#He might wreak havoc with a little more vigor

[i-just-like-crk]

How would Shadow Milk feel if his lover, that went against him during his corruption, and he's so so so so elated (in Shadow Milk's batshit level of elated) to see again, crumbled while waiting in front of the Silver Tree?

Woe is this jester, I love angst

- 🍡

He’s… surprised. Perhaps even a little devastated.

Despite everything you’ve done, he’s never imagined a future without you in it. What is he supposed to do now? One of the driving factors of his desire for freedom is gone. He’s at a loss.

… But only for a moment.

Once he processes your death, he tuts to himself.

It truly is a shame.

[sunoorintarou]

𝐃𝐚𝐲 1: 𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 3𝐬: 𝐄𝐧𝐡𝐚 02𝐳

Warnings: Vampires, blood, slight stalking ig, implied kidnapping, nothing too detailed and serious, just 02z being,,, normal vampires?

Since your childhood, you've been told time and time again by your grandmother that troubles comes in threes. You had always assumed she meant you and your two siblings or even her daughter, your mother, and her two siblings who also had three children each but now you're at an age where you're starting to believe that she was, perhaps, right. Especially considering the 3 vampires, yes, as in the undead eternally living creatures said to suck the blood of the living, that stood in front of you and seemed like nothing but absolute trouble.

You may be wondering how you got into this situation, well, it wasn't a silly dare to visit some abandoned place or some sketchy transfer student love story where you decided to befriend them regardless of all the red lights, followed by blue lights, then followed by a loud wee woo wee woo sound that was almost impossible to ignore. In fact, you considered yourself quite a smart, rational person.

When the boys had moved in next door to you, you swore yourself off interacting with them simply because of the horrible feeling in your chest whenever you were near them. There was something, off, about these boys. Other than the fact they seemed to be the typical partying play boys you despised. You had assumed, incorrectly, that it would be easy to avoid them considering you rarely left your house, your friends often coming to visit you instead knowing your house bound nature. But one Saturday morning you had walked down the stairs to greet your parents (your siblings were still asleep) and lo and behold there at the table sat with them were the very boys you had been avoiding like the plague. Despite your panicked glances and vigorous head - shaking, you mother seemed oblivious to your obvious attempt at escaping and instead sat you down before making you introduce yourself.

The intimidating one with the short black hair that specialized in sweet talking which your mother seemed to have fallen for hook, line and sinker was Jay, the overly friendly one with the longer black hair and calm demeanour who reminded you of your grandmother's golden retriever was Jake, and the tall cocky one who seemed confident, too confident actually, with the oddly sharp teeth that kept staring at you was Sunghoon. A match made down below you'd say.

You were constantly on edge during what you'd name as the worst breakfast of your life trying to eat as quickly as possible while avoiding conversation. Your mother apologized for your behavior before explaining, "She's always like that." to which you received a chorus of understanding words and "comforting smiles."

Maybe you were being irrational or rude, but you've watched enough horror movies to realise that once you think of, "giving them a chance, you might have them all wrong," you'd be a goner. Your gut has never lied to you to this day so you therefore had no reason to doubt it.

After that day however, it seemed as though they were everywhere you went. When you walked outside to fetch the newspaper, Jake just so happened to be in their yard playing with his dog and trying to make conversation which you skillfully dodged. When you had got home from school, you almost had a heart attack seeing Jay in the kitchen helping your mother fix dinner while she praised his cooking skills and kindness, not seeing the glint in his eyes that gave you chills. When you had gone to the library to study, Sunghoon just so happened to be there too, sitting next to you and greeting you before stealing constant glances at you as you attempted to study. And of course the one time you decided to go out to a cafe with your friends, Minju had mentioned that a group of boys sitting at the back of the cafe were staring at you and asked if you knew them. And of course it was your neighbours you were quite frankly sick of seeing. Where were their parents? Shouldn't they be more concerned about their not so little monsters running around and wreaking havoc!

And now that leads to today. Your friend's older brother, Jaemin, had insisted he drop you off at home after staying late at their house to study. You weren't going to deny a ride over walking home in the dark and agreed happily, making light conversation until you arrived home. Jaemin had always been a sweetheart so you didn't mind spending time with him.

However, when you got home, the lights were off and you immediately paused, even though you knew your family wasn't home, they'd still always leave the lights on for you. You immediately walked to the door, scared to see it already unlocked and fumbled for your phone, calling your sister Yeji.

"Y/n? Are you OK? Did Hyunjin eat all the sweets I left for you-"

"D- did you guys leave the door unlocked?"

"Why would the door be unlocked- Oh! Hyunjin was supposed to lock up and meet us here, but he's with his girlfriend and hasn't come here yet, knowing him, he probably forgot because he was too occupied with her."

"Oh, yeah OK, OK."

"Why? Is something the matter? If there's a problem, I can call him and tell him to pick you up?"

"No- actually, yes, yes please, I have a bad feeling about this."

"OK, I'll phone him, I promise it will only take a second, then I'll phone you back, please stay safe."

You nodded, feet planted on your doorstep as you rushed to call Minju, knowing your best bet was to stay on the phone with someone at all times in case anything happened. In a split second however, your phone was gone and you felt a presence behind you. Your heart rammed against your rib cage as though it were trying to escape the confines of your chest before you whirled around, coming face to face with the trio that had been terrorizing you.

Sunghoon held your phone in his hand, he, Jay and Jake watching as your kept your face nonchalant, eyes barely wider than usual.

But what did make your eyes widen was the mysterious red stains on their clothes and skin as you scanned their forms. Your mind raced at a thousand miles an hour, wondering if you had been living next to a group of serial killers this entire time, until you noticed their irises turn a scarlet red and Sunghoon's fangs glint in the moonlight. You had always been a believer of the supernatural, so your natural assumption was-

"Vampires. You're all vampires."

The trio seemed impressed by your answer, Jake letting out a chuckle before patting your head lightly. You couldn't move, the sheer shock and adrenaline coursing through your veins as your body made the fatal decision to neither fight nor flight but to freeze.

"She actually got it right, I'm impressed." He grinned, the other two nodding in agreement.

"She seemed to be on the smarter side, at least a little smarter than the others." Sunghoon chimed.

The sound of Hyunjin's car driving up the street became louder and louder. You hoped and prayed he'd be able to get here before anything happened, but unfortunately for you, the trio had other plans.

"Oh, looks like we might get interrupted. But what's the rush, let's take our time and explain things to her. But for now, goodnight princess."

You were confused, ready to object to Jay's words but before you could do anything, everything turned dark and your mind doubted you'd ever see the light of day anytime soon.

[frunbuns]

Almost Home

Modern AU

Read on Ao3

I was just a kid

Dreams were looking big and then I had to grow up

No one ever says

All the love you give might not be enough

Broke my heart in two a couple times

Before it hurt too much

Obi-Wan has been sitting in the car for hours. It’s brand new. Still smells like it even though he’s had it for a while now. Something about insurance. He can’t quite remember what it was, but Mace had taken care of it for him. He hasn’t used it. This is the first time he’s ever been in it. Since getting discharged from the hospital.

It’s a nice car. Maybe he would have liked it if it was before. Though he’s never been quite good with cars. As long as it worked he never thought all that much about it.

The keys are not even in the ignition. He’s got his seatbelt on, his hands clutching the steering wheel, but that’s about it. He hasn’t even turned on the radio. He’s actually not quite sure how to turn it on.

He’s sure that if he wasn’t gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands would be shaking.

He needs to get going soon. Anakin is waiting for Obi-Wan to come pick him up. To finally take him home. It had all been sorted out. After a lot of fighting and arguing - and a little help from Mace and Plo - he had been allowed to take Anakin in after all. Despite his age. Despite Qui-Gon. Despite everything that had happened.

He had fought so hard for the kid, but it seemed now he had lost all his bravado. Over a car, of all things. Over a simple drive.

His heart beats quickly behind his healing ribs as he takes slow, shaky breaths. Willing himself to let go of the steering wheel. To relax.

His hands are slick with sweat when he finally lets go. He thinks he might be sick for a moment, but it passes as quickly as it came when he leans back and closes his eyes.

He wishes his father was there.

Wiping his sweaty palms off on his pants he picks his phone out of his pocket and calls the first person on his contact list. It rings a few seconds before it picks up.

“Obi-Wan?” Bant’s voice says through the speaker. “Obi-Wan, how are you? We haven’t heard from you in a while now and—”

“Can you come?” He hates how small and pathetic his voice sounds. “Please?”

He hears some shuffling on the other end. Then, “Yeah, sure. Where are you?”

Obi-Wan swallows thickly. “The car,” he says, hoping she’ll get it. “I’m in the car.”

She does. “I’ll be there in five.”

-

Grief, Obi-Wan finds, is all consuming. It takes, and it takes, and it takes until all that's left is a hollow shell if yourself. And then it takes more, as it sees fit. Until all that's left is numbness and emptiness.

It's exhausting. Carrying around all that pain by yourself. It renders you almost immobile. It's like doing the smallest movements – like walking from one room to another – sucks everything out of him. A kind of exhaustion that settles heavily in his limbs, burying deep under his skin and muscle.

It takes his breath away at times. Leaves him gasping for air almost. Because it just hurts so much.

Obi-Wan vaguely recalls their pet goldfish dying when he was little. He had cried so hard he'd nearly thrown up. It took hours before his father had managed to calm him down enough to scoop the little guy out of the tank with a tiny net.

After some coaching Obi-Wan had allowed him to flush him down the toilet. Only after assuring his son that the little fish had loved him too, as Obi-Wan had loved it. That he had been a good owner. That sometimes pets just die. That the pain he felt only meant that what he had lost had meant something.

It had calmed the raging heartbreak slightly. Enough for the two of them to give the little guy a proper funeral. He had cried the whole time, but his father kept his big, comforting hand around him the entire time as he spoke.

He had been a steady rock in a storm of chaos. Something Obi-Wan was too young to quite understand at the time.

Now, however, he's all alone. There are no big arms wrapping around him. No steady rock to his storm of chaos.

It's agony, having loved and lost. He hates it, he decides.

He's aware that he's retreated into himself a bit. That he's far from the person he was before. But if he's going to be able to wake up every morning and take care of Anakin he has to box it all away. Put on some kind of façade to keep him going.

-

Obi-Wan checks the mirror again for what must be the thousandth time that trip. Qui-Gon sighs, watching the younger man bemused. Knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel for dear life.

Outside the rain slaps against the roof of the car like bullets. Creating tracks on the windows. The wipers work overtime to keep the water at bay. In many ways it feels like driving on a river.

"There are no cars here for miles, Obi-Wan," he says. "You don't have to worry so much. Relax."

"I still think you should have been the one to drive," Obi-Wan replies.

"You're never going to get comfortable behind the wheel if you don't try. You already passed your test and you have your licence. A bit of weather will be fine."

"Maybe they shouldn't have let me–"

They drive over a hole in the asphalt and Obi-Wan startles. He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

Qui-Gon chuckles. "Relax, Obi-Wan. You’re doing fine.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. His grip on the steering wheel slackening. He nods. It’s fine. It’s just a bit of water.

-

Obi-Wan closes the door behind him, Anakin’s bag slung over his shoulder. A weary sigh leaves his lips. He can’t help but feel like he should have cleaned up a bit before he picked up Anakin. But the boy doesn’t seem to mind as he runs room to room, exploring the space.

“Woah!” he exclaims. “This is so wizard! Do you really live here?”

Obi-Wan huffs as he drops the bag on the living room floor. It feels a lot brighter than he could remember it being before he left. Bant laughs next to him.

“He’s got a lot of energy,” she says. Obi-Wan nods.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks him, quietly so only he hears.

“No,” he replies, then clears his throat. “No. We’ll be fine. Thank you.”

She smiles at him then. Almost sadly. And places the car keys in his hand. “Just give me a call if you need anything. Anything.” she says. “Any of us. We’re more than willing to help.”

Obi-Wan nods numbly.

“Bye Anakin!” she shouts down the corridor. “I’ll see you around. Take good care of your new dad for me, will you?”

“I will!” Anakin shouts back. “Goodbye, Bant!”

She chuckles and pats Obi-Wan’s back. “Take care, Obi,” she mutters to him, and then walks out, closing the door after her.

Obi-Wan sits down on the sofa, his body aching with this kind of exhaustion that doesn’t leave no matter how much he sleeps. He runs his hand over his face and just sits there for a moment, with his head in his hand. He listens half-heartedly to Anakin rummaging through the bathroom. He can’t quite bring himself to care about the mess the boy might be creating. Maybe it makes him a bad parent.

He’ll take care of it later. Later… He’s been saying that a lot lately, but later doesn’t seem to ever come. If anything it just keeps adding up. It’s like there’s a big pile of later shoved into a closet somewhere just waiting to be opened and wreak havoc.

“Obi-Wan?” a timid voice says.

Obi-Wan lifts his face from his hands and comes face to face with Anakin. He looks at the boy expectantly as he seems to hesitate.

“Are you alright?” he finally asks.

Obi-Wan sighs. “I’m fine.” Anakin looks unconvinced, but doesn’t press him, seemingly satisfied with that answer for now. “Is there anything else?”

Anakin grabs his bag of belongings and slings it over his shoulder. “Where do I sleep?”

Obi-Wan blinks. “Oh,” he says, a little confunded. “You can take my room.”

-

Obi-Wan comes to, to the sound of static. His head hurts. A lot. In fact, his whole body hurts. And there’s a distinct smell of oil and antifreeze coming from somewhere. Everything feels muddy and strange. There’s something wet dripping down his face. Wait. No. That’s not right. It’s dripping up.

He groans as he forces his eyes open. Bright lights assault his vision. When his eyes finally adjust everything is upside down. It takes him a moment to realise he’s in the car. There’s another car a few meters in front of them, a massive bulk in its side and its hood. Their entire windshield has shattered, littering the car with glass. His seatbelt is the only thing keeping him from crashing into the roof of the vehicle.

Obi-Wan’s breath hitches. “Da-ad?” He coughs, chest aching after each one. “Dad?”

Slowly, he manages to turn his head towards the passenger seat. The car door is missing on that side. Rivers of blood drip down Qui-Gon’s thorso, soaking his clothes and gathering into a bloody puddle under him. He’s unconscious. And injured. Maybe even worse. He could be— He might be—

“Dad?” He tries again.

Obi-Wan’s heart beats rapidly behind his aching ribs. No one answers. His heart sinks.

He fumbles with his seatbelt, desperately trying to undo his seatbelt. It releases him with a soft click and he goes tumbling into the roof of the car. He cries out as he lands on his shoulder. It takes him a moment to recover before he manages to think straight again. Or as straight as he could before he fell at least. Everything feels a bit muddy and cloudy.

He pushes himself towards Qui-Gon with his weak limbs. It’s a challenge in the small space of the car, but he manages to get close enough to touch him.

With a shaking hand he reaches towards the older man. His pulse is weak and uneven under his fingertips, but there nonetheless. Obi-Wan would be relieved if he wasn’t so sure Qui-Gon was dying.

He manages to fiddle with some of the buttons on the radio and the buzzing stops. He swallows back what sounds like a sob and closes his eyes. It hurts. Everything hurts.

-

The funeral passes in a blur. Anakin is glued to his hand the whole time, not letting go even once. His tiny hand grips his with vigor. He presses himself into his side when there are people around and practically hides behind him when they come to talk.

“I see you brought the boy as well.”

Obi-Wan purses his lips and looks at his grandfather, face blank and expressionless. The man holds himself high where he stands, practically radiating authority. Obi-Wan used to be scared of him as a child. His cold nature was always a harsh contrast to his father’s warm presence. Not that they spent much time around each other. Qui-Gon had fallen out with his father years before Obi-Wan came into the picture.

Obi-Wan only stares at him as Anakin pushes himself into his side, looking up at the older man with apprehension.

“Though I’ll have to say I’m surprised they let you take him,” the man muses. “Given your age and situation.”

“Obi-Wan was always the golden child,” Xanatos chimes in, ambling up to them. “Of course they let him. They always let him have what he wants, if he pleads enough and bats his eyes at them.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw clenches. He never got along with Xanatos. Even as a child. As the youngest of three – significantly as well – Xanatos just never liked him.

Xanatos stares down at him, barely concealing a glare.

"Oh, please leave him alone," echoes the voice of Feemor. He stops next to them, joining their circle. "Xanatos. Grandpa," he greets them with practiced politeness.

"I see you've finally decided to come back home," Dooku comments, a smug brow raised. "Life treating you well over there, I assume. Seeing as it's been quite some time since you were back in Coruscant."

"As a matter of fact; it is."

They chat for a while. Not for the sake of being nice and catching up, but just to be polite. If polite is an accurate word for it at all. The passive aggressiveness is thick in the air, lacing each word. It’s exhausting to listen to. Obi-Wan understands well why his father kept him away from them as much as he did.

Obi-Wan merely watches the three of them talk, occasionally nodding his head, not really ,paying attention to what’s being said.. Anakin keeps himself tucked into his leg. but seems to be much more comfortable now that he's not under Dooku and Xanatos' heavy gaze.

“—but hey, maybe this is a good thing. The rescue takes on his own rescue. Poetic, really. Dad never could turn down a stray.”

“Xanatos—”

“He always was too sympathetic for his own good. And see how you repaid hi—”

“That’s enough!”

Obi-Wan stumbles over his own feet as Feemor drags him away, Anakin’s grip on his hand tightening as he tries to keep up with the two men. Obi-Wan has never seen Feemor look so furious as he does now. Eyes dark and expression stone cold. It’s unnerving in a way. Feemor has always been the kind and soft-spoken one. Similar to their dad in a lot of ways.

They come to a stop a few tabled down. Feemor’s anger melts away, replaced with a sad smile. “Don’t listen to them, Obi,” he says. “Xanatos is just bitter and petty because he can be.”

Obi-Wan nods and swallows thickly.

Feemor looks down at Anakin, a soft smile gracing his lips. “You must be Anakin,” he says, extending his hand to the little boy. “Nice to meet you, little man. I’m your uncle Feemor.”

Anakin only looks at the outstretched hand, clutching the material of Obi-Wan’s black suit in his hands. Feemor huffs in amusement, turning his gaze back up to Obi-Wan.

“He’s a shy one.”

Obi-Wan clears his throat. “Only sometimes.”

The older man laughs. Anakin shifts next to him.

“I’m sorry about…” His expression turns sad. “I heard it was bad.”

Obi-Wan nods woefully, eyes downcast and lips pursed. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Doesn’t even protest when Feemor pulls him into a hug, wrapping his arms around him.

“It’s going to be alright, you’ll see,” He murmurs with a sigh. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You’re the best of all of us, you know. Dad would be so proud.”

And just like that Obi-Wan sags into the embrace, burying his face in Feemor’s suit. He only holds him tighter when he weeps into the fabric. It’s pitiful and undignified, but the hollowness of Obi-Wan’s heart feels easier to carry in that moment.

It’s so easy to believe Feemor in that moment, and Obi-Wan clings to it.

-

Obi-Wan isn’t sure how long they wait before he hears the siren. Qui-Gon’s breathing has become shallow and he hasn’t shown any signs of waking up. At some point Obi-Wan started shivering. He’s not sure when, or exactly why. He might be in shock, he thinks.

He hears the commotion of the emergency workers reaching the other car. He hopes they’re okay. He would call out if he felt like he could.

He hears talking, but it’s hard to make out the words.

“Dad?” he whispers, voice hoarse and grating. He coughs, eyes watering.

Next thing he knows he’s being pulled out of the wreckage. There are hands on him and they’re asking questions he doesn’t understand. It all happens in a blur. Then he’s being strapped down to a bed.

“Can you tell us your name, sir?”

Obi-Wan blinks, vision blurry from being moved. His eyes land on a dark haired man.

“Your name, sir. Can you tell us?”

“Obi-Wan,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, teeth chattering. “Kenobi. Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“That’s good, Obi-Wan. Can you tell me who was in the car with you?”

When Obi-Wan turns his head he sees a group of paramedics pulling an unconscious Qui-Gon out of the car and strapping him down to a bed like the one Obi-Wan lies on. Something in his chest squeezes painfully in his chest at the sight, a surge of anxiety bubbling up from within.

“Qui-Gon,” he says, breath hitching. “My father. Qui-Gon Jinn. He needs— He needs help—”

“They’ll take good care of your father, Obi-Wan. Just relax and let us do our job.”

Obi-Wan gasps for breath. It’s as though something heavy is pressing down onto his chest. Like there’s something blocking his airways. His head swims and his stomach churns as he’s loaded into the back of the ambulance.

He only gets a glance at Qui-Gon before the door is shut and they drive off.

-

The next few days pass by monotonously. Anakin seems to be adjusting well to his new life, much to Obi-Wan’s relief. He talks animatedly about his day every day when he comes home from school. Obi-Wan spends his days trying to catch up on his classes.

It almost feels like things are going to be okay.

Qui-Gon’s room remains untouched. Door ajar, sitting there like a painful reminder. Ominous almost. If he felt like he could bear it - that he wouldn’t risk getting a look inside - he would at least close the door properly.

He should probably start cleaning it out. He can’t sleep on the sofa forever.

His phone vibrates, loud against the wooden table. Obi-Wan startles. He thinks about just letting it ring like he always does until he sees who’s calling him.

Anakin’s school.

But why would they call him?

He swears his heart skips a beat as he picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Anakin’s father?”

Obi-Wan hesitates for a moment. Technically he is. In all the legal ways. But Anakin has never called him anything but Obi or Obi-Wan.

Still, he says, “Yes.”

“This is Anakin’s teacher, Shaak Ti.”

“Did something happen?”

“Anakin got in a fight with one of his classmates and he appears to have run away. We can’t find him anywhere near school grounds.”

He what?

Obi-Wan’s heart stops. It’s like time freezes around him. He even stops breathing for a moment.

“We already have our staff searching for him, but we were hoping you could come here too.”

“I… Yes, of course! I’ll be there right away.”

Shaak lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

With shaking hands he lowers the cellphone from his ear.

What if something terrible happened to Anakin? What if he’s hurt? What if he got lost and can’t find his way back? He’s not familiar with Coruscant yet. He never even left Tatooine before he came to Coruscant. Anything could have happened. Coruscant is big and dangerous.

Obi-Wan has no idea how to deal with anything Anakin related normally. How is he expected to act now? Is this what being a parent is like? Being so terrified you feel like you’re going to die?

He’s only had Anakin for a few weeks. Surely if something has happened they’re going to take him from him. They were right to be sceptical of him. He’s not fit to take care of a child. The thought of Anakin being taken away from him now… It’s unbearable. He can’t lose him too. Not now.

He scrolls through his contacts until he lands on Bant. His finger only wavers over the call button for a second.

“Obi-Wan? How are you? I haven’t heard from you in a while—”

“It’s Anakin. He— He—””

“What happened?” She sounds worried now. Suddenly serious.

“They said he got in a fight or— or something. I don’t— They can’t find him. He ran away and they can’t find him, Bant! What if he’s hurt?”

“Okay. Relax, Obi-Wan. It’s gonna be fine. I’ll call the others, and then I’ll come pick you up and we’ll find him. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“We’ll find him, Obi.”

-

Obi-Wan can’t breathe. He’s been sitting next to the bed for at least twenty minutes, not doing anything. He’s dimly aware of the nurse standing behind him, watching him.

It’s the first time he’s got to see his father since...since the car.

He looks better. Without all the blood. He looks almost normal. It’s almost like… It’s like he’s just sleeping.

His hand trembles as he reaches for his father’s limp hand. It lacks its usual warmth, but Obi-Wan squeezes it lovingly anyway. There’s no steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

The realisation that he’s never going to see him again - not properly. Not alive. - hits hard. It drops onto him with the weight of a building. Crushing him under the rubble.

Obi-Wan Kenobi knows loss. He knows loss very well. But it does not make it any less heartbreaking. It does not make the pain any easier to bear.

“Da-ad… Oh, dad…”

Carefully, he brushes a strand of hair away from the man’s face. His eyes cloud with tears, he chokes back a sob. Grief heavy on his heart, he gives in. Cradling his father’s hand to his face, he cries. Pitiful and miserable.

Broken rib. Collapsed lung. Head trauma. Coupled up with bad weather, slippery roads and the impact with the other vehicle it had all been one unfortunate accident. One that cost him his father.

He doesn’t know much of the specifics, but he hopes he at least wasn’t in too much pain. He can’t bear the thought of it.

This is the man who took him in. Who gave him a home. Who took care of him. The man who raised him. The man who loved him. Unconditionally. And the man he loved— still loves.

Guilt claws at his insides. Ugly and suffocating. Like a thick blanket, enveloping his whole being. Shameful thoughts poison his subconscious.

It should’ve been him. It should’ve been him. It should’ve…

It’s of no use. Not now. Not ever.

But Obi-Wan feels like a part of his soul has been ripped away. That some irreparable part of him has been broken beyond repair. Taken away from him by that other car and his sloppy driving. Like some cruel punishment from the world itself.

He sits there until his throat is sore and his eyes red.

-

The rain is pouring down in buckets. Obi-Wan is soaked to the bone. Absolutely sopping wet. Still, Obi-Wan can’t quite bring himself to regret not picking up an umbrella when the first drizzle came. Anakin is still out there. Cold, wet and lost.

They’ve managed to narrow it down to a nearby forest. With the help of some teachers and some of their friends.

His phone died twelve minutes ago. If they find him before he does Obi-Wan hopes he can hear them yell for him. If he can hear anything from the deafening sound of downpour.

Obi-Wan’s teeth clenches to stop them from chattering. His shoes make squelching sounds for each step he takes. He pushes his hair away from his face.

And that's when he sees him. Sitting under a tree, protected from the pouring rain by the leaves. Sitting against the tree, arms wrapped around his knees. Obi-Wan's heart skips a beat.

"Anakin!"

The little boy's eyes snap up to him, surprise and relief colouring his features. "Dad!" He exclaims, scrambling to his feet in a mess of limbs.

Obi-Wan barely has time to even acknowledge that before he’s running. Running faster than he's ever ran before. He practically crashes to his knees in front of Anakin pulling him into a tight embrace. "Anakin," he whispers, voice cracking slightly. His heart warms with affection. "Don't ever do that again."

"I'm sorry–"

Obi-Wan pulls away, giving Anakin a thorough once-over. "Are you hurt?" he asks, trembling hands patting him down. Nervous eyes flit across his features. His hands land on his cheeks, cold and wet, but comforting.

"I'm okay," Anakin tells him.

Before he can say anything else Obi-Wan pulls him into a hug again. He grips the fabric of Anakin's jumper as if the boy will vanish into thin air if he lets go. His other hand buries itself in his hair, securely holding his head against his shoulder. Even though his fingers are cold and numb, Obi-Wan doesn't let go.

Anakin tentatively wraps his arms around the older man, burying himself in the safety of Obi-Wan's embrace. Even though Obi-Wan's clothes are soaked through, and he's cold, Anakin doesn't let go. When he feels the man shaking against him, and hears him sniffle into his hair, he only holds him tighter.

“You scared me,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. You’re so sad and tired all the time.”

Obi-Wan could swear his heart breaks a little at that.

“Oh, dear. It’s my responsibility to take care of you. You mustn’t ever feel that you can’t come to me.”

Anakin is quiet for a while. “Okay.”

Around them the rain pitter patters against the leaves.

“You’re cold.”

Obi-Wan chuckles. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna get sick.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Behind him boots splash in the puddles. Obi-Wan thinks he might hear yelling, but it’s hard to hear over the rainfall.

“Obi-Wan.” There’s a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

Obi-Wan untangles himself from Anakin and comes face to face with Mace Windu. The man holds a black umbrella over him, protecting him and them from the rain.

“We’ve got a car waiting just outside the forest. Now come here before you get yourself both sicker than you already are. Qui-Gon would never forgive me if I let you two sit out here any longer.”

-

The warmth of the house is welcome. His clothes are still dripping by the time he steps in the door. He’s not sure he’s ever been so relieved to be home. He sighs as he closes the door behind him.

When he takes off his shoes his socks leave wet footprints on the hardwood floor. Anakin tip toes around his footprints to get into the living room, giggling quietly to himself as he does.

He gets Anakin out of his clothes and into a pair of warm, dry pajamas. Then he hops into the shower, the warm water doing wonders for his cold and aching muscles. When he steps out of the bathroom he feels marginally better.

“Ani?”

Anakin is not in the living room. He’s not in the kitchen either. Obi-Wan tries not to worry. He wouldn’t have left the house. He’s probably in his room. Before he gets time to start worrying he sets foot for the corridor.

And sure as day, there he is. Wearing some scarf Obi-Wan doesn’t recognise. Standing in the doorway of Qui-Gon’s bedroom. Obi-Wan swallows thickly and ambles up to him. When he’s behind him he places a hand in the boy’s hair and gazes into the bedroom.

“You never go in here.”

Obi-Wan hums.

“You’re scared.”

Anakin isn’t dumb. Of course he would notice. Kids are never stupid, no matter how hard you pretend they are. It was only a matter of time before he would be confronted about his little charade he’s been putting up.

“Maybe,” Anakin murmurs. “If we cleaned up in here you wouldn’t be so scared anymore.” He looks up at him, hopeful and young.

Obi-Wan clears his throat. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe.”

Anakin walks into the room, inspecting the room with curious eyes. Then he grabs an almost empty box laying by the bed and starts putting things in it. “We did this when my mom died,” he says quietly. “She didn’t have as much stuff as your dad though.”

Awkwardly, almost clumsily, Obi-Wan walks into the room too, sitting down on the other side of the box. He picks up a discarded sweater from the floor and inspects it - He was always the messier of the two of them. Feels the fabric on his skin. It still smells like him. Even after all these weeks.

“You can keep some of it if you want,” Anakin says then. “They let me keep some of mom’s things.” He fiddles with the scarf for a moment. “This used to be hers. It makes me feel better when I miss her.”

Obi-Wan feels a pang of sympathy in his chest. Once again reminded of how much this little child has been through. Oh, what he’d do to make all that pain go away. He’d gladly take it all on himself if he could. If it meant he would never have to feel such heartbreak in his life ever again.

“You should try it on,” Anakin suggests.

Obi-Wan pulls the sweater over his head. He has a second where he can’t quite find the hole for the right arm, but he quickly figures it out. He catches a glimpse of himself in the floor-length mirror and he can’t help but laugh. The sweater is massive on him. Practically swallows him whole. Qui-Gon had always been a quite large man, but to see it like this…

Anakin laughs too. “You look small,” he says between giggles. “You’ll grow into it. That’s what mom always said, at least.”

He won’t, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

He rolls up the sleeves and picks up a framed picture from the dresser.

“Wow, you used to be small,” Anakin comments, pointing to the small redheaded child standing next to a younger Qui-Qon. “I didn’t know Mr Qui-Gon very well, but he seemed like a nice man. And a good dad.”

Obi-Wan sniffles. “He was.”

“I’ve never had a dad before,” Anakin explains, studying the picture. “I was really happy when Mr Qui-Gon said he would be mine - like, really happy - but I think you’re doing a pretty good job at it too.”

Obi-Wan’s lips quirk upwards, into a sort of lipsides and awkward smile.

“Do you miss him? Your dad.”

Obi-Wan nods. “Very much.”

“I miss my mom too. It’s okay to be sad about it. It just means it meant something.”

Obi-Wan feels like he’s been crying a lot lately, but it seems like this is what finally breaks the dam. Anakin only places a hand on his arm as he muffles his sobs in the long sleeves of Qui-Gon’s sweater. Slowly he sinks back onto the floor, back against the bed.

He feels very much like that small, scared child he used to be at this moment. The small, scared child who didn’t know how the world worked yet. Who didn’t know what to do or how to do anything. The small, scared child who worried about everything. But maybe he just never actually stopped being that child.

Anakin presses himself up against his side, leaning his head on his shoulder. It’s such a small thing, but it makes him feel infinitely better. Like things might be okay after all. And it will be, he reminds himself. It will just take some time.

Just close your eyes

Soon we'll be home

Fall asleep to the radio

Strangers pass by

Red, green and gold

I wonder what they're all waiting for

[bellygunnr]

you’d finally like to learn ch.3

"That's a weird looking tie, Barney," Otis says in greeting. Barney looks down at his neck, confused, but the reason for the comment jumps out at him immediately.

He's not wearing Security dress-code blues.

He's wearing a striped red-and-orange tie, Scientist style.

"Sure is, but you can't see shit over the vest anyway, Otis," Barney replies, tightening the fabric for good measure. "What they don't know won't hurt them, yeah?"

He dares to look Otis in the eye, a flat, unwavering look that hopefully screamed confidence and not the panic he was truly feeling. If he was wearing this tie, then that meant-- jeez, Kleiner was going to kill both of them! Worse, rumors were going to start flowing from the rumor mill like a broken dam. That's the last thing Dr. Freeman needed.

Hell, the man was so new that his ID was still being rejected in certain parts of the facility. He shakes his head in frustration-- and to dislodge those thoughts. That was something he'd have to worry about later. He had bigger things to worry about.

Like the busted network wreaking havoc in the HR department. Why the task fell down to him, he doesn't know, but it is what it is.

At least it wasn't the Anomalous Materials department.

-

The HR department was... nice. It was certainly nicer than the sector Barney usually served in, which led to snooty security guards, the latter of which he faced now. They check his ID by hand--

"I'm guessin' the ah, science team here has been harassin' ya for not fixin' stuff here?" Barney asks, quirking an eyebrow at their aggression. The ID had been ripped from his hands-- the metal clasp left scrapes on his calloused palms.

"No, actually. They asked for you by name and you're late as shit, Calhoun," the guard fires back, rolling his eyes. "Get on in there."

Barney clips his ID back on his chest, rolling his eyes. He clocked in on time, thank you very much. So what if he took a little extra time picking up some things?

"And nice tie, Calhoun!" the guard shouts behind his back.

God dammit.

-

In the end, it was an Ethernet cable that went sour-- and a pulled plug, which took far longer to discover and also prompted Barney to redo some of the wiring in that particular room anyway. For a facility with so many highly esteemed personnel, they sure were disorganized.

"Is everything connectin', Tommy?" Barney asks, hovering near a desktop computer.

"Seems so, Mr. Calhoun! Thanks, you're always so helpful!" Tommy says, beaming. He closes something out on the desktop, looking at Barney with a mischievous glint.

Barney tenses slightly, but meets his gaze.

"I didn't know your initials were G.F., Mr. Calhoun."

He blanches. "What in the hell are you talkin' about, Tommy? Also, call me Barney. All these formalities make my skin crawl, you know that."

"Your tie, Mr. Cal-- Barney!"

Barney looks down at his tie-- well, Gordon's tie. True to the other man's words, the initials G.F. were indeed scrawled into a red band of fabric. He sighs. So much for people not noticing what he wore underneath the security vest, huh.

"I'm outta here!" Barney exclaims, throwing up his hands. "If ya need me, ya know where to find me."

-

A week later, Barney finds himself in the break room, fifteen minutes before shift start. He sits across from Gordon, whose nursing a wounded hand-- but insists on using it to sign and grip hot things. It's entertaining, and Barney gets to observe.

Gordon is uncoordinated in the morning. Couple it with an injury, and he goes from bumbling to outright clumsy, and his hair is held up much more loosely. Curly red strands are already sticking out everywhere in soft, frizzy bunches, free from the confines of the rubber band and bobby pins. His glasses slide down his nose, which he corrects by using the rim of the coffee cup. All of this while he tries to talk, sacrificing nothing to get his point across.

Barney leans his cheek on his fist, watching him with a lazy smile. He was real cute, especially for a scientist. Then again-- all of his competitors were old men, weren't they? Hard not to be cute, but even with the Security team factored in, Gordon had them beat.

He was impossibly anxious, but unabashedly weird. And even though he wouldn't tell Barney why he had to bulk, he was already starting to fill out-- which only made him more attractive. And the way he bit his lip when agonizing over something, or stared off into the middle distance doing mental math...

A bang on the table jarred Barney out of his thoughts.

His head jerked, and his fist knocked his jaw, sending a starburst of pain through his face.

"Agh, Doc! What the hell was that for?"

"You spaced out," Gordon says, and he honest-to-god pouts. "Did you get anything I was saying?"

And oh, that was a different expression that Barney's never seen before. Bright green eyes scrutinize him, something dark and guarded there.

"Hell, I'm sorry, Dr. Freeman," Barney says, ducking his head. He rubs his jaw, too, because that had hurt. "Guess I was sleepier than I thought."

And definitely not oglin' ya, he thinks desperately, cheeks coloring.

"It's fine," but he's not sure it is, "you're going to be late if you don't hurry."

The clock reads a threatening three minutes 'till start.

He can't get Gordon's expression out of his mind's eye as he runs out of the break room, a chair clattering to the ground.

-

Dr. Kleiner is waiting for him in the Sector C guard check. To Barney's eye, he looks uncomfortable, but determined, face brightening upon spotting him. He fidgets with his glasses before holding up a paper brown bag.

"Barney! I heard that you share a tram with Dr. Freeman, is that right?"

"Uh, yeah, that's right," Barney responds cautiously. "What's up?"

"You know, Gordon and I have been close for many years now. I was his professor in MIT, so I think I know his habits very well. Well, I didn't see him eat lunch today, so do you think you could bring this to him? I can't check on him personally, so I was hoping..."

Dr. Kleiner trails off, once again pushing at his glasses.

Barney blinks, then nods vigorously. Of course he'd help! He'd like to think Gordon was his friend, or something like it, and this was something friends did, right?

Yeah...

"'Course I can, Kleiner. Say, do you know if Gordon likes aliens?"

"Oh, thank you! And aliens...? You know, I think you should talk to him about them. His reaction might surprise you!"

Both of them share a laugh before parting ways.

[plumoh]

[FE3H] the rust under their binds

Word count: 5002

Summary: Sylvain participates in the Gronder Battle even if he knows full well how it will end. / chapter 17 of Verdant Wind.

Note: AO3 link. Graphic depiction of violence, major character death, Sylvain & Felix & Ingrid platonic. This was prompted by me killing the Blue Lions kids in my Golden Deers run and getting hit in the guts......

The entire battlefield looks like it’s on fire. The central hill is burning while thick, almost black wisps of smoke cover the sky. Sylvain’s eyes are prickling and he curses under his breath as he pushes his horse forward, ignoring the sickening sounds that the bodies being trampled on make. Death is everywhere; there are corpses lying right and left, weapons scattered around them and the remains of demonic beasts sticking to the soil. The smell is awful—Sylvain wants to throw up and forget that he’s ever stepped in this damned field that will turn into a cemetery.

He lost his battalion around half an hour ago; it wasn’t even a proper battalion, constituted of only a dozen men desperate for peace but consumed by trust. Gautier is one of the last military bases Faerghus has left, but he’s reduced to this: charging forward alone, exhausted, clothes soaked with the blood of allies and enemies alike, his armor nicked in places he didn’t know was possible, a lance that’s about to break, and his relic. His cursed relic that’s been pulsing and demanding for more destruction as the minutes turned into hours.

The wind picks up and the howl of an animal sounds. Sylvain looks up and admires the graceful form of a white wyvern crossing the field with a definite path in mind.

***

He lies awake in his bed and considers chickening out.

That’s what he wants to believe but he perfectly knows he won’t ever find the courage to pick up his lance, mount his horse and disappear somewhere until the war ends. He’s always been a coward, after all, and this night like the others isn’t any different—it’s not any different even if tomorrow there is a high chance they won’t be able to come back at all.

Their army isn’t that big, compared to the Empire and the Alliance; they’ve gathered as many loyal soldiers as they could and recruited anyone not too shady looking, but they’re still a drop in the ocean. Fighting against two armies who possess much more resources and men is not a thought that would have ever occurred to him, even in his most crazed state.

Since he’s not getting any wink of sleep tonight, he might as well go dig into their meager food supplies. Nobody is going to eat it, anyway.

***

He coughs up blood and grips the reins of his horse tighter, shuddering and sputtering, but refusing to stop. The soldiers thrust their lances at him with renewed vigor, and maybe frustration, but Sylvain doesn’t let them hit him again and he deploys the Lance of Ruin’s power to take them down. His blood boils and his hands shake when the lance goes through them like they were made of ash and mud. He doesn’t watch their bodies hit the ground and kicks into his horse’s side.

Fuck. It’s getting difficult to see what’s going on.

The Alliance is focusing on the imperial troops but they’re still standing in their way. Sylvain distantly remembers that their main objective is Edelgard, but they were also given the order to kill every last one of them. Ha. Who is he to disobey his king?

There are voices he recognizes, even if it’s been five years since the last time he heard them. Funny how the brain works, sometimes; he isn’t able to remember the name of the girl he dated last week but he perfectly knows that former classmates are fighting for their survival just like he does merely by sound. He’s a soldier, but that doesn’t mean he wants to fight people he once considered his allies—that’s really irresponsible and foolish of him, but he can’t help it. Lysithea is firing spell after spell, wreaking havoc on the battlefield and never letting her enemies a chance to stand up; Leonie is rushing into the troops and in one fell swoop of her lance she injures several of them; Ignatz’s aim has always been the best and his arrows make clean kills. Others are here too, even demure Marianne who stays behind and heals her allies from afar. Sylvain acknowledges that he logically should kill her first so as to deprive his enemies of healing abilities.

Instead, he runs off to the left side and hopes he can regroup with the others.

***

“What the fuck are you doing up at this hour?”

“Well, I’m clearly not the only one.”

Felix scoffs but doesn’t retort. He’s nursing a cup of water, sitting at a table in the tent that is supposed to be the kitchen, in the dark because he’s that much of a lunatic. Sylvain prefers looking at what he’s rummaging through so he lights up a candle. He ends up picking the first thing his hand touches, which is a stale piece of bread. He eats it slowly.

Nights are like these aren’t uncommon, happening more frequently as they approach the Empire’s territory. Being near Gronder Field will naturally make some people restless and maybe a bit afraid, too. Sylvain isn’t sure that what he feels is fear, but he sure as hell knows he doesn’t like it.

“Were you training?” he asks, turning a careful eye towards Felix.

“What else do you want me to do?” Felix shrugs. His voice isn’t dripping with his usual venom. “Sleeping like we should all be doing?”

“I’ve heard that sleep is good for the body. Would you believe that? I thought that roaming around camp all night and snacking on days old food would be much more healthy.”

Sylvain flashes him one of his smiles, full of fake confidence and casualness, and of course Felix glares at him.

“This isn’t the time for jokes,” Felix says.

“It’s never the time for jokes.”

They’ve been robbed of tranquil days for the past five years, and try as they might, even if they pretend everything will be fine they know it won’t. Dimitri emerging from the dead should have rekindled the hope in them, but it didn’t have the expected effect—Sylvain doesn’t want to say it, but his return made things worse.

Felix swallows the content of his glass and puts it down with more strength than necessary. They stay silent for a while, Felix contemplating the empty bottom of his glass and Sylvain toying with crumbs on his fingers. If anyone walked in, they would think they make a pathetic sight.

“Hey, about that promise,” Sylvain starts, but Felix stands up and his chair rattles before toppling over.

“Don’t be stupid.” He takes a few steps towards the exit but he doesn’t touch the tent’s flaps.

Sylvain shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure you remembered.”

“You and I know what’s going to happen tomorrow, Sylvain.”

For someone so vocal about his thoughts and so quick to disagree with orders given by a specific person, Felix doesn’t say the words that have been haunting Sylvain’s mind for the entirety of their journey to Gronder Field. Perhaps they don’t need to be vocalized; perhaps it’s Felix who doesn’t want to recognize their truth, even if they hang heavily in the air. He’d much prefer that Sylvain is the one to say them so he can tell him he’s been right all along. That might be the case, but Sylvain has never said he wasn’t willing to believe in fantasies as long as he was with his loved ones.

So what he says instead is, “That means a lot of people will share the promise with us, then.”

This time around his grin feels more genuine, amused by his own lack of taste in jokes at such a critical time, but Felix snorts and that’s as much approval as he’s going to get. It’s good to have one last laugh.

***

He leads on foot his battalion of cavalrymen and they all travel in tense silence to their position. Next to him, Ingrid is looking at the sky, most likely evaluating the force of the wind and the direction it will blow in a few hours. Her pegasus is walking behind her, as agitated as his horse.

“You think you’re going to be okay?”

Ingrid grips her lance tighter and glances at him.

“Of course I’ll be alright. We have to fight for His Highness, after all.”

Sylvain dearly wishes he can reply something sensible, but his mouth as usual runs faster than his brain.

“We’re going to die, that’s what is going to happen.”

Felix knows this mission is suicide; Ingrid refuses to see it as such. And naturally, she glares at him with the fierceness she reserves for her lectures.

“We are knights. Fighting for our liege is what we do, and dying is—dying as a knight is the best death we could get.”

“I’d prefer not dying at all.”

“Then why are you here?”

Why is he here, indeed? Ingrid’s resolve has never wavered, not even in these uncertain times when all they could do was run in circles or train without seeing results. She is steadfast and strong when she latches onto her principles, because she’d be lost otherwise; her mind and her heart have decided long ago how she is going to live, even if everyone around her is spitting on chivalry and is treating her ideals like garbage. Sylvain admires that in her, and that’s why he’s sad that she’s willing to blind herself for someone they all cherish. She could have become the greatest knight in Faerghus.

Sylvain is here because he can’t run away and because he’s still cradling memories of better days.

“I guess I have nothing else to do.”

Ingrid’s sharp intake of breath makes him smile a little bit, and he pats her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me, worry about yourself.”

“You—you don’t even know what is coming out of your mouth, do you?”

He doesn’t want her to cry, but he feels he’s the one who might cry if they keep talking. He ignores her sniffling and he ignores his own misty eyes.

***

Lying on the ground are the corpses of pegasi and their riders, shot down from the sky with a single arrow. The fall most likely killed the knights instantly, judging by the amount of blood under their helmets. Sylvain scans the area, slightly swaying on the saddle of his horse, dread clambering from his stomach to his throat. The fire has almost spread to the entire field—maybe they won’t even need to bury the dead if the fire keeps raging on like this, and burn them to a crisp.

“Sylvain!”

Sylvain’s head snaps up and his lips curl immediately in a grin when he sees Ingrid approaching, covered in blood and limping, Lúin clutched in her hand. She probably lost her pegasus in the midst of the battle, or decided that she’d be more efficient on foot. Sylvain doesn’t care; he gets closer to her and offers her his hand to get behind him. But as soon as he extended his arm all colors drain from his face when he realizes there is an arrow embedded deep into her back, close to her neck, and a javelin protruding from her side. How did he miss that?

“You’re injured, Ingrid,” he says absentmindedly. “Go—go see Mercedes.”

“You’re also bleeding, and I bet you didn’t even notice,” she mutters, wincing when she takes one final step and falls on her knees.

Sylvain wants to dismount and help her, be by her side in the last minutes she has left, but it’s as if she can read his mind and she shakes violently her head.

“Go, go, go, don’t get distracted,” she chokes. “I wanted… to see a familiar face…”

What’s the point of going away if he’s going to die too? Why can’t he stay by her side until she finds rest?

“His Highness is up there… the Alliance…”

A laugh breaks its away out of Sylvain’s throat, wet and uncontrolled. It’s ridiculous, it’s insane, it’s complete madness. Against his better judgment he swings his leg over the saddle and gets down, to his horse’s relief, but he keeps the reins tight into his hand. He thinks he might be losing too much blood but that’s inconsequential. He gets down on one knee, gently passes his hand behind Ingrid’s head, and brings her to his chest. All the fight leaves her.

“I said...”

“I know what you said,” he interrupts her. “Go to sleep, Ingrid.”

Around them, the battle is still fierce. There are still infantrymen rushing to crush the enemy’s defenses, and there are still mages casting every spell they know while the heavy armored knights are keeping them safe. The sounds of people fighting aren’t drowned by the crackling of the fire or the roars of the demonic beasts left. Only wyverns are flying in the sky, now.

Ingrid lets out a shuddering breath that’s too close to a sob. Sylvain keeps stroking her hair.

“I’m sorry… I failed my duty…”

Sylvain doesn’t have to wait long before she stills and slumps against him.

He lays her down and gets back on his horse, the Lance of Ruin weeping a red, bright glow.

***

He suspects that none of his words will be heard, but he supposes he can try.

“Your Highness, are you really sure you want to fight both the Empire and the Alliance at the same time?”

Dimitri doesn’t even look at him and keeps his eye trained on Areadbhar.

“We have already come here. It would be a waste of time not to charge.”

“Well, we could ask the Alliance to help us with resources…”

“Is there a point you wish to make, Sylvain?”

Sylvain has rarely considered Dimitri cold. He’s distant, yes, ever since the Tragedy of Duscur, but he’s never shown so much animosity towards people he trusts and has known for his entire life. Dedue is the only one who can get through him, but even still, that’s only because Dedue has pledged to serve him and to obey him. Sylvain is a knight of Faerghus, but he has yet to throw away his decision-making.

“What if we die?” he asks with as much boldness he can muster, hands clasped behind his back.

Dimitri slowly turns around, his fingers curling around his relic like they’re about to break it.

“Then we take that woman’s head with us.”

Sylvain is a knight of Faerghus. The man in front of him has not yet sat on the throne.

He smiles.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

***

Before they each depart with the battalion and the soldiers they were assigned, Sylvain pulls both of them into a tight hug. He’s mindful of his gauntlets and his cold armor but his arms easily snake around their shoulders and he brings them so close that their heads bump into each other, which makes Felix splutter every swear word he knows and Ingrid groan but there is laughter in her voice. Sylvain chuckles when her hands come at his waist while Felix awkwardly pats him on the back.

“You guys are the best.”

“If we’re the best then don’t freeze us to death with your stupid armor,” Felix retorts, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Such sincerity coming from you is rare, Sylvain.”

“What, can’t I express my love for my friends from time to time?”

“Not when you’re being weird about it, no.”

Sylvain releases them and grins, squeezing their shoulders one last time. Felix pushes some bangs out of his eyes then crosses his arms over his chest, gauging him. His jaw is tense and his posture is stiff at best, like what he’s about to say is going to cause him great pain. Were they only chatting with a drink in hand, Sylvain would have cracked a joke to save Felix from embarrassment, but they all know that it’s time to lay bare their feelings.

“Are you prepared? Did you memorize the map?” Felix asks tersely.

“I did, don’t worry,” Sylvain replies. “And I can count on my battalion, so I can’t get lost.”

“We all have soldiers we are responsible for,” Ingrid adds with the beginning of a smile, but the curl of her lips is sad. “We could have fought alongside each other, but I understand His Highness’s decision.”

Felix grits his teeth, and Sylvain expects him to storm off but he remains rooted on the spot, only casting down his gaze and silently fuming.

“We are his trusted generals, after all,” Sylvain says.

“‘Trusted’ my ass,” Felix mutters.

“Felix,” Ingrid admonishes, more out of habit than real bite.

Sylvain thinks it’s nice to speak with his friends before going into battle. They ease into familiar chatter and banter, chasing away for a few minutes the danger looming over them. It’s not the most reasonable course of action to take, but they’re only human—Sylvain is only human and he clings to what is reassuring, to get through this war and come back with as much sanity as he can keep. That was his original plan, anyway.

“Well, time to go to war,” he announces evenly, jerking his chin towards their mounts.

Ingrid nods. Lúin is securely strapped on her back, while Felix has yet to pick up the Aegis Shield from the armory but he’s already carrying the sword of Moralta and a sword of Zoltan. Sylvain has heard Felix brag about his swords more times than necessary to recognize them with only a glance.

They share one last look, maybe lingering a bit too long. None of them is going to admit they are scared, because knights from Faerghus aren’t scared of going to war. Ingrid follows him to get to her pegasus and Felix goes on the opposite side, joining Dimitri’s troops. The Lance of Ruin is itching for a fight, and Sylvain will let himself be consumed.

***

Ever since he was small, Sylvain thought that the crest of Fraldarius looked cool. Even when he started to despise and reject his own crest, he viewed that shield-shaped crest as something comforting, always protecting them from immediate danger. Felix prides himself in his strength and the use of his crest, in spite of what he thinks about its meaning and the expectations that befall him.

Sylvain follows the glow of the crest of Fraldarius visible even from afar. He knows that the biggest forces of the Alliance have gone to fight Edelgard, but the imperial troops have focused theirs on the Kingdom. It’s a real carnage; the bushes and the trees are all painted in blood, and the fire is starting to reach them. Felix swings his sword with terrifying speed but Sylvain recognizes the laboriousness of his moves. Aegis is shining and pulsing, deflecting the blows and pushing the opponents away like they weigh nothing. There are grunts and hisses and shouts, soldiers from all sides mingling and unable to tell apart ally and foe.

Sylvain charges into them and with one swipe of the Lance of Ruin he decapitates two soldiers. He actually doesn’t know who he killed, only that they’re not on his side. His hands keep shaking but he’s holding onto his weapon firmly, never allowing himself to lose focus even for a split second. His arrival has alerted mages he vaguely recognizes as Edelgard’s, and they direct their spells at him. His horse is just as tired as he is, and dodging quickly takes too much effort. The fire spell hits him square in the chest and he lets out a wordless scream, gripping painfully on the reins so as not to fall. The situation is so, so bad. The blood in his eyes and the fog in his mind cloud his judgment, perhaps, but he’s only had one objective since the beginning of the battle.

His horse is whining and also stumbling, but Sylvain pushes him forward, relentlessly, even if he’s hurting all over and unable to see clearly what’s in front of him. He brandishes his relic and calls upon the power of his crest, nausea crawling up his throat as the light of his crest is the last thing the mages see before they’re struck down. Sylvain has barely the time to lower his weapon when he vomits blood and bile on the ground, shivering and pitching forward on his saddle. It’s far from being over.

When he reaches Felix (or is it Felix who reaches him?), he’s sure he’s oscillating between life and death.

“Hey, Sylvain, hey,” Felix rasps, shielding them both from an arrow.

Sylvain has crossed half the field alone and has cut his way through here, has lost count of the number of soldiers he killed, and has seen Ingrid die in his arms. He’s exhausted.

He looks down, peering at the frazzled figure of Felix looking up at him. Felix’s hair has seen better days; it’s matted with blood and sweat, and some of the bangs are sticking out of his ponytail. There are cuts on his face and he’s lost his pauldron, where a deep gash is still oozing blood, which explains his extensive use of Aegis. He’s also heavily leaning on his right leg. Sylvain doesn’t have the time to take in all the other injuries.

“Stay focused, Sylvain,” Felix tells him with so much vehemence that Sylvain laughs.

“That’s all I’ve been doing for the past hour or so, I don’t remember.”

Dedue and Dimitri aren’t here; they probably went to fight Edelgard and left the others taking care of the minions and the Alliance. There’s not much Sylvain can say about this strategy, since the goal of this battle has always been killing Edelgard, means and consequences be damned.

“We… we’re done.” Felix swallows, and Sylvain is surprised he can hear him with all the noises around him and the blood banging against his skull.

“Done? There’s still the other half of the field to clean up.”

“No, I mean… we’re losing.”

Sylvain’s head jerks up and he blocks the assault of the wyvern rider diving for him. The Lance of Ruin grinds against the axe and Sylvain snarls, pushing with all his might and hoping that it won’t break. Felix, like the idiot he is, jumps and runs his sword through the wyvern’s stomach, between the armor plates, and the beast shrieks. The rider gets jostled and loses the advantage for one second, so Sylvain uses the opportunity to once again make the crest of Gautier flare up, and his lance comes away red. He’s so dizzy he’s pretty sure he can hear the Saints’ cajoling whispers to the dead fallen into battle.

He wants to lie down.

“...vain! Sylvain!”

Felix is shaking his arm, trying to get his attention. Sylvain has never been able to refuse him. His eyes glaze over him, and he smiles.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here.”

Felix’s eyes are wide and his mouth is quirked downward. He looks like the boy he used to be, scared of everything and hiding behind people and asking what he should do to become stronger. The old Felix wore his heart on his sleeve and this Felix is close to tears—maybe they’re not this different, have never been two separate people in the first place. Sylvain briefly closes his eyes.

“You don’t usually show your emotions on the battlefield,” he says.

“Cut the bullshit, move your horse! Don’t you fucking dare give up now!”

Didn’t Felix say they’re losing? What’s the point of fighting if they’re already doomed? But Felix’s logic has always been flawed.

“Sylvain, I swear to fucking god—”

His horse suddenly reels and Sylvain snaps his eyes open, his Lance coming up just as instinctively, but there is nobody in front of him. Instead, Felix is blocking an attack with his shield while a battalion of cavalrymen is surrounding them. Sylvain didn’t think that there were enough people left to form a battalion of any kind.

It’s the Alliance, judging by the color of their armors. And he recognizes some faces among them—he also won’t pretend that the anguish twisting the features of their faces isn’t bringing him some sort of sick satisfaction. He knew he should have killed them instead of coming here to help whoever survived.

Felix is struggling to stay upright, blood loss and exhaustion finally catching up on him, but he’s stubborn, always stubborn. Well, Sylvain doesn’t have any right to criticize him since he’s still fighting.

“If you surrender…,” one of the Alliance members says, Ignatz or Leonie, he doesn’t quite know.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Sylvain replies with a sharp laugh.

Sylvain inhales and exhales slowly. The sky is orange, now. The battle has been going on for too long already.

“Time to end this,” he declares, and brandishes the Lance of Ruin.

Felix lunges at them, the crest of Fraldarius driving him onward. Sylvain summons his last forces—the crest of Gautier engulfs him.

***

When Dimitri reappeared and told everyone he was marching towards Enbarr, Sylvain wasn’t sure he would follow.

“We can’t leave him in this state,” Ingrid says, horrified. “He’s going to get killed!”

“Yeah, and we’re going to die too if we follow his orders,” Felix growls.

But they spent five years looking for him. Five long years of endless searching and fighting against their own people who only wanted a chance at living. There is no king on the throne at Fhirdiad and there is no one to lead them. Gautier and Fraldarius can’t hold the fort forever. Besides, it’s Dimitri they’re talking about.

“Can any of us really abandon him right now?” he asks, quietly, because he might be having a few realizations himself.

Felix is, of course, the first to express how much he disagrees with this notion.

“You’d foolishly trail after a boar when you know he’s fucking insane?”

“He’s not insane!” Ingrid protests. “He needs our help!”

“Well, he’s not getting it from me.”

The three of them are fucking liars—they’re all liars in different ways, but pointing out each other’s lies only calls for further falsehood and they end up ignoring it altogether. It’s easier to pretend everything is alright, or to take it all at face value.

They don’t argue for long, though. They act like there is something legitimate to argue about in the first place when they’ve been raised to care for each other, and to care for their kingdom. Sylvain has opinions about the way Faerghus is run, about the emphasis put on traditions and ridiculous expectations children have to uphold, but he’s the first to defend loyalty.

Loyalty is the rust that lingers in the chain links binding them together.

***

The moment Felix loses his left arm, it’s over.

It’s not cut clean from the shoulder, but someone must have noticed he had difficulty using it every time he lifted the Aegis Shield, so they shot an arrow, and it pierces the flesh with appalling accuracy. Felix muffles a scream and his arm goes limp against his side, as he pants and hisses, his right hand never letting go of his sword. It’s over, and acceptance slowly overcomes Sylvain.

“Not now… not like this…”

Felix is still trying to get in a few hits with his sword, but with only half his limbs functional he can’t gather much strength to land a proper blow. The shield is still burning and flashing its gleaming light, with its power rendered useless.

Sylvain’s horse got injured by a lance and collapsed, so he’s now standing on his feet, though wobbling would be a better qualifier. He doesn’t even know how he’s still up and waving his weapon around; he should have died a long time ago. Perhaps stubbornness only is keeping him alive.

Each one of these cavalrymen is holding a bow or a lance. The sight is strangely comforting.

“I’m not afraid. I figured it would end like this…”

It’s selfish of him. There is no way to know whether the Alliance was truly going to take them in as war prisoners, as soldiers, or something. Maybe they could have found comrades in their ranks and they could have overthrown Edelgard’s reign together. It doesn’t matter—Sylvain has a promise to keep, and a silent pledge to abide by.

He doesn’t look at Felix as he lifts the Lance of Ruin one last time. The crest of Gautier bursts out but he never gets to unleash its power.

When the arrows go flying, he sees movement to the side. His mouth curls upward even as pain explodes behind every inch of his body, forcing him to drop his relic before he follows soon after, his face meeting dirt and his eyes filled with dust. There is another grunt beside him and he hears a thud. A laugh bubbles in his throat but he only spits out blood and atrocious wet sounds. He doesn’t have enough energy to say how funny the situation is, so he simply closes his eyes.

He can finally rest.

***

Once upon a time, Sylvain admired Glenn for being such a righteous and strong knight, walking the honored path of serving the prince and receiving praise for his accomplishments. However, more than anything, Sylvain loved him as the big brother he never had; and when he lost him, too, he thought that maybe it was his turn to act like a big brother. Dimitri, Felix and Ingrid still didn’t see all the horrors of life, not yet—they suffered the loss of a loved one but their hearts weren’t ready to keep on stepping down that road. He didn’t have Miklan’s raw fury or Glenn’s unshakable belief, but caring is something he’s capable of, despite everything. He’s clumsy with words and hopeless with actions, but he can watch over them and keep them close to his heart.

He realizes that he failed every single one of them, but at least none of them has to live through the guilt of surviving.

[stormquill]

One Equal Temper | chapter four [V/Reader]

As hell itself wreaks havoc upon your city, an angel lands on your doorstep—one who doesn’t seem to realize he has wings.

Author’s Notes: Follow the blog @one-equal-temper.

Notes: Content warning for suicidal thoughts.

Even in high concentrations, Qliphoth pollen was hard to see with the naked eye, but V could still sense the thick of it in the air. It was heaviest wherever civilians had grouped up but hadn’t made it out alive, such as traffic-jammed roads and community buildings used as safehouses. Where there were corpses, there was pollen.

Where there was pollen, there were demons.

V traversed the shattered streets of Red Grave while Griffon scouted overhead for more enemies to hunt down. In the near distance, a shred of lush green and stark white interrupted the dreary landscape of dust and haze. It sat on a small balcony several floors up an intact apartment building, the plant’s colours standing out from its dull surroundings as bright as Christmas lights in the dark.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the first attack. Without proper maintenance, something as insignificant as a personal planter should have withered away days ago.

Someone must have been taking care of it.

V pointed at the balcony with the tip of his cane. “There.”

“You got it,” Griffon said, and he was away.

V waited for his familiar to return, offering an arm for him to land on once he did so.

“Well, it’s a human.” Griffon perched and shook out his feathers. “Ain’t gonna last much longer, though.”

“Injured?”

“Nah, but humans ain’t supposed to be around Qliphoth pollen for this long. Whoever’s up there reeks of it. Fully infected with the stuff. Might have another few weeks—a month, tops. That’s if the demons don’t get to ’em first.”

V made a thoughtful noise. Though this was the first instance of Qliphoth poisoning they discovered so far, the nature of the situation didn’t come as a surprise. Civilian evacuation may have once been a priority, but two weeks into the disaster, most people they found were either dead or close enough to it.

“Let’s get goin’, V,” Griffon said, shrugging his head. “We shouldn’t bother with this one. Ain’t nothin’ we can do.”

Logically, V knew Griffon was right—they were halfway to their deadline, and they needed to optimize their time wherever they could. However, V couldn’t ignore his curiosity about the stranger in the apartment. They were someone who managed to survive this long on their own. Someone who didn’t know they were terminally contaminated by the very resources keeping them alive.

Someone who took care of flowers in their spare time.

Letting go of Griffon, V retrieved his book, as he often did in times of indecision. The words of William Blake held no prophecy for him, but it was a far more elegant solution than a coin flip.

“A flower was offered to me; such a flower as May never bore. But I said I’ve a Pretty Rose-tree; and I passed the sweet flower over.”

Griffon flew in place. “So...we move on?”

“On the contrary,” V smirked, shutting his book. “This means it is within our best interests to have a closer look.”

-

A few minutes ago, you had woken by V’s bedside with your hand in his, and your hair full of bloody, bent feathers Griffon crowned you with while you were asleep.

Now you felt like you were piloting a body that didn’t belong to you.

The two of you were standing on your balcony, watching the rising sun slip between spaces granted by the half-demolished buildings across the landscape. Dark clouds hovered ominously in the distance. Under the weight of V’s words, you went from gazing at the sky to glancing down over the railing in front of you, thinking that if you jumped from this height, you would only be saving yourself some time.

The headaches, you realized. The constant waves of pain that ebbed and flowed but never disappeared, were just forecasted echos of your own death rattle.

Bile rose in the back of your throat. Your vision drifted from the dizzying heights to the planter by your feet. The flowers there were tall and strong and so very much unlike you.

“I am sorry I did not tell you sooner,” V said.

A smile ghosted across your face. “Not really something you can bring up in casual conversation, is it?”

“I am not one to shy away from death. I have seen much of it during my time here, helping others escape the city.” Lowering his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I feel guilty for never having extended you the offer.”

“You didn’t help me escape because I was sick?”

“I do not know the nature of your condition. If there was the slightest chance it could result in further pollination of the Qliphoth, I could not risk having you leave city bounds.”

Understandable, you thought. When you first met him, he mentioned the disaster was contained to Red Grave—jeopardizing that just to buy some time for a then-stranger made no sense. You were a ticking time bomb, poisoned by the air you breathed and the water you were once thankful to still have running through your building. Be it death by demon or by hell-plant, you realized there was nothing you could have done to survive this ordeal. Your fate was sealed the moment you woke up in the recovery ward.

You fidgeted with the hospital band still around your wrist. “I think I knew.”

The words escaped you without thought. You felt the green depths of his eyes on you, and you really, really wished you couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” you muttered, “but I think I just...deep down, I knew something was wrong. That’s why I told you I wasn’t interested in leaving the city. Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to.”

The thought filled you with a graceful sense of finality that eased your dissociation, and the electricity of your anxiety settled to a crackle within your bones. The trembling world around you still didn’t feel like your own, but at least it was starting to jitter back into place.

You folded your arms on top of your balcony railing. “You know, sometimes I think I died back in that car crash and woke up in limbo, and you’re some psychopomp sent here to take me home.”

V rested both hands on the grip of his cane. “His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire; a girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire. He spreads his canvas, with his pole he steers; the freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears. He looked in years; yet in his years were seen; a youthful vigor and autumnal green.”

Amused, you cast him a sidelong glance. “A little pompous to make up poems about yourself, don’t you think?”

“It was written by a Roman poet named Virgil,” he smirked back, “about the ferryman of Hades.”

“If I give you a quarter, will you let me pass?”

“You are not dead, starlight.”

“Not yet.”

You continued looking out across the distance: the morning sun, the broken buildings, the grey clouds approaching on the wind. There was sure to be a storm tonight, and only one question left on your mind.

“...why did you knock on my door?”

You didn’t need to explain yourself further.

After Griffon’s first visit, V knew that you were alone and irreversibly poisoned by the demon tree. At that moment, he could have walked away without a word, knowing your infection would die in isolation with you, and you would have been none the wiser of his existence.

But V hadn’t done that.

Instead, he chose to visit you, finding your building’s front entrance completely barricaded with anything on the first floor you had strength enough to move. He chose to climb six flights of fire escape stairs up the side of your complex—he chose to knock on your door, to introduce himself, to accept your half-crazed invitation for tea.

Why?

It was your turn to keep your eyes on him now, and to your surprise, he would not look at you. He seemed reluctant to respond, but yours was the first truly personal question you asked of him in the days you had known each other. You would not back down without an answer. He owed you that, and he knew as much.

“I felt a kinship with you,” he settled on.

“You had no idea who I was.”

“Perhaps not at first.” More hesitance graced his features, drawing his brows together and wrinkling the corner of his nose. He gripped the railing before him tightly, as if he were bracing himself to speak. “As I have told you, I was placed within this realm to serve a purpose. What you do not know, however, is that if I am successful on my quest, I will...cease to exist.”

Your thoughts glazed over as you felt your stomach drop.

“When I learned of you, I saw myself,” he continued. “Frightened. Alone. Not long for this world. I believed helping you would assist in the navigation of my own shadows. Alas, I did not expect to find an evening star within the darkness.” With a somber smile, he turned to look at you. “My reasons for finding you were less than altruistic, I admit. In my selfishness, I withheld something important from you—something that was a matter of life and death. I understand if you are unwilling to forgive me for that.”

For the first time since the conversation started, you met each other’s eyes.

For the first time since you met, you understood that you and he were the same.

“Do you know why I came back for the flowers?” you asked.

He tilted his head ever-so-slightly in curious attention, his dark bangs brushing along the side of his face.

“Even before all this went down, I...didn’t really have anyone. I was alone. Being alone got hard, sometimes. So I, um.” You started fiddling with your wristband, again. “I bought some seeds. I learned how to plant them. How to take care of what grew. It probably sounds stupid, but...it was nice, you know? Having something that counted on me. When things got really bad, I would just think, ‘I can’t kill myself now. Who would take care of my flowers?’ And after everything that’s happened...I didn’t want to give up on the one thing that needed me. If they somehow managed to survive, I couldn’t leave them to die alone.”

Your throat suddenly felt tight. You turned away from him, lowering your head and pressing your palms into the corners of the balcony railing. Everything within you felt like it was welling up at once, but you willed yourself not to cry. Not here. Not now.

“You could’ve left me, back then.” You tried to keep your voice from wavering. “You could’ve left me to die alone, but you didn’t. You don’t have to be alone, either. I can be here until the end of us, if you’ll let me.”

You felt a hand rest on top of yours.

“The privilege is mine,” he said.

Somehow, the weight of his hand felt heavier than before.

Letting your eyes slip shut, you took a deep, shuddering breath, focusing on nothing more than keeping yourself from breaking down. You wanted to turn around and reach out and hold him—he would be a much better anchor than the railing, you were sure of it—but the headache still flashing lightning behind your eyes was blinding, an unholy mixture of demonic migraines and unprocessed grief.

“Can I have some time alone?” you asked. “Not long, I just. I need to think.”

“...I do not think it wise to leave you to your own devices at the moment.”

“I’ve made it this far, you really think I’m gonna throw it all away by killing myself? How boring of an ending would that be?”

You meant for the joke to lighten the mood, but the way he was looking at you now made your heart sink. The concern in his eyes was uncompromising.

“I can’t kill myself now,” you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Who would take care of you?”

He smirked. “Who, indeed?”

V released your hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, and the sweetness of his touch was almost enough to dull the pain.

-

It took some convincing to assure V you weren’t a danger to yourself, but he eventually agreed to give you space that afternoon—on one, non-negotiable condition.

The idea of being babysat by a demon didn’t sit right with you, but you appreciated the concern.

With Shadow never more than a few paces behind you, you tried to go on with the rest of your day, rumination over the morning’s events serving as background noise to the idle buzzing of your headache. You changed out of your soiled clothes. You took a shower to rid yourself of last night’s blood stains. The water was ice-cold like always, as you had no electricity to warm it, but you sat on the shower floor and stayed under the stream until you were as numb as the thoughts bouncing around your throbbing skull made you feel.

You were going to die.

You were going to die and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

The revelation didn’t affect you the way you thought it would. You felt like you should have been sadder, angrier, more indignant about the whole situation—but the truth was you came into this mess pre-saddled with learned helplessness. In the weeks before V arrived, you thought the chances of being rescued were slim to none, and you held no illusion about being able to survive indefinitely without demons closing in on your position. For you, dying wasn’t so much a matter of if as a matter of how.

Now you knew.

The rest of your day was spent curled up in bed, your head buried beneath your pillows as Shadow kept a watchful eye on you from her guard at your bedroom door. Rain had arrived with the evening and it made you feel as unsafe as it always did since the attack. Being unable to see or hear anything beyond the storm sent your mind reeling, imagining what manner of hellish creatures could be closing in on you without your knowledge. Every clap of thunder seemed to rattle the hive inside your head, and you wondered how long the infection would take to eat away at you. You wondered if you would lose your memory.

You wondered if it would hurt when you died.

This is how V must have felt, too, you realized—knowing the end was coming, like a stormcloud on the horizon, keeping you resigned to the inevitability of its arrival. Still, where you were once terrified, trying to survive behind barricades and stolen rations, it was almost freeing to know nothing you did mattered, anymore.

Shadow gave a quiet growl at your door. You poked your head out from beneath the covers. She looked at you, took a few steps from the doorway, then glanced over her shoulder to look at you again.

She wanted you to follow her.

There was no urgency to her steps as you took the familiar path through the dark hallways to the fire escape. The window was open when you arrived, letting rain pool on the floor. You recognized the figure standing outside long before he came into view.

V leaned against the window frame under no cover from the rain, fully soaked from head to toe. His skin and leathers alike were slick with water, and his wet hair stuck to the sides of his face, the black strands appearing a deep blue beneath the moonlight.

He reached a hand through the open window. “You told me you missed the rain.”

Your knee-jerk thoughts kicked into overdrive—this was absurd, you’d get drenched, you’d catch a cold if you went out in this weather—but you noticed the carefree glint in his eyes and you were reminded of the briefness of your shared timeline.

(Nothing you did mattered, anymore.)

Charon offered you his left hand, and you accepted it, with vigor.

“Hold tight,” he said.

Your first mistake was assuming you would take the stairs.

With your still hand in his, V leapt over the fire escape railing. An embarrassing shriek tore from your throat as your guts gave a sickening dip during the six-story drop. Shadow morphed into a cloud of black smoke and shot out beneath you, faster than anything, her form a dense fog beneath your feet that guided your fall and allowed you all a soft landing. You landed with far less elegance than V did, but his hand within yours kept you steady on your feet.

“Jesus christ,” you chuckled nervously, near trembling from head to toe. “Warn me before dragging me off a fucking building next time, will you?”

“Now, where’s the fun in that?”

In a billow of dark vapour, Shadow returned to her sigils tattooed across V’s skin.

The streets around your building were still a destroyed mess, with large sections of pavement a rough puzzle of split pieces beneath your feet. The pouring rain was cold against your skin, but still warmer than your earlier shower; it didn’t take long for you to get completely drenched as you walked alongside V.

V ran a hand through his sodden hair, flipping it back and out of his face, and the sight of him had you hypnotized. His eyes drifted to meet your stare before sliding down to take in the sight of you—and you were suddenly very aware of how your soaked top was clinging against your skin.

“The rain suits you, starlight.”

“That makes two of us.”

A sly smile, and he turned away from you, again.

V kept several paces ahead of you as you continued your leisurely stroll. He began twirling his silver staff in his hand and placing one foot directly in front of the other, heel to toe, as if he were walking the length of an invisible string. There was a sudden bounce in his step you weren’t sure what to make of, at least not until he started strutting along low walls and uneven chunks of debris with perfect balance. Spinning his cane between his fingers with practiced ease, he performed choreographed steps to some silent rhythm playing in his head, moving confidently beneath the rain as if he were the star of a showtune.

You couldn’t believe your eyes.

He doubled back to quite literally dance circles around you. You couldn’t hold back your laughter, and the sound was music to his ears.

You applauded. “All you need is a top hat and you’ll be ready for Broadway.”

“Indeed.” Coming to a stop in front of you, he gave a gentle bow as he offered you his hand. “Care to join me?”

Once again, your immediate thoughts were of embarrassment, rejection, impracticality—but once again, you thought better of it, and you took his hand without objection.

V guided your arm, holding your hand up and a little off to the side of you. The hand that held his cane rested closed-fist against your waist; you could feel the length of steel along your back, and it kept your posture straight.

“I’ve never really done this before,” you mumbled.

“Not to worry,” he replied, guiding you closer to him. “Just follow my lead.”

(Didn’t you always?)

Without warning, V started to move.

Step, one, two. Step, one, two.

The moves weren’t complicated—he took you on a slow, informal sort of waltz, his swaying steps back and forth simple and easy to follow. Though you somehow managed to keep both your left feet from stepping on his, there was an effortless fluidity to his movements that made you feel clunky and square-wheeled in his arms.

“Shouldn’t there be music?” you teased, trying to hide your self-consciousness.

“Ah, I knew I was forgetting something. Let’s see, now...”

And he began to hum the first few notes of Singin’ In The Rain.

You could not stop yourself from shying away, from pressing your forehead to the crook of his neck to hide your smile against him, for the way he looked at you as he hummed the melody was enough to set your cheeks on fire. Not one to be deterred, he rested his chin on top your head and continued the song in its entirety, syncing your gentle, swaying motions to the tune. You could feel the resonance of his voice vibrating beneath his chest.

He sounded happy, or something like it.

In a moment of bravery, you stepped back and raised your held hands as far as they could go. Laughing, V took your cue and twirled—at his height, you had to tiptoe and he had to bend down for him to make it all the way under your arm.

The sound of his laughter, the sight of a smile that actually reached his eyes—knowing you were responsible for both made your pulse thunder more than normal within your head.

You rested a hand against his cheek and he leaned into your touch as he did the previous night, affectionate and undeniably cat-like.

“...can I kiss you?”

The words fell from your mouth, rushed and uncertain, emptying all the air from your lungs. The confidence in his eyes flickered and filled with questioning—that same innocent curiosity from your very first meeting, as if he were surprised to be seen this way.

As if he’d never done this, before.

“Please,” came his whisper, gentle and sure.

So you tiptoed.

Soft was the first word that came to mind—from the careful press of his lips to yours, to the feeling of his rain-soaked skin beneath your fingertips, to the way he eased so completely beneath your touch. It surprised you, how someone who seemed all sharp angles and rough edges could feel so delicate in your hands.

He hadn’t realized his eyes were shut until he opened them. He was not sure if he forgot to breathe, or if you simply took his breath away. Multitudes of experiences lingered within his memories, but few had been realized by this vessel; this felt far more powerful to him than any single memory he came equipped with, for this was a moment he made entirely for himself.

He may not have been his own, but you, you were—his and his alone.

Holding his face in your hands, you laughed softly with a happiness you hadn’t known yourself capable of, the sudden tears spilling down your cheeks indistinguishable from the rain.

However much time you had left together, you swore you would make the most of it.

[amwritesstuff]

Forget Me Not 3 (final): We Found Our Way (Bakugou/Reader)

Part 1

Part 2

Films had a habit of using weather to depict whatever mood was happening. No matter how bad the hurricane, the main characters would come out basking in the shining light of a new day. Good things happening when good news was given. Bakugou understood it was all metaphors for visual entertainment, but he couldn’t help wishing movie makers were a little more realistic, maybe his expectations wouldn’t be so high.

He swore loudly as his foot sank into a pothole, cold water now soaking his sock and pant leg. He had been doing so well with trying to keep dry from the downpour, only for this to happen in the parking lot. His car got a flat tire on the long road from the highway to the property. He didn’t have a spare, so he called a tow-truck but refused to sit an wait, giving them permission to do what they needed to while he hoofed it the rest of the way, huddled under an umbrella. Like hell he was going to waste any more time.

He entered the familiar lobby, making a ’squelch’ with every other step. The woman behind the counter smiled when she noticed him, scowling and shaking his foot in vain. She handed him his visitors pass without anything being said. He’d been coming long enough that staff knew him.

Bakugou all but stormed down the halls, the unfortunate plight of his car and shoe making him irritable. However, once he rounded his final corner, he faltered in his step, suddenly nervous. The hall looked a lot longer than it ever had before. Your door looked that much farther away.

How many times had he made this trek? Enough, he felt. The shitty carpet pattern and smell of old people would be forever etched into his brain. It was automatic now. He wasn’t aware that he had been moving until he stood before your door.

And he just stood there.

He felt unsure. Would anything be different? Would it all be the same? The weather indicated that there was no happiness to be found here. That whatever miracles had been taking place recently were washed away.

He was afraid.

Afraid that he’d open this door and find nothing but a blank stare. Find that the past few days were flukes, that your mind had begun caving into itself, much like his chest had been for so long. Afraid that this was a calm before the storm and it was just going to get worse. Could he handle it if that were the case? Or would he finally crumble away beside you?

Another door banging shut in the quiet was enough to jar him from his thoughts and nerves. He scowled to himself. What was he getting worked up over? He was Katsuki fucking Bakugou! He didn’t back down from anything! And he sure as hell wasn’t going to turn tail from you. You were improving, that’s what was happening now. Everything else be damned!

His newfound vigor was near instantly put out when he heard your startled yelp from his harsh bangs on the door. He could have kicked himself. You were confused more often than not, sudden aggression was not going to help. The hell was wrong with him?

The door was suddenly wrenched open and Bakugou found himself pinned under your harsh glare. There was a fire in your eyes that he hadn’t seen in a long while. A burning he knew so well, that challenged anyone to dare rub you the wrong way. A challenge that he always found himself tackling because it was you who initiated it.

However, he didn’t jump into it with his own shit-eating grin and snark. He simply stared. You weren’t asking who he was, what he wanted, asking if you could help him with something. There was recognition in that heated gaze. It held him in place, crushing him under its weight, much like years ago when he started getting to know you better.

You were looking at him. You knew him… But, you weren’t seeing him. Not in the way he was looking for, but a vast improvement to all the previous visits.

God, he wanted nothing more than to hold you.

You sighed, looking unimpressed. “Is there a reason you're trying to break my door down?”

A handful of seconds passed before his brain finally caught up. “Just... wanted to make sure you heard me.”

“Rooms so small there's no way I wouldn't hear you,” you pulled the door open wider. “Well, come in then.”

Bakugou stepped in and almost immediately felt like he was suffocating. He hated how stuffy and cramped the room was. He usually tried to get you outside whenever he visited. It was currently a mess, clothes all over the place and objects in the process of being moved around.

“So,” he snapped his attention back to you, watching as you started folding clothes and putting them away. “What brings you to my humble abode? Dropping off a house warming gift? Something that was salvageable from my now flattened apartment?” You pinned him with a hard, accusing stare from over her shoulder.

Ah. He knew exactly what memory you were playing through. A duo of pretty nasty villains had popped up, just wreaking havoc. Bakugou had been among those called in to take care of it. The Heroes had gotten the all clear that civilians had been evacuated, so the fight turned from trying to just keep them contained to a spot, to trying to actually take them down.

One of them was more or less brushing off the hits being dealt. The best thing Bakugou could come up with was to set a trap and simply bring a building down on the villain. It worked. The guy was knocked out and sustained very little in the way of injuries. However, that building he used? Yeah, your apartment had been in it.

It was a hell of a thing for you to cut your vacation short for. You were understandably upset, but you didn’t hold it against him, not entirely. You were offered a temporary stay at the agency, in what staff jokingly referred to as ‘sleeper cells.’ They were basically tiny rooms with a bed, meant for those not well enough to go home after pulling an all-nighter, or in need of a break before going back to the paperwork grind. You were living out of a suitcase during your time there, which you didn’t really have any problem with. You seemed to be more perturbed over losing your apartment overall if anything. However, you did come off a bit cold to him, which made him think you did lose something important to you. It had annoyed him that you wouldn't say anything about it.

Honestly, though? Bakugou couldn’t think of a better place for your current headspace to be in. At the time, he had been coming to terms with… feelings that had manifested and grown without his knowledge or permission. He actually had stopped by with what he had hoped was a peace offering. A little something the cleanup crew had found near where your apartment had crumbled, thinking of you the second he had seen it. While also mildly hoping some kid wasn't missing it.

He didn't have anything with him now, so he fell back onto the banter that he enjoyed partaking in with you. He shrugged, matching your stare with a smirk. “Is my presence in this shithole not gift enough for you?”

Your cheeks turned a pretty red, in embarrassment or irritation, he couldn’t tell. You turned back to your task, now stuffing drawers with such force that the clothes were coming undone.

“I’m in this ‘shithole’ ‘cause somebody thought it’d be a good idea to use an entire building to stop one villain.”

“And you could've done better? Besides, you said you weren’t mad about it.”

“Well, if you’re going to come here and be a prick about it, I just might change my mind!”

“So, you’re admitting you couldn’t have done a better job?”

“No! I’m not admitting- I can catch bad guys without resorting to property damage! Don’t change the subject, asshole!”

“Hm, can you back that claim up?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you! You-you… you, porcupine!”

He almost choked at that. He was remembering now. How could have forgotten? This had been the first time you’d called him ‘porcupine’. Over time it turned from a cute insult, into a term of endearment.

You were facing him now, red-faced and flustered. Trying in vain to keep your emotions in check. You were so fucking adorable. Fuck, he missed this.

“Porcupine?” He hadn't meant for it to come out as breathless as it did. He was supposed to sound amused. Luckily, it seemed you didn’t notice. Too caught up in the memory and high emotions.

“Yes! Porcupine! A big rodent that puffs up its quills and attacks anyone that tries to get too close to it! Quills that get wedged up under the skin of the unfortunate victim, and are incredibly painful and obnoxious! Just digging right up in there! Then they pull a complete one-eighty on you! Completely out of nowhere! And return something that meant so much to you when you thought it was gone! Just turning into the cutest little shit, never once thinking they could be so sweet, and will actually let you touch them if they trust you enough, and you realize that maybe they're not all that bad. Maybe… maybe they just need… a chance…” Your voice lost its momentum as your eyes glazed over, staring off at something on the bed. Bakugou felt his heart clench at your words. He remembers the more biting bit, but the rest… Did you really think that about him after he gave you that toy?

You stood there like that for several long, agonizing seconds. Bakugou knew better than to disrupt whatever your mind was trying to do. Instead, he followed your gaze, eyes widening at seeing the well-loved stuffed toy.

That was what he brought you. Turned out it had been yours. You had been so overwhelmed when he presented it to you that you had flung yourself at him in a bone crushing hug. You explained it had been given to you the day you were born, and, if it was still intact, you wanted to pass it down if you ever got the chance. If Bakugou had to think about it, that little thing was the catalyst to the start of your relationship.

“You… you're going to pester me about calling you that…” your voice was light but firm in conviction. “You're going to bother me for weeks… use it as a reason to talk to me more… you'll never admit you're doing it to watch me get flustered...” Your gaze shifted to the shirt in your hands. “I'm not going to realize that you're doing it to… not until your friend mentions it…”

You blinked rapidly, eyes coming back into focus. You looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. Your back was turned more to him. He was doing all he could to keep himself from throwing caution to the wind and embracing you.

You set the shirt down, gently picking up the stuffed toy. “You never said anything about this. Not once.” You hiccup out a laugh. Bakugou found himself holding his breath. “I was so sure you'd hang it over my head, use it somehow to mock me. But, you never did. It honestly surprised me.” Your grip tightened. “You… well, you didn't ask me out. You gave me a time and a place, and I guess you hoped that I'd show up. I wasn't sure that I should… but, I'm so glad that I did!” Your voice held a smile. A watery one, but a smile nonetheless.

“And your stupid proposal!” A laugh forced itself out of you. “You weren't romantic, you didn't plan it- Hell, you were just coming out of the bathroom! You just… handed me this,” the hand holding the toy flopped to the bed. “Said it was in good condition, good enough to be given to a kid, if I was ready to part with it!” You started laughing in mirth. “I'll never forget how angry I got! I thought you wanted me to get rid of it!”

Just as quickly as it came, your laughter became choked. Your hand came over your mouth as you struggled to pull yourself together. “But, I did…”

Bakugou felt his chest clench painfully at how broken you sounded. He had his teeth clenched so hard to keep from making a sound. You needed to sort through your head without interference. It was killing him.

“I forgot I was a Hero. Forgot everything I'd gone through. People that I've come to know and care about. That I had been attacked… my quirk is-” You choked, unable to get the words out. You straightened and turned to face him. Fat tears were streaming down your face as you looked him over. As you saw him.

“I forgot you.”

Bakugou shot forward, clutching you to him as you broke down. Your grip on his shirt was weak. He tried to give comforting words, saying he was there, he had you, only to realize that he was also crying too hard to get anything out. He sat you both on the bed in fear that his legs would start to give out as well.

The two of you sat there for a time, letting out all the pent up emotions. The sobs died down to hiccups and sniffles, eventually simmering to Bakugou lightly running a hand over your head as you held him. The quiet was comforting in a way.

It terrified him. He had been in this position before. Every second that ticked by caused his fear to grow. How long would it be until you pulled back and asked who he was? Until you looked up at him without any recollection of who he was? Could he continue to be strong so soon after such an emotional breakthrough?

And yet, the longer you kept your face buried in his chest, the more hopeful he couldn't help but become. You knew him when he showed up at your door. You remembered him as your husband not even ten minutes after. This was the longest that you've remembered him for. You were getting better. It took some time to get the ball rolling, but now you were getting so much better with each day.

His heart nearly stopped when you shifted, pulling away from him. No. No, this was still much too soon. He was trying desperately to keep his breathing even. He just had a breakdown, he didn't know if his heart could handle another.

As you looked up at him with puffy eyes and a small smile, he felt that he still might break from relief. God, you were so beautiful. You reached up, taking his face in your hands. He felt a couple tears escape. You gently brushed them away as you brought him into the most tender kiss he swears has ever existed.

If you forgot again, so be it. He had promised to be by your side through thick and thin. And it was well known that Katsuki Bakugou didn't make promises he couldn't keep.

[silavut-the-wizard]

Silavut the Wizard, Chapter 23

They deal with a very sticky situation.

The Dragon

The dragon descended with a great gust of wind and thundering landing. The villagers scattered back to their homes, screaming.

Silavut looked up at the dragon with indifference, seemingly not caring what happened next.

Sehlan looked at the dragon with dread on her face. “Silavut! What the hell was that?” she asked furiously. “Did you purposely lure the dragon here?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the dragon.

“Hello, little morsels. I see the villagers have prepared yet another scrumptious sacrifice.” Its voice was in their heads.

“We’re—ugh—not—ergh—your—gah—snack!” Sehlan grunted, still trying to find a way to free them. “Silavut, help me! What are you doing?” She looked back to see him just sitting there, staring at the dragon.

“It seems your friend has given up trying to escape.” It produced a deep, rumbling laugh. “All the easier for me to devour.”

Sehlan let out a frustrated grunt. “I wish I had a blade so I could cut these damn things! Then use it to kill you!” she said, turning her attention towards the dragon.

“Me? Why kill me? I’m not your enemy. I’m just like any other living thing. I need to eat to survive, and this village has provided little snacks like you to help with that.”

Besides the village’s yearly sacrifices, she had to admit the dragon did have a point. She had an idea. “Let me ask you something, then. Why do you come to this village? What is it that draws you here?”

The dragon was taken aback. No one had ever asked it anything before. Everyone always screamed and ran away or tried to escape.

What no one knew, however, was that it never actually ate anyone. It would pick them up and carry them off somewhere else and let them go, the villagers being none the wiser as not a single one ever returned; mainly because being sacrificed was a deterrent to return.

The main reason the dragon never actually ate anyone was because dragons never ate humans if they could avoid it for various reasons.

After a moment of thought, it decided to answer. “To seek the one who destroyed another dragon nearly thirty years ago. An evil one with power even dragons dare not meddle with. It was in this village that happened, and when the weave of balance started coming undone. It has frayed and the world became fractured. The only way to restore them is by destroying this wicked being.”

Sehlan gasped. So it knows! “We, too, have been seeking this evil one. She is an insane sorceress who became immortal and has been wreaking havoc ever since she fully came into her powers. We know not where she dwells. We have been travelling long and have been through several ordeals, this one certainly not being the least. We wish to destroy her as well. We may well be able to help each other.” She stopped to let this sink in with the dragon.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? You could be lying to get out of being eaten. Many have tried such tactics before and failed. I should just devour you right now.” It opened its jaws and they could see the massive, sharp teeth built to puncture just about anything, and its long, slimy tongue ready to slurp them down.

“No! Wait!”

It stopped, pulled back and closed its mouth, and waited, one large eye turned towards them, watching closely.

“I’m not lying.” Sehlan tried to think how it could know they were telling the truth. Then she remembered something she heard as a child. “I know dragons have a way to tell if someone is true or false. I also know the risks involved. You can do it to me. If I am lying, then you can eat us, right here and now.”

Silavut continued to stare blankly.

After several moments of contemplation, the dragon agreed. It performed its test on Sehlan and found her to be truthful. She nearly collapsed from the mental strain and was breathing hard with the exertion.

“You see,” she said between breaths, “it’s true.”

“Yes. I do see.” The dragon slowly circled them a few times, still contemplating devouring them. “Though you do still look tasty.”

Silavut suddenly jumped up, fire in his eyes. “You will not have us, dragon!”

“Silavut!” Sehlan nearly screamed in both elation and frustration. “What…the…hell??”

“Sorry,” he said with a crooked smirk and half-hearted shrug. “Couldn’t ruin my plan.”

“Your plan? To do what exactly?”

“Well, free us, of course.”

“OK, so you’re free, but what about me?”

“Let me deal with this conniving beast here.”

“Wait! It’s not what you think.”

The dragon watched, amused, as the two went at it.

“Then tell me, what is it?”

“It can help us. Did you not hear it?”

“I heard nothing but lies. Dragons cannot be trusted. Don’t you know that?”

Sehlan sighed. “Yes, I know. Normally I would agree with you, but not now. Would you please get me loose, and then tell me how the hell you got loose?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He went over and cut her bonds, still wary of the dragon.

Sehlan stood and rubbed her wrists where they were bound. “Now, tell me your plan and how you got loose.”

He hesitated, looking between her and the dragon, then explained. “Ever since I left Vorin’s, I’ve always had a hidden dagger. It was one thing he taught me, to always be prepared and how to keep it hidden, even with thorough searches. I didn’t want anyone to see me pull it out, so I yelled, assuming the dragon would show, which it did.” He nodded at the dragon. “Once the villagers were gone, I manoeuvred enough to slide out the dagger and cut the bonds. After getting free, I thought we might be able to distract the dragon long enough to escape, find our packs, and get the hell out of here.”

“OK, but distract it how?” Sehlan shrugged at the dragon, bemused.

“I hadn’t figured that part out yet. I figured we’d come up with something at the time.”

“Great. Just great.” Sehlan threw her arms up and let them drop as she rolled her eyes. “So we were just going to randomly distract it with nothing. Nice.”

Silavut became sheepish. “I didn’t know what else to do! I’m sorry.”

The dragon then let out a roaring laugh. “You little ones amuse me. I may not eat you after all.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sehlan said.

Silavut sighed and sat back down. “So, now what do we do? We need to find our packs and get out of here.”

“Let’s go see our oh-so-generous host and see what they know.”

They made their way to the home of the one who drugged them. Upon their barging in, the owner, who was making a meal, yelped and tried running out the back. Sehlan was too quick, though, and caught them before they could get out the door.

“Where is our stuff? What did you do with our packs?”

Stammering, they answered, “H–ho–w–d–d–di–d–y–yo–you?” She shook them. “Th–th–they–o–over–p–p–pl–please–l–l–let–m–me–g–g–g–go—”

“Where?” she asked with more force, shaking them harder.

They yelped and cowered in her grip. Finding their voice, they said in one long string, “Over-there-in-the-storage-room-please-let-me-go!” They pointed towards the room.

“I should leave you to the dragon!” Sehlan dumped them on the floor and went over to the storage room. “You sure they’re in here?” she asked with danger in her voice.

“Y–yes! I–I–I’m sure!”

“They better be. Silavut, watch them.”

“My pleasure.” Silavut stood over them with the blade ready in case they tried anything.

Sehlan opened the door, and sure enough there were their packs, still intact thankfully. “They’re here. Good.” She dragged them out, the sword scraping the floor, leaving a gouge. Looking down at their abductor, she said, “If I ever hear of any more sacrifices, I will personally come back and hunt you down. Do you understand?”

Silently, they nodded vigorously.

“Good.”

Silavut smiled down at them and waved. “Bye-bye now.”

He helped gather the packs and they met the dragon back in the village square to plan their next move.

[newstfionline]

How to Start a War in 5 Easy Steps

By Stephen M. Walt, Foreign Policy, April 2, 2018

Is the United States on the road to war? The number of people who think so seems to be growing, especially after President Donald Trump fired several of the grown-ups who were reportedly tempering his worst instincts and proceeded to elevate hawks such as CIA Director Mike Pompeo and John Bolton, the former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. Writing in the New York Times Magazine this past Sunday, Robert Worth portrays Defense Secretary James Mattis as the sole voice of reason in Trump’s new “war cabinet” and highlights the risks of conflict with Iran, North Korea, and maybe a few other countries. How nervous should we be, and how might we tell if Trump is really serious about war or not?

The first thing to remember is that leaders don’t start wars that they believe will be long, costly, and might end in their own defeat. Plenty of wars turn out that way, of course, but the leaders who begin them do so because they fool themselves into thinking the war will be quick, cheap, and successful. Before World War I, Germany’s leaders thought the Schlieffen Plan would allow them to defeat France and Russia in a couple of months, and Hitler had similar hopes for the blitzkrieg and organized the entire Nazi war machine on the assumption that the war would be brief. Japan knew it couldn’t win a long war against the United States, and the attack on Pearl Harbor was a desperate gamble that Tokyo hoped would shatter U.S. morale and convince Washington to give it a free hand in East Asia. Saddam Hussein didn’t think anyone would resist the seizure of Kuwait, and George W. Bush and the neocons (as well as Bolton) foolishly believed the Iraq War would be easy, short, and pay for itself.

In a democracy, leaders bent on war also must convince the public that rolling the “iron dice” of war, to quote German Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg in 1914, is necessary and wise. Congress abdicated its constitutional role to declare war a long time ago, which gives presidents a pretty free hand, but no president is likely to order the large-scale use of force (as opposed to drones or small-scale raids) if he believes the public is dead set against it. Instead, he and his team will go to great lengths to persuade the public to go along.

So, if a president and his advisors are looking to start a war, how will they sell it? Here are the five main arguments that hawks typically advance when seeking to justify a war. You might think of them as the Top Five Warning Signs We’re Going to War.

The danger is grave and growing. The basic logic behind preventive war is the assumption that war is coming and that it is better to fight now instead of later. Thus, Germany went to war in 1914 because it believed (incorrectly) that Russian power would soon eclipse its own, and the Bush administration attacked Iraq because it thought Saddam was hellbent on acquiring weapons of mass destruction (WMD) and the situation would be intolerable if he ever managed to do so. Accordingly, anyone seeking to start a war will try to convince the public that the United States is facing multiple adverse trends and that its deteriorating position can be reversed only via military action. The lesson? Watch for rhetoric about “gaps,” “red lines” “points of no return,” or “time is running out,” which imply the United States must act before it is too late.

It is therefore worrisome that the Trump administration insists that North Korea’s improving nuclear and missile capabilities constitute an existential threat that cannot be tolerated and other warmongers conjure up lurid fears of a new “Persian empire” that must be defeated before it takes over the whole region. Both statements imply that America’s security is running out--like sands in an hourglass--making war almost impossible to avoid.

Such dark warnings rest on little more than guesswork about the future, of course, and typically depend on worst-case assumptions about where current trends might lead. If the United States were scuttle the nuclear deal with Iran and Tehran eventually got nuclear weapons, for example, there’s no reason to think deterrence wouldn’t work as effectively as it did with other nuclear powers. Similarly, it is hardly obvious that North Korea’s growing nuclear and missile capabilities will inevitably lead it to become more aggressive--let alone threaten the United States directly. It’s just as likely that it will become more cooperative once it is no longer worried about U.S.-sponsored regime change. I’m not saying that would be the case, mind you, but it is as plausible as believing that acquiring WMD or enhanced missile capabilities would suddenly lead Pyongyang or Tehran to launch a vast imperial rampage. Because the future is always uncertain, fear of adverse circumstances that may never materialize is a poor justification for war and especially for a country that is as powerful, wealthy, and secure as the United States actually is. That is why German Chancellor Otto von Bismarck called preventive war “committing suicide for fear of death.”

Notice further that the logic of preventive war implicitly acknowledges that the United States is still far stronger and more secure than any of these adversaries and need not go to war from a sense of panic. Which brings me to No. 2.

War will be easy and cheap (but only if we act now). As noted above, nobody launches a war if he or she is certain it will be long, costly, or likely to end in defeat. Accordingly, anyone trying to make the case for war has to convince him or herself and the public that it will be easy and that victory will be both inevitable and cheap. In practice, this means persuading people that the costs to the United States will be negligible, the risks of escalation controllable, and the likely outcome easy to foresee.

What does that tell us to look out for? Well, the more that the administration talks about “limited options,” a “bloody nose” strike, the potency of air power, the ability to conduct “precision attacks” with no collateral damage, or other supposedly controllable war scenarios, the more worried you should be. Those are the signs that a government is convincing itself that it has lots of options that will wreak havoc on its foes but pose little danger to the country. And you should be especially concerned when those advocating war seem to be assuming that the enemy will behave exactly as they would like them to, instead of coming up with responses they didn’t anticipate. “The enemy gets a vote” is a familiar cliche but also one that hawks routinely dismiss when making the case for action.

War will solve all (or at least most) of our problems. Advocates for war typically promise that victory will solve lots of problems at once. Saddam thought invading Kuwait was a masterstroke that would eliminate one of his main creditors, increase Iraq’s GNP by billions of dollars overnight, enhance his leverage over Saudi Arabia, dampen domestic discontent, and give him the wherewithal to compete with a potentially more powerful Iran. Similarly, Bush and the neocons thought toppling Saddam would eliminate a potential aggressor, send a message to other would-be proliferators, restore U.S. credibility after 9/11, and began a process of democratization in the Middle East that would eventually mitigate the danger of Islamic terrorism.

Hawks also like to argue the flip side: A failure to act now (or soon) will have dire consequences. Not only will it allow the balance of power to shift against the United States (see #1), but it will also lead others to doubt the country’s resolve and question its credibility. In other words: If the United States uses force, other states will respect it, deterrence will be strengthened, and peace will spread far and wide. If it doesn’t act, by contrast, adversaries will be emboldened, allies enfeebled, and the world will descend into darkness.

The astonishing thing about such claims is how often they get recycled. No matter how many times the United States goes to war or uses force--and it has done a lot of both in recent decades--it’s never enough. The positive effects of vigorous never seem to last more than a few months--at least according to the hawks--and soon they are telling Americans that they have to blow something up again so that others will know they can and will.

The enemy is evil. Or crazy. Maybe both. If you want to lead a country into war, don’t forget to demonize your opponent. Portraying the conflict as a straightforward clash of competing interests isn’t enough, because if that were the case, the problem might be resolved via diplomacy and compromise rather than by military force. Accordingly, hawks go to great lengths to portray opponents as the embodiment of evil and to convince the public that the enemy is morally repugnant and unalterably hostile. After all, if a foreign government does some bad things, and if its hostility to America will never, ever change, then the only long-term solution is to get rid of it. As former Vice President Dick Cheney put it, “We don’t negotiate with evil. We defeat it.”

A second line of argument is the claim that America’s adversaries are irrational, fanatical aggressors that cannot be deterred by its superior military power, huge arsenal of sophisticated nuclear weapons, robust network of allies, and assorted economic tools. Thus, Iran’s leaders are routinely described as religious fanatics who would welcome martyrdom, and North Korea’s three Kims have been routinely depicted as bizarre, crazy, extremely bellicose, and therefore impossible to deter. Never mind that both regimes have repeatedly shown themselves to be obsessed not with martyrdom or ideology but rather with retaining power and staying alive. To make the case for war, it’s more effective to tell the public these folks are dangerously bonkers.

Yet when it suits them, hawks also tend to portray the enemy as smart and sensible, to make using force seem safe. A leader like Kim Jong Un is said to be too irrational to deter, which is why the United States must go after him. But hawks also argue that if America does decide to attack North Korea’s nuclear infrastructure, it will in fact be possible to deter him from retaliating against U.S. allies or against the United States itself. Those who favor attacking Iran use similar arguments: Iran’s leaders are supposedly irrational fanatics who could not be deterred if they ever got nuclear weapons, but they are also smart and sensible enough to sit quietly while the U.S. Air Force conducts a devastating bombing campaign throughout their country. Needless to say, when you see an openly contradictory argument like this, you know you are in the realm of pro-war propaganda rather than serious analysis.

Peace is unpatriotic. The final warning sign is when an administration starts wrapping itself in the flag and suggesting that skepticism about the use of force is a sign of insufficient patriotism. During the Vietnam War, Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon accused anti-war activists of giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and an administration eager to sell a war is bound to portray those opposing it as weak-willed, naive, or insufficiently committed to U.S. security. If Trump is contemplating war and prominent people start to challenge him, you’ll know by keeping a close eye on his Twitter feed.

As I’ve noted before, U.S. politicians’ present aversion to peace is puzzling. I’m a realist and not a pacifist, but a country whose global position is as favorable as the United States has an obvious interest in peace and stability and little interest in taking big risks for small gains. Unfortunately, after 27 years of being the indispensable nation, and 17 years of fighting the war on terror, Americans have become accustomed to presidents trying to solve complex strategic and political problems mostly by blowing stuff up. This approach hasn’t worked very well, but it is still the default response of the foreign-policy establishment. Just remember the outpouring of bipartisan support that Trump received when he fired a few dozen cruise missiles into Syria. It was a one-off gesture that did not affect the war there in the slightest, yet Republicans--and Democrats--hailed it as a sign that Trump was finally taking his presidential responsibilities seriously.

My point is that if this administration decides it wants to start a war, it will do everything it can to intimidate or marginalize skeptics. The most reliable way to do that is to impugn their patriotism, in the hope that everyone will have forgotten how much damage overzealous hawks have done in recent years.

So, if you see the Trump administration deploying any of the arguments I’ve just identified (and to be fair, it already has to some degree)--look out. What makes this tricky, however, is that an administration that didn’t want to go to war might still act as if it were itching for a fight, in the hope of persuading the other side to make concessions. But this is a dangerous gambit, either because the bluff can get called or because you can start believing your own propaganda and talk yourself into war by stages.

If Trump does choose war, where is it most likely to occur? I’d say Iran, for two reasons. First, North Korea already has nuclear weapons, and Iran has none, so the risks of war with the former are infinitely greater. Second, even a purely conventional war on the Korean Peninsula would make South Korea, Japan, China, and others very nervous; by contrast, America’s Middle East clients would be positively giddy if Trump succumbed to their blandishments and attacked Iran on their behalf. If Trump is eager to distract people from his other troubles, or is determined to compensate for those small hands of his, war with Iran makes a lot more sense than a war with North Korea.

Which is not to say that it makes much sense at all. I still think war with either country is unlikely because the United States has little to gain and much to lose by launching another war. And it shouldn’t take a genius to figure that out. But that’s pretty cold comfort because I’ve overestimated the intelligence, prudence, and judgment of U.S. leaders before. Sadly, sometimes very bad ideas get implemented anyway.

Stephen M. Walt is the Robert and Renée Belfer professor of international relations at Harvard University.

[saiyukisecretsanta-blog]

Recipient: Akiko Natsuko

Writer’s Name: Del

Profile Links: Tumblr, AO3

Title: Snow Drop 3: After

Characters: Cho Hakkai, Genjo Sanzo, mentions of Son Goku, Sha Gojyo, and Yakumo

Pairing: Gen 383 (i.e., the piece involves notably more friendship/companionship/support than romance)

Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Part I: Sanzo

“…I’ll kill you.”

That was what he’d said, when the kid had almost asked.

He’d meant it, too. He’d turned the idea over and over in his head before the kid had even opened his mouth, and he’d concluded that he had no interest in seeing the kid suffer, or tear a town to shreds, or get himself irreparably damaged or eternally damned.

Sanzo frowns. He pulls in a shallow breath through his teeth, and fixes his weary eyes on the shortest of the three huddled forms trudging in front of him through the snow. For all he knows, the kid is hurtling headlong towards a fate worse than anything he could ever imagine - though, he acknowledges, that doesn’t exactly rule out a whole lot of possibilities. He’s prided himself on a few things throughout the years, but creativity has never been one of them.

A gloved fist shoots sideways out from under the kid’s cloak, and makes clumsy contact with the figure walking directly beside him. A shout shoots upwards, rising like a gunshot through the muffled quiet of the snowy landscape, and the next thing Sanzo knows, a flurry of blows joins the flurry of snowflakes. It’s as if Gojyo and Goku have taken it upon themselves to whip up a winter storm in miniature; their stupid, squabbling scuffle, much like a snowstorm, is completely expected, and it’s completely mundane, and it’s a completely natural phenomenon, and it’s the kind of thing that Sanzo takes an inordinate amount of grudging pleasure in complaining about - but it’s also the kind of thing that warms the heart, just a little bit.

Not, Sanzo thinks as the two dumbasses ahead of him start kicking each other with their heavy boots, that I’ll ever let them know that.

In his musings, Sanzo’s steps have slowed somewhat; abruptly, he realizes just how far behind the rest of his party he’s fallen. That’s what comes from getting all caught up in your head, dammit, he thinks, feeling his frown deepen on his chapped lips. He mutters a tight-jawed string of expletives, and he stifles a shiver, and he picks up his dragging feet, and he forces himself to surge forward with new force and vigor. Not for the first time, he curses his human stamina, and, not for the last time, he curses his travelling companions’ boundless energy. For good measure, he curses the cold and the snow, too. As he shuffles unenthusiastically forward, he squints up at the thick blanket of grey overhead. Maybe the sun will set soon, and maybe it won’t. In this ghastly, gods-damned weather, it’s impossible to tell.

“If it’s any consolation,” comes a gentle voice, rising thinly like stale smoke from one of the cloaked figures up ahead, “I’m of the belief that we should take shelter soon.”

Sanzo nods curtly. “Fine by me.”

“I thought it might be.” Hakkai turns to look over his shoulder, and he smiles. “Are you cold, Sanzo?”

As if in response, a fierce and violent gust of wind sweeps savagely through the mountain pass, knocking Sanzo’s hood off of his head and whipping at his grimy hair. Sanzo tugs his hood back on, hunches his shoulders, stuffs his hands underneath his armpits, and pins Hakkai with a flat and unfaltering stare. “That,” he says, unamused, “is a dumb question.”

And so, they walk on slowly, in soft, snow-stifled silence.

It’s not his fault, Sanzo decides as they soldier on together through the snow, that his thoughts keep sliding back to the kid’s unasked question. He couldn’t blame the kid, not really, for his inability to actually say the words - and, in truth, Sanzo admires the kid for having the balls to start asking the question at all. He remembers how loud the kid’s voice had been when he’d begun to speak, and he remembers how abruptly the kid had cut himself off, too. Did he shut himself up for my sake, Sanzo wonders vaguely, or for his own? Either way, Sanzo recognizes, it must have taken the kid a hell of a lot of effort to reel his question in like that. Self-control and restraint weren’t exactly the kid’s trademarks.

Self-control and restraint.

Sanzo starts.

Shit, he thinks.

Almost involuntarily, Sanzo feels for the familiar weight of his banishing gun at his hip. He’s seen what it’s like when the kid goes crazy, but he has no idea what to expect when the tightest-wound bastard he knows finally lets loose. Gojyo and Goku, he knows, have both witnessed it firsthand, but it’s not like they bring it up in idle conversation. And, really, it’s not like Sanzo can get upset with them for not wanting to talk about something like that. For one thing, Hakkai, limiters and all, would probably rip their freaking heads off if they dared to broach the subject. For another, Sanzo suspects that Gojyo and Goku don’t have an especially strong desire to revisit those memories, if they can help it. Sanzo can’t be sure, of course, but he has an inkling that Hakkai, unbound and unlimited, is scary as all hell.

When daylight begins to fade, Hakkai shepherds the party into a tiny, tidy, tucked-away cave, and he busies himself, bustling incessantly with crockery and clotheslines. (“Our cloaks are soaked through,” he’d said, with that cloying chuckle of his, “and unless there’s a dramatic change in the weather, I doubt we’ll be able to do without them tomorrow.”) Gojyo and Goku eat noisily by the fire and then lounge lazily on the floor, and before long, the sounds of their snores begin to rise and roll gently through the cave.

Sanzo huddles, solitary and silent, in a shadowy corner. He watches. He smokes one cigarette, and then he smokes another. He thinks. He sleeps, and he wakes, and he sleeps again, and he wakes again. He thinks some more. He lets his eyes wander to the edges of the cave, where Goku and Gojyo sprawl and snore side by side, looking deceptively carefree and serene. He lets his eyes wander to the center of the cave, where Hakkai perches, back straight as a rod and shoulders quivering, staring like his sorry life depends on it into the dying vestiges of their cookfire.

A quiet pop rises from the flames, and the light in the cave shifts, catching and glinting, for the briefest of moments, on the three small pieces of metal clipped almost inconspicuously to Hakkai’s ear.

And Sanzo, once again, frowns.

He heaves a sigh, and he rises. He shuffles, deliberately making more noise than is actually necessary, but Hakkai doesn’t turn around. Poor bastard, Sanzo thinks, something almost like sympathy twisting in his gut. He has no doubt that Hakkai is lost somewhere inside the darkest corners of his own head, and that, Sanzo imagines, probably isn’t an excessively fun place to be.

I owe it to him to let him know, Sanzo resolves, fingers brushing his gun once more. If nothing else, Sanzo needs the party’s only healer and best driver to be sharp and ready for when the snow finally lets up. Hakkai has yet to get so caught up in his own shit that he gets negligent, or stupid, or makes the rest of the group pay for his mistakes - but, truth be told, Sanzo wouldn’t put it past the guy. Maybe it would be an accident, and maybe it wouldn’t.

Either way, that’s not a risk that Sanzo is willing to take.

Part II: Hakkai

He’s not about to pretend that sleep will come to him easily. It would be pointless, because it would be a lie, and lies, he has learned, help no one.

Small untruths, he established some time ago through careful deduction and occasional practice, are another matter - but lies, he is certain, help no one.

The flames play tricks on his mismatched eyes tonight. He’s never found the act of staring into a fire excessively pleasant, but he knows that other people sometimes take comfort in it - Gojyo, for one, has expressed that on more than one occasion, and he cannot deny that he often sees a pale wash of relief cross Sanzo’s face when, at the end of a long and trying day of travel, Hakkai sets wood and kindling ablaze and stokes it to bright and bolstering life.

Hakkai, for his part, has not thought of fire that way for a long, long time. Fire can wreak deadly havoc, if it is not kept in check - and Hakkai, through long hours of consideration and contemplation, has concluded that no true comfort can be found in a thing that can kill.

Hakkai gazes deep and darkly into the flickering flames. If I wanted to, he muses, I could burn my own hand. I could burn away all of my flesh. It would be easy…

He fancies that the fire shows him familiar faces. He sees leering thugs with pointed ears and pointed sticks. He sees wide, wild eyes bulging from hollow sockets. He sees lovers, husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, rent asunder and wrenched apart by madness and sadness in brutally equal measure. He sees children, hungry for blood and hoping for victory, too simple and too ignorant to guess at their inevitable fates. He sees a smiling father, a kindly spark of stray warmth amidst the cold.

All of them had been sane, once.

And, Hakkai notes numbly, all of them are dead, now.

The tips of his fingers, he is mildly shocked and more than a little bit angry to discover, are trembling. Why? Hakkai dares to ask of himself. Why is this happening? What have I done wrong? He stretches his fingers as far as they can go, and then curls them tight into a clamped-down, clenched-up fist. He has been rigorous and unforgiving in the training of his body, and even more so in the training of his mind. But still, he thinks, furious, still, I lack control! And if he cannot, by the force of his strong will, control something as small and as simple as the state of his ill-formed, ill-fated, ill-used, hands, then surely -

A faint click, followed by a sharp hiss and a satisfied sigh of contentment, sound softly through the cave.

I should have known, Hakkai thinks dimly. I should have known that he would be awake on a night like tonight. Rain and snow, he reasons, aren’t wholly dissimilar, when all is said and done.

Sure enough, a series of even footsteps soon falls upon the gravelly ground and echoes dully in Hakkai’s distracted ears. They approach, and they stop, and the next thing Hakkai knows, Sanzo has dropped down to sit beside him, a cigarette in his hand and a scowl on his face.

“Too cold to sleep, huh?” Sanzo asks.

“What,” Hakkai says, keeping his words low and slow and even, “gives you that idea?”

Sanzo takes a long drag on his cigarette as he considers the question. “You’re shaking.”

“Am I?” Hakkai runs a nervous hand through his hair. “That’s funny, Sanzo - I’d scarcely noticed.” Small untruths, he thinks again, glancing at his pale fingers and seeing the way they still tremble.

Sanzo shrugs. “Sure,” he says.

Hakkai can read the blunt disbelief in Sanzo’s expression. He licks his lips, and scrabbles desperately for a verbal defense of some kind. “I suppose,” he says, “that I shouldn’t be surprised, should I?” He turns a sickly smile on Sanzo, and he lets out a short, light laugh. “After all, that sort of thing is the human body’s natural response to subzero temperatures, isn’t it?”

Sanzo’s face is impassive. “The human body,” he repeats.

Hakkai internally curses his poor choice of words.

At a loss, Hakkai turns slowly away from the fire and towards his fellow sleepless companion. The flames have cast strange shadows on Sanzo’s sharp face, throwing its angles into strange and stark relief. The shadows make Sanzo look both oddly young and very old at the same time - and, curiously, Hakkai can’t help but think that they lend Sanzo’s sharp face an uncanny touch of softness, too.

Sanzo takes another pull on his cigarette. “Look,” he says, thickly.  He pauses, pursing his lips and sending a stream of smoke up towards the roof of the cave. “You don’t have to worry about that, Hakkai. All right?”

“Excuse me?” Anger flares, sudden and hot, in Hakkai’s chest. “Frankly, Sanzo, I don’t believe you’re qualified to say something like that.”

“Oh, no?”

“No.”

“And why might that be?”

“If you can’t figure that out for yourself, then I’m not sure this conversation is worth having.” Hakkai grits his teeth, and turns his gaze back to the fire. “Perhaps,” he says darkly, “I’ll speak with Goku about it. He’ll understand.”

For a moment, the only sounds in the cave are the crackling of the fire and the restless rumble of snores.

And then, Hakkai cringes, and he hangs his head.

“I’m sorry, Sanzo,” he says. “I was cruel, and I didn’t need to be. It’s just - ” He pauses, hesitating. What, he wonders, can I say to a man who has never known this fear? How can I express to him what it’s like to slip entirely away from your mind, and then return to it again? How can I show him what it means to witness your full potential from the outside in, and to see that that potential can only be realized through madness? He swallows, and he clenches his fists even tighter, and he does his damnedest to ignore the twisting shapes in the flames, but always, always, try though he might, they resurface before his penitent eyes.

It’s only when he feels a rough hand settle on top of his own that he finds he can pry his gaze away.

Hakkai stares, shocked, at Sanzo. Sanzo, in turn, levels Hakkai with a look that’s shot through with cool distance and disinterest. Hakkai opens his mouth to speak, but for the second time that night - and the third time this day, he thinks, remembering how he felt when Goku had almost expressed aloud what he himself was holding, locked up tight, inside his heart - he can find no words.

“I saved your life once,” Sanzo says. “Never doubt that I can end it just as easily.”

Despite himself, Hakkai feels a sardonic smile twist at his lips. “That fight,” he reminds Sanzo, “was hard-won.”

“I got what I wanted, didn’t I?”

Hakkai’s smile grows, just a little. “Yes,” he acknowledges. “You did.”

Sanzo’s hand tightens on top of Hakkai’s. “I need you to sleep,” he says. His voice low, and markedly unenthusiastic.  “You know how inconvenient it is for everyone when you run yourself ragged like this, right?”

“Yes,” Hakkai says softly. “Yes, I do.”

“It’s a real pain in the ass when you get sick, too - so, if you’re actually shaking because you’re cold, you better find yourself a blanket or a cup of tea or something. Got it?”

The smile upon Hakkai’s lips grows even more. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’ve got it.” He can’t help but be amused; it’s just like Sanzo, after all, to disguise his genuine concern as a matter of practicality.

With that, Sanzo stands. As he traipses back to his lonely corner of the cave, he stretches, working the kinks out of his spine and his neck. “I want to be on the road early tomorrow if the snow clears up,” he says. “Think you can make that happen?”

Hakkai nods. “Of course.”

“Good.” Sanzo plunks himself down against the wall of the cave. “Sleep well, you moron,” he says, closing his eyes, “or I’ll kill you.”

Hakkai opens his hands. To his great surprise, they’re not trembling anymore.

That, and that alone, gives him the strength to ask one more question.

“…Sanzo?”

Sanzo grumbles incoherently, before he lets one drooping eye slide open. “Yeah?”

 “That’s just it,” Hakkai says. “I’m not sure that’s what I want.”

Sanzo flashes Hakkai a tired smirk. “Better insane than dead, huh?”

“I… truly don’t know…”

Sanzo’s hand strays to his hip, and his smirk melts, becoming sad, and sorry, and empty. “I wish things were different, Hakkai,” he says quietly. “I really do.” His eyes gleam, bright and fierce, from where he reclines in his corner. “But the truth is, that isn’t your choice to make.”

[titaniasfics]

Six Sentence Sunday - My Favorite Mistake, Chapter 9

Banner by the astounding @akai-echo

I finally finished Chapter 8 of My Favorite Mistake - the fic I’m donating for A Candle for the Caribbean charity anthology (please consider contributing or donating). It was slow going, since I was also finalizing edits for two of my original short stories, one of which was accepted to a flash fiction blog, the other I am hoping will get into an anthology. I have about 4 other pieces floating in the ether. Maybe someone will like those too?

Anyway, here’s a little something from Chapter 9.  It’s looking like it will go to chapter 12, but that depends entirely on that ragamuffin muse of mine, who likes to wreak havoc on all my well-laid plans.

Remember, untitled, unbeta’d and subject to change.

XXXXX

“Brrr…” Katniss shivered. “Why is it always so cold here?”

Peeta opened his bleary eyes. “I keep it cold for the sake of the paintings” he said before sitting up, tugging the comforter down until they were both beneath its thick, billowy softness. Katniss shivered, taking the opportunity to press herself up against his side in search of heat. He tucked her even more closely to him, rubbing her arms and hips to warm her up.

“Better?” he asked as the vigorous movements of his hands on her skin pushed the chill away. Katniss felt positively pampered and purred in response.

“I guess that’s my answer,” he chuckled, curling himself around her until she felt snug again. It was strange to let someone just sprawl over like he was doing, one leg hooked over hers, one large arm laying across her stomach, his head against her own. She almost thought of getting up and leaving but it felt too good to be where she was. So she went with it, allowing him to clasp her hip to him and pin her in place, after which he fell to sleep.

As exhaustion overtook her, a part of her told her she should leave - her sister might worry, though a text would solve that. And there was Haymitch, who might need her in the bar, even though it was her day off. She wracked her brain for reasons why she should get up and go and even persuaded her body to move when she was sure he was asleep.

But as she made to slide her leg out from beneath his and braced herself for the chill of the apartment, his arm tightened. He opened his eyes and she fell into the deepest blue she’d ever seen. He tugged her back to him and she obeyed, in utter and perfect relief. She really didn’t ever want to leave, which made her want to jump up in turn and race from the building.

[eirabach]

Heathens [10/14]

Summary: After the events of Renegades, Emma finds herself the reluctant monarch of a struggling Kingdom, her only advisors a mish mash of those who’ve betrayed her in the past, and her only comfort one very uncomfortable pirate.

Believing her long lost parents could still be alive, Emma and Killian set out to find them and reunite them with both their daughter and their throne.

Easy.

Right?

Clare is still busy with her newborn babe so I’m ( @katie-dub​ ) here to wreak havoc and make mischief on Clare’s tumblr post on her behalf. Clare sends her undying gratitude to @phiralovesloki who was a far better beta and human than me, to @seastarved for her incredible artwork (which you should totally check out and reblog too), and to all of her lovely readers!

Rated: E. Warnings for violence and corporal/capital punishment in previous chapters.

This chapter 2k

Other Pairings: Snowing

Catch up on tumblr: Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight or here on AO3

Chapter Nine: The Walls Come Tumbling Down

“Like the good old days, eh Swan?” says Killian as he carves a path through the undergrowth with his cutlass. “I’ve missed this.”

“Which part?” grouses Emma, ducking to avoid the branches that he’s missed, unwilling to let go of his hook long enough to step around them. “The splinters, the mud, the constant smell of wolf piss?”

“Nonsense,” he says, pausing to grin back over his shoulder at her and sending her stumbling against his back. “You and I alone in the great outdoors? It’s romantic.”

“It’s cold,” Emma counters, “and anyway - ” There’s a meaningful cough from behind her, a heavier than necessary tread. “We’re not exactly alone.”

“Are you sure about this, Jones?” grumbles David. “Seems a little ill-travelled to be the route to such an illustrious witch.”

“The more illustrious the witch, the less she tends to advertise her services,” says Killian. “And besides, we can hardly traverse the roads of the realm, mate, or have you forgotten there’s a price on both our heads?”

David winces, and runs a hand over his throat. “Good point. Carry on.”

“I rather intend to, but thank you for your permission, your Majesty.”

Emma scowls, and prods Killian hard in the side.

She doesn’t know all the circumstances of how Killian and Dav - her father - met, explanations drowned out by frantic kisses and sheer disbelief, but she doesn’t find it hard to tell how they ended up in the hangman’s noose. She’s almost tempted to kill them both herself if they don’t stop picking at each other.

“This is the way the fairy dust wants us to go,” Emma reminds David, keeping her voice as calm and level as she can manage as she gestures to the gold string on the map that they’re following. “If you don’t trust Killian, can you at least trust that?”

David looks unconvinced for a moment, but Emma’s expression turns pleading and she can see the moment he relents.

“I think I’d rather the pirate than the dust,” he admits. “But I trust you.”

You don’t know me, she thinks, and stamps down on the bitterness rising in her chest.

“Well, I trust him.”

Killian stiffens slightly, and it stings to know he still doubts that, stings still more to know it’s her own fault. The muscle in David’s jaw works furiously for a moment, and then he nods.

“Very well.”

There’s an awkward moment while the three of them stare at each other that’s broken by Killian letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“Shall we then? I assume her Majesty Queen Snow isn’t likely to come gambolling through the trees at any moment, and there is likely an entire army at our backs, so if we could save the ethics debate for a more suitable time that would be wonderful.”

“Oh, like you don’t pontificate,” grumbles Emma before prodding him again, this time a little more good-naturedly. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

--

She’s practically starving by the time Killian’s sword meets thin air and they’re able to stumble out into a woodland clearing, so much so in fact that she thinks she might be hallucinating the cottage before them. Where the walls should be made of wood, stone, or mud, they’re the smooth golden brown of gingerbread, the sun glinting off windows made not of glass, but of thick, unctuous pieces of brightly coloured boiled sweets, the shutters painted with cinnamon and the doorknob made of candies. Above it all there rises the most magnificent smell of sugar and baking and it makes Emma’s stomach protest loudly.

“Oh, come on,” she mutters. “This is not fair.”

“Not exactly offering a healthy option, is she?” Killian says, keeping his cutlass drawn. “Well, shall we?”

David strides forward, knocking Killian’s cutlass out of the way as he goes, and for the first time Emma sees the king in him. His back is straighter now, his head unbowed as he hammers once, twice, three times on the door.

“Come iiiiinnnnn, sweeties!” calls a high pitched voice from inside. Emma and Killian exchange looks.

“This dwarf seemed reliable, did he?”

“He seemed insane,” admits Emma. “But needs must.”

David huffs, pushes open the door, and without having much choice in the matter, Emma and Killian follow.

--

The witch herself is not unlike an engraving from a child’s picture book, all stringy hair, long fingernails, and a laugh like steel against steel. She sits in an armchair in front of a roaring stove, the smell of burnt sugar thick in the air, and grins up at the three of them with sweet-blackened teeth.

“And what exactly is it you want from me, sweeties?”

“The dwarf, Grumpy, he said you could help us. That there might be a spell - ”

“A spell? Yes, there are a dozen, no doubt. But why would you need such a thing from me?” Her grin grows wider. “I know who you are, Saviour. Your magic is surely far greater than any of my little party tricks.”

Emma shuffles uncomfortably on the spot. “It’s not that easy,” she mutters. “I don’t - my magic isn’t something I have a lot of - well, experience with. I guess.”

“Magic isn’t about experience,” tuts the witch. “It’s about much more than that.” She leans forward and beckons Emma closer with one long finger. “I can see it,” she says, her voice low. “It surrounds you, sweetie, but you won’t ever be able to control it, not until you admit it to yourself.”

“Admit what?”

“Magic,” she says again in lieu of an answer, “is emotion.”

“Well, that sounds about perfect,” snaps David. “Because I have a very strong feeling about what will happen to you if you don’t help us to find my wife.”

The witch laughs, clapping her hands together in delight. “Oh lovely! I do like a customer who knows what they want. No vagaries! It makes life oh so much easier. But listen.” Her expression drops into a scowl. “Don’t you come complaining to me if it doesn’t work as you wish.”

“Why would it not?” asks Killian.

“Did you not hear me? Magic is emotion. You may wish to find this woman with every fibre of your hearts - but that does not mean she wishes to be found.”

“Of course she wants to be found,” David scoffs. “She’s my wife, Emma’s mother, what possible reason could she have to stay away?”

The witch shrugs, and peels her body out of her chair, brushing her hands on her skirts as she turns towards a large cabinet in the corner of the cottage.

“Suit yourself,” she says, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She opens the cabinet and taps her fingers along a line of mismatched glass bottles, each filled with some sort of thick, unctuous liquid that seems to move away from her touch. Something about them makes the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck stand on end, and she moves surreptitiously back until her shoulders are pressed to Killian’s chest.

“What are those things?”

“Spells, silly,” says the witch, her bony hand hovering over a tall cylindrical bottle full of something that swirls purple and black. “What were you expecting, a magic wand? Yes, yes, this one will do. Come here.”

Emma shuffles half a step forward, then stops.

“Why?”

“Because I need the other ingredient, of course.” She beckons again. “Do you want to find your mother or not?”

Emma lifts her chin, folding her arms as she reaches the witch’s side.

“Alright, now what?”

The witch reaches for her hand, giving her a little nod, and Emma lets her take it.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, this’ll do nicely.”

“What do you - fuck!”

Emma tears her hand back, Killian and David rushing to draw their swords behind her, but the witch is grinning happily and there’s a bloom of blood across Emma’s palm.

“Blood seeks blood, sweetie,” she says and Emma clutches her injured hand to her chest. “All I need is a little drop.”

“All you need is a good - ” begins Killian, but Emma cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“You could just have asked.”

“But where would the fun be in that?” she says brightly, and holds out the uncorked bottle. “There you go, not too much now!”

Emma holds her hand over the opening, and lets a small rivulet of blood work its way over the edge. As soon as it touches the liquid, the witch forces the cork back inside and shakes it vigorously, patting Enma’s bloody hand with a slightly grubby cloth as she does so.

“There,” she says finally, holding the vial out to Emma. “All yours.”

“What are we supposed to do with it, exactly?” asks David.

“Open it, fool. Outside though.” The witch shudders. “I don’t want that in my house.”

“How comforting,” says Killian drolly.

“And the price?” asks Emma. “I don’t imagine you’re doing this from the kindness of your heart.”

“For a girl with such magic you’re terribly judgemental,” says the witch, “but yes, I have a price in mind.”

“Well?”

“Well, you can’t pay it sweetie, not at the moment,” she says mildly before turning back to her stove. “But rest assured that when you can, I’ll be there to collect.”

“Wonderful,” Killian mutters. Emma elbows him in the side.

“So that’s it? We just open this thing up and it leads us to Snow White?”

“That’s what you asked for, wasn’t it?” sighs the witch as she carefully lowers herself back into her chair. “So off you go, sweeties. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

--

They make sure to be far enough away from the witch’s cottage so that they’re safe from any natural form of eavesdropping before passing the little bottle between themselves.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Emma asks, eyeing the swirling contents warily as Killian holds it up to the light.

“Only one way to find out,” David says, reaching up to snatch the bottle from Killian. “I’m done with waiting.”

“David, wait - ” Emma begins, but it’s too late. He’s already popped the cork, and the smoke begins to twist its way out of the neck of the bottle as Killian and Emma take a cautious step back. It’s just as well, the smoke billowing quicker and quicker until David is almost entirely cloaked in a thick, purple mist, all of them coughing into their sleeves as it begins to solidify into a dark, sulphurous mass that hangs inches above their heads like some child’s drawing of a stormcloud.

“Lovely,” mutters Killian. “Creepy magic cloud. Really fills a man with confidence. I think I prefer the fairy way.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but wipes slightly sweaty palms on her breeches nonetheless.

“Maybe you should talk to it?” David says, eyeing it warily, the bottle held tight in white fingers.

“Because that isn’t ridiculous,” Emma grouses, but she can’t deny there’s a sort of anticipation in the way it hovers, the air thick with waiting, the birds silent. “Alright,” she finally concedes, turning her face up to the cloud. “Show us the way to Snow White!”

The cloud vibrates.

“Please?”

It thins, spreads, like wine spilled over a sheet of glass, and a long tendril coalesces to point the way inland where the thickest undergrowth lies, bramble heavy and threatening in their path.

“Delightful,” sighs Killian as all three of them draw their swords. “Shall we?”

“Oh,” says David, his expression grim, his jaw tight. “After me.”

Killian follows him, the two of them slashing and hacking a clear path, small animals running in the face of their ferocity, but Emma hangs back for a moment, her hand stinging as she looks back over her shoulder in the direction of the witch’s home.

Be careful what you wish for, she thinks, the woman’s cackle ringing in her ears. You might just get it.

She shivers in the sudden breeze, and turns to follow in their wake.

Behind her, the birds begin to sing.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Once Upon A Different Time Episode 315: “Cardinal Points”

A re-work of Once Upon A Time from the beginning of season 3.

[banner by ripperblackstaff]

Catch up on previous episodes:

=====

Season 3A episodes 1-11

Episode 312: “New York, New York”

Episode 313: “Monkey Business”

Episode 314: “The Wonderful Wizard”

=====

Once Upon A Different Time

Episode 315: “Cardinal Points”

Oz – Past

Four black shapes were flying steadily along the skies, getting closer and closer to the drab, grey stone manor that loomed over Oz’s brilliant green fields. A young lady, dressed in the same drab grey as the stone walls, scrabbled down from her perch looking out of the small window and ran the length of the dormitory, her flaming red hair providing the only colour in the room.

“Zelena!” she called excitedly. “Zelena, they’re nearly here!”

“Be quiet, Verdie!” Her sister caught her as she stumbled out of the dormitory and set her back on her feet. “And stop doing that, you’ll draw attention to yourself.”

Verdie looked down at her hands to see multicoloured sparks shooting off her fingertips and dying harmlessly in the air around her, and she hastily hid them behind her back.

“I can’t help it, Zelena,” she whined. “I’m so excited! The Cardinal Witches are coming to pick their successors and we get the chance to meet them.”

“Yes, it’s one of the most important events in Oz and I’m sure we’re all very lucky to be a part of it, but if you’re not careful with your own witchy weirdness, they’ll end up picking you!” Zelena hissed, steering her sister down towards the manor’s courtyard where the rest of the girls were gathering to welcome the Cardinal Witches.

“But wouldn’t it be amazing?” Verdie’s voice was dreamy. “Being a trainee witch would be so much more exciting than being apprenticed out to a dressmaker or whatever it is that you’re going to do next year.”

“There’s nothing wrong with dressmaking,” Zelena snapped. “It’s a perfectly respectable profession.”

“So is being a Cardinal Witch and one of Oz’s great protectors,” Verdie countered. Zelena heaved a long sigh as she pushed Verdie into the courtyard and they lined up.

“I know, Verdie. But I promised Mama that I would look after you and I can’t do that if you’re off gallivanting in the Crystal Castle learning to be a witch. Only witches can visit and I’m not one. So you’re going to stay here where I can make sure that you’re safe.”

“But Zelena!”

“No buts! You’re the only sister I’ve got and I am not going to lose you like we’ve lost everyone else!”

“Zelena! Verdie!”

The headmistress bustled along the line of grey-clad girls and split up the two sisters, sending Zelena to stand with the older girls at the other end of the line. Verdie gave her a little wave, saw that her fingers were still sparking, and quickly clasped them together behind her back again. The witches were alighting their broomsticks and the headmistress went to let them in.

“Your excellencies, welcome,” she said. “It’s an honour that you have chosen the Greenfields School for Orphaned Young Ladies for your selection this time. These are, of course, the young ladies, and I should say that we do have some particularly talented young witchlets among their number.”

Verdie screwed her face up as she tried to stop the sparks of excitement and nervousness. As much as she wanted to become a witch, the idea of never seeing her older sister again was a terrible one. Verdie had only been small when their mother had died; Zelena was the only family she had ever really known.

The Cardinal Witches radiated power. It was in their black clothes and the way they carried themselves, magic permeating the very air around them. The girls, even Zelena, were awestruck as they walked up and down the line. The Witch of the South beckoned a girl forward.

“What’s your name, child?”

“Glinda, your grace.”

Of course, Glinda. She was easily the prettiest and most talented of all the girls, with blonde hair and perfect teeth. It was only her odd bursts of ‘witchy weirdness’ as Zelena put it that had prevented her swift adoption into Oz’s nobility.

“And you?” the Witch of the North asked another girl.

“Phoebe, your grace.” Phoebe was another easy choice, definitely gifted with magical arts. Zelena breathed a sigh of relief. Two down, two to go, two less chances of Verdie being chosen.

The witches were approaching and sparks were still rising and dying on Verdie’s fingertips. She closed her eyes.

“What’s your name, child?”

The Witch of the East was right in front of her. Verdie gulped.

“V-V-Verdie, your grace,” she squeaked.

“Show me your hands, Verdie.” The command was more curious than anything else, and Verdie, trembling, brought her still sparking fingers to the front.

“Oh my. So much raw power. Amelia, have you ever seen anything like it?”

The Witch of the West shook her head. “No. It’s unprecedented.” She looked over at Verdie. “She seems like the perfect choice for a new Witch of the East.”

“No!” The scream came from Zelena, who rushed out of the line, racing down to throw her arms around her little sister, pulling her in close to her chest. “No! You won’t take her away from me! She stays here with me!”

“Zelena, dear,” The headmistress rushed forward but Zelena turned burning eyes on her.

“DO NOT TAKE HER FROM ME!” she roared.

“Zelena, you’re scaring me!” Verdie whimpered.

But Zelena didn’t hear her. Her eyes flashed again and the wind picked up, swirling around in the courtyard and sending witches and girls alike running for cover as it became a vast tornado, spiralling out of control and crashing through the gates, off over the green fields where it wreaked havoc unchecked for several minutes. Two of the Cardinal Witches made to mount their brooms and go after it, but the force was too strong even for them.

“Zelena, make it stop!” Verdie pleaded. “Please, you’re going to hurt people!”

But Zelena couldn’t make it stop. She could only watch as wide-eyed as the rest of them as the tornado whipped up a storm over the yellow brick road and finally died out.

Everyone’s eyes turned to Zelena with astonishment.

“Good gracious,” said the headmistress, an extremely mild sentiment considering the circumstances. “Zelena, what on earth was that?”

“I don’t know,” Zelena whispered, more afraid than Verdie had been. She looked down at her hands, expecting to see sparks like her sister’s, but there was nothing.

“You’ve never shown any sign of magical intuition before?” the Witch of the West asked.

“No. I’m as magical as a turnip.” Zelena was completely perplexed, but the Witch of the West just smiled.

“Perhaps your talent may prove to be the most powerful of all. The bud that blooms last, blooms longest, after all.”

Zelena looked around in disbelief, and caught Verdie’s gaze. Her sister was looking at her with mingled astonishment and fear.

“Zelena,” she breathed, “you’re a witch like me.”

“I’m not, I swear, I have no idea where that came from.”

“Don’t fear, my child.” The Witch of the South beckoned the two girls forward. “You and your sister will not be separated. I think we have found our new Witch of the West.”

Even as Zelena climbed aboard the back of the Witch of the West’s broomstick, she still could not come to terms with the massive power that she had found somewhere within herself.

 Storybrooke – Present

Walsh had done a bunk. Emma was starting to accept that. He’d been gone for over twenty-four hours in a town that he’d ostensibly never been to before and he wasn’t answering his phone; it was clear that he knew that she was onto him and was lying low with his paymaster, whoever she might be. The stinging sense of betrayal still bit at her thoughts every few minutes as she stared grimly at the photograph that Belle had emailed to the station, wishing that the answers would just will themselves out of the cosmos and into her brain. The steady thump of her ball of rubber bands bouncing against the filing cabinets provided heavy punctuation to her spiralling internal monologue of never trusting anyone ever again ever.

“Emma?”

There was a polite tap on her office door and Emma looked up from her brooding to see Mary Margaret holding up a couple of takeaway cups from the diner balanced on top of a large tin, and she waved her in.

“I was stress-baking again,” Mary Margaret said sheepishly as she settled herself in the chair beside Emma’s and opened the tin to reveal several snickerdoodle cookies inside. Emma took two. “I have memories of doing it during the first curse and now I can’t seem to stop. I don’t even like snickerdoodles all that much. I’m just so nervous about everything. The flying monkeys, the baby, you, that strange woman…”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “What strange woman?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing.” Mary Margaret looked guilty as she took a sip of her coffee.

“Considering the situation that we’re in right now, nothing is ‘probably nothing’,” Emma pointed out.

“Well, it was when David and I were scouting the new places in town the other day. One of the newcomers was a little bit… odd.”

“Right.” Emma pulled up the picture again and swung the monitor around to show Mary Margaret, who paled.

“Emma, that’s her.”

“Are you absolutely positive?”

The other woman nodded vigorously, almost spilling coffee down her front in the process.

“Yes. That’s her. She was far too interested in my baby and I just got a weird vibe from her.”

“Well, looks like we’ve found our wicked witch,” Emma said grimly, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. “Belle’s hair, your baby, Little John and the guys down in the woods… What’s going on? What does she want? Who does she want?”

“I don’t know.” Mary Margaret’s hand came to her bump with a shiver of fear.

“Well, hopefully we’ll soon find out. Where does she live?”

“The farmhouse standing alone on the hill, out on the edge of town,” Mary Margaret replied, and Emma groaned.

“Of course, because an old isolated farmhouse isn’t at all creepy and the perfect base of operations for evil deeds.”

“You’re not going alone, Emma, surely? It’s not safe, you don’t know what she might do. Or what Walsh might do for that matter.”

“I know, but despite everything that’s happened, there’s a part of me that still trusts Walsh not to hurt me. He’s had a year of opportunities to kill me and I’m still here, I think that has to account for something.”

“I know, but what if he was just waiting for the right moment?” Mary Margaret pleaded. “What if he was waiting until you got back to Storybrooke? If he’s working with the witch then he can’t be trusted.”

“I know, and everything in my head is telling me that I ought to leave it alone but I have to do this, I can’t just sit around and wait for something else to happen when I know that something’s going on in that house. I mean, from what we know of the other monkey transformations we’ve seen, they’re not in their right minds. Maybe Zelena is manipulating him somehow.”

“I can understand that, but will you at least take David with you in case something bad happens?”

“I can handle myself,” Emma pressed. “I know what they’re capable of, believe me.”

“I know you can handle yourself, the point is that you don’t have to. You have a support network, not just in your personal life but in your professional one as well. You don’t have to be the lone wolf anymore when there’s backup just a phone call away.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. It would be good to have someone close by just in case it gets hairy. But I’m going to go in alone. I think I might get more out of Walsh that way, if I don’t go in with a huge show of force. I don’t want either of them to vanish like they did at the cemetery. I want answers, not a fight. Well, not a fight just yet, but depending on how I’m feeling later, Walsh might get an elbow to the face. I’ll grab David on the way over there. Will you be ok covering the phones till we get back?”

“Of course. There’s not exactly a lot for me to do to be useful around here at the moment.” Mary Margaret patted her baby bump. “Sitting at a desk answering phones is about my limit.”

“Well, I’ll see you later, hopefully with some explanations.” Emma found the keys to the bug and left the office with a wave that felt oddly optimistic considering the bleak circumstances.

“Be safe!” Mary Margaret implored as she was left alone in the sheriff’s station. She rubbed her belly; the baby was kicking again. Back in the Enchanted Forest, when she had been expecting Emma, Doc had been able to use a fairy dust concoction to tell them if they were having a boy or a girl, and she knew that they would have done the same this time around, but now she had no clue. As well as all the scary magical malfeasance going on in the town, she had the added worry of knowing that she didn’t have anything ready for the baby yet and she felt like she could drop at any moment. David had been trying to assemble the crib in the gaps that he had between sorting out all the problems that needed a leader’s attention, but they were woefully underprepared. By this time during her last pregnancy, Emma had a fully-decorated nursery filled to the brim with toys, clothes and books, everything that a growing little princess could need. She had a hand-knitted baby blanket from Granny. She had her unicorn mobile hanging above a fully-assembled crib, crafted lovingly by Geppetto. What did this baby have? Not even a place to sleep yet, let alone a room of his or her own.

Mary Margaret felt a pang of guilt and tears pricked her eyes. This baby might not have anything material yet, but it had the prospect of a childhood spent with its loving parents, something that she could never give Emma, and something that no amount of material goods could ever make up for her daughter missing out on.

“Oh baby,” she said softly to her bump. “I’m so sorry I failed your sister, and I promise that I will not fail you like I did her. No matter what, nothing is going to take you away from us. You’ll be safe and loved, I swear. Nothing’s going to get you.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Mary Margaret looked up to see Henry hovering awkwardly in the office doorway.

“I heard a voice and I thought Mom might be in here,” he said. “Have you see her? She said that she was coming over here to check out a lead on her case.”

“She left a few minutes ago, she was going towards the edge of town,” Mary Margaret said.

“Right.” Henry looked dejected and Mary Margaret patted the seat beside her that Emma had been sitting in.

“Want to talk about it, Henry?”

Henry’s brow furrowed. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh, your mom’s told me all about you.” Mary Margaret said hastily. She’d forgotten that Henry had no recollection of knowing her before. “She’s really proud of you. So, what’s eating you?”

Henry took a seat but didn’t speak for a long time.

“I don’t know if I should say anything,” he began eventually. “It’s family stuff, you know.”

“Well, in a town as small as this where everyone knows everyone else, we’re all practically family anyway,” Mary Margaret said airily. Henry laughed.

“That must make Thanksgiving interesting.”

“You have no idea. I’m dreading it this year. But if it’s any consolation, sometimes people find it easier to talk to a stranger who won’t judge them rather than someone they know.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t know what’s up really. When I first came on this trip with Mom I was so excited, I thought that we would have an adventure together. But it’s been kind of boring so far. Mom’s always out working on something or other and Walsh has just vanished. I thought I could at least talk to him as we’d be strangers in the town together, but he kept disappearing off to places and now he’s just gone. I guess it wasn’t the most thrilling holiday for him either but he could have at least said goodbye before he split for New York.”

“I can see how that would be frustrating. Maybe your mom wants you to spend more time with your dad whilst you can; if you’re going back to New York when this job of hers is over then you won’t get as much time with him and I know he really wants to get to know you.”

Mary Margaret didn’t really want to think of the possibility of Emma and Henry returning to New York. In her ideal world, they’d defeat the Wicked Witch, break the current curse that they were all under, and Emma and Henry would remain in Storybrooke, both with their full memories. But whilst Emma’s previously transient lifestyle had allowed her to up sticks and move from Boston to Storybrooke at the drop of a hat, Mary Margaret knew that realistically it would not be so simple this time around, when she had both herself and Henry to think of.

Henry nodded. “Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t hurt.” He got up and called Neal.

“Hey Henry, how’s it going?”

“Ok, I guess. How’s Belle?”

“She’s ok. Huge headache though but she was determined to get back to work today. We’re doing inventory in my dad’s shop, want to come over and go through weird junk with us?”

“Sure.”

Mary Margaret waved him off with a smile. It was good that Neal and Henry were getting along so well. The mention of the pawn shop made her wonder if perhaps the unicorn mobile from Emma’s nursery was still there. That was where it had ended up during the first curse, and surely it couldn’t hurt to look. She’d waddle over later if her aching ankles allowed her, once she wasn’t on phone duty.

Regina came into the station as Henry was leaving, and although she responded to his greeting of ‘hi Regina!’ with a bright smile, her face fell as soon as his back was turned.

“I just keep expecting him to call me Mom,” she said, sitting down in his vacated chair with a sigh. “Every day I wake up hoping that he’s magically regained his memories overnight. Every time he meets someone new in town I hope it will trigger some kind of recollection.”

“Me too.”

The two women sat in silence for a while, each lamenting the plight that they had found themselves in.

“I had a call from David,” Regina said eventually. “He said that you’d identified the witch and Emma was taking him to investigate.”

“Yes, we found her by accident really. She wasn’t doing anything suspicious. Well, not outwardly. She seemed open and friendly, if a bit weird. You’d think that she would have wanted to hide away and pretend that there was no-one in the house.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Hiding in plain sight is a powerful tactic. Perhaps she was counting on us all being so suspicious of each other that we wouldn’t notice the happy, friendly, seemingly benign woman who keeps to herself in a farmhouse.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point there.”

They fell back into silence

“Do you think I ought to go after them?” Regina asked. “If they’re going after the Wicked Witch then they might need magic.”

“Emma has magic,” Mary Margaret pointed out.

“I know, but it’s so untested and she’s had what, three days of training with Rumpelstiltskin whilst we were all in Neverland? I’m worried about her.”

“I am too. But I’m having to learn again that she can take care of herself. And I trust her to ask for help if she needs it. She’d got a lot better at realising that she doesn’t have to do everything alone before we all went back to the Enchanted Forest. I just hope that still rings true.”

They were quiet for a long time, both of them worrying about Emma’s latest mission.

X

Henry crossed the road and entered the pawn shop quietly. Well, he’d hoped to enter quietly. The bell above the door betrayed him and Neal looked up from where he was standing behind the counter with a couple of sheets of paper covered in densely packed, spidery writing.

“Hey Henry,” he said brightly. “We were just about to stop for a tea break, want to join us?”

“Yeah, ok.” He looked around the shop in awe at all the stuff that was crammed into it, from the ordinary (the pictures on the walls) to the extraordinary (the large cabinet filled with brightly coloured glass vials) to the downright creepy (the wooden puppets whose shocked faces seemed to track him around the room). He shook off the feeling of déjà vu and followed Neal through into the back room.

“Henry, this is Belle, my sort of stepmom. Belle, Henry.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Belle cleared a space in the sea of junk on the table – the back room was even more cluttered than the front – and Henry sat down beside her.

“You too. Is your head ok? Neal said you’d been attacked.”

“Yes, I was. In the cemetery.”

“Do they know who did it?”

“Not exactly.” Belle looked shifty and Henry didn’t think that she was telling the whole truth. “The sheriff’s station is looking into it though. It’s tied in with what your mom’s investigating.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I trust her entirely on that,” Henry said. “She said we were coming here on a job, but I don’t think we’re chasing someone who’s skipped bail.”

Neal shrugged. “Well, I don’t know the ins and outs of it but I know that your mom’s a good person, so I don’t think you ought to worry too much.”

Not completely mollified, Henry nevertheless decided that it was best not to push the subject, and he took a peep over Belle’s shoulder at the sheets of paper she was holding.

“Your dad had a lot of stuff in here,” he observed as Neal brought the tea over.

“He spent a lot of time collecting it,” Neal said. “I don’t think even he knew what half of it was. Listen to this.” He plucked a dusty index card out of a box. “One urn, origin unknown, very old. No, wait, that says cold. Very cold.” He raised an eyebrow and put the card back.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if this was all computerised?” Henry asked.

“Well, yes,” Neal admitted. “But your grandfather was notoriously technophobic. Mind you, he was about three hundred years old, so it’s probably not all that surprising.”

“Three hundred’s pushing it,” Henry said.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that the men of our family are incredibly long lived. I myself am two hundred and sixty-eight. Give or take.”

Henry just raised an eyebrow and Neal sighed.

“Well, it was worth a shot. We probably should get it all on the computer, but this is what we’re working on at the moment.”

Henry indicated the display of what looked to be pens that stood in the centre of the table. “What are these?”

Belle riffled through her papers. “Apparently these are ‘fossilised fairy wands’, brackets various.”

“Ok, I never met him but my grandpa sounds kind of strange.”

“Oh, he was,” Belle said wistfully. “But in the best possible way.” She ran her fingers over the wood, feeling one wand warmer than the others, and she recognised it immediately. Tinker Bell’s old wand. The fairy had not had time to reclaim it from the shop before they were all taken back to the Enchanted Forest, and now it was back here again. Belle plucked it out of the stand. She had no idea how to use it, or if it would even work for her, but she suspected that it would recognise her as Tinker Bell’s daughter. The wand was made from the stem of the flower that the fairy had been born in. Did that make it her grandmother? The thought made her smile.

“You’re keeping that?” Henry asked incredulously. “It’s just a piece of dead wood.”

“You never know when it might come in handy,” Belle said. Whether it worked or not, she felt a lot safer with it as potential protection from another attack.

  Oz – Past

Zelena flung down the book that she had been studying with a grunt of frustration. The only thing that was achieved was a small breeze flickering her candle flame violently.

“Zelena?”

Verdie’s head popped around Zelena’s door, the picture of concern. Life in the Crystal Castle as a Cardinal Witch in training, and now the fully-fledged Witch of the East, had been good to Verdie. She had grown into a beautiful and accomplished young woman, easily the most powerful witch of their group. Zelena, on the other hand, had spent the last few years in a difficult state of not quite belonging, but belonging enough not to fit anywhere else either.

“What’s the matter?” Verdie came over and sat on the end of her bed, tucking her feet under her as she’d done ever since they were children at the orphanage together. Zelena sighed.

“You know what the matter is. It’s me, and my non-existent magic. I can’t do this, Verdie, I’ll never be able to. I can just about manage the potions but the spells are beyond me. Let’s face it, the only thing I can do is create tornados, and I can only do that when I’m so out of control I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“You’re getting much better at controlling those though,” Verdie said brightly. “Just give it more time. Maybe because your magic was suppressed for so long, it’s taking longer to manifest.” She clicked her fingers and a tea tray appeared on the bedcovers, the pot pouring two cups of its own accord. Zelena took a cup gratefully and stared into the depths. One of her few surviving memories of her grandmother was watching her read the tea leaves, but this was magical tea and it left no such residue. Perhaps if she could find some kind of portent in the porcelain she’d have some idea of whether she should keep trying and failing to hone her magical technique or whether she would be better served to give up now and return to Greenfields to take a late dressmaker’s apprenticeship and look after her fellow orphans.

“You know, Glinda’s thought of something that might help you.”

Zelena raised an eyebrow. She and Glinda had never seen completely eye to eye even when they’d been at the orphanage together, and she was naturally somewhat dubious of any offer of help from the new Witch of the South. Verdie rolled her eyes.

“I know that you two don’t get along but she’s not trying to sabotage you or anything. She just said that you ought to try wishing on a star.”

“Right. Because obviously, believing in fairy stories is going to help me.”

“You never know,” Verdie said. “What have you got to lose? If there really is a fairy in the Wishing Star, then maybe she can help you. And if there isn’t, then you haven’t lost anything.”

“I haven’t gained anything either,” Zelena pointed out. Verdie shook her head, vanishing the tea things with a sweep of her hand and getting off the bed.

“When are you going to learn to the look on the bright side?”

“Unlike you, that was never a luxury that I could afford.”

“But things are different now, Zelena,” Verdie said patiently. “We’re not poor little orphans anymore. We’re witches, powerful ones. You need to believe that.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Verdie sighed. “Good night, Zelena.”

“Night, Verdie.”

After her sister had left the room, Zelena glanced over to the window where she had not pulled the curtains across fully, and the stars were visible. The Wishing Star. The brightest star in any sky. She went over to the window, leaning heavily on the sill, and she closed her eyes.

“I wish that I was a real witch, with proper power. A witch that Verdie can be proud of.”

“Your sister is already proud of you.”

Zelena’s eyes sprang open and she gave a squawk of alarm on hearing the soft, silvery voice, and she gave another on seeing the tiny woman sitting on her windowsill.

“The Wishing Fairy?” she hedged.

“I go by many different names in many different realms. You can call me the Wishing Fairy if you’d like. But as I said, your sister is already proud of you, simply for being a sister to her. She’s always looked up to you, magic or no magic. And I think that you know that. So what is it that you really want to wish for?”

Zelena thought about it hard.

“Power,” she said eventually. “Ability. Just so that I don’t feel like an imposter.”

“Power is a dangerous thing to wish for,” the fairy said sternly. “With great power comes great responsibility, and it’s not something that I can just give to you. It needs to be worked for, and earned.”

“I am working for it,” Zelena said, indicating the many study books stacked around her room. “I just can’t get the hang of it. Maybe not power then, maybe just a different way of learning. I’ve got the power already but no-one here in Oz can teach me how to wield it properly.”

The fairy smiled. “Now here is where I may be able to help you. Oz is a magical realm, but very few have that ability and its magic is not as potent as in some other places.”

“Could you take me to those other places?” Zelena asked eagerly.

“I can give you the means to go.” The fairy handed over a small pouch, it grew to an ordinary human size as Zelena took it. “This bag contains magic beans. Each can only be used once – one to take you to the Enchanted Forest, and one to bring you home. So use them wisely, for once you return here, you will not be able to leave this realm again.”

Zelena nodded enthusiastically. “I understand. I’ll learn so much!”

“Just make sure that you learn it from the right people,” the fairy said, a warning tone in her voice. With that final, foreboding phrase, she fluttered out through the open window and off towards the night sky, until she was nothing more than a speck of light against the clouds again. Zelena blinked.

“Well, that was helpful,” she said. “Who are the right people?”

There was no answer to be had from the fairy, and Zelena looked down at the beans in her hand. So innocent-looking, and yet the key to her destiny. No time like the present.

She grabbed her cloak and boots and was about to leave the room when she remembered Verdie, and hastily scribbled her sister a note.

Off to learn more magic in the Enchanted Forest. Take care of yourself, love Z. PS, thank Glinda for me.

She left the castle, picking her way through the surrounding woods in search of the perfect place to cast the portal that would take her to the Enchanted Forest. She found a good, wide clearing, and she was about to toss the bean down onto the ground when she heard a noise coming from between the trees. On closer inspection, it seemed that the noise was coming from the actual tree itself, and she jumped back when a door appeared in the trunk. Unnerved by this, she dived behind another tree, and watched cautiously as the door handle turned and a man stepped through it, looking around at the trees and giving a heavy sigh.

“That’s the trouble with Oz,” he said to himself. “Everything is so incredibly green. I keep thinking that the next time I come here, even its inhabitants will have turned green.”

The man was a portal jumper, that much was clear from his speech. Zelena knew that they existed but she’d never had cause to see one up close before. She looked again at the beans. Maybe she could have more than one trip to the Enchanted Forest after all.

“Hello there.” The man had noticed her hiding and was watching her with curiosity. “It’s all right,” he added when Zelena shrank back. “I only bite on request.”

Boldly, Zelena stepped out from behind her tree.

“You’re a portal jumper, aren’t you?”

The man bowed low. “Jefferson’s the name, realm jumping is the game. And yourself, dear lady?”

“Zelena. Do you know the Enchanted Forest?”

“Know it? It’s my base of operations. I’ve just come from there.”

“Could you take me, please?”

“I could indeed. Not right now though, the portal won’t let me. One goes through, one comes back. But give me a couple of hours, I’ll be back with a proxy and I’ll take you with me on the return trip. How does that sound?” He paused. “First though, may I ask why you want to go to the Enchanted Forest?”

“I’m looking for a magician.”

“Any one in particular?”

“No. Any magician. A good one.”

“By good you mean…”

“Powerful. Good at what they do.”

“Excellent, I was hoping you’d say that. I know just the chap. Why are you looking for a magician?”

“I want to learn magic,” Zelena said, her voice as matter of fact as she could make it. So far everything was working in her favour and she really did not want the tables to turn.

“Surely you can learn it here, from your Cardinal Witches.” It felt like Jefferson was teasing her, and Zelena scowled.

“I am a Cardinal Witch.”

“Ah. I can see your predicament. Still, the gentleman I know should be able to help you with that. He’s the oldest and most knowledgeable magician in the realm.”

Zelena smiled. “He sounds perfect.”

“Well, in that case, don’t go away. I’ll be back before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“Who’s Jack Robinson?”

“No idea. Adieu!”

He rushed back through the door without a backwards glance and the tree returned to normal. Zelena immediately began to second guess herself. He wasn’t going to come back and she was going to spend all night sitting out here in wait for a man who’d come out of a tree for God’s sake. She was beginning to think that she’d imagined the whole thing when the door reappeared and opened again and Jefferson poked his head around.

“Excellent, you’re still here. I’ve squared it with Rumpelstiltskin. Shall we go?”

X

Portal jumping was not an experience that Zelena would get used to in a hurry. From the room full of doors, Jefferson took her hand and jumped up – and they carried on rising through the swirling magic of the space between realms until they were standing in the entrance hall of a large castle not too dissimilar to the Crystal Castle back home, but on a much grander scale. Zelena looked around her surroundings in awe.

“Is this the Enchanted Forest?”

“This is the Dark Castle which is in the Enchanted Forest, yes. Now, I hate to draw your attention away from the admittedly spectacular scenery, but you’re standing in my hat.”

Zelena looked down and apologised profusely on finding one foot stuck in a black silk top hat. Jefferson picked it up and perched it on his head with a flourish.

“And now, for the main event. I give you… Rumpelstiltskin! The most powerful sorcerer in all the realms!”

Nothing happened, until Zelena hard a high, strange voice from behind them.

“Wrong direction, dearie, but I do appreciate the advertising.”

Zelena turned and found herself face to face with Rumpelstiltskin for the first time. She had to take a step back on seeing his shimmering skin and claw-like fingernails. But despite his alarming appearance, Zelena could tell that he was powerful. She’d spent years around the most powerful witches in her realm, and she could feel magic as well as any of them. To meet someone so incredibly powerful and incredibly dangerous, well, it was intoxicating.

“And you must be Zelena,” he said. “What a lovely name. Jefferson here tells me that you want to learn magic from the best.”

“I just want to be as powerful as my sisters.”

Or more powerful, Zelena thought to herself, if Rumpelstiltskin would teach her all that he knew.

“Well, as luck would have it, I’m in the market for a new apprentice. I trust you’re prepared to work hard and practise what I teach you?”

“Of course.”

“And you won’t touch anything off limits, especially the books?”

“Of course.”

“In that case, I think only one question remains. How far are you prepared to go in your pursuit of the power that you seek?”

Zelena thought about it long and hard. Rumpelstiltskin’s power was unprecedented, but it was dark and dangerous. She thought of the Wishing Fairy’s words.  With great power comes great responsibility. But she was responsible. She’d taken care of Verdie for all those years after all. She could handle great power.

“As far as it takes,” she told Rumpelstiltskin confidently.

He grinned, an expression that in the wrong situation would be absolutely terrifying.

“Now we’re talking, dearie. Let’s get started.”

  Enchanted Forest – Missing Year

“So, what’s the big announcement?” Regina strode into the main room of the winter palace, one that had been designated as their makeshift war room. It was the scene of many a lament and many the start of a plot against Snow White in its time, and she felt somewhat uncomfortable now sharing the space with the woman who had been the object of so much hatred. The party had decamped to Regina’s old home after their negotiations with Zelena had failed, and now the once lonely palace was a constant crossroads of coming and going, messengers and scouts from all over the kingdom arriving to give news or leaving to go and find some more. For Regina, who was used to only her father and the mirror for company, it was incredibly overwhelming and she stayed out of the way as much as possible. Today, though, Charming and Snow had requested her presence at their latest planning meeting and along with a few choice allies including Robin and Aurora, they were all seated around the imposing round table with battle plans sprawled across its surface.

“We have some good news,” Snow said brightly. “We want to share it with everyone. But first and most importantly, we have a new plan for infiltrating Zelena’s lair and reclaiming the castle.”

“I’m all ears.” So far all of their plans had been rejected by one member of the party or another as unworkable and fresh ideas were thin on the ground.

“We could use the old tunnels,” Charming continued. “They haven’t been used in years and it’s likely that Zelena doesn’t know about them. She may not have thought to seal them off.”

“What old tunnels?” Regina asked. “I can’t believe I used to live in that castle and I never knew about the existence of secret tunnels.”

“My great-grandfather discovered them,” Snow explained. “Legend has it that he used to smuggle his paramours in and out through them, but the claims have never been substantiated.”

“I can perhaps see why.” Regina snorted. Snow White’s family tree had been as pure and good as her name would suggest for as long as anyone could remember. “But do go on. Secret tunnels.”

“The entrance is at the edge of the forest, by the far side of the lake.” Snow unrolled a map of the kingdom onto the table and pinpointed the spot. “The tunnels continue under the lake and come up in the old wine cellars. The only problem that we can foresee – the witch aside – is that being under the lake, the tunnels are prone to flooding and quite dangerous.”

“I’m happy to volunteer for the trip,” Robin said. “If there’s one thing I know about, it’s sneaking into places.”

Regina considered the plan. It was doomed to fail as far as she could see, but as she didn’t have a better idea, she simply nodded. “I’m in. You’ll need some kind of magical back-up once you’re inside, if you get that far. It’s all very well sneaking about but you have to remember that you’re sneaking about under the nose of a magician – you’re going to need another magician.”

“It’s agreed then,” Charming said. “You, me, and Robin. We don’t want to risk taking too many people through the tunnels.”

The plan was simple in that there wasn’t really a plan – get in, see what was happening, search for weak spots and get out – avoiding any confrontation with the witch or her monkeys if at all possible. Regina didn’t have all that much confidence in it, but she knew that sticking with the royals was the best chance she had of being reunited with Henry at the end of it all.

“Well, after that somewhat bleak session I could use some good news,” Aurora said. “What have you got to tell us, Snow?”

Snow’s smile broadened until she was positively beaming.

“We wanted to tell you all before we made the official announcement. I’m pregnant.”

The news was met with a few moments of stunned silence before polite congratulations were exchanged, but Regina still couldn’t bring herself to get her head around the frank statement. Aurora was looking similarly disturbed.

“Regina?” Snow hedged.

She plastered a smile on her face. “Congratulations, both of you. You’re very lucky.”

“You don’t sound too convinced,” Snow said.

“I guess that with everything else happening, I forgot that life goes on.”

“Well, we didn’t exactly plan it.” Snow looked embarrassed, pink spots rising in her cheeks. “And the timing could probably be better, but here we are. It’s a second chance.”

Regina said nothing more, for she was the entire reason Snow wanted and needed a second chance at raising a child in the first place. Regina might not have a second chance after losing Henry, but at least she’d had that first chance, and after everything that they had been through together, Regina certainly couldn’t deny Snow’s motherhood and fierce maternal instincts.

“I’m happy for you, but please be careful,” Aurora implored. Her own pregnancy was advancing now and her baby bump was undeniable.  “I know that when we were travelling it felt like I was being watched and targeted the most, and I could just tell it was because of the baby. Don’t let the witch get her hands on yours. You’ve been through too much to lose another child.”

It was a chilling fact and a sobering one, bringing the jubilatory atmosphere to an abrupt standstill, but Aurora’s words rang true and could not be ignored. It was a dangerous world that they were bringing their children into, but in a way the news gave Regina a little hope. As a mother herself, she knew how protective these two women would be of their babies, and it gave the entire party a much stronger incentive to take down the witch once and for all. They had just a few short months in which to do it.

“So,” she began. “When do we set out for these tunnels?”

 Oz – Past

“Zelena! Zelena, wait!”

It was the middle of the night and Zelena had not expected anyone else to be around, and she froze on hearing Verdie’s voice. Her sister’s light, pattering footsteps came around the corner.

“Verdie, I have to meet Jefferson, I’m going to be late.”

“I know, I know, but I had to give you this before you left.” She held out a loosely wrapped brown paper parcel with a wide smile. Zelena raised an eyebrow as she took the package.

“Ok, what’s the occasion?”

“Your accession to Witch of the West, of course!” Verdie exclaimed. “You have come so far in the last few months and I really don’t think you need to go back to Rumpelstil- shil- whatever his name is.”

“Oh, but I do. There’s so much more to learn.”

“Zelena, you’re already the most powerful of the Cardinal Witches. You could wipe the floor with me, Glinda and Phoebe combined.” Verdie’s smile faded. “You don’t need any more.”

“I…”

“Or maybe…” Verdie’s smile returned. “Maybe you’re a little bit in love with him.”

“Verdie don’t be ridiculous,” Zelena snapped, but all the same she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Hey, it’s ok. When you spend that much time in close quarters with someone, feelings are bound to develop. Look at Glinda and Phoebe. Ok, ok, I’ll leave it alone.” She giggled at her sister’s expression and indicated the packet. “Go on, open it. Since you’re determined to go, you might as well go in style. And this way, I’ll know that you can always come home.”

Zelena unwrapped the parcel. “Silver slippers?”

“Made by yours truly. They’ll always bring you home, wherever you might be.”

Zelena threw her arms around her sister.

“Thank you, Verdie.”

“You’re welcome. Now go on, you’ll be late!”

Zelena changed her shoes with a wave of her hand, and rushed out of the castle, feeling like she was walking on air.

X

“Well hello there.” Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows as Zelena entered the laboratory. “I have to say that I didn’t expect to see you again.”

Zelena faltered. “You didn’t?”

“Given that you’re now officially the Witch of the West, I wouldn’t have thought that you’d have time for any more of my teachings. Don’t you have munchkins to look out for?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Great power and great responsibility, that’s what you were told, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but… But there’s so much more,” Zelena said quickly before Rumpelstiltskin could say anything else.

“The pursuit of power is a dangerous business, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin said. There was something hard in his voice, a cruelty that she had heard there before, but never directed at her like this. “I’m living proof. My complexion was as clear and rosy as yours once.”

“So why do you keep pursuing it?” Zelena asked, coming a little closer.

“Because unlike you, my dear, I have not yet achieved my aim. Be careful, Zelena, because you’re getting greedy.”

“So that’s it?” Zelena asked. “This is it, this is the end. You think I’ve learned enough so you’re just casting me aside?”

“No, I’m letting you go off and follow your own path and do the job you’re supposed to be doing instead of spending all your time with me.”

“But maybe I want to spend all my time with you.” Now or never. Zelena wasn’t even sure of her own feelings, but she knew that she had to stay, that there was more to learn in the Enchanted Forest, more power to be gleaned from Rumpelstiltskin. She leaned in and tried to kiss him, but Rumpelstiltskin held up a hand to stop her.

“No,” he said gently. “I don’t want that, and I think, deep down, you don’t either.”

“You don’t know what I want!”

“I know you want too much and I’m not prepared to teach it to you.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Zelena pleaded. “I’ve worked so hard and come so far. You said yourself that my progress was outstanding!”

“And it is, but this is where it ends. When Jefferson returns from his current errand, he can take you home, but I won’t teach you any more magic.”

It felt like a slap in the face, because although his arguments made sense, Zelena still couldn’t bring herself to accept them. The thrill of the newfound power in her veins – power that she’d always had but could now control and use for great ends in ways she could never do before – was addictive, and Zelena wanted more of it.

“Very well then,” she said, steely determination colouring her words as Rumpelstiltskin turned back to the potion he was brewing, effectively dismissing her. “If you won’t teach me, I’ll teach myself.”

She waved a hand lazily, selecting a particular volume from a high bookshelf and drawing it through the air towards her before leaving the lab quietly and making her way down to the small bedroom she used when she had been staying in the Dark Castle for her lessons. The book, entitled the Mytheocopia, was one of Rumpelstiltskin’s most potent spell books and one of the ones that she had been categorically forbidden from touching when she had begun her training with him. She opened the book, running her fingers over the old lettering, in a language she could not even hope to understand.

“Still, no matter. Anyone with magic knows that the best way is straight up,” she muttered to herself, doing her best impression of Rumpelstiltskin’s voice. She could feel the unbridled raw magic in the book calling to her, almost lifting off the page in anticipation of her bending it to her will. Zelena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the magic from the ancient paper and feeling it fill her veins.

The change was immediate and terrifying, and Zelena knew at once that she’d taken too much and Rumpelstiltskin’s rules had been in place for a good reason. The magic burned her lungs and throat, bringing tears to her eyes as she coughed helplessly, gasping for her breath.

“What the hell have you done?”

Rumpelstiltskin appeared in a swirl of inky smoke in front of her, the very picture of fury.

“I didn’t, I just…” Zelena spluttered.

“No, you didn’t just anything, you knew exactly what you were doing when you took that book and took that magic,” Rumpelstiltskin growled. “You disobeyed the rules and you betrayed my trust.”

“But what about me?” Zelena snapped back, fighting against the powerful onslaught of new magic in her veins making her woozy and nauseous.

“What about you?”

“You said you would teach me and now you’re just getting rid of me!”

“You said you wanted to be as powerful as your sisters and the last time I checked, you were the most accomplished witch of your little coven so I think my end of the deal is fulfilled.” He looked her up and down and snorted. “I did warn you, dearie. Never say that I didn’t give you plenty of warning.”

He grabbed the book where it had fallen from Zelena’s hands and vanished it back to his workroom with a snap of his fingers.

“Time for you to go, dearie. You can wait in the hall for Jefferson to fetch you. No more magic lessons.”

“If you’re that keen to get rid of me I’ll leave now,” Zelena spat, and she clicked the heels of the silver slippers together, feeling the influence of Verdie’s strong, pure light magic surrounding them. Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“By all means. Just don’t come back.”

Two more clicks, and Zelena was on her way home to Oz, dark magic and rage bubbling unchecked in her veins.

 Storybrooke – Present

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yep. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut, and although my gut is telling me that Walsh is not to be trusted, it’s also telling me that if I confront him straight away, he’ll tell me what’s going on.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” David gave Emma a small smile. “I trust your judgement.”

“You do? I barely trust it myself.”

“You’ve survived this long, so I don’t think you can be too bad.”

They were sitting in the yellow bug on the road leading up towards the farmhouse where the witch lived, parked up just out of line of sight from the house. Emma got out of the driver’s seat but left her keys in the ignition, just in case.

“I’ll call you if I need back up. Or, you know, if you see fireballs in the house that’s probably a sign that something’s up.”

“Be careful, Emma,” David pleaded.

“I will.”

She began the trek up the house’s long, winding driveway, mentally rehearsing all her opening gambits depending on who opened the door. The house really didn’t look too promising. The windows were all shut and the curtains closed. As she approached, she thought she saw one of the upstairs nets twitch, and she steeled herself for confrontation when she knocked on the door. There was no response to her first or second knock, but she could hear footsteps so she knew that someone had to be inside. She didn’t really want to announce her presence in an official capacity, but at the same time, she didn’t want to leave completely empty-handed.

Just as she was raising her hand to knock again, the door opened a crack, and Emma made out Walsh’s eyes in the dark gap.

“Emma, thank God it’s you. Are you alone?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes. She’s gone out. She needed potion ingredients. And, to, erm, check on the other monkeys.”

The door opened a little wider and Walsh peered around the surroundings furtively before taking a step back and waving her inside.

“I take it you can guess why I’m here,” Emma said once Walsh had closed the door behind her. “Walsh, what the hell is going on? Have you been working with the Wicked Witch the entire time?”

Walsh gave a slow nod. “Yes. I have. She sent me to New York to keep an eye on you.”

“Right. Did keeping an eye on me extend to almost proposing?”

“Well, she didn’t really give me any brief after she sent me. I just knew I had to keep you close.”

Emma folded her arms, pacing to and fro in the cramped hallway.

“I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“No, I think we’ve gone way past sorry,” Emma snapped. “Why is it that every time I think I’ve met a nice normal guy, they all turn out to have fantastical fairy tale connections?” She threw her hands up in the air. “Enough. I’m not even here to talk about us and what you did to me. I’m here because of the witch and what you’re planning with her and why you attacked Belle in the cemetery and why are you even working with her when she’s quite clearly a lunatic?”

“I have no choice,” Walsh said. “You have to believe me, Emma. I didn’t choose this, I would never want this voluntarily. But I have to obey her, I have no choice. It’s a magical compulsion, the power she has over all the monkeys.”

“You’re not a monkey now.”

“If I run, she’ll just force me to turn and pull me back in. Emma, she’ll kill me.”

Although she still didn’t entirely trust him, Emma could tell that Walsh’s fear of the woman he was an unwilling accomplice to was genuine.

“Where are the other monkeys?” she asked.

“Zelena has them patrolling the town line so that no-one can leave.”

“Doesn’t the curse stop that?”

“I don’t know, I guess not or she wouldn’t need to do it.”

“All right.” Emma stopped her angry pacing. “What does she want here in Storybrooke?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you,” Emma growled.

“All right, all right! Man, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this. She needs ingredients.”

“Ingredients for what?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Walsh! If I’m going to help you break free from this woman’s clutches then I need something to go on!”

“No, I literally can’t tell you. She’s got a spell on me to stop me blabbing; it’s called a Snitch, you can ask Regina about it.” There was a long pause and then his face brightened. “But I can show you. There’s nothing in the rules that says I can’t show you, as long as I don’t tell you.”

He led the way through the dark house towards the kitchen and yanked a cloth off the weirdest apparatus Emma had ever seen.

“What the hell is that?”

“I have no idea.”

“That looks like Belle’s hair.” Emma reached out to touch the vial, but the metal gimble surrounding it was sharp and sliced her finger. “Ouch!”

“Here, let me.”

Walsh approached with a tea towel to mop up the blood, and Emma snatched it from him. “Don’t touch me.”

She checked the wound; it was oozing steadily and she squeezed her throbbing finger tightly.

“So that was the reason you went after Belle.” One handed, she grappled with her phone and took a snap of the apparatus. “Maybe Regina can work out what this is used for.” Emma thought back to Belle and Neal’s testimonies from the night of the cemetery attack. They’d said that Zelena and Walsh had been talking about breaking the laws of magic. Emma didn’t even want to know what the laws of magic were.

Suddenly Walsh stiffened. “She’s coming back, we don’t have much time.”

“How can you tell?”

Walsh tapped his ear. “Call it monkey senses, if you will. I can hear her.” He tried to steer her towards the cellar door.

“Oh no, I’m leaving.”

“No, please. There’s something else you need to see and if she finds you here then you won’t be able to come back.”

Simultaneously, Emma’s phone began to ring, it was David.

“Emma, Zelena’s heading towards the house from the woods.”

“I know, I’m coming. Give me ten minutes. If you don’t hear from me by then, go get Regina or someone with magical firepower.”

“Ok.” David sounded unconvinced but Emma hoped that she could count on him not to do anything rash.

“Ok,” she said to Walsh. “What do I need to see?”

“Down here.” Walsh opened the cellar door. “It’s a storm cellar, there’s an exit at the other end, for in case the house collapses.” Emma gave him a completely disbelieving look and Walsh threw his hands up in defence. “Hey, I just heard you telling David to go get Regina to come and fireball me if he doesn’t hear from you, do you really think I’m going to risk that?”

Emma had no idea.

“All right, so what is that I’m supposed to be looking for in here?” she asked.

“Oh, believe me, you’ll know it when you see it,” Walsh said. “And I hope you’ll know what to do with it when you find it.”

Armed only with a pistol, a taser and the knowledge that if the worst came to the worst then she could throw a pretty mean fireball herself, Emma stepped into the cellar. Walsh shut and bolted the door behind her, plunging her into darkness.

 Enchanted Forest – Missing Year

“Well, here we are.” It had taken the expedition party the best part of two days to reach the entrance to the tunnels and Regina had to raise an eyebrow when Charming pulled back the dried vines that marked the spot and revealed an ornately carved wooden door in a tree trunk.

“What is it with you people and doors in trees?” she muttered. “First the wardrobe and now this.”

“You’re quite welcome to remain outside if you want,” Charming said mildly.

“I never said I had anything against doors in trees, I was merely remarking on the frequency of their appearance whenever you’re around.”

“Of course.” Charming let go of the vines and turned to his companions. “Is everyone ready?”

Regina nodded. “As I’ll ever be. I know we’re not intending for any confrontation today but if we see that green bitch I’m not going to hesitate to flambé her."

“Good to know.”

The trio set off through the tree, down a long, steep staircase into the darkness beneath the earth. Regain could hear the water dripping in the tunnel in front of them as Charming handed out torches, and Regina lit them with magic, ensuring that they would remain burning no matter how damp they got. It was an eerie place, wet and clammy on all sides, and Regina could well see why it had fallen out of use over the years. The smell of stagnant water was repulsive, and the noises of the intermittent dripping had everyone on edge, waiting for something to creep up behind them in the gloom. The lake was large and the ground underfoot was difficult to traverse, so it took them a while to reach the staircase up towards the castle’s wine cellars. The trapdoor at the top was locked, and Charming worked at it with a small dagger from his belt.

“What’s the betting that she’s waiting for us as soon as we pop up?” Robin asked grimly.

“I wouldn’t like to guess,” Charming said. “But I hope that she’s enjoying the wine down here if she is. There’s some really excellent stuff.”

“You’re a farmer by birth, how on earth do you know about wine vintages?” Regina asked.

“Nothing, but I can still tell if it tastes nice. Rumpelstiltskin gave me a ten-minute crash course in being a nobleman before he handed me over to King George. I learned a lot.”

“Such as?”

“That man talks very fast.”

There was a pause for a moment, then Charming took the plunge, lifting the trap door up and inch or so and peering out. There was no immediate danger, so he came up into the room, still wary, the dagger held out at arm’s length. The cellar was empty apart from the wine bottles and he waved for Regina and Robin to follow him out.

“So where do we start?” Robin asked.

“We’ll take the back stairs up as far as we can, and get the lay of the land. Any monkeys that you see, knock them out with this.” He gave his companions each a pouch of fairy dust. “Nova and Sugar Plum gave it to us. It’ll put them to sleep but it won’t hurt them. We don’t know who might be under the fur.”

They followed Charming out of the cellar and up the narrow staircase towards the castle proper, coming out into the kitchens. A large cauldron stood empty on one side of the room, and a strange apparatus was set up on the main table. Charming raised an eyebrow when he saw it.

“Well, that’s new. Any ideas, Regina?”

“Not a clue. I’ve seen something similar in Rumpelstiltskin’s workroom, but I never saw him use it. It’s for magic, but that’s all I can tell you. This one looks much more ornate than his.” She touched the apparatus lightly and the top part spun slowly around on an axel. “I really don’t know.”

“Looks like our witch is planning some practical magic,” Robin said. “It would be nice if we knew what.”

There wasn’t anything else of note in the kitchen, and the trio continued on into the next room, having to double take at the sight that met them.

It was an old storage room, but all the boxes had been stacked at the sides to make room for the glass coffin now residing in pride of place in the centre. The ornate casket was lit ethereally from below by magic, so its occupant could clearly be seen, a young woman in a deathlike sleep, a serene half-smile on her face, flame-like hair spread out over the satin pillow beneath her.

“Relative of yours?” Regina asked Charming.

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

Regina shook her head. “No, this is nothing to do with me.”

“Looking at her, I’d say she was a relative of Zelena’s,” Charming remarked, nodding towards her hair. “What’s she doing here, like this?”

“Well, she wouldn’t be the first to preserve a loved one like this.” Regina’s brow furrowed and she reached out to touch the glass. “That’s strange. She’s not dead.”

“A sleeping curse like Snow’s?” Charming suggested.

“No… It’s the casket that’s keeping her alive. She’s in suspended animation, frozen in the moment between heartbeats. She’s being kept alive, but for what purpose?”

Robin shivered. “I’m inclined to believe that it’s not a pleasant one. Shall we get a move on?”

“It would be wise.” Zelena materialised in the doorway, a nasty smile on her face. “I see you managed to weasel your way in where you’re not wanted. I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d have the brains.”

Charming’s hand went to the hilt of his sword but he did not draw it, knowing what had happened the last time he’d unsuccessfully used a blade against the witch. Regina had no such qualms, launching an offensive spell at their enemy’s head. The razor wind cut her cheek but a wave of her hand healed the wound.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Oh, you want more?” Regina taunted. “I can give you more.” She raised her hand, flames licking the tips of her fingers, and she caught Charming’s eye, flickering her gaze towards the door. He gave a slight nod, sign enough of his understanding, and waited for Regina’s cue. He and Robin ducked as the fire snaked out sharply with a crack like a lasso and slashed at Zelena’s face, distracting her for long enough to allow them to make a break for it.

“What about Regina?” Robin asked as they hared back down the corridors towards the trapdoor.

“She’ll catch us up. Believe me, she can take care of herself.”

They were almost there when they found the way blocked by two flying monkeys. Charming didn’t even slow down.

“All right, time for bed,” he said, grabbing his pouch of fairy dust and tossing a handful at their assailants. The two monkeys froze mid-flight and crashed to the ground, snoring gently, and Robin grimaced as Charming flung himself down the trapdoor, glancing over his shoulder at the monkeys.

“They are definitely going to have sore heads in the morning.”

“Come on!” Charming called. “When Zelena finds out that we got in this way she’s not going to waste any time in blocking it off!”

Robin followed the prince readily; they had made it a few yards under the lake when there was a loud shimmer of magic in front of them, and Robin readied his bow. Thankfully it was Regina; she appeared and kept running along, yelling back to them.

“Hurry up, she’s going to flood the tunnel!”

An ear-splitting crack rent the tunnel’s ceiling above them and lake water began pouring in. There was no way that they would be able to outrun it. Regina grabbed Robin and Charming and once they were all huddled together, she threw up a magical shield, praying that it would hold against the oncoming water. The tunnel was collapsing around them and for a few terrifying moments, Regina was reminded of Neverland when it began collapsing in on itself. After a while though, just as her concentration and power were beginning to wane, the torrent stopped. The tunnel had flooded fully, and the open lake was visible above them.

“I hope you can both swim,” she muttered, before dropping the shield and paddling up towards the surface.

They were exhausted and sodden when they reached the far bank, but they were unharmed, and as they began to make their way back to their camp, only one thought was in their collective minds. Who was the girl being kept alive in the glass casket, and why?

 Oz – Past

Zelena landed heavily and immediately staggered onto her knees, retching violently. She couldn’t tell whether that was a side effect of the slippers or whether it was a delayed reaction to the magic she’d inhaled, but either way, she felt absolutely ghastly.

“Zelena?” It was Verdie’s voice, she must have been drawn by the magic of the shoes making their debut trip. Zelena looked around her surroundings; she was back in the clearing where Jefferson’s portal door had appeared in the old oak tree.

“Are you all right? I guess the magic’s still a bit rocky and untested.”

Verdie’s hands came down on her back, rubbing gently just as Zelena had done when her little sister had been sick back at the orphanage all those years ago.

“You’re back quickly, what happened?”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Zelena spat. “He said he wouldn’t teach me anymore and that I wanted too much. So I stole one of his spell books and…” She broke off on seeing Verdie’s horrified face. “Well, I didn’t really steal it, I just borrowed it, for a dose of the magic, you know.”

She could feel the wind blowing her hair about violently; the tornadoes were the only part of her magic that she had never been able to fully master no matter what she tried, and it was clear that they were heading for another one now. Verdie shook her head.

“It’s not the book Zelena, it’s you. You’re green.”

“Yes, well, that’s your shoes, they need another practice run.”

“No, Zelena, really green. Emerald City green. Greenfields green.”

Zelena felt the blood drain from her face. Straight up spells. Tough on the system. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she growled, conjuring a mirror and taking a look at herself. Verdie was right, her skin was turning a hideous green colour; it was mottling over her face from her nose outwards, working its way over her cheeks and down her neck. She swore and dropped the glass as she saw it spread over her hands.

“I’m going to kill him!” she screamed. “I guess he just wanted to compound the humiliation!”

“Zelena, don’t do anything stupid,” Verdie warned as the high winds continued to whip up around them. “Calm down or we’ll have another whirlwind; you almost flattened the Crystal Castle last time.”

“Oh, screw the Crystal Castle!” Zelena shouted. “I never learned anything there! It was all right for you, you had your natural talent and so much power that it sparked off your fingers, but me? I had none of that! The only time I ever had as much power as you was after Rumpelstiltskin taught me and this is how he repays my hard work and dedication, by turning me into some kind of freak!”

“Zelena, calm down,” Verdie said firmly, but the younger woman had never really been able to stand up to her sister. “Calm down and think about this rationally. If this is a cosmetic change then there must be some way to reverse it.”

It was too late for mollification. The tornado was out in full force, and it was out of Zelena’s control. It was by far the largest twister she’d ever created, and the extra power from the Mytheocopia was creating an ever more violent wind, almost with a life of its own.

“Zelena!” Verdie squeaked. “Zelena, stop it, please, you’re scaring me!”

“I can’t!” Zelena exclaimed. “You know I can’t!”

“Please Zelena! Please stop it! Please!”

They flung themselves down onto the ground as the tornado began to uproot the trees around them, the dust and swirling clouds of magic blocking out the light of the moon and stars. Through the gaps in the mist, Zelena could see glimpses of another world; unlike both Oz and the Enchanted Forest. She ducked her head down again as a bicycle soared through the twister towards them.

“Zelena! Do something! Zelena! Please!”

Verdie was screaming, and it seemed like the very air was screaming with her. A huge dark shape was visible spiralling through the tornado, the wind was roaring and Zelena could see black spots dancing at the edge of her vision. Oblivion came as the noise became deafening, and she collapsed under the strain of creating such a destructive force of nature.

Zelena didn’t know how long she’d been out when she finally came around, picking herself up and checking herself for any injuries. She ached all over but nothing was broken, so she set about surveying the devastation she’d caused. Most of the woods had been flattened, trees broken and uprooted all around. The Crystal Castle was still standing, although all the windows had been blown out, and the roof was hanging precariously from one corner.

There was also a house in the clearing with them. Wrecked and splintered but nonetheless a house, and Zelena didn’t want to think about how it got there.

“Verdie?” Zelena called. “Verdie, are you all right? Where are you?”

There was no response, and Zelena could taste bile in the back of her throat.

“Verdie?”

She saw them then. A pair of skinny legs wearing Verdie’s trademark striped stockings. Stockings that Zelena had knitted herself. They were bent awkwardly, sticking out from under the house.

“Verdie! No! No no no…”

Without another thought, Zelena pushed out with both hands and all her magic, and the house lurched backwards a couple of feet, revealing Verdie’s broken, birdlike body beneath it.

“Verdie!”

Zelena raced over to her sister, gathering her up in her arms.

“Zelena?”

“Her voice was little more than a whisper on the breeze. God, she wasn’t dead. She was all right.

“Verdie! It’s ok, I’m here, we can fix you, you’ll be all right.”

“No… I won’t… Zel… Don’t do… anything… stupid…”

She didn’t draw another breath, and Zelena howled.

“No, Verdie, stay with me, please, there’s got to be something I can do, please!”

One spell came to mind, the only one she could think of that would help. Zelena passed her hand over Verdie’s chest, freezing her in time, a constant. The moment time began for her again, she would die, but for now, she would live. Zelena finally allowed the tears for her sister to come. One overarching thought permeated her grief. If she hadn’t been angry, this would never have happened. And it was Rumpelstiltskin who had made her angry.

Rumpelstiltskin was responsible for her sister’s death, and Zelena was going to make him pay.

 Storybrooke – Present

The cellar door swung shut and Walsh locked it behind Emma as Zelena entered the house. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him looking sheepish and standing there so conspicuously.

“What are you up to?” she asked.

“Just… checking in on our guest, you know.” Walsh knew how incredibly unconvincing he must sound, and Zelena definitely didn’t look like she was buying it, but to his surprise, she didn’t question it.

“I thought I told you not to make friends with him,” she said. “We need him to serve a purpose and your compassion won’t help.”

“It might,” Walsh protested. “Maybe breaking him down with your methods isn’t working and we need a different approach. Time’s ticking away and we need to be ready for that moment. It wouldn’t do if you were missing one of your key ingredients.”

“I’ve got a plan. Something even he won’t be able to resist. But enough of him. Whilst we’re on the subject of ingredients, did our little trap work?”

“Yes, it did. Emma was here.”

“Where is she now, though?”

“Not here. She left. Important sheriff-y business to attend to. She’s probably looking for you.”

“How unfortunate. Still, I trust you were able to get what we need from her?”

Walsh grabbed the tea towel that Emma had used to staunch her wound earlier, and passed it over, and Zelena have a satisfied smile as she brushed her fingers over the blood stain, lifting the rust-coloured particles from the cloth and sweeping them into a vial where they reformed as a dark, thick liquid. She slotted the vial into the contraption set up on the kitchen table, at the opposite pole to the vial containing Belle’s hair, and they both glowed purple for a moment, a little branch of magic connecting them briefly before they returned to looking innocuous.

“Perfect,” she said with a smile. “Two down, two to go. We’re on the right track. You’ve done well, pet, and soon it will all pay off and you’ll be back in your rightful home.”

“I keep telling you, I’d be perfectly happy to go back to Kansas.”

“Yes, well, we can’t have everything that we want.” Zelena covered the apparatus again. “Now, we have work to do, pet. I need something to give the lovely Snow White to make her fall in line with our plans. Something with a bit of kick.”

Walsh nodded and sprung into action gathering ingredients; anything to keep Zelena’s attention away from the cellar door and give Emma chance to escape.

X

For a long moment, Emma thought she had been duped and she kicked herself for being so trusting, but then her eyes became more accustomed to the gloom and she saw a thin sliver of light coming in through the ceiling at the other end of the long room. Walsh had not been lying.

“It would help if you’d given me some light to find the thing I’ll know what it is when I see it,” she muttered sourly. “It would help if I could actually see it.”

She fumbled on the wall for a light switch but found none, so turned her phone flashlight on instead, picking her way down the concrete steps as quietly as she could. Suddenly a sound made her freeze and turn out the light. There was someone, or something, else down here; she could hear them moving around.

“Hello?” she whispered. “Is someone there?”

There was silence for a long moment, then –

“Hello, dearie.”

[qqueenofhades]

The Rose and Thorn: Chapter XIII

summary:  Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XII

For the longest moment, as he stared, Sam could not rid himself of the inexplicable feeling that he knew this bloke from somewhere, and that the connection was not at all pleasant. All he knew for certain was that he really did not care to make a closer acquaintance, and that if it was the same to everybody, he’d just be on his way now, thanks. Not of course that he was going to be given the chance to do that, and he remained stuck to the spot like a bump on a log, as one of the soldiers dug him in the back with the butt of his musket. “You heard him. In.”

Slowly, discovering that his feet suddenly did not want to work with him anymore after almost twenty years of profitable coexistence, Sam stumbled over the threshold, Jack was pushed in after him, and Rogers brought up the rear, pulling the door shut with a clunk that sounded distinctly ominous. “My lord,” he said, with a crisp bow. “I apologize for the visit at this late hour, but I think you’ll find – have I interrupted you?”

“Not at all, dearie, not at all.” The man gestured. “Mr. Hunt and I had only just gotten started.”

A considerable shock flashed through Sam at these words, which strengthened as he whirled around and beheld the other young man in the room, perched uncomfortably on the davenport and balancing an untouched cup of tea on his knees. Sam and Nathaniel stared at each other for an excruciating moment, both doing their utmost not to blurt anything out loud – but they might as well have shouted, that reaction of thunderstruck recognition being just as good. “Mr. Hunt,” the man said – my lord, Rogers had called him, lord of what, Lord who? “Why don’t you introduce us to your friend here?”

“Cocker,” Sam interrupted, hoping Nathaniel would get the drift. “James Cocker.”

“Ah – yeah.” Nathaniel shot a wild look between him and Jack, shut his still-open mouth, and nodded smartly. “That’s him. James Cocker.”

“And then this one would be?”

“His name is Richard,” Matthew Rogers said, his sharp eyes lingering on Sam and Nathaniel; he had clearly caught the stumble. “Richard Jones, Your Excellency.”

“Is it indeed?” The lord turned to Jack with that crocodile smile. “And am I to gather, given your presentation here, that your father’s name is Killian?”

Jack jerked his head in a movement barely qualifying as a nod.

“Forgive my rudeness,” the lord went on, in a tone that clearly implied more rudeness would be forthcoming, forgiven or otherwise. “Your father and I are. . . old friends. My name is Gold. Lord Robert Gold, the honor is mine.”

A second, even more considerable shock jolted through Sam. He knew that name, had no reason to expect friendship or even remotely good things from it, and while he was burning to ask Nathaniel why the devil he had been sent (or abducted, probably) from Havana, the situation could not have been more delicate. Nathaniel, of course, knew perfectly bloody well who Sam really was and who his father was, that Jack was the Spanish agent they had been saddled with back in Cuba, that they were supposed to be tracking down Skeleton Island for said Spaniards if Nathaniel wanted to still be alive in six months, and all about the rest of Sam’s family and what he had tried to barter in exchange for guaranteed protection. Obviously Sam did not think that his best friend was going to open his mouth and sell him out on the spot, but Lord Robert Gold was a caliber of monster far beyond anything either of them had any experience with. This was the man who had destroyed Dad and Uncle Liam’s lives in the first place, and very nearly done much worse to the whole world. How could he be here, he couldn’t –

“Well,” Gold said, when the nasty silence lingered. “Do sit. Matthew, my boy, how was the journey from Antigua? This is earlier than I expected to see you.”

“There’s a reason for that, sir,” Rogers said. “Rumors of some Spanish miscreant wreaking havoc around Nevis. I was dispatched to ascertain the truth of the matter, and collected Mr. Cocker and Mr. Jones on the way. Mr. Jones was then most illuminating on the subject of the culprit. A man named João da Souza, evidently. Portuguese, in the employ of Madrid.”

Nathaniel twitched again.

“Oh?” Rogers glanced at him. “Mr. – Hunt, was it? Have you crossed paths with Captain da Souza yourself?”

“I – probably not.” Nathaniel smiled weakly. “Thought I recognized the name for a moment, but no, I don’t know him.”

Rogers’ eyes remained on him, flicking once more between him and Sam, as – when nobody sat down as ordered – Gold looked at the soldiers, who raised their muskets. Drinking tea was thus decided to be preferable to being shot, and Sam and Jack sank extremely stiffly onto the davenport on either side of Nathaniel. Throwing a tense look at his compatriot, Sam saw that Jack was almost rigid with restrained fury, fingers tapping uncontrollably on his knee, as if any second he would leap up and go for Gold’s throat with bare hands or teeth. While this would be quite spectacular to watch, and also quite satisfying, it would undoubtedly get them thoroughly killed, and Sam tried to catch Jack’s eye and silently talk him down. He couldn’t exactly reach across Nathaniel to hold Jack back without being bloody obvious about it.

The three young men sat there like mutinous moles popped out of a hole, as Nathaniel gave Jack a healthy proportion of side-eye – after all, the last he knew of, Jack was their more or less sworn enemy. He then shot another look at Sam, clearly asking how the last three weeks had gone with this maniac in tow, but Sam shook his head. It was already too dangerously apparent that they knew each other, and he had a terrible feeling that Gold was about to start really sinking his teeth in. Just as being thrown overboard had seemed preferable to flogging, now flogging seemed preferable to a cozy chinwag with the actual devil.

A servant arrived in a few minutes with a heavily laden tray, as Gold resumed his seat in the handsome striped-silk armchair, and Matthew sat down in a matching but slightly less ostentatious chair to his right, the vizier preparing to advise the sultan. The tea was poured, the fresh-baked crumpets split and spread with clotted cream and strawberry compote, and Sam’s painfully empty innards squirmed with longing. Sensing him staring, Gold raised an eyebrow. “Do feel free to help yourself, Mr. Cocker.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sam said loudly, as his stomach growled fit to wake the dead.

“Of course you aren’t.” Gold seemed amused. “Fed well on the ship, then?”

Sam looked pointedly at Matthew, who gazed inscrutably back. Unable to decide whose face he wanted more egg on, he finally said again, even louder, “I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself.” Gold stirred his tea with a silver spoon. “Well. Now that we are all present, we can get on with discussing a large proportion of the matters which have been sadly – ”

“I’d like to invite you to eat a large proportion of my arse.” Jack spoke for the first time, in a voice close to a snarl. “Or at least get on with shooting us, rather than dragging out this complete farce of a – ”

Sam, who very much did not want anyone to get on with shooting them, shot Jack another look and shook his head vigorously.

“Angry young man, aren’t you?” Gold inspected Jack as if he were a mildly interesting curio. “Though if Hook is your father, I can see where that comes from. Is that what he told you, Captain Rogers? Who’s the other one, then?”

“That is indeed what he told me,” Matthew said, stirring his own tea but never taking his eyes off Jack. “Albeit after some persuasion. As for the other, I’m not quite sure. It was my impression, however, that he and Mr. Cocker were. . . particular friends.”

Rogers’ inflection of the word particular left no one in any doubt what he meant by it, and Nathaniel’s jaw dropped, head swiveling like a searchlight to stare at Sam, as Sam experienced an overwhelming desire to disappear into the davenport cushions. “We’re not,” he blurted out. “Barely know each other at all, really.”

Rogers smiled, clearly not buying a word of it. “Mr. Hunt, does my assessment surprise you? How do you and Mr. Cocker know each other, then?”

“We, ah, we.” Nathaniel could transparently be observed fishing for a lie. “Know each other a bit, yeah.”

Gold, who had been watching these clumsy attempts at deception with the air of a schoolmaster disappointed in a particularly imbecilic pupil, cleared his throat. “Permit me to speed this along somewhat. Mr. Hunt arrived at the governor’s mansion in Havana a little over three weeks ago, in company with a young man described as Captain James Flint’s grandson, both in pursuit of a Spanish spy carrying vital intelligence about Britain’s future plans in the war. As I, obviously, have informants in Güemes’ household, the better not to be taken off guard by a situation such as this, they quickly decided that Mr. Hunt should be forwarded along to me. We were not expecting to see his companions quite so soon, but this, then, must be them. Whichever one of you is Hook’s son is also, I’m wagering, Flint’s grandson, and the other the Spanish agent. So. . . if previous statements hold true, that makes you, Mr. Cocker, the Spanish spy.”

Rogers’ sandy eyebrows nearly flew off his head. He stared narrowly at Sam, as if certain that nobody could actually be that gormless, and he must have been up to some diabolically clever deep-cover act the entire time. While it was oddly flattering to have him think that Sam was a dastardly genius rather than a bumbling idiot, this did not affect any improvement in their current position, and likely in fact made it worse. “Sir,” Rogers said. “Sir, I thought he was just a – ”

“No matter, Captain. A spy would, of course, be skilled at dissemblance and misdirection. If he is the one.” Gold turned back to Sam and added something in Spanish. “Si?”

Sam blinked. “Er. . . what?”

“Surely, as a Spanish agent, you speak the language? Your employment would be rather difficult otherwise.” Gold took a bite of his crumpet, leaving a bit of strawberry compote on the corner of his mouth like blood. “So what would your answer to that be?”

Sam did his utmost not to look at Jack for help, but at this Nathaniel, who plainly could not understand why they had not just come out with it, pointed at Jack anyway. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. He’s the Spanish spy. Now how about you shut up and leave Sam alone?”

There was a hideous pause. Gold could not have looked more delighted if he had been appointed Supreme Ruler of the Universe on the spot, while Matthew’s knuckles went white on the arms of his chair. “Sam?” Gold repeated. “Haven’t you assured me, as well as Captain Rogers, that your name is James?”

“That is my name,” Sam said feebly. “My middle name.”

Gold dabbed away the compote with a napkin. “Samuel James,” he remarked. “And who exactly would you be named after? I would hazard a guess that the answer includes both Captain Bellamy and Captain Flint. So that means you’re Hook’s son? The apple clearly fell a long way from the one-handed tree.”

Nathaniel shot a horrified look at Sam, only now realizing the ramifications of his slip of the tongue, as Sam scrambled to think of something to say and only came up with a wall of nothing. Gold, meanwhile, had turned to scrutinize Jack. “You, now – I must say, you have the look of a Bellamy yourself. Black Sam’s son, perhaps? Who’s your mother, Miss Swan as well? Those three shared like a Turkish harem, didn’t they?”

Jack started to rise to his feet, only to be stopped by the cocking of half a dozen muskets from the soldiers standing guard behind Gold and Rogers’ chairs. He was visibly vibrating with rage, and it took a clear and tremendous effort to sit back down. “As a matter of fact,” he growled. “No. No, my father was as foul, evil, and depraved as only the Royal Navy can make them.”

“In that case, you’re clearly much more like your father than Mr. Jones – I think we can all drop the pretense and acknowledge that that one is Mr. Jones, not you – is like his.” Gold sat back with an expression of infinite enjoyment. “I don’t blame Captain Rogers for originally concluding that, though. It was quite clever of him to guess at all that one of you was Hook’s spawn, and I still sense a fascinating story about how the pair of you ended up on the same side. But if you are a Bellamy, Richard – and we can likewise agree that’s not your real name either – it doesn’t surprise me in the least that you wound up attached to a Jones.”

Jack sat unnaturally still, eyes burning like dark coals. Finally he said, “Is there a point to this, or do you just love the sound of your own voice?”

“Of course there’s a point.” Gold sipped placidly from his teacup. “Samuel here is the offspring of some of the biggest traitors ever known to the English crown, and you, by the sound of things, are actively colluding with the Spaniards – who, it may have escaped your recollection, are presently at war with said English crown. My understanding is that you promised to find Skeleton Island for Güemes and company, Mr. Jones, if they would set you at liberty and protect your family. Your failure would cost the life of Mr. Hunt. Is that correct?”

Sam felt as if he had been stricken with a sudden case of lockjaw. He wrenched his teeth apart and said furiously, “Yes.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but I suspect that if you had the faintest clue how to actually find the place, you would not be waffling around aimlessly in the middle of the Leewards. I, of course, have removed your friend from Spanish custody, so they cannot apply penalties to him for your inadequacy, but it does leave us with all manner of new possibilities. Make no mistake, the prospect of Skeleton Island intrigues me as much as anyone, but I have already set other pieces in play toward that end. You recall a man named Billy Bones? I don’t suppose you would.”

“You,” Sam said. “You bloody told Bones about this – this whole thing, and sent him up to buy Mr. Kerr’s maps on Nevis.”

“Oh, I did a great deal more than that, dearie.” Gold grinned. “But that was part of it, yes. In any event, I have Mr. Bones and his tedious but useful grudge against your grandfather covering the Skeleton Island end of things, I don’t really need you for that. So – ”

“If you think I’m telling you where to find my family, you – ”

“I expect I could make you tell me quite a bit, if I put my mind to it. But I don’t need you for that either. I have informants and assistants and agents embedded in nearly every city in the Colonies by now. For quite some time, they have been devoted to the project, on my orders, of finding Captain Hook and his family. Usefully, that includes Flint, as you have just confirmed for me, so it was very easy to promise Mr. Bones that I would arrange Flint’s convenient demise if he would play his part. Your family tried to stop me from re-founding the Star Chamber, and I have to say, I’ve decided that they were quite right. Why try to resurrect an old institution with all its shortcomings and limitations and archaic rules, all its troublesome associations, when I could wipe the slate clean and start from scratch? I have my own society now. My own rules.”

“Oh?” Sam tried to keep his tone light and casual. “And what’s this one called, then?”

“Surprisingly good attempt, dearie, but it’s none of your business. Merely know that I’ve become far, far more powerful than back in the benighted days of yore. I can pull any string, twitch any web, make any deal, grant any favor – or not. I really do have your lot to thank for it. If they hadn’t so energetically opposed my earlier attempts, I would never have gotten to where I am now. So you see, Mr. Jones, there isn’t anything you can offer me that I don’t already have. Except the one. I don’t like to leave loose ends, and your parents have always been. . . interfering. If they knew you were here, and in danger, that might induce them to turn up, mightn’t it?”

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Unless, of course, you fear they would have better things to do than risking themselves for you?” Gold went on, with wickedly precise intuition. “I must say, I’m not sure I’d make a particular effort to rescue you either, but I know the way your parents think. I doubt they’ll be able to resist. And I have been very much looking forward to seeing them again, especially your dear old dad. So yes. Just sit there like a good lad. Oh, and I don’t believe we need Mr. Bellamy, you can shoot him.”

This order was given so offhandedly that nobody moved at all for a moment. Then Sam reacted by sheer instinct, diving across the davenport and tackling Jack off it, just as the boom and kick of two muskets in the small drawing room nearly deafened them, a thick plume of smoke wafted over the tea tray, and two heavy lead slugs tore into the upholstery exactly where Jack had just been sitting. Nathaniel yelled and dodged the other way, arms over his head, as Sam braced for the lot of them to be blown up at any second. He was shocked, therefore, to hear Matthew bloody Rogers of all people shout, “Sir! No!”

Gold glanced at him, hand still raised in preparation of ordering a second volley – once they peeled Sam off, presumably, as he wasn’t much good as bait if he was dead. “No?”

“If Mr. – Bellamy is indeed a Spanish spy with personal interest to Güemes, it is wasteful in the extreme to kill him before questioning him.” Rogers took a step. “I realize that you said you have an informant in the governor’s household already, but that only gives you a scattered insight or two into his personal dealings. Mr. Bellamy’s intelligence is likely much more up to date, and much more comprehensive, especially as it relates to our plans for Cartagena. I believe it wise to return him to my custody.”

“Indeed?” By the look on Gold’s face, he could either have been impressed at this evidence of political guile from his young protégé, or he could have ordered Jack to be shot just to see how everyone would react. “That is true, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir. And if I may add, I observed aboard the Griffin that Mr. Bellamy has considerable aversion to seeing Mr. Jones hurt – in fact, it tends to spur him to rather reckless and violent acts. If that was to be put to further use – ”

“A Bellamy do reckless and violent things to protect a Jones? In my experience, it was usually the other way around.” Gold finally lowered his hand, nodding at the soldiers to stand down. Speaking to Sam, he added, “Your dear father set half the Caribbean afire because he was mad at me, and the other half, touchingly, for Captain Bellamy’s sake. They were very fond of each other, those two – even more than your mother? I’ve always wondered if she ever felt second-best. So good to see it carried on in the younger generation.”

Sam, who became very aware just then that he was still lying on top of Jack, rolled off quickly, but remained planted between him and Gold, staring up at the bastard with as much icy disdain as he could possibly muster. Knowing him, it wasn’t much, even as he did not like the direction the conversation was going. Be kept alive as a trap for his parents or as a punching bag to make Jack talk – either option did not sound in the least fanciable. Why is it that when he picks fights, I’m the one who gets hit? To judge from the renewed throbbing in his back, he had broken open his whip welts, and he could also sense Nathaniel staring at him again, unable to fathom why Sam had just jumped in front of multiple guns on behalf of their adversary. The nasty silence made an even more nasty reappearance. Then Sam got to his feet and said to Gold, “Not that this bothers you in the least degree, but you’re a really terrible person.”

Gold raised an eyebrow, but did not otherwise react. “And you’re a surprisingly spirited young man. I admire that. Well, this doesn’t need to be bloody. Shall we make a deal?”

“What deal, you evil git?”

“Captain Rogers wants to keep your. . . friend alive for questioning. He’s also noted that this might be easier if we were to beat you a bit, but frankly, it is rather crude, and I don’t want you too damaged. What say you were to cooperate with me, and neither of you would be hurt? Or,” Gold added, with a pointed look at Jack, “you can try to brawl your way through me, Captain Rogers, the dozen men in this room, my household guard, the streets of Bridgetown, and the entire crew of the Griffin. I’m sure that would be entertaining, if not so much when it ended.”

Sam sensed Jack standing angrily behind him, having gotten to his feet as well and clearly all too eager to go to town on these feculent execrating arseholes, but if Jack had thus far protected him for his reasons and by his methods, Sam had to do the same. He reached back and put a restraining hand on Jack’s wrist, then looked coolly down at Gold – face to face, miserable plotting bugger though he might be, he was shorter than both of them. “Fine,” he said. “For now. We don’t try anything, and you don’t hurt us.”

“Very well, Mr. Jones.” Gold smiled and offered his hand, and Sam shook it with two fingers. “I’ll have someone show you upstairs. You must be tired after all your adventures. Separate bedchambers, or is that a further cruelty? I am, you know, always a supporter of true love.”

Sam could feel his ears burning again. He just stood with his arms crossed, trying to match Jack’s supremely haughty and disinterested air, until the servant arrived to escort them and Nathaniel upstairs. The upper floors of Gold’s mansion were dim and cool, walls lined with beautiful paintings and sculptures and other such treasures that Sam felt sure he had acquired to stash here like a dragon’s hoard. The servant stopped in front of one door, showed Nathaniel through it, led Sam and Jack further down, and gestured at another one with an expression that made it extremely clear that he preferred not to think about what they might do behind it. Naturally. Work for the evilest wee bastard in the entire New World, have a fit over the idea of two blokes together. Logical.

While Sam was opening his mouth, not sure if he was going to tell the servant that he was mistaken, or that they were going to spend all night enthusiastically breaking every rule in the Book of Leviticus, Jack seized him by the arm and pulled him through, slamming the door in the servant’s face and turning the key. He then prowled around the entire room – a handsome high-ceilinged chamber, with furniture upholstered in moiré and a tall four-poster bed – clearly in search of a spy, an asp in a basket, a Puritan minister, or some other instrument of instant destruction. Evidently finding none, he whirled back on Sam. “You can’t get us trapped here! You should have let me – ”

“Should have let you what, make it halfway across the veranda before they shot you or dragged you off for more special attention from our good mate Matthew?” Sam was very tired and in pain and not in the mood for Jack Bellamy’s nonsense. He sat down on the dresser stool. “Obviously, we need to get out of here. But we need to think about how, and I’m not leaving Nathaniel behind. He’s been my best friend since we were kids, and I’m the reason he’s here, whether in Havana or Bridgetown. We don’t just leave him for Gold to play with before eating.”

As Jack opened his mouth, presumably to argue or to point out that Nathaniel had given them away, Sam snapped, “Just because you don’t care for anybody or have any loyalty to anyone aside from three people, or whatever it is, doesn’t mean I do. Besides, you are not going to defeat Lord Robert Gold by punching his henchmen. It’s just not going to happen. I reckon that’s pretty much exactly what he wants and is expecting you to do, so he can point out that our deal is now broken and do whatever the hell he pleases. It’s my whole family that’s in danger if Gold succeeds in luring them here – do you really think I’m not taking this seriously, or that I’m being a coward about it? They will probably all die! I am taking it bloody seriously!”

His voice had risen to the brink of a shout, and he forced it back down – there were bound to be enough people listening at keyholes in this house, he didn’t need to make it any easier for them. He and Jack stared at each other for a long, frozen moment, until Jack finally looked away, the hint of a flush climbing his elegant, sun-browned cheekbones. “No,” he said grudgingly. “I don’t think you’re being a coward.”

Sam, who had been prepared for precisely the opposite answer, was caught off guard. He snapped his mouth shut hard enough to hear his teeth click. Then he said, “Oh.”

Jack blew out a slow breath and sat down on the bed, running his hands through the long black locks that had escaped from his ponytail. “Just let me punch Rogers at least once before this is over.”

“Be my guest,” Sam said. “But not right now. Besides, if we have any hope of getting out of here, it’s with him.”

Jack looked at him disbelievingly. “He hates us.”

“No.” Sam looked down. “I don’t think he does, exactly. Right now we’re in his way, and he’s treating us accordingly. I’m not sure, but I think he’s Woodes Rogers’ son – the old governor of Nassau, the one who brought down the pirates’ republic. And he’s only around our age, so I’m guessing his mother was Rogers’ second wife, Eleanor Guthrie. Mum and Grandpa have told me a bit about her, she was. . . she was a piece of work. If all of this is so, then of course Matthew’s completely devoted to the Navy and wanting to follow the rules and prove himself worthy. You heard Gold back there – ‘Matthew, my boy.’ Probably acts like his dad, has been sympathetic to him, gave him a job and a chance to prove himself. The son of a controversial second marriage to a woman of no background who worked for pirates – believe me, English society looked down their noses at Matthew all the time. He’s needed to do everything the hard way, make his men respect and fear him, and by the looks of things, he’s done that bloody well. And then here comes Gold, who needs a foot back in the door, recognizes Matthew’s talents, and sees the total delicious irony in finally getting Woodes Rogers’ son to work for him, because Woodes Rogers himself never did. I’m just saying. It’s perfect.”

With that, he glanced up at Jack, who seemed unsure whether to be impressed by this perspicacity or point out that he, of course, had no proof as to Matthew Rogers’ parentage, and thus the rest of his conclusions. “I was thinking it about it on the Griffin,” Sam went on, before Jack could do either. “I can’t be sure, but, well. . . I think so, yeah.”

“So. . . what? Even if this Rogers is the governor’s son, what the fuck are we supposed to offer him to make him take our side? You think telling him that Gold’s an evil, lying sack of shit will make any difference to him? It’s a noble idea, I grant you, but there’s no way he’ll – ”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid.” Sam tapped his fingers on the dresser. “But if Matthew thinks he’s serving one cause, and he turns out to be serving another – aye, I think that would matter to him. Seems to, in my experience.”

Jack did not quite have another argument on hand for that, and Sam did not want to hear it anyway. Whether or not they were going to be brutally axe-murdered in the night, he did not care. He stood up, shucked his boots and trousers, and strode over to the bed in just his shirt, trying to ignore the odd, fluttering knot in his stomach. “Budge up. I’m going to sleep.”

Jack paused, then got up, and Sam crawled under the covers, collapsing flat on his back and staring up at the curtained canopy. Even if it was in Robert Gold’s lair, Sam could more than appreciate a soft, spacious bed that did not rock and jerk beneath him (and which was not surrounded by a hundred smelly, snoring men) and he did not move, even though it hurt to lie on his flogging wounds. Finally he rolled over onto his stomach, then opened an eye to see Jack now perched on his old spot on the dressing stool. “I swear, if you’re waiting for me to fall asleep so you can sneak out and do something stupid, I’ll kill you.”

Jack looked vaguely guilty. “I. . . no, I wasn’t planning to.”

“Bollocks,” Sam yawned, almost dislocating his jaw. “Course you were.”

“No, I was just. . . I thought I’d sit up and keep watch.”

“Look,” Sam said. “If they burst in and try to kill us, I don’t think it will make much difference. I’m not dragging your sleep-deprived arse around, it’ll make you even more charming and personable than you usually are, and we need our wits about us. Here or on the rug, I don’t care, but at least lie down.”

Jack glanced up at him again, with some sort of challenge in his eyes. Then he shrugged, shucked his own boots and trousers, and crossed the floor, climbing in next to Sam and helping himself to several pillows. He settled onto his back as well, one eye on the door, as if ensuring that his path to spring out and fight intruders was clear. Then with one last sidelong look at Sam, he closed his eyes and appeared to drop immediately under.

Sam watched him in the dimness, suspecting that he was feigning but deciding that he didn’t want to know. Jack looked younger, and quite a bit less fierce, like this, and he must have learned long ago not to make any noise or motion when he slept, to wake quickly and silently. The thought made Sam sad – and incredibly angry. His own childhood had been so happy that he shrank from even imagining what must have been the horror of Jack’s. How could you do something like that, to your own son? Sam knew of course that bad people existed in the world, they presently being the unwilling houseguests of one, but it seemed to take a special kind of evil, beyond even Gold’s, to be such as Captain Jonathan Howe. Someone should make him pay. Someone should. But was death, the ordinary punishment for ordinary crimes, even sufficient?

Sam did not know, and it was getting harder and harder to keep his own eyes open. With a final glance of his own at the door, which remained silent and still, he let go, and fell into swirling, troubled dreams.

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

Geneva was feeling considerably satisfied, if very tired, by the time she returned to the King’s Arms that evening. Aside from Israel Hands, she’d hired a dozen new sailors to compensate for possible deserters, haggled a good price on the Rose’s resupply, and talked to a beggar down at the docks who, in exchange for a few silver pennies, told her of a man matching her uncle Liam’s description, leaving with a tall blonde man and a slight dark woman, which had to be Billy Bones and Lady Fiona. So far as the beggar recollected, their destination had been somewhere in the Indies, and this, at last, all but confirmed that they were heading for Skeleton Island and could not be too far ahead. Geneva was even cherishing the unwarrantedly optimistic notion that with the wind on their side and a few days’ hard sailing, they could draw even. But if there was to be any chance of that, a detour to France would cost them valuable time, possibly embroil them in further difficulties trying to find her aunt Regina, and otherwise take them off course. If they could just catch up to her uncle and rescue him themselves, it would not matter if they told anyone where to theoretically find him. Problem solved.

Geneva was thus mulling over the idea of leaving as soon as possible, rather than lollygagging for another fortnight, and made a note to check how much was left to load. There was still some minor storm damage to consult a sailmaker and cooper about, but that should be simple to attend tomorrow. Then they could get the blazes out of here.

Accordingly, she strode into the inn’s common room alight with this – well, not delightful prospect, but at least a diverting one – and was surprised to see Madi and Silver sitting together in a corner, having some sort of argument in hissed whispers. Not that the arguing was the surprising part, but they both looked more distressed than in their usual skirmishes, and both of them stopped on a dime when they spotted Geneva. “Ah, Captain Jones,” Silver said, with a clear and strained effort at sounding jovial. “Productive day, then?”

“Aye.” Geneva glanced at them, unable to restrain her curiosity. Madi was knuckling hard at her eyes, as if she had once more been crying. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine,” Silver said, with just enough of an edge to remind her that since she had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his nose out of her business, it was the polite thing to return the favor. “Mrs. Rogers’ appearance today merely. . . caught us off guard, that’s all. I’m sure you’re very weary, the innkeeper had your bath drawn. Don’t waste it while it’s hot. Aye?”

Able to recognize that she should not push, Geneva nodded to him coolly, stole one more concerned look at Madi, and headed up to their room, shutting the door, stripping off her clothes, and submerging herself in the big wooden tub with a heartfelt groan. She lay against the edge, steam rising in the golden evening light, soaking off what felt like an entire calcified hide of grime. There was a cake of fine milled French soap, with which Geneva scrubbed enthusiastically, washed and rinsed her hair over one of the buckets, and was finally feeling somewhat human by the time she wobbled out, jelly-legged, and wrapped up in one of the towels. The water looked like the runoff from a colliery, and she was sitting by the vanity and staring into space, hair loose in damp tangles down her back, when there was a knock on the door and it opened a crack. “Gen – Captain Jones? There’s supper downstairs if you – ”

Geneva jumped to her feet, as she had let the towel slip down around her waist, and snatched it up again. “Bloody hell, I’m not – shoo!”

The heat of Jim Hawkins’ blush could nearly have reheated the tepid bathwater on its own. “Oh Jesus,” she heard him mutter. “That’s me dead then, isn’t it.”

Despite her annoyance at being interrupted while decidedly not decent, Geneva could not help but feel rather bad for the poor boy – well, he was about her age, but he still seemed a boy in some ways. If you lived on a ship with men for as long as she had, you developed a rather permissive attitude toward nudity, as it was bound to occur in some capacity. Geneva herself was assuredly no fainting damsel who regarded it as the height of scandal for a gentleman to inadvertently glimpse her whilst unclad, and she raised her voice. “It’s all right, I was just taking a bath. You startled me, is all.”

“I, ah.” It was clear that an extensive amount of Jim Hawkins’ capacity for intelligent thought had left him cruelly in the lurch, and showed no signs of returning. “I – I didn’t, I’ll just – ”

Geneva wrapped the towel firmly under her arms and – knowing it was slightly unkind, but not particularly caring – crossed the room to look out at him. Jim was a color to which even ‘scarlet’ did not do much justice, both trying to decorously avert his eyes and unable to resist stealing half a glance. Some of the steam was still wafting off Geneva as she leaned on the jamb and grinned at him. “Let me guess. First time you’ve ever seen a naked woman?”

Jim ran a finger under his collar. “It is not.”

“Oh?” Growing up in a house accustomed to the anything-goes morality of Nassau, where everyone was too busy scheming and stealing and drinking and stabbing to give the absolute remotest damn who was doing what in bed with who, Geneva had acquired a much more informed – and much more laissez-faire – attitude toward the subject of sex than would have been deemed at all proper for a young lady of Quality. Her mother had given her a small chat at the age of sixteen, which Geneva had found complete agony to sit through, but which boiled down to the fact that so long as everyone involved was sensible, consenting, and happy about the whole thing, she should feel free to do as she wished – oh, and it was probably best not to tell her father. Emma herself, who had gotten pregnant with Henry at the age of seventeen, and then unexpectedly again with Geneva, was insistent that her daughter tell her if she was engaging intimately with a man, so she could see about getting the herbal drafts and tansy oils and other things that reduced the risk of conception, and Geneva – who had no desire to be a mother just yet – had accordingly done so. She was no virgin, to be sure, and if that had been a major impediment to a man she was thinking of marrying, she wouldn’t marry him. Not that she was intending to marry Jim Hawkins, or even necessarily do something which might plant the idea in his head, but she found his stumbling and blushing irresistible to poke at, just a bit.

Jim, for his part, seemed determined to remember where exactly he had seen a naked woman before, but could not quite bring it to mind. His eyes flicked to her neck and shoulders, and then away. “I, ah,” he said, taking a large step backward. “I’ll just. . . be on my way. Downstairs. Yes. Downstairs. That’s it.”

With that, tripping over a floorboard, he practically sprinted, as Geneva watched him go with a smirk, then turned around, sauntered back into the room, and barred the door this time. She was considerably intrigued to see if Jim would be able to look her in the face again without having his head set afire like a Roman candle. He was a good-looking young man, clearly did not object to beholding her more intimate aspects, and if she was being dragged along on this entire ridiculous journey, it seemed unfair not to get at least a bit of personal enjoyment out of it. That, however, would have to wait. As well, Geneva did not want to sleep with him and then discover that he was an idiot, or convinced they were destined for each other, or otherwise possessive and obnoxious. She did very much enjoy certain things about men, but it was not to be denied that they were absolutely the denser half of the human species.

Dried, dressed, brushed, and otherwise fit for public viewing, Geneva went downstairs for supper, noticed that Jim knocked over his plate and took a long time about fetching it, and that Madi’s eyes were still red. She and Silver kept exchanging half-glances as they ate, and Geneva, looking over at Thomas, saw that he had noticed this too. They raised their eyebrows at each other, but could not discuss it in front of the others, and Geneva cleared her throat and informed them of her accomplishments. “So,” she finished. “It’s almost certain that my uncle, Billy Bones, and Lady Fiona Murray are in fact headed for Skeleton Island, so I think we should be after them as soon as possible.”

“What about a first mate?”

“I hired a new one.” Geneva helped herself to another spoonful of cherry tart.

“Did you?” Silver evidently could not decide whether to be impressed or wary. “Who?”

Geneva gave him a sweet smile. “Experienced sailor. I’m sure you’ll get along.”

Silver seemed about to say something else, then stopped. The rest of supper was conducted more or less without incident, but Thomas slipped after Geneva as she went outside to sit in the back courtyard,. “My dear,” he said, shutting the door. “I see you’re not about to tell Mr. Silver, but might I be permitted to know the identity of your new crewman?”

“Aye, of course.” Geneva beckoned him to sit next to her. “His name is Israel Hands, one of Blackbeard’s old men. He’s been to Skeleton Island himself before, and he particularly dislikes Silver. I think he’ll be a solid addition.”

She glanced at her uncle, waiting for his approval, but instead Thomas frowned. “I’m sorry, did you say Israel Hands?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It’s only, I’m sure I’ve heard your grandfather mention him. He was violent and disruptive even by Nassau’s standards, tried to challenge Blackbeard for captaincy of the Queen Anne’s Revenge once, and was otherwise a loose cannon.” The fine furrow between Thomas’ weathered brows drew deeper. “If he wants to come with us, I cannot doubt it is for some secret design of his own, and not one we should necessarily welcome.”

“I did get the sense he was a bit cracked, but – ” Geneva frowned as well. “He’ll keep Silver in check, at least, and you and I can both agree that is a top – ”

“Believe me,” Thomas said, “I did not expect to be uttering these words either. But there are worse men than John Silver for us to have aboard our ship.”

“Our ship? It’s my ship.”

“Yes, it is, and you know that I have consciously stepped back and let you take the lead, supported all your decisions. But Jenny, I cannot help but remark – and you know as well that I love you, that this is meant in no malice – that you have your father and grandfather’s flaws as well as their strengths. You are pushing more and more into that side of them, and you, that is reckless, vindictive, and determined to take risks even, and especially, when you are counseled against them. Given how we found ourselves on this venture, I understand, I do, your desire to keep punishing Silver for it. But I must be plain. I do not think Israel Hands is a wise idea, or a choice that will assist in what, no matter how, we have been set to do. It is a decision made purely from spite, and you’re too smart for that, my dear. Dissolve it now whilst still you can.”

This was not at all what Geneva had expected to hear, and she felt a prickle of wounded pride at being rebuked by her uncle, with whom she had always been very close. “I can manage Hands. And besides, when did you become such a Silver devotee? Didn’t you tell him to stay away from me, that he had a complete lack of care for anyone other than – ”

At that, she came to a screeching halt, as Thomas looked first confused, wondering how she could have possibly known that – then, as realization dawned, stunned. “You. . .” he said. “You listened to our conversation that night on the Rose?”

“I – ” Geneva’s face went hot. “I. . . may have heard. . . a bit of it, yes.”

“I heard you go into your cabin. Or at least, I thought I did.” Thomas surveyed her with that piercing light-blue gaze of his. He didn’t sound angry, only surprised and saddened. “You intentionally deceived us to stay out and listen? Why did you do that?”

“I just. . .” Geneva was only able to mumble a few words about it being her ship and having a right to know, all of which sounded fabulously feeble when spoken aloud and which did nothing to ease the flat, grim line of Thomas’s mouth. “I’m sorry, Uncle Thomas, I just. . .”

“I understand your curiosity, of course,” Thomas allowed, after a moment. “It was what drew us originally to Nassau, after all, and John Silver is an enigma into which we have likewise both, in our different ways and reasons, become drawn. As well, it is natural that you should want to know more of your grandfather’s past. But as we must accept that our parents are mortal creatures, we must also accept that there are some things which we as their children simply do not have the need or entitlement to know. I am also, I must say, rather insulted at the idea that you thought I might say one thing to you, and altogether another behind your back. I spoke as I did to Mr. Silver because I thought you were not listening – well, you were, and that cannot be taken back. But you have, as a result, compromised my trust. I do not wish to treat you as a girl, when you are a woman and the captain of your own vessel, but Jenny, you have very much acted as one, and I did expect better. Perhaps that was my mistake. You are still very young.”

This quiet, matter-of-fact disappointment was worse than if he had shouted at her, and Geneva’s cheeks felt as scalded as Jim’s must have earlier. She twisted her hands in her lap, biting her lip, feeling a hot prickling behind her eyes and unable to meet his. “I’m. . . sorry,” she said again, forcing the words past the hot band constricting her chest. “I. . . didn’t mean. . .”

“Thank you,” Thomas said politely. “I accept your apology, and I expect that it will not happen again. Perhaps we should go inside? It’s getting quite dark.”

With that, he rose to his feet, offered his hand to her, and led her back into the inn, then inclined his head and strode off to the stairs, leaving Geneva standing in the corner and rubbing her eyes hard. If Silver turned up now, getting a whiff of distress that he could profitably and sympathetically insinuate himself into, she would hit him, but he didn’t. When she started down the corridor toward the common room, thinking she might get another drink before going up to bed, she heard the murmur of voices, and looked out to see Silver and Madi still sitting by themselves at the table. Too absorbed in their low-voiced exchange, they did not notice her, and having just been reprimanded for illicit eavesdropping, Geneva certainly did not want to do it all over again. She turned smartly and started to leave, but could not help but catch a few fragments.

“ – no right to ask it of us, not when she – ”

“I know,” Silver said wearily. “But we both know that it is not her you’re truly angry at. And in that case, Woodes Rogers is dead, and his widow could be useful, especially if her son is serving aboard a – ”

Madi made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob. “Useful,” she repeated. “Of course, even now, that is what you prize the most, is it not? It was useful, the arrangement you came to the first time? Do you even remember what that cost us, or should I refresh your memory?”

“Madi – ” Silver reached for her hand, but she snatched it away from him. He sounded harrowed and haunted, a man desperate to find his footing on a crumbling sandbar, even as the water rose and rose. “Do you think I have not thought about it every day since? You never let me come close, you never let me even try to – ”

“You could not have mended it.” Madi looked away, her face stony but her voice ragged. “Not when you destroyed it.”

This absolutely did not sound like the sort of thing that Geneva needed to hear a word more of, and she silently backtracked, managing to reach the stairs without them knowing they had been, even briefly, spied upon. Her legs felt leaden as she climbed up, let herself back into the room – the tub had been emptied and removed – and undressed. All her self-satisfaction seemed to have dissipated, leaving only a cold fog, and she lay down in bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she was still committed to employing Hands. Thomas had no reason to vouch for Silver out of any personal liking or desire for more of his company, so he could only be doing it out of genuine conviction that the alternative was worse. But he would be the first to admit that he knew nothing about piracy or the truth of those days. . . it had been twenty-five years, even if Hands had been a problem then, there was no automatic certainty that he was now. . . she still wanted to keep Silver good and uncomfortable, even as she could not help but hear Thomas remarking that she was giving into the family tendency to hold grudges and seek vengeance even when it came at considerable cost to oneself. . . aye, Silver had tricked them into this, but now they were going to rescue her uncle Liam and everything would be. . .

Lost in unquiet thoughts, Geneva barely noticed when the door opened and Madi let herself in, face cool and carven and remote in the moonlight, as if she had gone beyond grief and anger and into somewhere simply numb. Geneva watched under her eyelids, then shut them, thinking she should pretend to be asleep. The bed creaked as Madi climbed in, whereupon she tried to lie still, but the air around her was so unsettled, her presence so raw, that Geneva could not get comfortable again. Finally she whispered, “Madi?”

The older woman started slightly, and looked over at her. She seemed to be wondering if she should say something, then shook her head and sat up. “I am sorry,” she said. “I should not have brought this here. I will sleep elsewhere tonight.”

“You don’t have to. . . I just. . .” Geneva did not want to make this worse again, fumbled to think how to be honest. “I couldn’t help but overhearing a little earlier, and I – I left, I swear, but if this is about allowing Eleanor Rogers on the ship, I wasn’t planning to, but if it’s personal to you. . .”

She grimaced, afraid that Madi would feel that her confidence had been betrayed as Thomas had, but Madi did not appear outstandingly angry. She regarded Geneva for a moment, head to one side, considering. “How much did you hear, exactly?”

“Not much.” Geneva fiddled with the sheet. “I came back inside after Uncle Thomas. . . after we. . . never mind. I was just going to get a drink, but I heard Silver say that it might be useful to take Eleanor along after all, and you. . .” She stopped, hideously embarrassed. “Well. You didn’t want to. But earlier, he didn’t seem all that interested in taking Eleanor, he said – ”

“You have made the first mistake of dealing with John,” Madi said. “Assuming that what he said earlier can be trusted to hold now, and that he has ever encountered a situation which, no matter how much personal discomfort it may cause him, cannot be amended in the pursuit of advantage and opportunity. But you should not feel bad. I made the same, and I have known him much longer than you. Even now. Even in this, I thought – ”

“I’m sorry,” Geneva said quietly. “Please. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know.” Madi looked back at her. “Of course I do not have to. You do recall what I said earlier, about making my own choices, that you have not forced me to do anything? But you are the captain of the Rose, and thus the one with whom rests the decision whether or not to take Eleanor along. And I suppose you have the right to know why I object to it.”

Geneva opened and shut her mouth. She could not help but think of Thomas’ adjuration that there were things which children had no right to know of their parents, but then, Madi was not her parent, and she seemed to be offering the information freely. “All right.”

Madi was quiet for a long moment, as if thinking how to communicate this as efficiently and impersonally as possible, as if writing a dispatch from the War Office. Then she said, “As you will know, Woodes Rogers was released from prison after serving several years for debt. He returned to Nassau for a second term as governor in 1728, which was a great shock for all of us living there. We had not expected to be confronted by that man again, after everything we had fought and suffered to be rid of him. It nearly started another war, and there were many of us who thought the risk was worth taking. I was among those who thought that we were justified in working to resist him. I would have done more, but – ”

She stopped.

“Yes?” Geneva prompted tentatively.

“But,” Madi said, looking up at her with that calm, flat dark gaze, “I was pregnant.”

“You – ” At that, Geneva remembered Madi and Silver’s strange reaction to Eleanor’s claim that they should sympathize with her desire to get back to her son if nothing else, and felt a large chunk of ice drop into her stomach, suddenly understanding at least some of how tragic this story was going to be, and not wanting to understand any more. “Oh, Christ, I’m sorry.”

Madi shrugged. “John had been. . . unsure about it, about how much of a father he thought he could be. He did not want war with Rogers, again, and felt that Max and I were taking too hard a line in being determined to demonstrate to the governor that matters had changed, that we ruled Nassau now and he did not. We argued. I reminded him that Rogers had kidnapped me during the first war, that I well remembered what sort of man he was, that we could not let him have power over us again, and I was prepared to pay the price. He said he had given up enough to stop that first war, and would not let it go in vain. He. . .”

She considered, twisting the bedspread between her fingers, staring intently at the wall. Finally she said, “He went to Rogers behind my back, and offered him a deal he had no right to propose, with authority he had no right to delegate, about which powers Rogers should have, and which we should retain. I believe he felt that he was solving the problem, that he knew best and could come to some sort of compromise, and that would be enough to make the conflict go away. He then did not tell me that he had done this, until I received a letter a week later, asking me to go to the governor’s mansion, to confirm it. To go back to Woodes Rogers and present myself and kneel, to swear myself a loyal subject, a. . .”

She stopped again, as Geneva reached out to put a hand on her arm. Madi barely seemed to notice, eyes bleaker and blinder than ever. The silence hung over them until she said, “Once more, we argued. He did not even seem to understand how he had betrayed my trust, how he had disregarded everything I had asked of him, still thinking he was doing the right thing for us, for Nassau. I suppose it was too much. Our son came that night, three months too early.”

Geneva did not want her to keep talking, to have to say this, but now that Madi had started, it seemed impossible to hold it back, and the words spilled out of her as if she had to, she had to tell someone, she had to make them understand. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He was perfect,” she said. “Absolutely perfect. His head fit in the palm of my hand. He had black curls, and all his fingers and toes, and he was brown as a walnut, halfway between us. He was still alive for a little while after he was born. He never made a sound, he never cried. I would have given my own life for his. If he could have grown up, if he could have opened his eyes, if he could have breathed on his own. There is nothing – nothing – I would not have done for that, and what could I do? Nothing. I could do nothing. I hope you never have to know what it is like to sit there in that darkness, in your bloody bed, singing to him, and see, as the moon came out from behind the cloud, that he was gone, and you did not even know the moment when.”

With that, Madi doubled in half and began, for what must have been the first time in twelve years, to sob. She bent over on all fours, clutching the sheet, shaking and twisting it and gulping and shivering, as Geneva put both arms around her and pulled her in, tears running silently down her own cheeks. She rocked Madi as if she was a small child herself, feeling half the daughter that Thomas had been disappointed in and half the mother who must put that aside, knowing again that there was no way for her to fully comprehend this pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, as she had said it to her uncle, in similar form but different meaning, feeling more than ever the insufficiency of mending back such things, so great and terrible, so raw and tender and impossible, impossible. “I’m sorry.”

Madi did not answer, still shaking, until her head rested heavy against Geneva’s shoulder and she went quiet. At last she spoke again, in a distant, dreamlike voice. “From that day, things were never the same between us again. John kept trying, he kept trying to fix them, and yet inevitably, they became worse. He never understood exactly what he had done wrong, and Rogers died four years later, but that did not mend it. Why is it that African mothers lose their sons the most, when the white man kills them either intentionally or simply through ignorance? And now Eleanor dares to ask this of us for the sake of her son, for Rogers’ son. She hopes that even we can understand that, she says. I know my father worked for her for several years. I know he was, in his way, fond of her. But I am not sure I can see her again, and not want to claw her eyes out.”

“We don’t. . .” Geneva’s voice sounded rusty. “If Eleanor does come back, we. . . I wasn’t intending to take her with us. I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry.”

Again Madi said nothing, before she sniffed once more and straightened up. “So,” she said, as calmly as if continuing a prior conversation. “I had hoped that might be enough, for once, for John to hold fast in refusing to allow Eleanor to accompany us. But no. She might be useful. Even now, he must plan for a dozen different potential outcomes, instead of listening to me when I say this is something I cannot abide. Sometimes I still deceive myself into believing that he will change. I am not sure why. Perhaps he justifies it to himself that Eleanor was not there, and took no direct part in the events. I do not know. I wish I did not care. I am so tired. So tired.”

“You should sleep,” Geneva said, lowering Madi to the mattress as gently as she could, settling her on the pillow, and pulling the quilt up. “Shh. Go to sleep.”

Madi murmured something about not wanting to, even as she was already drifting off. Geneva sat next to her until she was sure that Madi was really asleep, then slid down as well, feeling as if somebody had reached into her body and pulled out her backbone. She could not help the uncomfortable thought that it was almost counterproductive to punish Silver further, when there was no one who could punish him as he could himself. Between the secrets she had learned illicitly from him and Thomas, and the ones that Madi had now told her plainly, she began to understand the necessity of keeping them in the past, of trying to let them lie quiet, when they still lived so close to you every day. It was finding that measure of solace, or going mad, and Geneva began to understand the gravity and the struggle of how her parents and grandparents had managed to do it, however imperfectly. It felt very strange to lie there in the darkness and think of this, grapple with its weight. To wonder if this was what it cost, growing up.

The next day was a blur of activity. Geneva was up at the crack of dawn, rather than the long lie-in she had enjoyed yesterday, and scarcely seemed to stop moving thereafter. She was still not yet certain whether to jettison Hands, but did not have much time to ponder; if all kept to schedule, they would be leaving tomorrow evening. Geneva did not think they had ever turned around so fast, but then, they did not have cargo to load and unload, or passengers to wait for, and the Bristol tradesmen from the sailors’ guild were located in due course to patch up the Rose. At first they were inclined to charge her double, as she was not a member (as well as doubtless thinking that a female would be less familiar with the value of their labor) but Jim went in and shouted at them for a bit, which proved unexpectedly efficient. “Told them I was going,” he added wryly, pulling a tangle of hemp out of his shaggy chestnut ponytail. “Think they would have done the work at any price, if they knew it meant getting rid of me.”

“Come now, I’m sure you don’t mean that.” Geneva smiled consolingly. Jim seemed to have recovered fairly well from his bath-induced heart failure last night, and she leaned on the wall of the quay warehouse, looking up at him (he was a pleasant few inches taller than her, which could be difficult to find in a man, she being of quite respectable stature herself). “But if we are leaving tomorrow, have you told your mother yet?”

Jim glanced away. “I sent her a letter.”

“Go see her,” Geneva urged, the memory of Madi’s grief still painfully close at hand, until she could not countenance the thought of taking another son from his mother without a proper farewell. “If – if we don’t – well, I’m sure everything will be fine, but at least see her once before you go. I’m sure she’s mourning your absence as much as the loss of the Benbow. Please.” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sure it would mean a great deal to her.”

Jim looked at her hand, swallowed hard, and after a moment, seemed to discover that whatever rationalizations he had carefully crafted to the contrary had inexplicably evaporated. “I. . . well,” he said. “All right, I’ll. . . I’ll go see her.”

“Good.” Geneva leaned up to peck his cheek, at which she feared she might have overdone it, as Jim sped from the docklands with his face once more resembling the great red storm on the planet Jupiter (Geneva, as a sailor, avidly read astronomical publications). She watched him go with another grin, and reminded herself it was cruel to tease him too much, but she needed the moment of levity and distraction after the heavy emotion of last night. She hadn’t seen Thomas at breakfast, or yet that day. She did hope he hadn’t done anything rash – that was extremely uncharacteristic of him, but if he’d still been angry –

It was not until considerably later that evening, when they had returned to the King’s Arms and Geneva was worried enough to think of sending for the constables, that Thomas finally reappeared. His waistcoat was dirty and untucked, his lip split, and his eye blackening; indeed, he looked as if he was fresh off a back-alley brawl, something that Geneva had never imagined of her urbane, well-dressed, gentle, intellectual uncle. She jumped to her feet, even as Silver, Madi, and Jim glanced over in some consternation. “Uncle Thomas! What happened – did somebody – here, sit down, let me take a look at – ”

“I’m fine, Jenny.” Thomas allowed her to assist him into a chair, but waved her off when she tried for a better examination of his injuries. “I started the fight, if you’re wondering.”

“You – ?” Geneva goggled at him. She had not thought that Thomas had ever started a proper fight in his life – but then she remembered what he had said to her back in Bermuda, that he had not told James and Miranda everything that happened to him while they were apart, and supposed that he had not survived all those years of incarceration and hard labor with just a charming smile and an excellent command of Cicero. “Are you – that is – what was – ?”

“Suffice to say, Israel Hands will not be accompanying us.” Thomas winced, pulling out his handkerchief to dab his bloody lip. “Fortunately, I managed to catch him while he was drunk, or I daresay I would look much worse.”

“You went after – ” Geneva blinked stupidly. “Oh God, no. Uncle Thomas, you’re sixty-eight, you’re a gentleman. You should have let me handle it, I would have – ”

Thomas looked at her coolly. “And was I to be sure that you would do it, then?”

Geneva stopped short, feeling slapped. She wanted to say that he should have told her, he should have trusted her, but she was sharply aware of why he had not, and after all, she had delayed making a decision on Hands today, trying to avoid committing one way or another until the last minute. It was Silver who said, “Hands? Israel Hands? I knew him by repute on Nassau, if it’s the same man – that was the first mate you thought you were hiring for us?”

“Evidently not any more.” Geneva wished they would stop staring. “Congratulations, Mr. Silver, it appears the post is yours. I – I don’t think I’m that hungry after all. I’ll go to bed.”

With that, she fairly fled upstairs and into her room, undressing and climbing into bed for lack of anything better to do and lying with her eyes closed, in an uneasy, anxious stupor that stubbornly refused to deepen into real sleep, for what felt like hours. She thought she would hear Madi come in at some point, but when she finally woke up with a jerk sometime in the wee hours, having evidently finally managed to drop off, the other side of the bed was untouched. Wherever Madi was sleeping tonight, it was not here.

Geneva rolled over, managed after another lengthy interlude to get back to sleep, woke again not long past dawn, and finally gave up. She rose and dressed, peering out the window. It was the usual cool and cloudy sort of day that England could be reliably counted upon to produce no matter the nominal season, but it should clear a bit by evening. Not bad sailing weather, at any rate. Silver would have to help her plot the course, as he was the one who knew where Skeleton Island was, but they also had to guess where else Lady Fiona and Billy might be going. If they were skipping the trip to France, that made it doubly imperative that they rescue Uncle Liam. I’m not being reckless in that. I’m not.

Geneva wandered downstairs, ate a quick breakfast, and headed for the docks to oversee final preparations. She herself would not be sad to leave Bristol behind; a little knowledge of the past could be a very dangerous thing. She didn’t regret coming, exactly, but she was only starting to realize what she had gotten into, aside from just the physical requirements of the undertaking, and those were grueling enough. Nor did she think it was likely to stop.

The last provisions were stowed around four o’clock that afternoon, the new men brought on board and given their tasks and places on the crew, the anchor raised, and the Rose began her careful journey down the river channel toward the sea. Geneva was too occupied to spend much time watching the city vanish behind the steep banks. They glided into the spectacular Avon Gorge, which took more careful attention to negotiate, and then finally got a whiff of brine, following the sinking sun out west into the Atlantic.

The wind was strong, but fickle in direction, and Geneva kept a close eye on the new recruits to see how they were handling the changes of lines and sheets. Silver seemed to be keeping them decently enough on task, at any rate, and Geneva herself always felt easier on the sea, no matter the circumstances in which she had arrived there. It felt better to be pointed back in a roughly homeward direction, rather than the complete unknown, and for the first time, she might almost be able to glimpse the end of this. Wasn’t that a thought.

When they were well enough out to sea for the English coast to have vanished, Geneva congratulated everyone on a smooth departure, sent Jim to find a bunk with the crew and Madi to the cabin again, glanced at Thomas where he was standing by the rail, and then went below to check the lashings and to make sure they had properly caulked that leak in the forward bulkhead. She pulled the trapdoor shut and climbed down the ladder, took the lantern from its hook, and started into the cramped hold, ducking the low beam. The dim shapes of piled sacks and barrels lay to every side as she made her way across, pulled her skirts over a snagging nail, and –

Geneva caught movement out of the corner of her eye just an instant too late, and whirled around, just as a scarred hand clamped over her mouth and she was jerked back against the hull with considerable force. She couldn’t see who had hold of her, but then she made out a second shape in front of her, and saw Eleanor Rogers rising stiffly from where she must have been hiding for hours – stowed away last night, probably. At that, Geneva suddenly understood who had grabbed her, but a less likely pairing she could not imagine – Woodes Rogers’ widow and a man who had once worked for the legendary pirate Rogers had killed? Unless they were so driven as to overlook all prior enmities and – Christ, mess did not even begin to describe this –

“Good evening, Captain,” Israel Hands breathed in her ear. “Think it’s time to discuss the terms of our passage.”

[bloomsoftly]

"whatever she is, isn't human. It's old, it's powerful, and it hates."

guns & rosaries, Darcy/Loki

Now on AO3.

okay, you didn’t ask for a specific pairing so i just went with whatever worked, which turned out to be Darcy/Loki. So this is tasertricks, and a lot longer than I expected it to be. Hope you like it! :)

Darcy didn’t begin to suspect that anything was wrong until the third day on the job. Hunting monsters had never exactly been easy money, but she and Jane had been doing it for so long that Darcy forgot what it was like when a job went truly sideways.

From the start, it seemed like an average contract—strange and scary things started happening in a small town, townspeople freaked out, townspeople found a (mostly) innocent person to scapegoat—and the guy who hired them was too genuinely nice to be pulling some kind of con. And while Jane may have been too entranced by the guy’s abs to make an unbiased evaluation of the situation, Darcy’s bullshit detector had no equal. To be fair to Jane, though, even Darcy had to admit that Thor’s abs were extremely impressive.

All that aside, his concern that his little brother might be wrongly accused and driven out of their community was so palpable that Jane and Darcy accepted the contract on the spot and booked a flight to Norway the next day.

The first night was fine. Jane and Darcy were jet lagged as hell but still able to drag themselves to the only inn in town, where they rented two rooms for the duration of the contract (Jane was attempting to hide her desire to get in Thor’s pants as a sudden and unprecedented need for space, but Darcy wasn’t buying it). Darcy barely took the time to unpack her meager toiletries—she left the silver bullets, holy water, and emergency potions securely tucked away in the false bottom of her luggage—before heading out to join Jane and Thor in the pub for dinner.

When she finally collapsed into bed, exhausted, she had horrible, restless dreams all night. She woke up the next morning, drained, with the ghost of a crushing weight on her chest. Rubbing at the spot, feeling as if a bruise was forming, Darcy attributed the strangeness to lingering jet lag and a desperate need for caffeine. She paused only for a moment at the mirror, looking at the deep, dark bruises under her eyes in mild consternation. Should’ve brought more concealer, Darce.

On her way out the door, Darcy’s eyes caught on the items scattered across the vanity. Hmm, that’s strange—she would’ve sworn that they were in a different order when she laid them out the day before. Shaking her head, Darcy wrote it off as a flight of fancy and went on her way.

The second day and night went much like the first; Jane and Darcy split up to subtly investigate suspicious activity in the town, and Darcy became more and more perturbed by what she heard. Apparently, several people had had heart attacks in the middle of the night over the past few months, a few too many to just be coincidence. At least several more had literally disappeared in the middle of the night, with no clue as to where they had gone. The townsfolk were adamant that they hadn’t left voluntarily—cars, clothes, and belongings were all still at home, and entire families had been left behind without warning.

Suspicion and paranoia were percolating, as they often did in situations like these, swelling into a wave of fear and hate that would find some unlucky sod to target. Apparently, in this case that scapegoat was likely to be Thor’s little brother.

Darcy and Jane would have to move quickly, before irreparable damage was done.

As she headed back to the pub to meet Jane and Thor for dinner, Darcy mused that it did indeed sound like some kind of supernatural creature was wreaking havoc on the town. Unfortunately, she was still at a loss for what kind—the vague descriptions she had gathered from the townspeople could fit any number of monsters she and Jane dealt with on a regular basis, not to mention the ones specific to this area of the world. Hopefully Jane had fared better.

Jane had not, in fact, fared any better. That was patently clear from the fact that Darcy’s best friend was currently engaged in a rousing sing-off with her fair-haired beau, which seemed well on its way to…yep, definitely ending in a drunken makeout.

Rolling her eyes fondly at the pair, Darcy moved to claim a table at the edge of the crowd. As she sat, Darcy felt the press of someone’s gaze and sat up to her full (modest) height. Taking her time, she nonchalantly cast her eyes about this room, searching for her unknown spectator.

As soon as her eyes landed on the man lounging in a chair by the fire, Darcy wondered how she ever could have missed him. He certainly wasn’t going out of his way to hide the direction of his gaze, and he smirked at her when their eyes met. With dark hair and a disdainful tilt of his chin, he looked nothing like the rest of the townspeople she had met so far.

Because of the distance and the reflection of the flames dancing in his eyes, she couldn’t tell if they were green or blue. There was no disguising the smug tilt of his mouth, though, especially as it was directed straight at her in a blatant challenge. Darcy allowed herself a smug look in return, and he sat up a bit straighter in his chair in response. She had a moment to wonder if he would abandon the distance between them and approach her, but then Jane was at the table, slightly drunk and glowing.

Swaying as she sat down, Jane leaned too close and shouted, “Thor’s getting us drinks!”

Darcy chuckled and leaned back in her seat, eardrums already aching from Jane’s lack of volume control. “That’s great, Janie, thanks. Did you find out anything good today?”

Jane shakes her head, then nods vigorously, then see-saws her hand in a so-so motion. “Umm—”

Snorting at her best friend, Darcy takes a different approach. Best to keep it simple. “Any word on how Thor’s brother is holding up under all the suspicion?”

Jane looked at her, wide-eyed and puzzled. “You were the one just having intense eye sex with him, Darcy, so you tell me. I thought you’d already ‘met,’ the way you were looking at each other.” She waggled her eyebrows outrageously, drawing a laugh out of Darcy.

“You’re the only one getting any action on this trip, Janie,” Darcy teased. Humming thoughtfully, she added, “I could see why he’d be the one everyone blames around here, though. He doesn’t exactly…fit in.”

Jane nodded sagely in agreement. “It’s always the outsiders who get blamed, isn’t it?” She and Darcy exchanged a glance, empathetic to Loki’s plight; they’d been on the receiving end of townspeople’s misplaced blame more than once in the past, and it was always unpleasant. Darcy turned back to where he was sitting, but Loki was gone.

Thor came back with their mead at that moment and conversation turned to lighter topics. Darcy let go of thoughts about his brother, but every now and then she swore she could feel eyes on her, watching and assessing.

That night passed much like the one before, and Darcy began to suspect that her nightmares possibly had something to do with whatever was haunting the town. She suffered no other effects than lingering exhaustion and a lingering heaviness in her chest, though, so she continued on with her day, planning to look into it later.

In hindsight, perhaps Jane and Darcy should have questioned the details of the supernatural goings-on a bit more extensively before making the trip. That way, Darcy might have been slightly more prepared to wake up to a ghoulish creature perched on her chest in the middle of the night.

As it was, Darcy was not prepared in the least. She woke abruptly, limbs paralyzed and pressed to the bed. Her mouth still worked, though, and she let out an earsplitting shriek, loud enough to bring the inn down around her ears. The vaguely woman-like creature bore down on her, glowing red eyes moving so close they drowned everything else out.

Whatever she was, she wasn’t human. She was old, powerful, and clearly hated Darcy with a fiery passion.

Darcy had just enough time to reflect on the embarrassment of dying in bed in a foreign country, alone, before her ears were filled with a thunderous clanging. The ghoul screamed in pain and frustration and clambered off of her, scrambling to the far corner of the room.

Limbs mobile again, Darcy propped herself up on her elbows just in time to see the creature turn itself to mist. A silver knife flew past, embedding itself directly into the wood where the creature had stood half a second earlier.

Loki stood in the doorway, one hand gripping some kind of bell while the other was still outstretched from throwing the knife.

Darcy blinked, and then he was rushing toward her. He grabbed her hand, dragging her the rest of the way out of bed, and they fled the bedroom at a run.

Well, Darcy thought to herself, this job just got a whole lot more interesting.

send me a prompt!

[batskittleriddlesbtc-blog]

TV Special

A little SuperBat to pass the time.

Clark was on his way home from the Daily planet. He was feeling so refreshed. Perry had suddenly given him the week off (A certain CEO maybe?). Clark didn’t know why but, he wasn’t going to mess it up and ask questions. He was too tired and wanted this break. When he got home he flopped onto his small, cheaply made sofa and turned on the TV. As he flipped through the channels he saw a familiar face, Bruce Wayne. He was Giving a tour of his hotel in Paris. Clark chuckled. “Ahh Bruce, you’re always showing off.” Missing his lover, he turned up the volume and got comfortable on his small couch. Closing his eyes, he began to relax to the sound of Bruce’s deep alluring voice. Clark drifted into a deep sleep. He was pulled out of his sleep by the sound of his door being unlocked. Clark quickly sat up and used his x-ray vision to see who it was. “Oh gosh! Its Bruce. Come on in.” Clark was excited, Bruce hardly came over. At his attempt to stand, Clark realized he was hard. Bruce let himself in, scanned the room (it’s a habit of his) and noticed Clark on the couch. He saw the TV was on the channel his special was aired on, the pillow in Clarks lap, the drool on his pillow, and the intentional distance Clark put between them. Bruce walked over to the couch and sat down. “…How are you Clark? You seem a little pale.” Clark avoided eye contact with Bruce and lied. “I’m pretty good actually, how was Paris?” Bruce smirked as he leaned back. “It was good, did you catch my TV special by chance?” Clark was trying to mentally make his dick soft but couldn’t. He had missed Bruce and this surprise visit was so rare. Clark decided to just confess to getting turned on by watching Bruce on the TV. Bruce probably won’t even be shocked. “Ha-ha… It’s funny you mentioned th- AH Bruce!?!” Bruce had snaked his hand under the pillow in Clarks lap and was letting his hand wander while his face was calm and cool. “Did you miss me?” The smallest grin crept onto Bruce’s face as he spoke. “How much did you think of me? I wonder, do you want me right now?” Bruce started to play with the tip of Clarks cock, circling his thumb in the slick pre-cum leaking out of Clark. With Hot red cheeks Clark tried to speak. “Bruce, you know I always think of you and--” “-naked?” Bruce interrupted. “um, sometimes I’m naked but other times I just unzip my pants, I don’t really have a system worked out. Except for when I’m in the shower, I kind of have a routine in there.” Bruce’s eyes open a fraction wider, realizing Clark didn’t understand his question. After he filed his new information Bruce stopped stroking Clark and began unbuttoning his belt and black slacks. As he freed his cock Clark reached for it but was swatted away. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me.” “…but, what if I wanna touch you, Bruce?” “you can after you show me.” “then why did you pull you cock out?” “inspiration” Clark chuckled and decided to just please Bruce so he can please Bruce. Clark Grabbed his half hard cock and started to tug it. Increasing his speed he began to put pressure on the base. He looked up to see Bruce staring intensely at his cock. He noticed the slight foggy blue hue Bruce’s eyes became. Clark allowed his eyes to travel down and saw Bruce pumping his own cock and trying match Clarks pace. Am I drooling? Clark shook his head to try to calm down but he couldn’t get over Bruce’s faint pants and the way his cock was already so wet. Clark wondered if his ass was wet too… Just imagining it put Clark on edge. “Bruce, can i…?” Bruce looked up at him then leaned down and kissed the tip of Clarks swollen cock. Darnit Bruce. Clark discarded Bruce’s clothes and pushed Bruce down onto the couch. Clark held one of Bruce’s thighs with one hand and kept the other on his own cock. “Look Bruce you still get what you want but I can’t keep sitting here with you playing with your cock, its making my body ache. Just let me have you.” “… fine” Clark smiled because he knew Bruce really wanted to do this too. He could hear the blood pumping through his veins and could see the dilation of his eyes. Clark licked Bruce’s member as if it was the most flavorful thing he’d ever tasted. Starting at the base Clark drug his tongue to the tip and took it into his mouth. As he swirled his tongue, Clark moved his thumb over his own cock to try to mimic the feeling. Wanting to be closer to Bruce in every way. Soon Clark worked his throat to take all of Bruce into his mouth. Bruce was breathing heavier but hadn’t made a sound, he didn’t want to show just how much Clarks mouth made him melt. He would never admit it but, all those girls he was with never made Bruce shake the way Clark did. He couldn’t get over the way Clark held his thigh with such strength and care. The sloppy yet, efficient way Clark bobbed his head, always managing to get his cheeks wet. Just the sight of his honest lips sliding up and down his cock made Bruce twitch. Bruce wove his hand into Clarks hair and pushed him back down to swallow his cock once more. Clarks throat tightened on Bruce pulling a moan from his chest. Bruce released his hold on Clarks hair when he felt Clark shudder, “Are you already done Clark? I guess we should call Barry and tell him that you really are the fastest man alive.” Bruce chuckled as Clark reddened. Sitting up between Bruce’s lovely thighs, “It wasn’t that fast Bruce. And lucky for you, I’m not even close to being finished.” Clark said as he motioned towards his erect cock. Smiling, Bruce sighed and reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of lube. Like a vigilant puppy, Clark watched in awe as Bruce coated his fingers in lube. He ran his slick fingers around his pink hole, watching Clarks sanity unravel. Finally, he pushed one finger in, breathing slowly, keeping his body relaxed. As he increased his speed Bruce added two more fingers. Now Bruce had a thin layer of sweat coating his body while he worked desperately to fuck himself with his all-too capable fingers. Clark could not describe how much he loved Bruce. With every beat of his heart he felt it increase ten-fold. He trusted, respected, and admired Bruce. Just being with him opened Clarks world up to new feelings and experiences. One of his new Favorites was definitely Bruce biting his sexy red lip while fingering himself. Without any warning, Clark put a finger in Bruce’s ass too. “Clark… ahh.. four might be too much.”. Bruce panted out as he tried to calm himself while Clarks single finger wreaked havoc on his ass. Clark leaned forward and softly spoke into Bruce’s ear. “Make some space for me, please?”. Bruce pulled his fingers out, trying to look as reluctant as possible. Clark would have believed him if his cock wasn’t twitching with such vigor and anticipation. “Thank you.” Clark said with a loving grin.