#I do really like the cool blues against the harsh reds of the nebulas despite them being the same colour just different backgrounds

[sysig]

Something of an exploding star kind of space vent art (Patreon)

[we-can-all-wakeup]

Tir Na Nog

Pairing: Charoix Word Count: 5k+  Summary: In which love conquers, and spoils, all.  Note: This is definitely the shit that will fucking make or break me - and more likely to break me. It’s 100% self indulgent, me inserting whatever the fuck I want, a loose ending, kisses because it’s been 8 chapters without, and a completely lack of the usual slow burn I implement. Let this be the mark of a death. Link to All 8 Chapters: AO3

“Sorry,” a heavy voice sighed as they walked through the doors to the headmistress’s office. All the other professors who were already present in the room silently turned, watching as the lilac haired witch seemed to struggle with the heavy oak doors before managing to slip by with an audible breath of exertion. While the many of the old guard seemed to silently appraise Croix, faces pulled into severe expressions, it was Chariot who hastily made her way over, silently padding, a delicate hand drawing both their attentions down to the arms that were still wrapped in white gauze. Seeing that the redhead worried herself needlessly over recovering wounds, Croix laid her own hands, cool and stiff, over softer, warmer hands. Silently reassuring, as she managed to draw bright reds up to meet her own smouldering emeralds.

Breaking the two young witches from their silent exchange, Holbrooke coughed quietly to draw all eyes back onto her as she settled comfortably into her seat, giving the two young professors time to step back within the cluster in front of her desk. “Sorry to have called you all here so suddenly, but I did try and time this so that none of you would miss your classes,” Miranda began, “assuming that no problems arise from this, I hope to not keep you from it either,” she said as she brought her wand up, casting a blazing video frame up, showing the gathered professors of Luna Nova the view of a spectacularly majestic castle. Evidently, it wasn’t theirs, it seemed to reside atop of a cliff, inside the cliff, with the waves below clawing their way up with every crash against the formidable wall of rock and earth. Altogether, very new, but very old at the same time, a relic from ancient times, but none could figure out why Holbrooke would direct their attention, and demand their concern, regarding this.

“Croix … Chariot, I’m going to have to ask that the two of you immediately investigate what kind of people have decided to occupy the castle, their intentions, names, the people who are associated with its revival,” Holbrooke informed the two, who jumped at the request. Confusion colored their expressions, but neither dared to question - or accept - immediately, it was Finneran who managed to pose the questions that were burning on everyone’s mind - ever prompt and direct, as she stepped forward.

“Headmistress, are we perhaps being a little too paranoid? Have you come across information that warrants an immediate investigation?”

At this, the longer recount of the situation came through. Apparently, Holbrooke had caught wind that another magical academy was in the works of being established further west. Normally, that was something to be celebrated, as the number of witches had been shortening with every passing generation. However, now that the branches of Yggdrasil had revitalized, their world brimming once more with great amounts of pure, undiluted, magic, the possibility of someone trying to harness or manipulate an entire generation of young witches for whatever nefarious plan was something she just couldn’t ignore. Seeing that many of the older witches had turned their gaze upon Croix at this point, Holbrooke continued forward with an easy going smile. “Not to mention, if they’re serious about opening up shop so close to us, we might have to start figuring out how to beat down our competition while they’re still trying to get started!” Immediately, cries of surprise, chuckles, and choked breaths were heard all around, Holbrooke would weather the outrage though - at least little Croix wouldn’t have to deal with the eyes of those who would blatantly call her a traitor.

Later, when only Croix and Chariot remained in the chamber, Holbrooke began to explain further what she wished for them to find out about. Seeing that the two had yet to agree or make noises of complaint, the short woman stopped, tilting her head and asked whatever was wrong with them.

“Headmistress, Croix has just begun to recover,” Chariot began, cutting Croix off. “I’d hate for her to reopen her wounds, or to stop whatever progress she’s managed so far,” the redhead admitted her concern, notably looking away from the lilac haired witches expression, which spoke volumes of her own opinion on the matter of her health. “I’m sure that I, alone, am capable if I am just to return with an account of what I see and hear.”

“I’m recovering, not crippled,” Croix interjected before Holbrooke could seriously consider the request, her voice gentle despite the light frown on her face. She gave the shorter redhead a disapproving glance before turning once more to Holbrooke. “I happened to be reading about this myself when I was confined to bedrest, so I can already outline some of what I’ve found for you by the end of the day if you’d like, headmistress,” Croix began, but then paused before speaking once more. “I assume that you want us to attend the ceremony they have lined up for tonight, right? Not just to break in illegally?”

“Of course! Why would I ever ask that of you?” Holbrooke replied, confusion clear in her tone - missing the quick exchange of eyes that Chariot and Croix shared when the lilac haired witch had to glance down at the red faced witch, who clearly had been thinking along those lines. “I got an invitation myself, but … we both know that these old bones just aren’t as strong, or energetic as they once were. You younglings will rise to the task perfectly,” the old woman smiled warmly. “Despite what concerns I brought up, you two do try and have some fun while you’re out there, got it?”

…

“... Blue hair again? I thought you decided to …” Croix paused, catching herself, and watched carefully for a reaction to her careless words, but Chariot seemed unconcerned about it, only running a hand through the blue locks she had supposedly sworn off, catching and straightening some knots that had formed when a rather harsh gust of wind blew by. When the two witches looked gazes, Croix had to work to prevent her jaw from dropping, because gone were the red rubies she was so used to seeing, and in their place, a blue pink nebula like color bled clear.

“Mm, I thought that I wouldn’t need to do this again too, but …” Chariot glanced to the side, with a smile, “it just seemed like a really bad idea to go walking through the gates and have everyone recognize me immediately,” the witch explained, and did her best to squint in the dark cover of the night at Croix. “Maybe we should get going … it’s so dark out that I can’t hardly see you, Croix.” Chariot suggested as she stepped closer, hand lightly resting upon the lone broom they decided to use for their entire trip. At the prompt though, Croix became aware of why the redhead initially suggested that she be the designated driver/flyer.

“Are you going to be alright with those contacts?” The lilac haired witch asked, unwilling to move an inch until she received a clear answer. Chariot didn’t need glasses, those had been part of her disguise, and sometimes just something she wore out of habit from having to do so for the last decade. For someone with perfect eyesight to suddenly slip on a pair of contact lenses … well Croix knew next to nothing about the technical details, she seldom used any to begin with and had no need to after a laser eye surgery. “Have you tried wearing them before?”

“... Well, I’ve had them on since we left … after agreeing on the meeting time and all.” Chariot confessed, impatiently tapping on the broom that had yet to lower for her. “I promise I won’t go anywhere without you,” she tried to compromise.

“I’ll hold you onto that,” Croix promised, “so don’t complain when we’re holding hands trying to find the restroom.” With a shared laugh, Croix finally lowered the broom, allowing the both of them to hop on, and fly through the Leyline Terminal.

…

Taking light sips from the champagne flute she had swiped earlier, Croix took a moment to curl a disobedient strand of hair back behind her ear, but as she did so, a certain redhead entered her periphery. Parting her lips from the glass, she turned to the younger witch, trying to discern the problem. Lowering the flute onto a free space on the serving tables, Croix then turned entirely, giving Chariot her full attention, but oddly enough the redhead just seemed even more upset.

“Chariot?” Croix called out, her right hand coming up to cup the redhead’s cheek. “Are you getting dizzy? Cross eyed?” the lilac haired witch questioned, thumb drawing slow circles on smooth pale cheeks, as if trying to soothe whatever pained, and silenced, the usually animated redhead. How could she have just realized that the redhead had seemed more subdued than usual? Was she afraid? Tired? As Croix did her best to silently diagnose her, she was surprised when a bright flush made itself known, right under her thumb. Stilling herself, Croix openly stared. A blush?

“I’m alright,” Chariot managed to croak, and Croix was quick to brush off the usual excuses, the lies that were meant to try and pacify her.

“No, you’re not, do you want to step out?”

“No I’m not … I,” a deep breath, and a hand raised up to rub at her collarbone, Croix knew the truth was coming. “Remember how I said I couldn’t see you, back at Luna Nova?” A nod, “I didn’t get a chance to see what you decided to wear, I’m just … surprised, really surprised … l-like in a good way, you’re just really … beautiful, and I couldn’t help but to … sorry,” the redhead stammered, and Croix would only continue staring at the redhead whose blush only darkened with every second. The lilac haired witch knew that the years had been generous with her - allowing her to grow from the scrappy mess that she was into a lithe woman, but she had hardly done much to enhance what she had to begin with, tonight anyway. To think that the redhead found her … desirable, did strange things to her heart, and it prompted her to drop her arm back to the side, suddenly bashful.

Now that the two were silently blushing at one another, basking in realization of their mutual desires, Chariot decided to continue openly staring once again - as Croix had yet to raise a complaint, or move away. The older witch had decided to gel her hair more than she usually did, keeping the left side down firmly, almost flat against her scalp, and the remaining piece that usually curled at her chin was straightened. In all, the usual soft, inviting fluff of a nest her hair had been was replaced with slickened straight strands - a new, but sharp style for Croix. The most distracting part of it was that it left the witch’s neck bare, and Chariot was helpless to its allure as it made her question, countless times, what it would look like if she simply … pressed her lips there, and sucked.

Desperate to abandon that train of though, Chariot decided to direct her eyes elsewhere, to admire something else that wouldn’t entice such desires, not in public anyway. Following down the older witch’s neck, Chariot’s breath hitched when she realized just how much cleavage Croix actually had on display. The lilac haired woman had gone with a black dress, it was long, and swept the floor every time she so much as turned herself to the side. Rather than having straps, the topmost portion of the dress was simply fur lined, as if substituting for a scarf or shawl, as each end rested just above her breasts, with the whole dress coming together where a black decorative flower was resting at her hip. With a start, realizing that she had just been staring forward at the older woman’s chest, Chariot snapped her head to the side - it was hopeless to try and find a single part of Croix that was tempting, or downright gorgeous.

As Chariot broke the dream like trance they had both been stuck in, Croix felt a pang of sorrow when the redhead so sharply turned her head away. Had she found something that displeased her? Reaching out again to tilt a stubborn chin her way, this time Croix made sure she held shy eyes prisoner before speaking, without a drop of hesitation, denying any chance of misinterpretation, “I wish we were the only two in the room,” she began in a breathy whisper, “I wish there was nothing … no one … who could stop me from spending an eternity with you, anywhere, any time, just to watch you, see you, touch you … burn everything I find … I see into memory,” the lilac haired witch continued in a low, quiet voice, inching forward ever so slowly.

The shyness that had taken hold of their eyes and heart had all but left, what was left was a pool of desire, want and need that burned strong in each of their eyes, but neither flinched or backed down. Having spent what felt like a lifetime being burned by “maybe”s and “not yet” the two were well acquainted with the fire that threatened to melt their very souls. Only difference was that this time, the two sought to finally give into it, to allow the fire to burn as it pleased, as long as the other witch rose to meet the challenge - burned just as strong they did.

However, before another step, a tilt of the head, or parting of lips could pull through, a loud buzz of commotion and opening of doors stole them away from the heavy, seductive, haze they’d built up. Beyond frustrated, Croix turned her head to assess what had ruined their moment, while Chariot kept a hand at her heart, peeking with minimal interest at what was going on behind Croix.

“Witches!” A male voice boomed, and both frowned instantly, recognizing hostility and confrontation that poured from every syllable of the word the man had spat out. Any chance at sneaking away to live through their dreams were absolutely crushed, but the two kept that tragedy locked away until they could spare a moment to think back on it. There were much more potentially explosive problems right in front of them, after all. “We come to oppose this coven, this cult, you threaten to smear onto our lands!” ah, and he was backed by many suits too.

Around them, several witches had instantly pulled their wands, a silent warning, but the leader of the commotion was undeterred.

“Look!” He cried, to his people that stood beside him, to the now frightened individuals and families among the community of witches. “So quick to anger, such power in volatile hands … completely unchecked!” He roared, “They propose to gather followers, to indoctrinate our young, to hand them power, to twist their minds … and what next? To point them where they please?” He shook his head dramatically, “Have we not already lived through the hunts, ladies and gentlemen, are we to sit by and watch history repeat itself? Are we content to kill our young, our children, to sit idly by while-”

Whatever the man had planned to say next would forever be lost to the depths as the lights all burned out, engulfing them in darkness. Wands that had been posed and ready lit up, providing the only comfort of light, minimizing confusion as best as they could while mummers and even a few cries had broken out between the turn of events. Croix already had a plan ready though, as a cunning one-time villain meeting another, she knew how to work a crowd, or more precisely, she knew exactly who to call upon to work a crowd, someone who wished just as dearly as she did that no blood be spilled needlessly. Someone with a heart of pure gold, someone like …

“Chariot?” Croix whispered brokenly as she realized the younger witch was nowhere to be seen. Turning herself frantically, she hoped to catch a spot of fiery red - no, blue! Sadly, there was simply nothing but an endless abyss at every corner, only shapes that moved, blurry outlines of figures that struggled to move within the dark as well. Which was Chariot though? Which was the one that she had lost to the dark, again? Where, where, where? Just as the lilac haired woman was ready to scream though, amidst the rising tension, over the crowing of the delusional morons, atop of anyone to find her precious ray of light … a series of chords - piano chords tore through the thick bloodlust sharply, with a light soprano chirp. Like a bell that chimed pleasantly through a rainy night.

All heads turned towards the source of it, to where the grand piano once was and was taken, absolutely mesmerized, bewitched, by the green butterflies that came to life with every note that was strung by the instrument. The slow lull of chords, of a soprano lullaby, had effortlessly ceased all dispute, held the words of angry individuals hostage, and demanded of its audience nothing but their absolute silence, their admiration, as magic and life continued to be borne of the loving melody. Compelled by an otherworldly urge, many stood and remained captured - the sole exception was the young lilac haired woman herself, for she of all people could recognize the piece that she had written herself, and taught only to one, treasured, person. To think that she remembered, that she had practiced, that the sad love song that it had once been remembered and resented was now a carefully, beautifully, preserved aria brought tears to the witch’s eyes. But the thing about love though, was that it was never intended to be experienced, endured, and yearned for alone … and this love song was no different, the summon for her was sorely clear.

Blinking away the few droplets that remained on her lashes, the lilac haired woman brought forth her wand, but unlike many of her fellow witches, hers did not light up, instead it wordlessly began to shift and twist in her hands, until finally, Croix could lightly rest the silver hallowed violin upon her shoulders, arms held up at the ready, bow not daring to come down until the moment was made clear. Closing her eyes, a deep breath passed in and out, notes that had been unplayed for what seemed like a lifetime swam in her head, and with it memories of nights spent under stars, distance that had been haunted by the touch of ethereal apparitions … the parts that were part of the conception of this unnamed piece she had given away. Yet, to think that it would be returned to her like this, to be given with tentative hands - with shy notes that had called to her - from a heart that she had never truly fell out of love with.

“You really are perfect,” Croix whispered, with lidded eyes, head tilting to cradle the string instrument as the enticing soprano gave way to the close of the beginning. Only a heartbeat after, Croix picked up on the dying chord, bow coming down to meet strings at last, pulling and weaving out notes that were just as quiet, just as shy, as the soprano had been moments before. Was it doubt that held her back, that held the heart that was required to see this piece through? As fingers moved, reading upon a relic within her memories, her striking emeralds moved, following the butterflies that had doubled in number, seemingly reflecting the color of her eyes. Through the sea of people, where the butterflies had taken home upon the shoulders, head and open space above the illuminated goddess, tears threatened to crush her once again when lidded, emotional red wines stared right back.

As both piano and violin began to echo one another, when their eyes had yet to leave the other’s, Croix gave a great smile then, and succumbed to the silent plea that was just so transparent in the redhead’s eyes. After yet another closing, an end to the quiet build up, when Croix drew the bow across the string once again, her own butterflies, much smaller, much less animated, burst forth - drawing gasps and cries from those around her as she too were swarmed with the firefly like magic. She teased at the strings of her violin with a much stiller hand, a more controlled wrist, as Chariot continued to mend together a passage just as powerful, supporting and complementing, but Croix wasn’t done just yet 

…

“Spectra Sviesos” - without a drop in concentration, or a need for speak the incantation, a distorting spell had been cast. For every string that been teased, every note that had been drawn out, an echo of it sprung forth, creating a harmony that further overpowered as Chariot herself began to pick up the speed of things, matching Croix note for note, heartbeat or heartbeat. With no further decrescendos or poetic closings, the two continued on, solely taken by their instrument, obliged to finish the song, an oath, they’d forsworn ages ago. When the butterflies - and Croix’s fireflies - all began to dissolve, scattering sparkling lights down onto their audience amongst the dark, delighted mummers were heard - and the two witches smiled in response.

To know that one of her works would not cause ruin and destruction for once brought peace onto her heart, to further acknowledge that she had built a piece of love, had shed shame to proudly share it with others … that Chariot had waited all this time to do so with her began to truly heal the wounds closest to her heart. For the first time since those years of spiraling hate, she allowed herself to hope, to promise, and dream of later, a happy later with the redhead who had so successfully taken her heart and mind with but a glance. She promised to accept the love, and to reciprocate it with all her being.

As those in the banquet hall cowered, the two witch continued their duet, ignoring the foreign light that had brought itself into the hall, blinding all who dared to gaze upon it. When the harsh light died off, and they dared to open their eyes once more, both nearly missed their cues when it seemed as if the sky itself had fell upon them, into the hall. Left and right, stars, constellations, bright, but so obviously a phantom image flickered and wavered dizzily, all of space and it’s nebulas dusted every corner where despairing black had once been - a brief wonder into who could have done this was left alone as they continued to play through, accompany, this phenomenon. What both had failed to noticed was the pair of spirits that separated, each standing behind them, protectively, respectfully almost.

Reaching just before the end, the grand climax, Chariot’s magic absolutely flooded the entire hall, her scent thick in the air, ready to cast something mind blowing to impress, and Croix was ready, having decided to match the redhead - if not in creativity, than at least in spirit. What neither noticed though, was that the anticipated jade color of Yggdrasil had not graced their efforts - instead auras of orange and aqua outlined them instead.

Hitting the peak, a maelstrom of magic gathered just above all their heads, towering higher and higher, it’s shape vastly similar to that of an actual maelstrom, or whirlpool, until it all froze, excess magic pouring down harmlessly onto the masses below, leaving only the skeleton, the frame that shaped a maelstrom spiralling upwards. It looked much like that of a tree, frozen, broken, but devastatingly, chillingly, beautiful at it’s core. Just when the masses thought that it was done, they watched on as butterflies swarmed onto the bare, frozen tree, each fluttering wing slowly joining together until the tree of butterflies dipped in color - from jade to oranges and aqua. Alone, it was more than enough to cast light onto the entire hall again, but unlike the foreign entities behind each of them, it did not blind, it simply lent itself to share it’s glow with all that had gathered.

As Chariot ended the piece, at last, with a final chirp of a soprano, silence had not reigned. Where the tree, the butterflies were, echoes of their song - Croix’s song - continued to faintly carry on, audible to anyone who took a moment to find it, ongoing as the pulsating glow of the butterflies indicated. While many fellow witches stood awe-struck, and many who had initially come forward to protest fell silent, claims and views of dangerous magic dispelled without contest, the two witches were quick to abandon their instruments, scrambling and stumbling to get to their feet, to tuck away their wand.

Sensing their urgent, inevitable reunion, seas of black robes parted quickly, allowing the two to quickly make their way into each other’s arms. Chariot, having shed the blue hair, contacts, and her modest white dress solely for the sake of her performance, and very public - although significantly private - confession to Croix, leapt into open arms, pulling Croix in by the shoulders. At once, the italian witch’s hands found their way into fierce red hair, the other pulling the shorter witch as close as humanly possible by the waist, Croix bent her head down to press herself into the crook of Chariot’s neck - a poor attempt to hide both smile and tears, as the two began to nod and whisper confirmations, and laugh hysterically.

“How did you … when? How long?” Croix sobbed happily.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chariot replied, tearing up, but a proud, loving smile graced her face. “My love for Croix, it gives me more than just magic, love is a stronger kind of magic, I heard that it can give some people happy endings,” a cheeky, tear stained grin.

Without further ado - no more excuses, lingering doubts, or uncertainties existed - they pulled back, only to burn each other with a loving, smouldering glance before pulling each other close once again, this time, lips pressed against one another, softly, but firmly. The two would remain engaged until concerned parties tapped onto their shoulders, but until then the two finally understood what it felt like to soar without the aid of magic, with only the strength of pure love.

While the two basked in their love - at long last - the two spirits rushed past them all, a lingering touch upon both their chosens before they left quietly, unnoticed, unlike their entrance.

…

“I can’t believe they did that for everyone to see,” Amanda commented hovering over the crouching group who had a front row seat to the drama that played out on one of the tablets from Croix’s class.

“I don’t think they anticipated someone recording the event,” Diana replied dryly, knowing that such affairs were often planned to remain as private as possible.

Sneering, Amanda shot back quickly, “Yeah, you’re right, who needs a recording of them like that when you can get a free show of it everyday when you catch them walk past each other in the hall?” Before anymore could be said, Akko stood up suddenly, pulled her head back and gave the American witch one hell of a headbutt.

“Don’t talk about them like that, Amanda! You’re just jealous that they’re in love, and that they …,” she sniffed, getting emotional, “managed to tell each other in such a romantic way, too. How is a girl not supposed to fall in love with that!” She asked, pointing at the screen, where again a pan from Chariot on the piano and Croix to the other side of the room, violin tucked onto her shoulder were staring at each with expressive longing clear on their face.

“Tch … they probably practiced …” Amanda continued, hands cupping her nose where it had taken the most damage.

“No way!” Akko jumped once again, though Diana’s hand on her arm prevented her from headbutting anyone else this time. “I asked Professor Chariot myself,” she declared proudly, “Professor Croix can play a whole bunch of instruments, she’s the one who taught Professor Chariot anyway! The song they're playing? It was Professor Croix who wrote it … well, she wrote it and gave it to her, but they never played it together until now - ‘cause apparently Professor Chariot was … how did she say it again?” Akko turned to Diana.

“... It was simply beyond Professor Chariot’s ability at the time to play it as a duet with Professor Croix back then,” Diana continued, quite obviously censoring what Akko would have otherwise tried to say.

“Yeah! So, Chariot finally managed to play it perfectly, and to share the song back with Professor Croix,” Akko sighed before squealing, “so romantic! Chariot is definitely the best, in magic and being super romantic, so cool~”

“I’m more interested in the freaky light show,” Sucy dryly commented, pausing the video, “looks like an explosion - like when Akko fails her potion brewing - but why was it hiding spirits … Lotte?”

“Eh? I don’t … spirits are different from faeries!”

“Who cares? Maybe they thought that it was super romantic too and had to support them, too!”

“Akko, they’re dead. The dead probably have more important business than quietly shipping our teachers together.”

…

“Where do you want me to begin?” Finneran growled menacing down at the two witches who had blown up the internet once again overnight. “Complete overuse of magic? The frivolous display? This … affection between the two of you, that you just had to make public? Or perhaps how you still think flying was made so that you could skip walking up the steps like a proper person?”

Sadly, she had already lost them when she mentioned their newfound relationship. Glazed eyes, schoolgirl-like fidgeting, bashful blush … Finneran only sighed.

Holbrooke chuckled from her seat, “Well … I suppose I did tell them to have fun, Anne,” she confessed, “and they certainly followed that instruction beautifully,” she laughed ignoring Finneran’s louder sigh. “Little Croix’s report before they set off already provided more than enough information to satisfy me - and some other concerned parties who were curious and interested. And after what had happened, Ziva - the headmistress - was certainly much more forthcoming with answers when I sent the apology letter on their behalf.”

That managed to catch their attention.

“Does that mean they’ve identified the spirits?” Chariot asked, “I tried asking Woodward about it, but …” she grimace.

“Apparently our descriptions of ‘orange, blue, wispy, and really bright’ don’t exactly make much sense,” Croix finished for her, shifting her weight so that she could cross her arms, and lean on one leg for comfortably.

“Have you ever heard of Utrennyaya and Vechernyaya?” Holbrooke asked them, voice betraying that she herself had little clue about it herself. Croix was quick to shake her head, a language she didn’t understand, spirits she had no interest in - the situation was out of her area of expertise despite her deep knowledge in most generics of magic, and then some. However, Chariot seemed to test the words on her tongue, head tilting before she provided an answer for the witches present.

“Morning Star … and Evening Star?” she ventured, a nod towards Finneran who nodded as well, both at least aware of the language it came from. “If it’s what I think it is I think I’ve come across the names before … when I was interested in learning of the Ursa Minor and all …” the redhead blushed, no doubt ashamed at the balant curiosity she held as a child, although Croix downright swooned.

“Well … that’s certainly more than what I’ve already gathered myself,” Holbrooke admitted, “while their names were given, there wasn’t all that much else important - other than what you’ve shared with me concerning the conflict you both stopped. I suppose as long as nothing horrible happens, we won’t have to worry too much about it!”

“That’s irresponsible! Especially when it’s these two who are … where did they go?”

“Oh my.”

…

In a relatively unused hallway, hidden from light, and particularly hard to navigate through, a certain redhead was pushed against the wall, though not unwillingly. A smile and blush were both present on her face as the warm body of her lover pressed against her, trapping her, a nose dipped forward, teasing her own.

Stifling her giggles for just a moment, she couldn’t help but to ask, “Shouldn’t we have at least left a note … an apology maybe?”

“Really?” An amused voice drawled, “here I am offering to show you some magic, maybe even perform with you … but if you are interested in learning about the weird spirit that told you that you were cute then by all means,” the lilac haired witch teased, making as if she were pulling back when frantic hands all but tore the collar of her shirt, trying to reel her in. What resulted was a passionate, frenzied kiss, both witches lovingly caressing soft, swollen lips with their own - hands softly running through locks and untamed knots, with careful strokes. It was a horrible habit they’d fallen into ever since their return to Luna Nova, much to the chagrin of many - or everyone except for Akko who often rooted for them loudly whenever they passed on by.

… In their defense, they had a decades worth of time to make up for.

[therearemonstersinthedark]

Book 2: Luciferous

Chapter 3: Diamond Eyes

A Guardians of the Galaxy Fanwork

Pairings: Peter Quill / Gamora (one-sided), Peter Quill & Nebula

Genre: Adventure, general

Word Count: 5k

Rating: T to be safe, mild gore in later chapters

Links: Fanfiction.net || Ao3

Summary: Peter finally gets the muzzle off of Rocket, but there are more terrible discoveries to be made.

Author’s Notes: Title is from ‘Diamond Eyes’ by Shinedown

Chapter 3: Diamond Eyes

Prove that he could control Nebula, Gamora and Rocket? Peter had no clue how he was supposed to do that. Mostly because, well, he actually couldn't. Begging, bartering, and shaming them into doing what was necessary was more accurate, but that probably wasn't the kind of thing the Nova Corps had in mind. And since coming to this alternate universe, he was pretty sure Nebula had been the one giving him orders more that the other way around.

Still, Marlowe's suggestion made sense. It was their best chance, as long as he could get the others to play along for now. The trick would be convincing them without making it obvious, since he was to be under supervision during his visits. Plus, even if he had been able to outline his plan plainly, he had no clue how Rocket would take to it, even for the sake of his eventual freedom. The best place Peter could think to start was to finally remove that d'asted muzzle, and prove to Rocket that he was here to help him.

As soon as breakfast was finished and cleared away, Peter made his intentions about removing the muzzle as quickly as possible clear. Marlowe left to request the controller which, it turned out, was in the Nova Corps's possession much to Peter's chagrin. She had dismissed his protest that they wouldn't need it with a hard look that reminded him of the last Nova Prime.

"Until you prove that he's not a danger to the crew he will be treated as such," she had said as she cleared her tray away. "He's classified as one of the most dangerous weapons in the known galaxies, and while I want to believe you and sincerely hope you're right about your friends wanting to leave Thanos, we still don't know if this is somehow a trap set up to sneak his agents inside."

She had vanished with her tray and dishes before Peter could turn the ball of rage in his gut into an articulate protest at having Rocket so casually referred to as a weapon.

Once the rest of the group finished clearing their own trays away, Dey escorted Peter and Cosmo back towards the confinement quarters. Kraglin had declined to join them, heading instead back to the Eclector.

Peter was still stiff, and Cosmo was heavily favoring his left side, so by the time they made it to their destination, Marlowe was already waiting for them in the hallway outside. She had the small black square held up in one hand for him to see, but when Peter reached out for it she pulled it away.

"I'm under strict orders not to give it to you," she explained in lieu of an apology.

"Can I at least have your word you won't use it?" Peter asked. It would do him no favors if Marlowe panicked and used it while Peter was struggling to build some sort of trust with Rocket.

Cosmo will be here, Cosmo added before Marlowe could answer. If anything happens, please allow Cosmo to use powers before resorting to controller.

"Only a moment," Marlowe promised. Despite her harsh tone, Peter thought she looked a little relieved at the thought of not having to use it.

While they'd been talking Dey had opened the door to the Containment Chambers and they entered as a group now. Inside, not much had changed since his visit the night before. Gamora and Nebula were still on their own sides of the room, but this time Gamora was busy doing push ups in the open space next to her bed. Nebula, having apparently exhausted the small number of books they'd been supplied, was on the floor as well. Where Gamora was busy exercising, Nebula lay on her back in the space next to her own bed with her feet propped up against the wall, counting tiles in the ceiling.

At their entrance, Nebula rolled to her feet with an ease and grace that made it clear she had healed from the worst of her injuries. Gamora paused in her push ups long enough to regard the new arrivals, then continued on, her lips moving silently as she kept count.

"Hey guys," Peter offered with a wave. "You look... good."

Nebula, not one for small talk or niceties in the best of circumstances, crossed her arms and cut straight to the point.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nova Prime Saal agreed to let me remove Rocket's muzzle," Peter explained.

At his words, Gamora stopped her workout entirely and rose to her feet as well. She didn't say anything, but Peter could see an expression he knew quite well on her face, and knew that, had they not been joined by the Nova Corpsmen, she would be informing Peter that this was the most idiotic idea she'd ever heard. Nebula seemed to agree with her sister's line of thought, but was obviously much less surprised by Peter's decision. She just offered him a noncommittal twitch of her lips as he made his way to Rocket's door which Dey was in the process of opening.

Rocket was still in the closest thing to a dark corner one could hope to find in a room made mostly out of glass walls. He'd been curled up again with his back to the room -or maybe he just hadn't moved since Peter had seen him last- but at the sound of the door opening he whipped around to face the intruders with alarming speed. There was nothing surprising about Rocket's feeling towards what must be, to him, just his newest captors. What was disconcerting to Peter was to see that Rocket hadn't stood at their entrance, but had remained with his belly to the ground in a sort of half-crouch that made him look more like a wild animal than Peter had ever seen him. The scene wasn't helped by the way his tail and the small amount of hair visible along his neck had puffed out, and a muffled but definite growl was rumbling from deep in his throat.

"Hey Rocket," Peter said, crouching down and holding both hands out to prove he had nothing in them. "Don't worry. I'm just here to take that thing off your face, Okay?"

Rocket's only response was to hunker further back into his corner.

Suddenly Peter was having second thoughts about how this would go. He'd kind of figured that as soon as he explained what he was here for, Rocket would be glad to be rid of the muzzle. Now he wasn't so sure Rocket could even be convinced to hear him out. Marlowe and Dey were being helpful so far, but he knew that everything they saw would be reported back to their superiors. If he couldn't convince Rocket to be at least somewhat civil, it would seriously hurt his chances of getting his friends let out of here any time soon.

"It's not a trick, buddy." Peter lowered his voice a bit. "I just need you to hold still and let me take this-"

Peter had been slowly scooting forward as he spoke, and was almost within reach of the muzzle when he noticed something that froze him in place. So far, he'd only really seen Rocket twice in this universe. Once on Half-world, where the bright lights and deep shadows had caused strange reflections in his friend's eyes, and once on Traxxon III where the atmosphere had tainted everything in the same ruddy glow. He hadn't questioned it at the time, but now, under the cool clear lights up the Nova Corps ships, Rocket's eyes somehow appeared to be stained red, as though the rest of him had been rescued, but his eyes still reflected the harsh lights of the battlefield.

For a second he thought that Rocket might have suffered a similar injury to the one that had caused Peter's own left eye to be flooded with blood, but while only the white's of Peter's eyes were stained, this red was inside of the iris and too uniform to be from any injury. Even more concerning was that the red seemed to have spilled over his pupil as well. It was still markedly darker than his Iris, but the pupil wasn't a pure black. Was Rocket blind? That didn't make any sense. He had been aiming as clearly as ever. The faint scar still fading on Drax's neck was proof enough of that. But even as Peter assured himself of this, he noticed that the eyes staring back at him did look just a little bit unfocused, and the pupils were oddly wide for how bright it was in here.

While Peter contemplated whether or not he was just imagining that unfocused look, the eyes suddenly changed. Changed was all Peter could think to describe it as his brain had no way to account for the way that one moment the eyes staring back at him had been a deep ruby and the next, like the shutter of a camera lens, they were taken over with a blue tint.

Peter gave a startled yelp and fell back on his butt.

"What was that!?" he gasped when he had blinked a few times and the eyes staring back at him remained that strange new shade of brown over-laid with blue.

"They're just his lenses," Nebula's voice supplied from close behind him, muffled just slightly through the thick glass.

"His what?"

"Lenses," Nebula repeated, like she thought he must have misheard the word. "Like your mask. So he can see better in the dark and detect security lines."

Peter turned his head slowly to stare up at Nebula who had moved over to stand next to the wall that split the rooms.

"They're inside his eyes!" he gasped.

"Yes." Nebula scrunched her eyebrows together and tilted her head as she stared down at him.

"Inside," Peter stressed, when she just stared at him like he was the strange one.

"It's more efficient." Nebula shrugged down at him, then, seeming to take pity on him, or maybe just thinking he was actually too dumb to understand what she meant, she reached up with one hand and ran it along the implant under her left eye. At her touch, the seams of the implant lit up with a soft teal glow, and a faint holo-screen formed over her eye.

"A Prototype," she explained, quiet enough that it was probably not intended for Dey and Marlowe to hear. "One of Half-world's earlier attempts at implanted ocular augmentations. They were trying to adapt it to my existing implants. 'Rocket''s are a later model, built into his eyes more directly."

"It's just internalized lighting and a modified lens that can change its crystalline structure to affect how it refracts and absorbs light. It should be a direct translation, so I doubt he had to have any internalized adapters to help process the information."

Peter blinked up at her as he tried to sort through the slew of words. He understood them all separately, but together they made no sense, or at least he really didn't want to make sense of them. Not for the first time, he wondered how deep the changes in his best friend would run.

While they'd been talking, the steady hum of Rocket's growls had begun to fade, but when Peter turned back to study his friend's eyes with this new knowledge, the volume rose again.

"You should wait until-"

"No." Peter cut her off harshly. Then, softer he added. "No, I'm removing that muzzle. Now." The reminder of just how terribly Rocket had been treated in this universe had just reaffirmed his need to get rid of the hold Thanos had over him. The muzzle, then the collar, then whatever damage had been done to his friend's mind.

With slow deliberate movements Peter rolled back into his crouch and reached for the muzzle once more. The growling grew even louder, but Rocket had run out of space to retreat. As his fingers brushed against the smooth metal surface Peter was all too aware of how close he was to the raccoonoid's nails. He'd felt them enough times when being used as a vantage-point for his shorter companion during battles, and had to mend enough tears in his tough leather jackets to learn to respect the damage they could do even when he was being intentionally gentle. Peter really didn't want to know what they could do if Rocket decided to stop being gentle with them.

But Rocket, either having finally understood what Peter was doing, or frozen in indecision, didn't lash out and Peter's fingers made it to the straps of the muzzle undamaged. The eyes staring back at him were stretched so wide Peter could see the ring of white around the edges, and flickered back and forth between the red, blue, and normal brown hues in a nonsensical and dizzying fashion. Peter forced himself to stop looking at those flickering eyes and focus instead on the muzzle, working his fingers slowly down the strap.

Here he discovered another terrible surprise. As his fingers followed the metal strip across Rocket's cheeks, and under his eyes, he lost track of the strap in the mess of longer fur along his jaw. A memory rose of crawling across the battlefield and grasping the straps there only to lose them just like he was now. He had thought he was just too dizzy, his fingers too numb and unresponsive when he had lost those straps in the long fur. There was no similar excuse here, and yet, the straps slipped from his fingers every time, vanishing among the fluff. Hesitantly, Peter scooted just a bit closer and reached around Rocket's head, hoping maybe he could find the strap back there and either find the clasp from the other direction, or try to pull it over his head. But there was no strap.

With a new sinking suspicion Peter brought his trembling fingers back to the straps and carefully traced the edges and felt his stomach dip when he found the edges. At first they felt like they connected to nothing, but a very gentle experimental tug revealed that the muzzle straps were somehow anchored directly to Rocket's skull. At the movement, Rocket's growling grew louder again and a faint but definite trembling was taking over his body with the effort.

Pulling his hands back, Peter took another glance over his shoulder. Nebula was leaning with her shoulder against the wall now, and was staring down at him with an unreadable expression. He had so many questions that none of them came out and he was just left staring up at her in a silent plea for help.

Nebula sucked in one long slow breath before exhaling through her nose and seeming to give up on whatever warning she was trying to communicate.

"You need the controller. It's a code."

"What's the code?" Peter asked, finding his voice.

"I don't know. I never worked with him much, and they probably changed the codes after I defected to be safe." As she spoke, her gaze flickered subtly towards Gamora who was watching but had remained silent so far.

"Gamora?" he asked, leaning so he could see more clearly.

"I know the codes," Gamora admitted, stepping towards the door of her cell where she could be nearest the Nova Corpsmen. It took a moment to explain how the buttons worked and what order to use them in. Gamora's explanation was curt and almost robotic as she spoke to Marlowe through the prison wall, and Marlowe's responses were icy and businesslike at best. Cosmo and Dey watched on in mute interest.

"I think we've got it," Marlowe finally said.

Rocket's growls which had been a steady backdrop to everything had faded back into a nearly inaudible tone while they had been focusing on the remote. His eyes were still huge and wavering slightly like they couldn't quite decide where exactly Peter was, and his limbs were all tense, his nails trying to dig into the tile floor. As Peter reached for the straps once more, sliding a pair of little switches that Gamora had mentioned, the raccoon remained oddly calm. Peter took this as a good sign, maybe he was finally calming down and realizing what they were here to do.

"You're going to get bit." Nebula's warning was low, but it still made Peter, who had been focused intently on Rocket, jump and Rocket flinched in response. Feeling his patience running out for her needling, he gave the muzzle another little tug and was overjoyed to feel it move this time. "He's-"

"He's not going to-SON OF A FLARKING BITCH!" Peter howled. With lightning speed, almost before the muzzle had been slid entirely off his face, Rocket had snapped down on Peter's arm. He hadn't bit and held, thankfully, but, like a furious snake, had struck him at least three times before Peter was able to yank himself away and leap back. Peter stared in horror at Rocket, who was still pressed into the corner like a wild animal, his lips peeled back and Peter's blood flecked across his lips.

"What-?" Peter gaped. There was a weird foamy drool at the corners of Rocket's mouth which dribbled onto the floor below and smeared into his fur as he struggled to somehow work himself even further into the darkness, nails leaving little grooves in the flooring as he scrabbled uselessly backwards. "What's wrong with him?"

"It's the withdrawal," Nebula answered, still leaning casually against the wall that was directly across from him now. "I doubt he even knows where he is or what's going on."

"Withdrawl?" Peter asked, willing his breathing to slow back down.

"Another tool my father uses to control his... favorite people. A potent drug that doesn't have a strong effect on the mind when used, but it's highly addictive. Going through withdrawal is like being lit on fire from the inside out. It eats away your mind and your will so even if you do try to escape, it'll drive you back before you're even aware you've done it."

"And you couldn't tell me this earlier?" Peter snapped. Any trace of humor and patience dropped from her face and Nebula narrowed her eyes dangerously. Peter pressed his lips together and dropped his eyes in an almost immediate apology. She had been trying to warn him, he just hadn't wanted to listen. It probably wouldn't have stopped him if he had known.

"Will he be okay?" Peter asked, trying to move away from the awkward silence.

Some of the tension in Nebula's body relaxed, but he could tell she was still upset with him.

"The withdrawal is a tricky process, more so with this drug than most. For now, it's best to let him be. He can injure himself fighting if you insist on harassing him. In a day or so when he's over the worst of it, if he gets over the worst of it, he'll be more aware of what's going on and need lots of water and food. Right now anything you gave him would be more likely to cause harm than good."

"If he gets over it?" Peter's heart was slowing to a more normal rate.

"It's very hard on the body. Not everyone survives it," Nebula said, her gaze sliding from Peter down to where Rocket was still hissing in the corner. "My father used it as a sort of right of passage when his children transitioned from training to assassin. If you were strong enough to survive it, you graduated and were granted the title 'assassin.' You're friend Rocket isn't considered one of his children, so he never went through the process."

Peter wondered if this meant that Nebula and Gamora had gone through this. Maybe not this universe's Gamora, who had been controlled through other methods, but probably Nebula, and maybe his own Gamora. Now wasn't the time to ask, though, so Peter resolved to hold his questions until after all of this was over and they could have some privacy.

With the reminder of their chaperons, Peter turned to steal a glance at Dey and Marlowe. The pair were looking a bit uncomfortable, the unmistakable tint of unwanted sympathy just visible under their more trained expressions. With a jolt, Peter wondered if Nebula's speech was for more than just his own benefit. It was the most words Peter had heard her say since coming here, and unlike her hissed warnings, she'd said it loud enough for everyone to hear every word clearly, even if she'd only been looking at Peter while she spoke. It was easy to forget, with how awkward she was with her own emotions, that she was still a very skilled assassin, and could be very good at manipulating people if she wanted to.

-x-

After the muzzle had been removed and the assassins had confirmed that the best medicine they could give Rocket right now was peace and quiet, the visitors dispersed. Marlowe left to return the controller, and probably to report on what she had learned, and Cosmo, Peter, and Dey left to stop by the medical bay to tend to his bites. His arm wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. Whether through deliberate thought, or just random chance, Rocket had attacked the wrist that was already covered in a hard cast. The cast had been reduced to splintered threads, a terrifying testament to how powerful those jaws were, but it had buffered the worst of the bites. Another small blessing was that Rocket hadn't had the presence of mind to rip or tear, so the dozen or so places where his teeth had made contact were just perfect round punctures that went straight in and straight out. He'd have some serious bruising, and Dey insisted on giving him a shot of antibiotics after scrubbing his arm with near-boiling water to be safe, but the damage could have been a lot worse.

"Our medical equipment isn't what it used to be on Xandar," Dey said, as he inspected Peter's broken finger with a small scanner, "but it's still one of the best in the known galaxies. Your finger's making good progress, so I'm just going to splint it and give you a soft wrap. It wasn't a big break, and you should be out of the wrap in a few days."

"That's good," Peter breathed as Dey pulled out the supplies to start wrapping his hand. He had just regained use of that hand again, and wasn't looking forward to another bout of letting other people steer his ship and fumbling with other mundane tasks. "Thanks for helping me remove the muzzle by the way."

"You're welcome," Dey said with a quirk to his lips as he worked over Peter's arm with steady hands. "To be honest, we were all hoping you would be able to do it when you woke up." At Peter's surprised look, Dey gave a smile that was comforting as much as it was apologetic. "As far as we could tell, he couldn't eat or drink with that thing on, and regardless of how the trial goes, we couldn't just let him waste away of neglect. We were trying to figure out how to get it removed without risking the crew's safety or his escape when Drax suggested you would want to do it when you were awake. Seeing how it went, I'm glad we did.

"I'm sorry," he continued. "I know it must feel like we're trying to trick you at every corner, but we're just doing our best to figure this all out. The thought of Thanos being able to turn back time is not a pleasant one, and I think it has everyone on edge."

"I know," Peter snorted. "Believe me, I know."

"It's like everything changed when you came on board. For the first time in a long time, we have hope, and at the same time, it feels more hopeless than ever." Dey finished his work on Peter's wrap as he spoke, giving it a final pat to ensure it was all laying flat and released his arm.

Cosmo, who was lounging on a pile of pillows that had been set on the floor for him, raised his head to join in the conversation.

Cosmo understands that this comes as big change, and change is never easy, even more so in large groups such as this, but time is being wasted here. We should be focusing on fixing future, not dredging up mistakes of the past which are already regretted. Why dig up old bones and wear your teeth out chewing on them when there is bigger prey to hunt?

Dey blinked down at the dog, as though sorting through the dogs words for his meaning before answering.

"You should bring that up at the trial," He finally said.

Has there been any news on when that might be?

"Nothing worth sharing." Dey sighed. When Peter and Cosmo both stared back in silence he added. "I'm not lying to you, I swear. Most of the Upper Council wants to have it as soon as possible. Get it over with and decide what to do with your friends before they figure out how to break out or something. Saal, Nova Prime I mean, and a couple of the council members feel like we still don't have enough information to make a proper decision, so I really don't know. If there was any way to verify what you're saying, that might be helpful..."

As Dey trailed to an end he looked up at Peter hopefully.

Peter chewed his lip and fiddled with his new arm wrap. Even if he wasn't so disturbed by the Infinity Stone as of late and was willing to come in contact with it, he didn't think the Guardians were in any condition to be using it. Gamora was still only neutral about him, at best, and Rocket was out of his mind at the moment with no way of telling where he'd land in terms of loyalty once he woke up. With just Drax and maybe Groot he might survive the experience, but he really didn't want to find out the hard way.

As he considered his possibilities a new thought came to him. It started as a just a blip in the darkness, so faint and flickering that it seemed to vanish when he focused on it too hard.

"You said they needed proof of my story...?" Peter ventured, speaking out loud in hopes of coaxing the thought to grow.

"Yes." Dey perked up slightly. "Do you have any?"

Cosmo had also perked up, staring intently as Peter through those bright thoughtful eyes as though he could see the thought forming as well.

"I don't think I can give you proof of wielding the stone just yet. It would be too dangerous, but... What if I could prove the part about my heritage? What if I could prove I'm half-Celestial and that they're not all extinct?"

"How would you do that?" Dey asked. "We know your DNA is different, but with nothing to compare it against..."

"But what if I could give you something to compare it against? What if I could show you the last living Celestial? Would that prove enough of my story for now?" The words were rushing out of him as the plan unfolded before him. He could find Ego and with the help of the Nova Corps retrieve Mantis without having to wait for all this trial nonsense first. It would be dangerous, but if it came to a fight he'd have a much better chance of saving Mantis with the help of the Nova Corps than he and his friends would alone, especially now that they didn't even have a ship. And after seeing Ego use his powers, the Nova Corps wouldn't be able to deny what he was. With that as a sort of proof of his heritage and potential power he was sure they'd be a lot more eager for his help, and he'd have a lot more influence over the release of his teammates.

Plus, in the worst case scenario that the trial somehow went horribly wrong and he and his friends needed to make a fast exit, it would be nice to have retrieved Mantis first.

"That might work," Dey murmured. A nervous look crossed his face, mingling with the excitement, as he seemed to realize what meeting a Celestial might mean.

"How soon can I get a meeting with the Nova Prime?" Peter hopped off the bed with a renewed energy.

Dey glanced at a small screen on his wrist with a thoughtful look.

"I'll talk to Marlowe. She's been working as Saal's assistant now, since she knows the job better than anyone, so she has a better idea than I do of his schedule. I think he'll make time for something like this though. Where can I find you later?"

We will go back and join comrades Drax and Groot in barracks. Cosmo answered for them both. We will leave word if we move before you find us.

End