nolan.

“Not sure yet,” he admitted. “I may have a lead, though. Tilly recognised one of these creeps.” He gestured at the picture of Arthur Penn. “I think I might have a word with him.”

“Great, I’ll come too.”

“No, you fucking will not!” snapped Weaver. “Beating up Hamelin for intel is one thing, tracking down a fucking big bad’s lackey is something else entirely.”

“Oh, come on!”

“No fucking way, Snow would kill me!”

“Snow would kill you for what?”

The sound of his wife’s voice made Nolan start in his chair and crane his neck towards the doorway. Snow was standing with her arms folded, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, hey honey,” said Nolan lamely. “You’re back early.”

“Just as well, by the sound of it,” she said, in a dry tone. “What are you threatening to get involved in now?”

“I - nothing, I was just—”

“I need to go and beat the crap out of someone so they’ll tell me why my wife is in danger,” said Weaver, catching Snow’s eye. “I may also need to chase my wife all the way to Maine to get her out of whatever shitty situation she’s found herself in. Neither of which is something I want my daughter involved in. Or your husband.”

“Good,” she said, shooting Nolan a flat look before glancing back. “In that case, go do what you have to do. Tilly’s more than welcome to stay with us.”

Weaver hesitated.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” he said. “It’s just - these are bad people, and if I can get to Lacey before she does whatever stupid thing she’s planning on doing, they might take offence. I don’t want them posing any risk to Tilly, or to you. It’s known that we’re friends, and they might - well, they might come here, that’s all.”

Snow seemed to think for a moment, her eyes fixed on his, then she took a deep breath and clapped her hands together.

“Well,” she announced. “I think it’s time we took a trip down to California for a few days, don’t you, David? We can pack Wilby and the kids into the car and go get a little winter sunshine, what do you say?”

Weaver smiled.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, and she smiled and nodded an acknowledgement.

“I’ll go pack,” she said, and her eyes flicked to her husband. “Do what you can to stop him getting himself killed, okay?”

“Well, that’s what I was trying!” protested Nolan, and she sniffed and tossed her head before ducking back inside.

“Without going with him!” she called over her shoulder.

“See?” said Weaver, and Nolan grumbled.

“Fine,” he said. “At least take Fa with you.”

“No, I already told you…”

“Yeah, and your reasons are bullshit! She’ll kill you if you go off on your own like this!”

“For the last time, no!” Weaver shook his head, tucking his shirt into his jeans. “Look, I’d better go. I have an idea where I might catch this piece of shit.”

“You’re going now?”

“No time like the present.” He took a final look at the whiteboard. “I’ll make a few calls, say goodbye to Tilly, and I’m out of here. I’ll call you just as soon as I have news.”

“Be careful, would you?” said Nolan. “Try to at least think for three seconds before you go charging in somewhere.”

“Oh, I’ll be careful,” said Weaver grimly. “I got something to live for.”

x

Nolan went in to watch over the children while Snow packed and Weaver made a series of calls to his network of young informants, seeking info on any sightings of Arthur Penn. After hugging Tilly goodbye, and assuring her that he would be back just as soon as he’d taken care of some bad people, Weaver drove back to his apartment to pick up his gun, cuffs and badge. He took an extra clip, slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket, and after a moment, dug out a knife in its sheath and strapped it to his lower leg, beneath his jeans. It paid to be prepared, after all.

He glanced in the mirror as he strode into the hall. A grim expression seemed to be permanently etched on his face these days, his eyes darkened by worry. He scowled at himself. One way or another, he’d get to the bottom of this. One way or another, he’d save his family.

A knock at the door made him start, and his scowl grew. Whoever was calling, he wasn’t fucking interested. He wrenched open the door, mouth opened to release a tide of profanity, and the words caught in his throat as Detective Fa and Officer Dunbroch shoved him aside, kicking the door shut behind them.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” demanded Merida, hands on hips as she shook back her hair.

“Mind your own business!” he growled. “Can’t a man have a fucking day off work without the world’s most annoying lesbians butting in?”

“Apparently not,” said Fa dryly, dark ponytail swinging. “Seems that the world’s most annoying lesbians really care about the world’s most fucking stupid asshole detective with a death wish. I’m afraid you’re stuck with us.”

“Well, you can bugger off, I’m busy,” he spat.

“Yeah, we know,” said Merida, with a snort. “That’s why we’re here.”

“I don’t want—”

“Nolan ratted you out,” interrupted Fa.  “Good thing, too. I see you haven’t totally lost that reckless streak. Shit like that’ll get you killed.”

Weaver let his head roll back with a groan, and ran his hands over his face. When he took them away again, Fa and Merida were watching him with identical stern expressions.

“I didn’t want to drag you into something personal—” he began.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” said Merida bluntly.  “Do you seriously think we’d let you bugger off and have an adventure without us?”

“This is not a fucking adventure!” he snapped. “These are dangerous people and there’s a serious risk I could get killed!”

“All the more reason for us to tag along and drag your skinny ass out of the fire, then,” said Fa. “Now stop fucking whining, and tell us how we can help.”

Weaver growled impatiently, tapping a foot in irritation. Come on, you idiot, you need them!

“Alright, fine,” he said, in resignation. “Here’s what I need you to do.”

x

Half an hour later, the three of them were pressed against the wall in the alleyway outside The Rabbit Hole, waiting for their quarry. Arthur Penn had been spotted drinking in the bar by one of Weaver’s street kids when she had stopped to pick up a small drugs package for delivery, and she had informed Weaver as soon as she left. He had just finished explaining Lacey’s situation to Fa and Merida when he got the call, and while they had muttered darkly about him keeping it to himself for as long as he had, they had made some sensible suggestions. Their presence also made him feel a little more positive he’d come out of this alive. Assuming their target ever left the fucking bar, of course.

“Try not to let him see your faces,” said Weaver. “Let’s play this as though we’re part of his world. I don’t want him tipping off these fucking Fairies that the cops are onto them.”

“So glad you told us that, we’d never have thought of it otherwise,” said Fa dryly.

“He staying in there all night, you think?” whispered Merida.

“The longer he’s in there, the better for us,” said Fa. “A drunk guy’s easier to knock on his ass.”

“Less easy to get any sense out of, though,” said Weaver. “But you’re right, it’s better for us. If he’s drinking heavily, that means he’s not on call for either of the Fairies. Which means they’re out of town and unlikely to be expecting him to make contact.”

“Which also means they won’t notice if he disappears, right?” said Fa dryly.

“Right.” He hesitated. “Look, I know you didn’t sign up for that. I’m not expecting either of you to do anything illegal or—”

“Would you shut the hell up?” she said, not unkindly. “We’re in this together. Quiet, I think I hear someone.”

They pressed back, Weaver’s palms scraping against the cold bricks, still damp with rain. The door squeaked open, and Arthur Penn stumbled out into the alleyway, belching loudly and staggering two steps before fumbling at his zipper and leaning against the opposite wall. The splash of urine sounded, and Fa caught Weaver’s eye and nodded. Silent as a cat, she drew her gun and slipped up behind the man, pressing the muzzle to the base of his skull.

“Don’t move,” she whispered.

The man reacted quicker than Weaver had thought possible, elbow flying out behind him, but Fa was quicker. She ducked under the blow, punching him hard enough in the lower back to make him groan and twisting his arm up behind him as she shoved his face into the wall. Merida took the other side, and the two of them hauled him further along the alley, out of sight of the door. It was dark this far from the streetlights, and Weaver was counting on that to keep their faces hidden from view.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” bellowed Penn.

“Shut it!” snapped Weaver. “Search him.”

Merida went through his pockets quickly, pulling out a phone which she passed to Fa, a gun, and a large knife, both of which she tossed to Weaver. He stuck the gun in his inside pocket and glanced at Fa, who was flicking at the phone with a thumb. A press of Penn’s finger against the screen unlocked it, and Fa began looking through it with one hand, the other still holding a gun to the man’s side. Weaver took a handful of Penn’s hair and twisted. There was some sort of product on it, oily against his fingers, and he leaned in close, so that he could hear the man’s ragged breathing and smell the sour stench of alcohol and fear.

“Who do you work for?” he asked pleasantly.

“Fuck you!”

“Wrong answer.”

Weaver punched him in the kidneys, and Penn let out a choking cry.

“Look, I’m freelance, okay?” he wheezed. “I’m not working for anyone! Why, you - you want something doing? Someone taking out? I’m your man, if the price is right. Buys my silence, you know?”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” said Weaver. “I was actually hoping you’d spill your guts. Or we could do it in the more literal sense.”

He unsheathed the knife with a satisfying whisper of steel against leather, and pressed the tip of the blade against Penn’s belly, just above his belt. Penn sucked in a breath, his body freezing in place.

“Hey look, I’m - I’m sure we can come to some arrangement here!” he said, his voice grown high with panic. “Prices are - are open to negotiation! Or - or if it’s info you want, just ask!”

“Alright,” said Weaver softly. “What do you know about the Black Fairy? And the Blue Fairy?”

Silence, but for the sound of ragged, terrified breathing. Weaver pressed the point in a little harder, and Penn let out a strangled noise.

“Alright, alright!” he said desperately. “Look, I don’t know much, okay? Up from Vegas, but not wanting to muscle in on anyone’s scene here, so you can take that back to whichever boss you work for! They’re not a threat to anyone’s profit line, okay, and - and neither am I! They just wanted to clear up a little family business!”

“Go on,” said Weaver lazily.

“There’s a girl, a - a young woman calling herself Lacey Weaver, only - only that’s not her real name! Her real name’s Isabelle. Some sort of family connection. She has something the Fairies want. A - a key to something.”

“A key to what?” asked Weaver. “Money? Drugs?”

“I don’t know, honestly! I know she had to get it from a police station, but that's all I know! Could be either!”

“So what about this Lacey, then?” asked Weaver. “What’s your dealings with her?”

“I’m - I’m done with that, I swear!” he stammered. “I had to keep an eye on her, to let her know when she had to meet them, to keep tabs on her progress. Her husband’s a cop, so we had to be careful, but - but it looks like they broke up. Guess it never would have worked, I mean you should have seen her...”

Weaver tightened his grip on Penn’s hair, jaw clenching.

“And where is she now?”

“Hey.”

Fa’s voice made him look around, and he glanced at the phone she was holding up. A message from Lacey, giving what looked like a flight number, along with departure and arrival times. Weaver squinted at it. Boston, not Maine. Interesting.

“So,” he said evenly. “Looks like this Lacey’s getting the hell out of town. Any reason for that? Anything going down here that we should know about?”

“No, I swear it!” protested Penn. “I - I was asked to call someone in Maine to let them know when she lands in Boston, so they can collect her!”

“Who?” demanded Weaver. “He work for these Fairies too?”

“I - I suppose so,” said Penn. “His name's Felix, but I never met the guy, and that's all I know! Whatever business they have, it’s not here!”

Weaver leaned in again, making the knife point dig in, and Penn let out a high-pitched cry.

“You’d better not be lying to me!” he growled.

“It’s the truth, I swear it! I’m - I’m done with the Fairies, and - and as far as I know they’re done with Seattle!”

Weaver nodded grimly, and took a step back, nodding to Fa, who used the butt of her gun to strike a hard blow on the back of Penn’s head. He slumped bonelessly to the ground, and the three glanced around to check they were still undisturbed. Weaver jerked his head towards the mouth of the alleyway.

“We should get out of here,” he said.

“Just a second.”

Fa squatted down next to Penn’s prone body, using his fingertip to open up the phone again. She tossed it to Weaver.

“Here, change it to a PIN,” she said. “Just in case they decide to get in touch with our boy.”

“Good thinking,” he said, and Merida grinned.

“My girlfriend’s fucking brilliant,” she said proudly, and Fa dropped her eyes with a self-conscious smile.

Weaver quickly changed the security settings on the phone to a PIN unlock. He chose Tilly’s birthday for the code, hoping it would be a good luck charm of sorts. The alleyway around them was still quiet, and he nodded to the others.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Looks like I have to catch a flight to Boston.”

“We have to catch a flight to Boston,” corrected Fa, and he sighed.

“No canoodling on the plane,” he growled.

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” said Merida, and grasped Fa’s hand as they made their way back to Weaver’s apartment.

[lady-therion]

At Second Sight: Part 2 [Elriel]

Summary: Elain accidentally turns Azriel into a dragon.

(Post-ACOWAR)

A/N: Okay, so it gets worse.

***

   “If you don’t stop fussing, I will put you in the basket.”

    Azriel scowled at her from the center of her bed, huffing and and puffing as much as he was able, the blue and black scales of his chest swelling with each beat of his tiny wings.

    It was adorable.

    Elain fought the urge to grin. The shadowsinger could have been dwarfed by a house cat, which amused her as much as it alarmed her. Though she had enough sense not to make light of his misfortune—a misfortune she was directly responsible for.

    It was a very sobering thought.

    At any other time, she would have yielded to her winged friend. But here and now? She would not bend. She may not be as formidable as her sisters, but she inherited enough of their mother’s imperious manner to face down the Spymaster of the Night Court.

    Of course, Azriel refused to cease his growling. How else could he argue with her? But as much as Elain wanted to soothe his agitation, she merely raised her brow with a haughtiness that would have made Nesta proud.

    “I don’t see what all the squawking is about,” she said. “It’s just for the night. Or until Amren finds a way to break the spell.”

    More squawking.

    Elain folded her arms.

    Azriel, ever the gentleman no matter what form he took, nearly singed her bedsheets in chivalrous protest when she insisted he sleep with her.

    Sleep next to her, she clarified, though she could barely hide her blushing as she said so.

    Azriel had looked so scandalized at her suggestion that she found it almost charming. As if this centuries-old fae warrior hadn’t done or encountered more shocking or salacious things…

    “It will be easier this way,” she continued. “What do you think will happen when the others return? Cassian’s room is right next to yours and he almost never knocks when he wants to see you. Unless you’d like to greet him as you are now?”

    A tiny ring of smoke told her what Azriel thought about that.

   “I’d have to come fetch you in the morning anyway,” she continued. “It would be harder to explain why I’d be poking about in your room. The others would ask questions.”

   The shadowsinger gazed at her in that keen and uncanny way that would have made other fae loosen their bowels. But Elain was not afraid. She could never be afraid of the gentle fae warrior who rescued her from a dark abyss. Even when his hazel eyes pierced her with that strange and assessing intensity, she did not feel a shred of apprehension.

   Instead, she felt an odd kind of pity.

    For all his selflessness, Azriel was always reluctant to accept any kindness or compassion on his behalf. As if he didn’t think he was worthy of such things. The thought of it pained Elain in ways she couldn’t explain.

    She sat on the edge of the bed and extended a hand, beckoning him to come closer.

    He didn’t. Not at first.

    “Azriel,” she said softly. “Please.”

     A beat. Then…

     He padded over to her, chastened. His tail dragging behind him as though he was regretting his stubborness. He pushed his snout into her palm, leaning into her by way of apology.

    Elain breathed a sigh of relief.

    “You can sleep at the foot of the bed,” she said. “I won’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

     Azriel sniffed, but obeyed, retreating the farthest corner before circling into a little nest among the covers. The sight of it, as strange it was, softened her heart. She was one of the handful of people in the world who this scarred and lonely warrior seemed to trust—even when she so clearly wronged him.

    She would not take that trust for granted. His faith in her was humbling, and she wished she could give voice to the gratitude she felt. But it was late and she was tired…and a new day of challenges was looming ever closer.

     So she changed into her nightgown, noting how Azriel had turned his back to her while he slept (no doubt an appeal to her modesty). Then she climbed into bed, mindful of the shadowsinger who watched over her. Only this time, she watched over him…counting each of her breaths until sleep finally claimed her.  

***

    There were many reasons why Elain hated her visions.

     They frightened her. They angered her. They were thrust upon her against her will. Worst of all, they imprisoned her in a realm caught between dream and reality. A place where the difference between one and the other was as razor thin as Truth-Teller’s blade.

     Her visions were like memories. So vivid and visceral that she could reach out and touch them, experience them in motion. And yet they passed through her like so many grains of sand; a collection of impressions, feelings, and words fighting for some kind of coherency. Images both real and the unreal formed labyrinthine corridors within the chambers of her mind. Corridors where monsters like Hybern always seemed to lie in wait.

    It was unbearable.

    But tonight, her visions were softer, kinder—like the falling of spring rain.

    For once she saw and was unafraid to look.

    There was a bed—not her own—and a warm and comforting presence. The sheets were tangled around her legs in a casual disarray. Her bare skin was cooled by the breeze seeping through an open window. And there was someone in her arms. A man. A male.

    It was like watching herself and yet not. A passive viewer in an unfolding scene. Everything was hazy at the edges, not unlike the oily texture of one of Feyre’s paintings.

    The male in her arms was still as she stroked his bare back. Elain held him close, murmuring sweetly into his ear. Then the dull blue light of dawn filled the room and filled her heart. And oh. She hadn’t realized until then…just how empty her heart had been.

    Then the male, bared to the waist, reached for her. Buried fingers into her golden-brown hair as he kissed…no devoured…her lips like she was ambrosia. There was shadow and there was light, melding together as easily as love and desire. Then suddenly, roses—like bright drops of blood—grew between the slats of the wooden floors.

    The strong contrast threw the passionate scene into a deeper relief, and the words came to her lips with the finality of a prophecy.

    A flower that blooms in light and shadow.

    The words reverberated through her like the tolling of a bell. Its echo like a hook that dragged her back to the shores of consciousness. Yet the words were still there when she woke, etched into her heart.

    She cracked open a bleary eye and wondered at the fluttering darkness surrounding her.

    Then she realized that it was the membrane of a wing.

    Had the spell been broken in the night?

    She shot up in bed, the mattress groaning strangely beneath her. Then her eyes alighted on Azriel and—

    “Azriel…oh no.”

***

    “He’s um…he’s bigger.”

    Amren smirked. “In what way?”

    “This isn’t a joke,” said Elain, raising her voice as much as she dared. “It’s just…come and see.”

   Amren trailed after Elain at a far slower pace than was considered polite. It wasn’t as if she didn’t care about the little seer’s dilemma. She simply relished how much she fretted and blustered over her precious shadowsinger.

   A shadowsinger who was clearly much larger than he was the night before.

   “I’m sorry Azriel,” said Elain. “I had to bring her.”

    It seemed like only a few hours ago that Elain could hold her friend in the palm of her hand. Now he was the size of a young thoroughbred: big enough to ride, like the wyverns that once roamed the wastelands of the old world.

    “It’s a good thing our High Lord saw fit to give you such wide and spacious chambers,” said Amren.  

     Elain wrung her hands while Azriel glared. His shadows roiled about him, whispering in his ear and winding about his massive spiked tail like tendrils of smoke. How much of his powers remained intact while trapped in this form remained to be seen…

    It was a miracle that the only things in the room that bore the brunt of his latest transformation was an upturned dresser, a broken chair, and a sagging bed. All of which would require far too much explanation if discovered. Given the sheer breadth of him, it could have been much worse. But at least it had shown that Azriel still possessed enough self-restraint to not have torn the room apart in rage and confusion.

    Amren wondered what would have happened had this spell inflicted itself on Cassian instead. Though the thought of witnessing how Nesta would take Cassian in hand, bridling him under her uncompromising control, made her smirk all the wider.

    “What do we do now?” asked Elain.

    “Well, you’ll need a bigger basket.”

    “Amren!”

    Azriel couldn’t answer her with words, but his growl of irritation said enough. But unlike last night where the sounds he made were barely above a whisper, they were now loud enough to be heard throughout the entire house. As loud as the baying of hounds.  

    Fortunately, the rest of the Inner Circle had yet to return from their duties to the Hewn City. Though given the late hour of the morning, Amren knew that time was not on their side.

   “Did you find out anything from the book?”

    Amren tilted her head, choosing her next words carefully. “Yes and no. It wasn’t a page-turner by any means, but I was able to glean the important things. Some of which I will tell you now and others I will tell you later.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    Amren waved the question away like a fly. “The book you discovered was the grimoire of a seer who lived in an age before the seven courts came to be. Here.” She handed Elain a scrap of yellowed paper. “This flower is the key to reversing the spell. Though its like is rare and has not been seen in many years.”

    Elain’s eyes widened.

    “A flower that blooms in light and shadow…”

    Now it was Amren’s turn to be curious. “What was that?”

    The girl blanched, fooling no one as she stammered that it was nothing. Amren narrowed her eyes but decided to let it be. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

   “That flower still grows in the valleys near the Steppes.” And here, Azriel bared his teeth, a tremor running through his folded wings. Not surprisingly, his birthplace was one of his least favorite places to be. “You’ll have to find the flower, crush it into a powder, then have him drink it under the light of the full moon.”

    “But the full moon is several days away,” said Elain. “What happens if we don’t find it in time?”

   “Well then you’re in for quite a wait until the next one, my dear. And I’m not sure how much longer we can keep the rest of the Inner Circle unaware.”

   As if on cue, the door to the townhouse creaked open. The hum of familiar voices followed.

   They were home.

   Elain cursed with a word that Amren didn’t even know she could use.

   “I’ll distract them,” said Amren. “And take this, as well.” She pressed a sapphire-like stone that hung off the end of a long chain into Elain’s palm. “Its glamor will keep you both undetected, even from us. Use it wisely.”

  “Thank you, Amren.”

   “Feh.” She turned to the shadowsinger. “I’m actually disappointed you don’t wish to stay in this body, little spy. You look like quite the warrior now.”

   The look in Azriel’s eyes could have charred meat. Amren laughed.

   “Head to the roof,” was all she said, before shutting the door behind her.

***

   Elain packed what few supplies she could in a leather satchel before throwing on her cloak and a more practical dress. She didn’t know how long she would be gone, and although the prospect of doing something so dangerous made her heart stutter, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement as well.

   This was an adventure, she thought. An adventure all her own.

   Azriel stood on the edge of the balcony, his wings beating as they opened to catch the open air. The air was his element, she remembered.

   He was born hearing the song of the wind…and the song of the shadows.

   “Obviously, I’m coming with you,” she had told him. “I made you promise, after all.”

    She had expected Azriel to snap at her, as he did with Amren. But no, he only bowed his head as he crouched down, allowing her on climb onto his back. Elain gulped. She had ridden before as a girl…at her family’s estate, her father leading her pony through the park on their grounds.

    But this was no pony.

   It took a moment to settle herself. The height from his shoulders was dizzying. She wriggled until she could find a comfortable seat, trying to stop the blood from rushing to her face as she did so.

   Why did this have to be so awkward?

    But if Azriel felt that way, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was patient and steadfast as ever. Then the tendrils of his shadows appeared, securing around her wrists like reins.

   When she was little, Nesta used to read her stories about princesses in towers, and the dragons that kept them there. But her dragon was no jailer. No, her dragon was her savior. It was a twist in the narrative that made her smile, and she leaned forward to clasp Amren’s jewel around Azriel’s neck.

   It gleamed bright and blue, just like his Siphons.

   “Well my friend?” she said, grasping his sides. “Are you ready for an adventure?”

    Azriel answered by spreading his beautiful wings as he reared back, running at a leap before taking off in the sky, leaving nothing behind save for the boom of his wings.

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[wootensmith]

A Change of Plans

The day was harder than he’d imagined it would be. He hadn’t expected ease, knowing he must upset many, many plans, perhaps disappoint his people. There was little he could have done to make it better. Not really. The generals had to know that he was staying and Abelas would no longer lead them in battle. The Inquisitor had to risk showing them the extent of the mark to convince them of her plan, though he hated watching her shrink from the shocked stares that the others met her with.  And Dorian— well, he knew he had deserved that from Dorian. Worse, most likely. And it was nothing he hadn’t already repeated to himself, tenfold. If only he could have spared all three of them that grief. No, it would have been worse without the chance to say goodbye. It had happened as it was always meant to happen.

She had started the morning lingering over the maps of the Deep Roads— some pieced together from Orzammar’s records, some from the Legion of the Dead and the Wardens who fought with them, some she’d drawn with her own hand, somewhere in her travels. They still glittered with lyrium dust. He had beaten back panic when she’d first unrolled them that morning, seeing the complicated web of roads in her own writing, how far she’d gone alone into the darkspawn-infested heart of Thedas. He’d stood beside her, trying to listen as she told him the most likely route and pointed to the spots rumored to hold dragon nests. He’d watched, instead, the slim line of the anchor that had reached over the bridge of her nose. It had split and branched overnight as they slept. He tried to persuade himself the new threads were smaller than he imagined. He had succeeded for a few hours, until they’d spoken to Dorian.

“The only true mystery remaining is where the darkspawn are thickest,” she said. “The Legion’s been trying to scout, but they went deep after the last blight. I fear we only see the edge of their territory.” She looked up from the map at him. “I thought, at first, that it would be like a— a bruise or a frost. The densest part of the horde ought to be at the point of the original infection— which would be…” she trailed off. “You showed me Andruil’s temple once—” “Yes,” he acknowledged. “The infection would have begun beneath us. In the titan’s corpse.” “It’s been centuries. I’m sure it’s shifted. Safe." “Is that what troubles you? No. It is not safe here. Did you return to Skyhold since you left your clan?” “No— I had ancient stories to chase. And I had little time to waste resting.” “The people who remain here know the danger that is coming. Their families have gone to Skyhold. With Sera. And some friends. They are safe. The rest of us are— ready.” “Are you?” she asked. The muscle in her jaw pulsed as she gritted her teeth. “I’m not certain that I am.” She took a long breath and seemed to shake the feeling. “I’m glad you’ve sent those who aren’t able to fight to Skyhold. In case— in case I’m wrong.”

She turned back to the map before he could tell her that it didn’t matter. That they lost nothing by trying her method. That she shouldn’t carry the weight of this decision, that he already carried it himself. Had for longer than she’d been breathing. “I should replace the wards,” she said, sweeping up the maps into a neat pile. “Let me stabilize the anchor, then, before I go.”  He reached for her shoulder, then noticed the flicker of panic in her face. “Go?” she asked. “Not far, Vhenan.” He pulled power from the anchor, watched the immediate relief flood her. From his words? Or because the anchor wasn’t pressing as hard against her? He wasn’t certain he wanted to know. “I need to inform my— our people of what we have decided. They are expecting Abelas to lead them against the Evanuris. It will be a great shock to learn that he will not. But— they are also expecting to die. And your plan can give them some hope of survival that I could not. I will return before evening.” She shook her head. “They won’t believe you. Not if you’ve told them everything.” He traced the veins of light along her cheek. “I am not what I was when I woke. And these people are not isolated tribes I am trying to bring the truth to. They will believe me.” “You didn’t believe it,” she protested. “Not until you saw my face. Not until you read the notes.” “Forgive me. It was not you I doubted. It was only— I had given up. On another way, on seeing you again. And you appeared out of the dark and offered me this chance. If the price were not such a terrible one—” He found her hand and grasped it. “It is all that convinces me it is not a good dream.” “They will think you are fooling yourself. Or that I have tricked you into betraying them.”

He wanted to deny it. But even Abelas had doubted him these past years. Had thought him on the verge of madness or weakness because of her. He could not have been the only one. Just the only one with courage enough to speak it aloud. “Let me come with you. Let me show them the mark. In an hour, perhaps two, it will have grown in strength again. Not as powerful as it was when I last saw you, but strong enough. Take me to an empty place. I’ll drop the wards. Let them see the destruction it can cause, just this trickle of power.” He was horrified. “No!” he cried, “It would overwhelm you. Leap forward and consume you—” “It won’t. Not in so short a time. Not yet.” “I can’t. Don’t ask me to risk that for a few doubters—” She pressed a hand to his heart. “I know what I am capable of, Solas. I have lived with the mark for a long time now. I know how much I can withstand. You must trust me.” He started to protest, but she pressed her fingers to his mouth to stop him. “I told you I would come back to you when I found a way. I told you I would bring the world with me to aid you in defeating this. All of us together. Half of my promise is kept. Let me fulfill what I can of the rest.” He kissed her hand and lowered it gently. “I don’t think you will need to convince them.” “Then why argue? Just yield and we’ll go have a quiet talk with your generals. And I’ll just— watch. Until you need me.” “I always need you. It is the anchor I would do without.” He sighed. “Is it so terrible, having me at your side?” she asked. “No,” he laughed. “It is everything I’ve wanted for years.” His smile faded. “But things will likely become— chaotic.” “That is nothing unusual for us,” she said. He touched her face again, his fingers slipping over the warm skin of her jaw. “Some will stare. Some have never seen the anchor. And some— some remember the fate of another who bore an Evanuris’s mark. I would spare you that sorrow. They will not see you as I do.” She closed her eyes and pressed his hand against her cheek. “No one sees me as you do. I did not have to come to Arlathan to know that.” “It is still cold,” he told her. She laughed. “That is your objection? Am I one of Vivienne’s expensive plants? Have I never endured cold? Is it truly a concern?” He shrugged with a smile. “Not truly. But your objections always come in threes. I thought it best to continue the tradition. You— don’t have to do this.” “I know,” she said. She kissed him, held him close a second after. “Never think I am here against my will. There is no compulsion, unless it is love.”

 The meeting was as bad as he’d expected, a mix of shock and anger and hope. Abelas did far more to convince them than Solas had expected, anticipating some lingering reluctance. “You have prepared well for this battle,” Abelas had said. “When I arrived here, I feared for you. I believed that sending you against the Evanuris was like asking wheat to stand before the sickle. That is no longer my fear. These past few months, I began to worry that you had trained too well. No longer will you buckle before the Evanuris. I think there may be a few among you who might have been numbered among their ranks. Feynriel, Aneirin— you may find your power grown exponentially when the Veil is gone. I have hope that you can match even Falon’din in combat. But—” he sighed. “With hope against our ancient betrayers, a new terror began to grow within me. Even if we survived the Evanuris, the battle would still not be won. For behind them waits the blight.” He spread his arms out to indicate the windy, snow laden plain of Andruil’s blighted land. “This was the work of a few seasons. It has had millennia to grow, checked only by the Veil itself. But I do not need to educate you on its dangers. In this, especially, you are as knowledgeable as any. And there was no way to stem it. I wondered, for a time, if it were kinder to have left you untrained. Unaware. It would be quicker. Instead, I feared, you would linger and suffer. That I would have to turn my magic against you as you succumbed to the blight. Or that you would have to turn your blades upon me. I know this is something Solas has feared for far longer than I. We have a way now, a chance to thwart the darkspawn and the Evanuris with the same blow. But the sacrifice required to achieve it is heavy, indeed.” Abelas’s gaze flickered over him and then back to the crowd of people. “Alas, I cannot stand at your side to make it with you.”

A ripple of unease swept through the people. A few shouts. One man pointed to the Inquisitor. “It’s her isn’t it? All this madness is because of her.” Solas’s fingernails bit into his staff, but he remained silent. It needed to be said. And turned aside, defeated, this ugly thing some of them thought. This doubt he sometimes shared about his own decisions. “No,” said Abelas sternly, but the Inquisitor took a step toward him, touched his shoulder and he subsided. “Yes,” she said. “It is because of me. I should have returned the orb to So— Fen’harel after the battle with Corypheus. With it, perhaps we could have avoided the worst of what’s to come. But…” He felt the faintest tug of her magic, a tiny flicker seeking reassurance, all she could muster without dropping the wards.

“But it did not survive the battle,” she continued. He shut his eyes, a flash of the boulder hanging above them and her voice pleading with him to just take it, to take it and leave her. “Ir abelas. Ar laima.” Her voice cracked and sunk below the harsh wind. Abelas touched her shoulder. Solas longed to see her face, to know if she truly believed the fault were hers, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “I have no claim upon you, no right to ask for your aid. I came to offer you a hope, however small, of altering the outcome. But I cannot do it alone. Only an archdemon can control the blight. To send it forth to infect us all, or to draw it back to the Deep Roads to destroy it. The Forgotten Ones know this. It is they who inhabited the ancient dragons and sent the blight to us. Testing the Veil. But it is not just any mage who can inhabit a dragon. I cannot, though I tried. Even Corypheus could only manage a poor shadow of control. I need— I need an Evanuris. And there is only one remaining that we can trust not to seize the power of the blight without the Veil to rein it in.” Now she did look over to him. “Even Mythal did not guard our people as faithfully as Fen’harel has. Wearing a thousand faces in millions of dreams, he’s watched and aided us every night for centuries. Hearing every curse, every lie that was heaped upon him and did not falter. There is no other I would ask in our darkest battle.” He fought the embarrassed heat rising in his skin. He’d told her, once, that posing was necessary. He’d be a fool not to follow his own advice, awkward and undeserving as he felt.

“You want— you want Solas to become an archdemon?” Sevren called from the crowd. “I need him to, though there is nothing I want less.” “And he agreed to this?” “I did,” said Solas, still leaning upon his staff. “But— you were meant to undo all this,” cried Feynriel. “Right the world before it goes wrong. Everything we’ve risked was to that end.” “And that is why Abelas will go in my stead.” “He is no match for the Evanuris! You send him to be slaughtered.” “For what?” cried another. “Because you can’t give up this— shem? She’s a pawn for the Chantry. A spy you let wander into our home. They sent her to destroy us.” “I am no more match for the Evanuris than Abelas. The intent was never to defeat them in war,” said Solas, ignoring the ugly backlash against the Inquisitor, though he knew it must hurt her. “He is as prepared for this as I.” He turned to Abelas.   “I have no wish to send you anywhere. If this is not the better plan— if you have only chosen this to please me, speak plainly. I know the word of an Evanuris is worthless, but it is all that I have to give. If you wish to stay, I will take no retribution.” Abelas smiled, broad and startling, especially here. “I do not fear you, Solas,” he said. “This is my choice. An opportunity for justice so complete that the crime will never happen. A chance to reunite with those we’ve lost, those I’ve mourned for so many lifetimes. A way to find each of you in that other world and guard you from harm if I can. Do not grieve for me. I will not fail you.”

“I don’t understand,” called a voice from the back. “You want to become an archdemon and then— what? Send the darkspawn against the other Evanuris?” “No, lethallin,” said Solas. “The Evanuris are tainted as well. If we do not stop them, they are likely to twist the blight to their own ends and send it against us. I will not be able to turn it against them. But they may heed the Calling, if we act quickly. They will be disoriented after their long slumber. We have a hope that they will be drawn by a recognizable magic.” “But to bring them together— we cannot fight the Evanuris and the blight at once. We are less than ten thousand— most of us have never cast a single spell or fought a real battle,” said Sevren. “You are not alone,” said the Inquisitor. “The Gray Wardens and the Legion of the Dead stand ready to help us fight the darkspawn and Tevinter is preparing for the return of the Evanuris, though they do not yet know it.” “Of course you would bring more Shemlen here. I had heard you were driven from your clan,” sneered a voice deep in the crowd. “Now we know why. You’d betray us all when the moment is most dire. What did they promise you?” Solas scanned the crowd, looking for the hateful face among them. But the Inquisitor was calm. “Aren’t the Shemlen part of this world, as well as we? Haven’t they as much reason to fight the blight? Why would I turn away aid?” “They’ll betray us, just as they did Shartan.” “Maybe,” admitted the Inquisitor. “Should we fall instead of risk it? Succumb to the tide of darkspawn and be annihilated   rather than allow those who might fight beside us through the gates into a ruined city? Whatever this place was— whoever we were, it will mean nothing if none of us remain. But it is not my decision to make. I only wished to tell you that allies were ready to stand with you, if you choose.” Her words left a long silence in their wake.

“But why do you need Solas?” asked Feynriel at last. “Why an archdemon? If we draw the darkspawn to one spot, they will only overwhelm us faster. Even the Wardens and the Legion and all the magisterium cannot hope to stand against such a horde.” “I hope you won’t have to. The anchor is a powerful weapon, but it will not destroy them all, not even gathered as we intend. If I can eliminate enough of them though, perhaps you will have some hope of surviving the remnants.” “The anchor? You could not even eliminate a single company of Qunari without Solas’s aid. How do you expect it to wipe out the darkspawn?” “I was fighting it then. I didn’t understand how to control it. I have had much practice since then. And it is stronger.” “It will be stronger still, when the Veil falls,” said Abelas. “The Inqu— Lavellan has not earned your doubts. If the anchor had not been unstable, she would have stopped the Qunari. I was there. I have seen her fight. And I have seen what the anchor was capable of— even before it spread. After reading her research and knowing the fate of Elgar’nan’s anchor, I have little doubt that should she reach the center of the horde before it erupts, it will tip the balance in our favor.” “You will not survive,” said Sevren. “No. But I will not survive whether I am deep in the belly of a titan or up here, fighting the Evanuris. At least in the titan, the anchor cannot threaten my friends.” “And Solas? Will he survive?” She shook her head and he gave in, closing the distance between them, slipping his hand over hers in front of them all. “It’s not such a terrible price,” he said. “The lives of two elves against the whole world.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She smothered a cry, but a few tears escaped her, glittering in the icy sunlight. “How long do we have?” asked Feynriel. “Soldiers are not easy to move and the weather hasn’t broken. The Wardens and the Legion may be able to move with more ease, but Tevinter will not. I would like to make the most of our remaining time with the three of you.” There were some angry protests that Abelas attempted to quell. Solas glanced at the Inquisitor’s face. He was uncertain how quickly the anchor would continue to spread. They may have to make an attempt before Tevinter arrived or else lose her before the crucial moment. He choked on the idea that her life had diminished now to days. To countable breaths. The Inquisitor recoiled as someone shouted at her, releasing his hand and stepping back. Solas frowned and turned his attention back to his people. He did not like to intervene, even in their anger. It felt too far, too much like an attempt to control them. Too close to what he despised the other Evanuris for. But it was hurting her. And dividing them. It helped no one to allow it to continue. He pulled her gently behind him. “Ir abelas,” he muttered. “Do not apologize. They love you, Solas. They are only trying to protect you and Abelas,” she said, but stayed in his shadow, her fingers resting light and warm upon his back. The crowd began to get heated, shouts and insults rising above the general tumult. Abelas was trying to calm them, but his face was stony and frustrated. He would soon lose his temper.

“Enough!” Solas boomed. He hated the terror that crossed some of their faces, the tiny flinch in the Inquisitor’s fingers— even her, who had seen him angry, who fought with him and loved him anyway, even she was not immune to the sudden shift in his manner. He pressed it away, something to soothe later. “I did not call this conference to ask permission. I have chosen to aid the Inquisitor because the plan is sound. And Abelas has chosen to act in my stead when the Veil falls. You are free, as always, to help me or abandon me. But it will not alter my decision. Nor my need to aid you, if I can. It never has before.”

[ceruszael]

Burdens of Power

Following the evening’s events, Ceruszael found himself traveling south from Stormwind to beneath the shadowed boughs of Duskwood. Part of him felt something akin to guilt for leaving Adhelin to deal with the remainder of the House personnel circulating the embassy, but not enough to prevent his departure. The Ebon Knight walked the distance across Elwynn and the Nazferiti River. He needed the time to sort out his thoughts, as they were rather beyond the norm. Ceruszael was given to pondering the nature of undeath, philosophical viewpoints surrounding the Scourge, Acherus, and their interactions with the living. He dwelled on the benefits of the wars various factions engaged in when weighed against their costs. He contemplated his own position within the Alliance, when in truth he owed more kinship to the Forsaken in Lordaeron. All of these thoughts, however, were tied to his current existence. As evening turned to night he found himself instead contemplating his past.

The cause, he knew, was the issue brought to him concerning Percival Thalsian and Sarahni Rennith. Mere days after Adhelin announced his position as Castellan of the House he was forced to wield the authority of such a position to mediate conflict. One claimed to be assaulted by the other, who in turn objects to any involvement. Such was the hubris of the living that whichever one was at fault was not only at ease lying to Ceruszael’s face, but to their Matriarch’s. Ample opportunity had been given for the truth to emerge without investigation or interrogation. It seemed, however, that whichever one was guilty of deception was content in obfuscation.

Ceruszael’s methods for unearthing the truth by force had been denied, as he suspected they would. That in and of itself implied a measure of guilt, but could almost as easily be interpreted another way. Percival and Sarahni both were well versed in mystical arts, though he had conceded to interrogation by banshee possession while she refused.. The former was arrogant enough, perhaps rightly so, to assume himself capable of deceiving the banshee to reinforce his claims. The latter was cautious enough to truly wish to avoid the risks involved in this method. Consent had been required, however. He very much doubted if such methods were forced upon them that it would remain House business, even if others within the House could be made to see his reasons for employing them. At length, Adhelin decided on trial by peers. It may yield success. It may not. In a House not unused to shrouded secrets and double dealings, it was difficult to tell.

Shaking his head, the Castellan took a moment to regard his surroundings. Ceaseless steps had carried him to the Raven Hill Cemetery. Mindless creatures of the dead wandered around him, recognizing perhaps on a primal level the presence of an apex predator of their breed and giving him a wide berth. To a point this made them more respectable than the fools he had dealt with earlier. Ghouls, geists, and skeletal constructs had no ambitions to override good sense, no arrogance to blind them, no ulterior motives to justify deception and betrayal. Yet this was due to mindless subservience. To recognize them as worthy of respect or admiration, they should have had the potential for ambition, arrogance, or motivation and yet overcame them for the greater cause they had aligned to.

As we used to.

Ceruszael remembered the Lordaeron of his life. Before the Scourge. Before demonkind ravaged the land and lay siege to the World Tree. He recalled the unbreakable code of honor binding those of his deceased household and those allies they had made. The institutions and systems put in place to ensure unbiased judgement when tribunals were forced to mete out justice. These did not break under their own weight. They were not misused and tarnished by corruption. An outside force rampaged through the kingdom, laying low all who crossed its path. Betrayal had killed the man who was now Ceruszael but it was a betrayal of men seduced by power, not the failings of his family’s legacy. Dragon banners flew over armies who marched against the damned. Those sworn to it, or trained beneath it, gave their lives. Others who thought themselves above it had injected themselves as a venom which had been realized all too late.

If only we had survived. If only we had endured.

Teeth grit in anger, Ceruszael turn his head skyward and unleashed a pained cry of frustration. Duskwood’s shadows coalesced in his rage, forming over his crimson warplate to replace it with segmented armor of shifting darkness. Spectral blue wisps of lichfire were replaced with a writhing baleful amber tones. The dead nearest the Ebon Knight were lifted into the air, spines arched and mouths agape in a silent howl of unimaginable agony as the same dreadful magics bled from within them. The whole scene held in eerie silence for a handful of seconds as discipline and control gave way to a raw expression of ire. Its end came with the utter obliteration of the dead caught on Ceruszael’s wrath. Their decayed forms were slammed against the ground, bones shattering and exploding in all directions as flesh disintegrated to ash and bound spirits shrieked their last, banished from torment on Azeroth to whatever horrors lay beyond. Darkness dispersed from the Ebon Knight, leaving him again armored in crimson with trailing ethereal teal contrails clinging to his form.

Moments passed with his eyes closed as the Castellan composed himself once more. At length he turned to depart the cemetery, unconcerned at the signs of his passing. Latent unquiet spirits would once more animate the shattered forms he left behind. They would again wander without path or purpose, feral and restless. He would return to Stormwind to carry out the duties he shouldered willingly. Perhaps a measure of wisdom from his life could be injected into this madness. If not, the least he could be certain of was that punishment would be delivered to mitigate the chances of this madness repeating in the future.

((Tag Lineup: @adhelin @thalsianiii @sarahnirennith @householt for mentions.))

[readbookywooks]

Catelyn

It was full dark before they found the village. Catelyn found herself wondering if the place had a name. If so, its people had taken that knowledge with them when they fled, along with all they owned, down to the candles in the sept. Ser Wendel lit a torch and led her through the low door.

Within, the seven walls were cracked and crooked. God is one, Septon Osmynd had taught her when she was a girl, with seven aspects, as the sept is a single building, with seven walls. The wealthy septs of the cities had statues of the Seven and an altar to each. In Winterfell, Septon Chayle hung carved masks from each wall. Here Catelyn found only rough charcoal drawings. Ser Wendel set the torch in a sconce near the door, and left to wait outside with Robar Royce.

Catelyn studied the faces. The Father was bearded, as ever. The Mother smiled, loving and protective. The Warrior had his sword sketched in beneath his face, the Smith his hammer. The Maid was beautiful, the Crone wizened and wise.

And the seventh face . . . the Stranger was neither male nor female, yet both, ever the outcast, the wanderer from far places, less and more than human, unknown and unknowable. Here the face was a black oval, a shadow with stars for eyes. It made Catelyn uneasy. She would get scant comfort there.

She knelt before the Mother. "My lady, look down on this battle with a mother's eyes. They are all sons, every one. Spare them if you can, and spare my own sons as well. Watch over Robb and Bran and Rickon. Would that I were with them."

A crack ran down through the Mother's left eye. It made her look as if she were crying. Catelyn could hear Ser Wendel's booming voice, and now and again Ser Robar's quiet answers, as they talked of the coming battle. Otherwise the night was still. Not even a cricket could be heard, and the gods kept their silence. Did your old gods ever answer you, Ned? she wondered. When you knelt before your heart tree, did they hear you?

Flickering torchlight danced across the walls, making the faces seem half alive, twisting them, changing them. The statues in the great septs of the cities wore the faces the stonemasons had given them, but these charcoal scratchings were so crude they might be anyone. The Father's face made her think of her own father, dying in his bed at Riverrun. The Warrior was Renly and Stannis, Robb and Robert, Jaime Lannister and Jon Snow. She even glimpsed Arya in those lines, just for an instant. Then a gust of wind through the door made the torch sputter, and the semblance was gone, washed away in orange glare.

The smoke was making her eyes burn. She rubbed at them with the heels of her scarred hands. When she looked up at the Mother again, it was her own mother she saw. Lady Minisa Tully had died in childbed, trying to give Lord Hoster a second son. The baby had perished with her, and afterward some of the life had gone out of Father. She was always so calm, Catelyn thought, remembering her mother's soft hands, her warm smile. If she had lived, how different our lives might have been. She wondered what Lady Minisa would make of her eldest daughter, kneeling here before her. I have come so many thousands of leagues, and for what? Who have I served? I have lost my daughters, Robb does not want me, and Bran and Rickon must surely think me a cold and unnatural mother. I was not even with Ned when he died . . .

Her head swam, and the sept seemed to move around her. The shadows swayed and shifted, furtive animals racing across the cracked white walls. Catelyn had not eaten today. Perhaps that had been unwise. She told herself that there had been no time, but the truth was that food had lost its savor in a world without Ned. When they took his head off, they killed me too.

Behind her the torch spit, and suddenly it seemed to her that it was her sister's face on the wall, though the eyes were harder than she recalled, not Lysa's eyes but Cersei's. Cersei is a mother too. No matter who fathered those children, she felt them kick inside her, brought them forth with her pain and blood, nursed them at her breast. If they are truly Jaime's . . .

"Does Cersei pray to you too, my lady?" Catelyn asked the Mother. She could see the proud, cold, lovely features of the Lannister queen etched upon the wall. The crack was still there; even Cersei could weep for her children. "Each of the Seven embodies all of the Seven," Septon Osmynd had told her once. There was as much beauty in the Crone as in the Maiden, and the Mother could be fiercer than the Warrior when her children were in danger. Yes . . .

She had seen enough of Robert Baratheon at Winterfell to know that the king did not regard Joffrey with any great warmth. If the boy was truly Jaime's seed, Robert would have put him to death along with his mother, and few would have condemned him. Bastards were common enough, but incest was a monstrous sin to both old gods and new, and the children of such wickedness were named abominations in sept and godswood alike. The dragon kings had wed brother to sister, but they were the blood of old Valyria where such practices had been common, and like their dragons the Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men.

Ned must have known, and Lord Arryn before him. Small wonder that the queen had killed them both. Would I do any less for my own? Catelyn clenched her hands, feeling the tightness in her scarred fingers where the assassin's steel had cut to the bone as she fought to save her son. "Bran knows too," she whispered, lowering her head. Gods be good, he must have seen something, heard something, that was why they tried to kill him in his bed.

Lost and weary, Catelyn Stark gave herself over to her gods. She knelt before the Smith, who fixed things that were broken, and asked that he give her sweet Bran his protection. She went to the Maid and beseeched her to lend her courage to Arya and Sansa, to guard them in their innocence. To the Father, she prayed for justice, the strength to seek it and the wisdom to know it, and she asked the Warrior to keep Robb strong and shield him in his battles. Lastly she turned to the Crone, whose statues often showed her with a lamp in one hand. "Guide me, wise lady," she prayed. "Show me the path I must walk, and do not let me stumble in the dark places that lie ahead."

Finally there were footsteps behind her, and a noise at the door. "My lady," Ser Robar said gently, "pardon, but our time is at an end. We must be back before the dawn breaks."

Catelyn rose stiffly. Her knees ached, and she would have given much for a featherbed and a pillow just then. "Thank you, ser. I am ready."

They rode in silence through sparse woodland where the trees leaned drunkenly away from the sea. The nervous whinny of horses and the clank of steel guided them back to Renly's camp. The long ranks of man and horse were armored in darkness, as black as if the Smith had hammered night itself into steel. There were banners to her right, banners to her left, and rank on rank of banners before her, but in the predawn gloom, neither colors nor sigils could be discerned. A grey army, Catelyn thought. Grey men on grey horses beneath grey banners. As they sat their horses waiting, Renly's shadow knights pointed their lances upward, so she rode through a forest of tall naked trees, bereft of leaves and life. Where Storm's End stood was only a deeper darkness, a wall of black through which no stars could shine, but she could see torches moving across the fields where Lord Stannis had made his camp.

The candles within Renly's pavilion made the shimmering silken walls seem to glow, transforming the great tent into a magical castle alive with emerald light. Two of the Rainbow Guard stood sentry at the door to the royal pavilion. The green light shone strangely against the purple plums of Ser Parmen's surcoat, and gave a sickly hue to the sunflowers that covered every inch of Ser Emmon's enameled yellow plate. Long silken plumes flew from their helms, and rainbow cloaks draped their shoulders.

Within, Catelyn found Brienne armoring the king for battle while the Lords Tarly and Rowan spoke of dispositions and tactics. It was pleasantly warm inside, the heat shimmering off the coals in a dozen small iron braziers. "I must speak with you, Your Grace," she said, granting him a king's style for once, anything to make him heed her.

"In a moment, Lady Catelyn," Renly replied. Brienne fit backplate to breastplate over his quilted tunic. The king's armor was a deep green, the green of leaves in a summer wood, so dark it drank the candlelight. Gold highlights gleamed from inlay and fastenings like distant fires in that wood, winking every time he moved. "Pray continue, Lord Mathis."

"Your Grace," Mathis Rowan said with a sideways glance at Catelyn. "As I was saying, our battles are well drawn up. Why wait for daybreak? Sound the advance."

"And have it said that I won by treachery, with an unchivalrous attack? Dawn was the chosen hour."

"Chosen by Stannis," Randyll Tarly pointed out. "He'd have us charge into the teeth of the rising sun. We'll be half-blind."

"Only until first shock," Renly said confidently. "Ser Loras will break them, and after that it will be chaos." Brienne tightened green leather straps and buckled golden buckles. "When my brother falls, see that no insult is done to his corpse. He is my own blood, I will not have his head paraded about on a spear."

"And if he yields?" Lord Tarly asked.

"Yields?" Lord Rowan laughed. "When Mace Tyrell laid siege to Storm's End, Stannis ate rats rather than open his gates."

"Well I remember." Renly lifted his chin to allow Brienne to fasten his gorget in place. "Near the end, Ser Gawen Wylde and three of his knights tried to steal out a postern gate to surrender. Stannis caught them and ordered them flung from the walls with catapults. I can still see Gawen's face as they strapped him down. He had been our master-at-arms."

Lord Rowan appeared puzzled. "No men were hurled from the walls. I would surely remember that."

"Maester Cressen told Stannis that we might be forced to eat our dead, and there was no gain in flinging away good meat." Renly pushed back his hair. Brienne bound it with a velvet tie and pulled a padded cap down over his ears, to cushion the weight of his helm. "Thanks to the Onion Knight we were never reduced to dining on corpses, but it was a close thing. Too close for Ser Gawen, who died in his cell."

"Your Grace." Catelyn had waited patiently, but time grew short. "You promised me a word."

Renly nodded. "See to your battles, my lords . . . oh, and if Barristan Selmy is at my brother's side, I want him spared."

"There's been no word of Ser Barristan since Joffrey cast him out," Lord Rowan objected.

"I know that old man. He needs a king to guard, or who is he? Yet he never came to me, and Lady Catelyn says he is not with Robb Stark at Riverrun. Where else but with Stannis?"

"As you say, Your Grace. No harm will come to him." The lords bowed deeply and departed.

"Say your say, Lady Stark," Renly said. Brienne swept his cloak over his broad shoulders. It was cloth-of-gold, heavy, with the crowned stag of Baratheon picked out in flakes of jet.

"The Lannisters tried to kill my son Bran. A thousand times I have asked myself why. Your brother gave me my answer. There was a hunt the day he fell. Robert and Ned and most of the other men rode out after boar, but Jaime Lannister remained at Winterfell, as did the queen."

Renly was not slow to take the implication. "So you believe the boy caught them at their incest . . . "

"I beg you, my lord, grant me leave to go to your brother Stannis and tell him what I suspect."

"To what end?"

"Robb will set aside his crown if you and your brother will do the same," she said, hoping it was true. She would make it true if she must; Robb would listen to her, even if his lords would not. "Let the three of you call for a Great Council, such as the realm has not seen for a hundred years. We will send to Winterfell, so Bran may tell his tale and all men may know the Lannisters for the true usurpers. Let the assembled lords of the Seven Kingdoms choose who shall rule them."

Renly laughed. "Tell me, my lady, do direwolves vote on who should lead the pack?" Brienne brought the king's gauntlets and greathelm, crowned with golden antlers that would add a foot and a half to his height. "The time for talk is done. Now we see who is stronger." Renly pulled a lobstered green-and-gold gauntlet over his left hand, while Brienne knelt to buckle on his belt, heavy with the weight of longsword and dagger.

"I beg you in the name of the Mother," Catelyn began when a sudden gust of wind flung open the door of the tent. She thought she glimpsed movement, but when she turned her head, it was only the king's shadow shifting against the silken walls. She heard Renly begin a jest, his shadow moving, lifting its sword, black on green, candles guttering, shivering, something was queer, wrong, and then she saw Renly's sword still in its scabbard, sheathed still, but the shadowsword . . .

"Cold," said Renly in a small puzzled voice, a heartbeat before the steel of his gorget parted like cheesecloth beneath the shadow of a blade that was not there. He had time to make a small thick gasp before the blood came gushing out of his throat.

"Your Gr—no!" cried Brienne the Blue when she saw that evil flow, sounding as scared as any little girl. The king stumbled into her arms, a sheet of blood creeping down the front of his armor, a dark red tide that drowned his green and gold. More candles guttered out. Renly tried to speak, but he was choking on his own blood. His legs collapsed, and only Brienne's strength held him up. She threw back her head and screamed, wordless in her anguish.

The shadow. Something dark and evil had happened here, she knew, something that she could not begin to understand. Renly never cast that shadow. Death came in that door and blew the life out of him as swift as the wind snuffed out his candles.

Only a few instants passed before Robar Royce and Emmon Cuy came bursting in, though it felt like half the night. A pair of men-at-arms crowded in behind with torches. When they saw Renly in Brienne's arms, and her drenched with the king's blood, Ser Robar gave a cry of horror. "Wicked woman!" screamed Ser Emmon, he of the sunflowered steel. "Away from him, you vile creature!"

"Gods be good, Brienne, why?" asked Ser Robar.

Brienne looked up from her king's body. The rainbow cloak that hung from her shoulders had turned red where the king's blood had soaked into the cloth. "I . . . I . . . "

"You'll die for this." Ser Emmon snatched up a long-handled battleaxe from the weapons piled near the door. "You'll pay for the king's life with your own!"

"NO!" Catelyn Stark screamed, finding her voice at last, but it was too late, the blood madness was on them, and they rushed forward with shouts that drowned her softer words.

Brienne moved faster than Catelyn would have believed. Her own sword was not to hand, so she snatched Renly's from its scabbard and raised it to catch Emmon's axe on the downswing. A spark flashed blue-white as steel met steel with a rending crash, and Brienne sprang to her feet, the body of the dead king thrust rudely aside. Ser Emmon stumbled over it as he tried to close, and Brienne's blade sheared through the wooden haft to send his axehead spinning. Another man thrust a flaming torch at her back, but the rainbow cloak was too sodden with blood to burn. Brienne spun and cut, and torch and hand went flying. Flames crept across the carpet. The maimed man began to scream. Ser Emmon dropped the axe and fumbled for his sword. The second man-at-arms lunged, Brienne parried, and their swords danced and clanged against each other. When Emmon Cuy came wading back in, Brienne was forced to retreat, yet somehow she held them both at bay. On the ground, Renly's head rolled sickeningly to one side, and a second mouth yawned wide, the blood coming from him now in slow pulses.

Ser Robar had hung back, uncertain, but now he was reaching for his hilt. "Robar, no, listen." Catelyn seized his arm. "You do her wrong, it was not her. Help her! Hear me, it was Stannis." The name was on her lips before she could think how it got there, but as she said it, she knew that it was true. "I swear it, you know me, it was Stannis killed him."

The young rainbow knight stared at this madwoman with pale and frightened eyes. "Stannis? How?"

"I do not know. Sorcery, some dark magic, there was a shadow, a shadow." Her own voice sounded wild and crazed to her, but the words poured out in a rush as the blades continued to clash behind her. "A shadow with a sword, I swear it, I saw. Are you blind, the girl loved him! Help her!" She glanced back, saw the second guardsman fall, his blade dropping from limp fingers. Outside there was shouting. More angry men would be bursting in on them any instant, she knew. "She is innocent, Robar. You have my word, on my husband's grave and my honor as a Stark!"

That resolved him. "I will hold them," Ser Robar said. "Get her away." He turned and went out.

The fire had reached the wall and was creeping up the side of the tent. Ser Emmon was pressing Brienne hard, him in his enameled yellow steel and her in wool. He had forgotten Catelyn, until the iron brazier came crashing into the back of his head. Helmed as he was, the blow did no lasting harm, but it sent him to his knees. "Brienne, with me," Catelyn commanded. The girl was not slow to see the chance. A slash, and the green silk parted. They stepped out into darkness and the chill of dawn. Loud voices came from the other side of the pavilion. "This way," Catelyn urged, "and slowly. We must not run, or they will ask why. Walk easy, as if nothing were amiss."

Brienne thrust her sword blade through her belt and fell in beside Catelyn. The night air smelled of rain. Behind them, the king's pavilion was well ablaze, flames rising high against the dark. No one made any move to stop them. Men rushed past them, shouting of fire and murder and sorcery. Others stood in small groups and spoke in low voices. A few were praying, and one young squire was on his knees, sobbing openly.

Renly's battles were already coming apart as the rumors spread from mouth to mouth. The nightfires had burned low, and as the east began to lighten the immense mass of Storm's End emerged like a dream of stone while wisps of pale mist raced across the field, flying from the sun on wings of wind. Morning ghosts, she had heard Old Nan call them once, spirits returning to their graves. And Renly one of them now, gone like his brother Robert, like her own dear Ned.

"I never held him but as he died," Brienne said quietly as they walked through the spreading chaos. Her voice sounded as if she might break at any instant. "He was laughing one moment, and suddenly the blood was everywhere . . . my lady, I do not understand. Did you see, did you . . . ?"

"I saw a shadow. I thought it was Renly's shadow at the first, but it was his brother's."

"Lord Stannis?"

"I felt him. It makes no sense, I know . . . "

It made sense enough for Brienne. "I will kill him," the tall homely girl declared. "With my lord's own sword, I will kill him. I swear it. I swear it. I swear it."

Hal Mollen and the rest of her escort were waiting with the horses. Ser Wendel Manderly was all in a lather to know what was happening. "My lady, the camp has gone mad," he blurted when he saw them. "Lord Renly, is he—" He stopped suddenly, staring at Brienne and the blood that drenched her.

"Dead, but not by our hands."

"The battle—" Hal Mollen began.

"There will be no battle." Catelyn mounted, and her escort formed up about her, with Ser Wendel to her left and Ser Perwyn Frey on her right. "Brienne, we brought mounts enough for twice our number. Choose one, and come with us."

"I have my own horse, my lady. And my armor—"

"Leave them. We must be well away before they think to look for us. We were both with the king when he was killed. That will not be forgotten." Wordless, Brienne turned and did as she was bid. "Ride," Catelyn commanded her escort when they were all ahorse. "If any man tries to stop us, cut him down."

As the long fingers of dawn fanned across the fields, color was returning to the world. Where grey men had sat grey horses armed with shadow spears, the points of ten thousand lances now glinted silverly cold, and on the myriad flapping banners Catelyn saw the blush of red and pink and orange, the richness of blues and browns, the blaze of gold and yellow. All the power of Storm's End and Highgarden, the power that had been Renly's an hour ago. They belong to Stannis now, she realized, even if they do not know it themselves yet. Where else are they to turn, if not to the last Baratheon? Stannis has won all with a single evil stroke.

I am the rightful king, he had declared, his jaw clenched hard as iron, and your son no less a traitor than my brother here. His day will come as well.