#I don’t know. I just feel the threat of failure looming over me

[awkwardspontaneity]

Until The Battle Is Won

BOTW Link x GN!Sheikah!Reader

Final part of Memories of You!

Previous

AN: Hey everyone!! This is the final chapter of this story. I wanna thank everyone for sticking around with my lousy update schedule ':). Anyways, I've loved writing this story and I'm kind of sad to see it end but also I love this ending so much- even though it hurts. So grab some water, maybe a snack, some tissues, and strap in. This is long and pretty sad.

TW: gore, reader death, descriptive injuries

Summary:  The final battle is here. Hyrule is in ruins as Ganon tears through every defense they had and now, the final champions must protect their Princess in the race to deliver them to their destinies.

It was dark.

Link was running through the forest, another hand in his as Y/n led the way. Their white hair was a beacon amongst the trees as he surged to keep up with their gazelle-like pace. He was focused on keeping up with the Sheikah warrior when he felt the hand slip from his. Link skidded to a stop, shouting for Y/n over the pouring rain. He knelt in front of Zelda, watching as she dug her fists into the mud beneath her. “How did it come to this? The Divine Beasts. The Guardians. They’ve all turned against us. It was... Calamity Ganon.”

Y/n had made their way back to the pair, carefully falling to their knees beside Link. He felt their hand curl around his, sensing the turmoil in him. It was all falling apart around them. They had worked so hard, faced so many trials, and made so many friends. And it was all for nothing. The fight was stacked against them, so much so that even Link was feeling the knot in his chest. They all felt helpless.

“Mipha, Urbosa, Revali, and Daruk…trapped inside those things...” the princess let out a heart-wrenching sob. “It’s all my fault!”

As Zelda cried into her hands, Y/n reached out to pull them back down, carefully pulling away the strands curled into her fists. When watery green eyes met red, the young Sheikah gave a pained smile. They linked hands with the princess and the knight, giving them both a firm squeeze. “I know it feels like we’ve already lost, like everything we’ve done has been for nothing. But we can’t think like that. We have the power of the master sword and the sealing light of the Goddess. As long as we hold our heads high and give this fight everything we have, Hyrule will survive this.”

“But I can’t use the sealing power!” Zelda pulled her hands away, fisting them in her dress to stop the shaking. Maybe if she weren’t such a failure, Hyrule wouldn’t be in danger. Her friends wouldn’t have to give their lives to face that monster. Why couldn't she do this one thing right! “I’ve tried everything and still I keep failing. Because of me they’ll die fighting the very beasts they were meant to pilot!”

“None of us can save them!” Y/n was looking down at the ground and, even through the rain, they could feel the tears sliding down their cheeks. “We can’t go back from where we are. We don’t have the time or the ability to save them from those beasts. So we must move forward. If we give up now… everything we went through…everything they are going through... it will be for nothing. And Hyrule will fall.”

Zelda surged forward, collapsing in her friend's arms. She clung to both as a sob tore from her throat. None of them could be strong. Not strong enough. Pressing his hand against Zelda’s back, Link reached out and placed a hand on Y/n’s arm. His voice was gruff, the stress and pain of what they were about to do- what they had already done, was too much for any person to bear. “All that we can do is keep fighting for their sake. We have to keep moving or we lose. We can win. We have to.”

He met Y/n’s eyes and they gave him a soft smile. They pressed their hand against his back and the princesses shoulder drawing both pairs of eyes to them. “No matter what happens, our friends will be by our side. Their wills become ours. And when you face down Ganon, you won’t be doing it alone. You’ll have the love and support of all your friends. All of Hyrule. So save your tears until the battle is won.”

Zelda sniffled, bringing a hand up to wipe at her cheek- not that it did much help with how muddy they had gotten from being on the ground. She wanted so badly to give into the crushing weight of everything that had happened. Just this morning she had held hope within her as she climbed mount Lanayru and now… she had lost everyone she loved. Her kingdom had fallen along with her father. All she had left sat here before her. Gazing at her with matching weight on their shoulders. They too felt the chains of destiny closing in around them. But they stood tall. These two bore the weight of the world without complaint and now, they placed their belief in her. The failure of a princess would not fail again. She refused to fail her friends. “Then we have no choice. We have to fight for them… and for each other.”

Y/n smiled at the princess, carefully pulling the trio together so their heads touched. “When this is over we can do as many crazy experiments as you want.”

Laughter bubbled up amongst the trio, smiles breaking through the tough exteriors they had adopted the closer Calamity had gotten. Each of them had suffered at the hands of destiny, and now they would face what could be their final battle.

Y/n choked back a sob as they thought of the sacrifices that had brought them to this point. The sacrifices they would need to make to save Hyrule. All they wanted was for their friends to be able to look over their homes with smiles. For the weights to finally be lifted from their shoulders and allow them to live their lives without the looming threats of their destinies. They knew the knight and the princess could never go forward after all that had happened since Calamity broke through but, if there was something they could do to protect those they had left, Y/n would do whatever it took.

Link watched his friends with a tightness in his chest. They were ready to face Calamity Ganon. He would protect them in the final battle and, when the time came, they would finally be free of the weight of Hyrule. He stood up, reaching a hand to the princess to pull her to her feet. Y/n placed their hand on his cheek, wiping with their thumb as he watched them. They gave a smile and he knew. They had confidence in him. He never viewed himself as a hero, no matter how many times his partner had called him one. But when Y/n looked at him it was like that pressure lifted. Like he really could defeat Ganon. And he would. No matter how long the fight lasted. To finally be able to spend his days doing what he wanted with the person he loved. To be free.

The trio took off again, heading towards the castle. Y/n stuck close this time so they could discuss battle plans with Link. They knew the most Guardians were in the fields near the castle so they would need to find a way past them. They couldn’t release the Guardians from the corruption so they would have to destroy them if they were spotted. The question was if they could destroy that many.

Y/n was starting to wish they had Robbie's anti-Guardian weaponry, even if they weren’t perfected.

------

The answer was no. They could not defeat the Guardians.

They had barely made it halfway through the fields before they were spotted. Once one Guardian had seen them, the rest followed. They were surrounded in seconds and, no matter how many Link and Y/n took down, it seemed like 5 more took their places. They were more than outnumbered. They were losing hope fast.

Y/n shot three bomb arrows into Guardians eyes, barely dodging blasts from two others. As the Guardians collapsed to the ground more followed. Mechanical limbs crushing their brethren to the ground with a deadly screech. They only cared to destroy the champions that stood below them. And it was starting to feel like they would.

Another blast echoed in Y/n’s ears and they felt the burn of the laser against their cheek. Too close! They knocked an arrow when the screech of metal sounded behind them. They barely managed to roll out of the way of a destroyed Guardian collapsing to the ground where they stood. They barely came up from the ground when they were knocked back down again.

“AHHH!”

Y/n could barely hear their scream over the shrieks of metal and the ringing in their ears. Flames crackled around them but the heat was nothing compared to the agony in their shoulder. They had been hit. Their skin still burned like thousands of needles pricking their way across their chest. They could feel nothing and everything at once. Like every nerve in their body was exposed and on fire. They couldn't focus, flames and metal blurring into one. It was over, wasn't it?

“-n… Y/n… Y/N!” Y/n felt the arms around them, a sob tearing through their throat as a hand brushed against the wound. Red eyes finally focused in on teary green orbs. It was only when their vision blurred did they realize tears were falling. The princess was crying too, shouting over the noise as the young Sheikah lay limp in her arms. Her hands slipped on the blood surrounding their shoulder and Y/n shot up with a silent gasp of agony.

“Y/N! You’re okay!”

Y/n stared at the princess in front of them. “Where’s Link?”

Zelda pointed to the center of the battle where the champion fought. Y/n shot to their feet, ignoring the pain that tore through them. They drew back their bowstring. “Whistle so he comes this way princess.”

She whistled as loud as she could and Link spun to the duo. His eyes widened as an arrow streaked past him and he took off. The champion slid behind the pile of fallen Guardians as the bomb arrow exploded. Dust and flames shot into the air creating a cloud over the battlefield.

Y/n ducked under the fallen Guardian with the others, heavy breaths escaping them all. It was only a moment. A single breath of time to plan their next move.

Link was the first to move, lunging forward to inspect his partner. He had seen them fall. Seen the princess holding them in her arms. And he had thought that was it. But here Y/n sat. Injured, but alive. And that was what mattered. That they were alive. He brushed hair away from their face with a shaky smile- honestly more of a grimace. He couldn’t find the words to explain his relief. How much he needed them and that he was happy they were okay, so he stuck with simple. “I love you.”

Y/n smiled back. They always knew what he meant, like they could read every thought in his head. They had felt it too. That moment of fear that they would never see each other again. But they were still here, giving him that goofy grin he loved so much. Despite their pain, Y/n was a rock- solid and unmovable. And they gave him hope. Y/n could smile at him and he could fight until his last breath. “I love you too.”

They sat in each other's arms, taking in the moment they had together. What could be their last moment with each other. Because Y/n had a plan.

“You have to go ahead without me.”

Y/n watched their friend’s faces morph to shock, then anger. Y/n knew they would fight the idea, but they had no choice. Even as their friends protested the idea, the Sheikah held up a hand. “If you and Zelda are to make it to the castle you need a clear path.”

“You can’t take on the Guardians alone!”

“It’s the only choice.”

“You said we fight together.” Y/n met Link’s eyes and they almost broke at the agony in them. They had never seen so much painted across his visage, the boy keeping a stoic face for the sake of his role. But here they were. There weren't enough words to describe the pain they both felt, physically and mentally. They were fighting on the losing side, and now they could lose each other? It was hard to see a point in the fight with so little left.

“Leaving you is my last choice… but I need you- both of you- to survive.”

“And what about you!?”

“I’M NOT THE CHOSEN ONE!” Y/n finally allowed the tears to fall. They didn’t matter. What mattered was guiding the chosen pair to Ganon. As long as Link and Zelda survived, they had completed their duty. Their life never mattered. It didn’t hold the same weight. Choking back their sobbing, Y/n tried to smile. They had their happy moments. Made friends. Fell in love. And now they had to fulfill their destiny. No matter how much it hurt. “Right now our destinies have to part ways… and I don’t know how long we’ll be apart. So I need you to keep fighting, even when I’m not beside you. Because together I know you can beat Ganon.”

“We shouldn’t have to leave you.” Tears were swimming in his cerulean eyes. The only thing that kept Link from crying was the promise he made. He wouldn’t cry until the battle was over. “I can’t lose you. You are my life… and I can’t live without you.”

“You can.” Y/n reached out, caressing his face in their hands. “You will… because I love you. I love you in this life, and the next, and every one that follows. I will stand by you until there isn’t a reason to fight and even then, I’ll stay with you. I. Love. You.”

Link surged forwards, pressing his lips against theirs. It was desperate. He needed to convey everything he felt in the few moments left. That they would stand together no matter what time they were in. They could be ripped apart or thrown through time, or even lose all their memories and they would still share this bond. As long as destiny brought them together, they would connect like perfect halves. They completed each other.

Link was the first to pull away, hands running through Y/n’s hair and over their face. It was like he was trying to memorize every detail about them. Like if he focused he could commit Y/n to memory. He needed to be able to find them again, even if it was only within his own thoughts.

“You need to go.” Y/n broke the trance, whispering the words neither of them wanted to hear.

They had to part ways.

Link pressed a final kiss to Y/n’s forehead before he stood up. Zelda lunged forward to hug the Sheikah, sobs escaping her. She squeezed so tightly Y/n had to bite their tongue to keep the whimper at bay as pain shot through their injuries. They would bare the pain for this moment with their friend. Pulling Zelda close to their form, Y/n whispered encouragement and thanks for their time together.

When Zelda pulled away, she wiped her tears before giving a grin. She may not hold the same belief in herself that the others did, but she would do what she could. She would hold onto the strength of her friends and use it as her weapon. Everyone had protected her for a reason. She would show them it was not in vain.

With their final goodbyes Link and Zelda took off, weaving through the corpses of Guardians. Y/n waited until they had reached the open fields before stepping out from their hiding spot and whistling. Mechanics whirred to life around them as Guardians rose to defense. Y/n drew back their arrows, white hot pain flaring as their shoulder stretched. This would be their final stand. They would give it their all, here and now, so their friends could go on.

The next few moments were a blur of exploding arrows, machines being crushed, and the blasts of lasers. Y/n couldn't keep track of how many times they had pulled back the string of their bow, loosing arrow after arrow in order to keep the masses of mechanical beasts focused on their being. They reached for their quiver once more, red eyes focused on the glowing eyes of the Guardians targeting them, only to come up empty. There were no arrows left.

There was no more hiding. All the Sheikah had left were the dual blades strapped to their side and the hope their speed would be fast enough to survive.

Y/n pulled out their blades, taking off towards the closest Guardian. They jumped up the front, thrusting their blade into its eye before flipping onto the next. The process of picking off Guardians continued as the Champion flipped and twisted their way through the masses of mechanical monsters.

Flipping off the top of a Guardian, the Sheikah noticed Guardians getting away from them. They had noticed the others! Y/n ran towards where their friends were and, in their panic, missed the giant arm heading their way.

CRUNCH

With a strangled cry, the Sheikah champion hit the ground. They tried to stand, curling in on themselves as they hit the ground again with a sob. There were too many. Y/n was exhausted. Everything hurt. So. Much.

Letting out a cough, Y/n felt a warm liquid trickle down their face. They could hear the Guardian closing in on them. The rest seemed to have lost interest when the champion fell, allowing this one to make sure it was for the last time. Propping themselves up, Y/n could see the red target on their chest. Mustering all the strength left in their body, they launched their sword at the Guardian. It struck the eye and, twitching in its failure, the beast fell. Unfortunately, this drew the rest of the Guardians back to the young Sheikah on the ground. Y/n fell back to the ground.

Thump.

Guardians picked their way over mounds of mechanical parts.

Thump.

Y/n closed their eyes.

Thump.

At least it didn’t hurt anymore.

BOOM!

Golden light erupted across the fields of Hyrule, extinguishing the flames and sucking the light from the Guardians deadly eyes.

It was warm.

Y/n smiled. Zelda had done it. She wasn’t a failure. She had unlocked her sealing powers and finally, Ganon would know defeat once more.

Y/n watched the clouds clear from the sky, stars beginning to light up the night. They supposed Ganon had pulled back from the golden aura. Maybe one day they could lay under the stars with Link. Swallowing the metallic taste of their blood the fallen warrior reached a hand up. They basked in the light of the stars twinkling above. It was like they were waving the champion up to their sides. As Y/n’s light faded, the stars grew brighter, blurring together into one light.

And with a soft breath, the Sheikah Champion allowed themselves to rest at last.

------

100 years later Link stood there watching over the fields of Hyrule. Calamity Ganon had finally been defeated. Zelda was safe as was Hyrule. The duo had made their way down from the wreckage of the castle, ready to begin their new adventure. They were free of their destiny, but the memories would follow with them forever. The Hylian Champion felt a tug and he spun back to face the castle. There above floated the spirits of his fellow Champions. Finally free from the corruption of Ganon and his malice beasts. But what stole the breath from his lungs was the spirit of the one he loved- Y/n- floating there with a grin on their face. Noticing him watching, they sent him a goofy wave, knocking their spectral arm against Revali. Link let out a snort. They never changed. Their lights began to dim as the Champions began to walk away leaving him to watch their final goodbyes. He smiled softly as he saw Y/n mouth ‘I love you’, a hand pressing against their heart, something he was quick to respond to. With one last wave, the Sheikah Champion faded away. And as Link watched the spirits of his friends- his love- fade into light, he let a tear fall quickly followed by more.

The battle was won.

[merakiui]

Frostbite

yandere!childe x (gender neutral) reader art credit - GNSN_FA on twt cw: yandere, blood, minor gore (lacerations), unhealthy behaviors/relationship, mentions of death/hypothermia, fighting

It’s borderline animalistic, the way you cling to warmth and life like a starved, neglected hound. Your fingers stiffen in a vain attempt to flex—to successfully grasp your sword like a true warrior. The furs that were once draped over your body are ragged, torn to shreds from a dangerous battle between the elements and him. There’s no mistaking the excitement that lights his every nerve like bulbs hanging from a Christmas tree, coated in the maddening swell of potent bloodlust. If surrender was an option, you would have done it long ago.

Even then, you’re certain he wouldn’t give you such a benevolent chance no matter how hard you were to beg and plead.

Your breath materializes like a phantom in front of your face, a cruel reminder that you’re still breathing in a battered body. Your fingernails are chipped, blood running down the tips from an icy struggle, but you refuse to succumb to the cold. Instead, you allow yourself to be swept up in his electrified stare. 

“What’s the matter, comrade?” There’s a wry smile pulling his chapped lips apart, showcasing flawless teeth aligned in a perfect face. Despite the brutal wear of this current fight, he’s still handsome. And that makes you sick. “I thought you said you’ve gotten stronger. If I wanted a real battle, I would’ve challenged one of my subordinates and that’s nowhere near as fun as this!”

Keeled over in the snow, your lungs burning with each rattled inhale, you struggle to meet his eyes. The deathly chill of the Snezhnayan climate claws at your exhausted form like the porcelain fingers of a skeleton. You might as well surrender to the freezing temperatures. After all, the frostbite is far kinder than the fighting machine looming over you, the toe of his boot nudging your trembling self. 

“I... I am strong,” you manage to say before the dangerous wind pierces your throat like a dagger. Like the icicle Childe’s wielding, a happily convenient reaction between Hydro and Cryo elements. You cough and crimson paints the snow. “Strong. I’m strong.”

“Then get up.” There isn’t any warmth in his tone. Cold like ice and devoid of his former playfulness. Under all of that nonchalance, a fierce, chiseled warrior lies in comfortable wait. When his eyes trace your hunched form and he spots the blood that dribbles past your lips, practically freezing as soon as it makes contact with the frigid air, those dull hues widen. Surely he’s hit a weak spot, a vital organ or something close to a fatal blow. He wonders for a brief moment if you’re afraid of death. “You’ll freeze if you don’t move.”

A flash catches your attention and then there is the flow of suffocating water. Sharpened blades of ice surround you on all sides, nearly scraping your arms, so you force yourself onto unsteady legs. Internally, you’re searching for a way out���for a way to give up before you bite off more than you can chew. This sparring match wasn’t your request, but you had been a fool to accept, having been so certain of your strength and wit. But you aren’t accustomed to Snezhnaya, whereas Childe has spent years of his life here: training, learning, and fighting until he was worthy of the Tsaritsa’s praise. 

With sloppy movements, you cut through the ice as if it’s butter, eternally grateful for the sharpness of your trusty sword. You can’t tell when this fight will end, but you hope an opening with present itself. As soon as it does, you’re running as far as your frozen legs will take you. Like a feral beast who fights desperately against the unfair hands of the Grim Reaper, you stumble forwards, slashing blindly at your target. He’s thoroughly amused with your struggle, having seen this sort of desperation many times before on the battlefield.

It’s a depressing thing, knowing you’ll be destined for failure and yet you still push onwards. As if that will turn the tide of this battle in your favor. Childe almost admires your persistence, but it isn’t all that special. He’s seen it all before but not quite in the way you portray it. Your despair is far more delectable than that of any low-ranking Fatui soldier. Childe could bask in this for eternity and he’d never grow bored. To have you by his side as his punching bag—it excites him just a little too much. 

Naturally, the more he spars with you, the more he’ll grow accustomed to your attack and defense patterns. A strategy is only worthwhile if it rakes in victory. No matter the cost. No matter how many fall and grovel, begging for their pitiful lives. In a way, his moral compass is rather skewed. He supposes that makes him a bad person, but he’s never been one for the hero role. 

Childe taps your shoulder and you whirl, slicing upwards with your sword. The blade cuts the air, not the torso of the man who jumps back with such deadly precision. The expression he’s wearing haunts you: a wicked smile, pupils blown wide with the thrill of life and death, and a blooming bruise from where you managed to hit him in your earlier scuffle. In any form, he looks good, be it blue and purple, red and pale, or even frozen stiff by the very ice that reacts to his Hydro abilities. You can’t stand your weak heart, as you’re well aware of the face he’ll bear tomorrow. Friendly and disarming, a total opposite to the grinning madman twirling water-turned-ice blades like they’re circus batons. 

Like always, you’ll return his kindness because you’re a fool. Because you like the soft, wholesome Childe that cares lovingly for his family—the side he’s displayed in rare instances that glimmer beyond the gilded portrait of a battle-hardened soldier. 

You fall hard on your back, landing in the thick snow with a wheeze. There is no warmth on the battlefield. Only pain, suffering, and the certainty of death. You push yourself to get up, but your muscles won’t move, too heavy and sore. You know you’re strong—you’ve faced many opponents before and you’ve lived to boast of your successes. You can beat Childe. You have to if you intend to avoid fights with him in the future. 

“Well, this is upsetting.” He’s frowning now, idly tapping the crystalized water while he circles you like a sharp-toothed predator. “Didn’t expect this to end so quickly.”

Liar. You already know I can’t beat you, you want to say, but the words escape you. Not yet, anyways.

A sneer splits your dry lips and blood trickles down your chin like a woeful river. You don’t need a mirror to witness the damage. 

“Teucer won’t like this,” you say, staring up at Childe with dead eyes, hoping to prod at his weak spots. If the mention of his brother affects him, Childe doesn’t let it show.

“He doesn’t have to know,” he retorts, brushing aside such a possibility with ease. 

Right. Because you expect me to put myself back together like a toy. Of course, almighty Childe, the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya. 

“Well.” You pause to exhale and pain shoots through your side. Through your bleary gaze, you can see a deep laceration. Blood stains what’s left of your attire, and you move your rigid hands over the wound to prevent anymore blood loss. “Congrats. You won.”

“You’re giving up?” Bewilderment flashes across his face for an instant before it melts away into an emotion you can’t place. Anger? Sadness? Is he unhappy with this win? 

“What does it look like? I can’t possibly fight with these injuries.” 

It hurts to speak and you wish he would just stop. If he could accept the outcome of this battle, this wouldn’t be such a problem. You’d be able to patch and heal yourself up before your condition gets any worse. With the chill seeping into your open cut, harshly kissing slick, wet blood, you doubt you’ll make it inside before passing out. Vaguely, you recall the unfamiliar stages of hypothermia. At worst, if you stay out in this fatal weather, pinned like an entomologist’s butterfly under Childe’s monstrous gaze, you’ll freeze to death. At best, you’ll escape, build a fire, and warm up to the best of your ability. Weighing your options, you’d rather lose a finger or a toe as opposed to your life. 

“You can fight.” His blade is at your throat, the pointed tip niggling into your jugular. It’s more of a threat than a warning, a means to spur you into action. “You’ll never get stronger if you’re always running away, comrade.”

Your life has some value; Childe just can’t see that. In his eyes, a fight should be seen through to the very end, even if it’s marred in death and destruction. Yet here you are, choosing to abandon your pride. That must have some strength in itself, right? You hate his face, his childish nature, and the fact that his everything is making you reconsider. You’re doomed to fail if you continue to push your frostbitten body past its natural limits. 

“I...” The blade slices along your throat, a mere surface wound. You can’t feel the sting or the sticky blood that spills out like flowing tears, having become as numb as a fish-eyed animal near extinction. “Childe—“

You don’t want to hurt him and he knows this. It twists his insides like a knife in flesh, turning and turning until organs pop and leak into soupy conflict. The blade leaves your throat and another harsh wind blows between the two of you, glacial and prickling. He distances himself, tracking your form in case you happen to move. You’ve stopped shivering at this point, lying flat on your back and staring up at the dark sky. Snowflakes cling to your lashes like the hands of death, pulling you closer to an invisible grave. 

“You can fight.” Is that desperation in his voice? You almost laugh at the idea. He’s not a desperate man; he doesn’t need to be when he has it all. “Get up, comrade.”

“I think...I’ll stay here,” you whisper, your heartbeat irregularly slow. You’ve never counted the beats before, but now it makes for a fun distraction. “Good job, Childe. You’ve definitely...”

Gotten stronger.

You possess strength, just not the type Childe wants to experience firsthand. He has no use for a lonely, unseeing corpse. And when your eyelids flutter, closing upon a face that reflects frozen death, he releases a sigh. His blade falls at once, landing in the snow with a thump, and he bends down to gather your fallen frame in his arms. Somehow, whenever he spars with you—whenever he’s within touching distance—he feels alive. As if you’ve breathed meaning into his frostbitten soul, warming the cold beast that lurks and pounces at the sight and smell of fresh bloodshed. 

If he’s learned anything, it’s that there’s always going to be room for improvement. You just need to train more, and he’d be over the moon to fight you until it’s your blade slicing through his skin. In the meantime, though, he’ll have to kiss color and life back into your monochrome world of death and despair. 

As the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya, it’s only fair if he repairs the damages done to his favorite toy. Break, repair, and repeat. A cycle befitting a messy relationship and an even messier slew of choices. Rinse and repeat, like waves licking up a carcass bound to the shore. 

Come morning, you’ll be shiny and new, ready to sit by his side for another leisurely ice-fishing outing. Childe isn’t known as the greatest toy salesman for nothing, and you’re just barely scraping by with each battle scar and bandage—courtesy of such an illustrious, experimental toy salesman. 

[lunar-wandering]

so. its the end of the week. we have not gotten a new trailer or a poster or screenshot.

so, as promised,

angst fic time.

-

He knows something's wrong as soon as he lands, and triumph fills her face instead of fear.

The Lady Bone Demon laughs, and dread fills Wukong's chest with a heavy, sinking feeling.

His connection to his successor, to MK, growing fainter, till it's nothing but a strained thread. He rushes to help, worry filling his every vein with adrenaline, feeling the connection grow weaker, weaker.

He shouldn't have left MK alone.

He keeps an eye on the thread as it twists and pulls.

"Oh, don't you already know? Surely you of all people could sense it."

It snaps.

"You're too late, Sun Wukong."

Wukong doesn't want to look behind him and accept reality. But he knows he has to.

Against his wishes, and his instinct's desire to keep the Lady, the real threat, within his vision, he looks over his shoulder.

It's like being crushed by a mountain all over again.

Some part of him had already knew. Had known the moment he'd felt the connection start to wither, that he was far, far too late.

But the rest of him is entirely unprepared to see the silent, terrified, stone face of his successor.

"Why, don't you look horrified." The Lady Bone Demon's voice hisses in his ear, almost as though she's right over his shoulder, but when he turns back, she's still the same distance away as before. "Fear, I must admit, is a nice expression on you."

Wukong doesn't have the time to grieve, to process the remnant statue of MK that looms directly behind him.

Still though, maybe, maybe if he runs now, he can find MK's friends, and if they don't kick him out immediately for being the failure he has proven himself to be, then maybe together they can find a way to fix-

"You should be made aware, I suppose, that your pitiful successor is not the only one you've failed."

Wukong doesn't even have the chance to ask her what she means before they're standing in front of him, blue, see through-

All the people he knew, entirely unresponsive.

Pigsy, Tang, Sandy. Hunstman, Goliath, Syntax, and a concerningly disheveled Spider Queen.

Princess Iron Fan and Demon Bull King. (He'd warned them, warned them, to get out of town, before he'd left. Hadn't given much reason as to why, only told them that things would be dangerous.

Maybe he should've told them entirely about the danger. Demon Bull King and Princess Iron Fan were stubborn after all, they wouldn't evacuate if not given a good reason.

He should've told them.)

He forces himself to look away, to not stare into their unseeing eyes-

And finds himself looking at the statue MK again.

There's a crack running down the center of MK's chest now.

Upon seeing it- something in Wukong cracks as well.

Eyes glowing red, ignoring how his body protests the movement, he snarls, leaping over the stolen souls, not even bothering with quips or snark as he focuses in on the Lady Bone Demon.

She maintains her cold smile, and simply moves out of the way.

He twists mid air, intending on summoning his cloud-

His cloud doesn't appear.

For a moment, shock makes it's way through the anger.

And then he plummets, and hits the sand below.

He coughs, pulling himself up, cringing at the way the pain of his injuries fluxes.

His eyes burn, and Wukong hisses, resisting the urge to rub them, knowing that it would only make it worse.

Stupid fucking sand.

Fighting through the pain, he forces his eyes open.

Just in time to blearily see the magic circle activate around him.

Gravity increases itself, pressing down on his back, nearly shoving him back down into the sand. He bites his lip, hard, his fangs drawing blood, to keep himself from screaming.

His vision is still blurry, but he can still see the blue as the Lady Bone Demon stands on the edge of the circle in front of him.

"How pathetic." She whispers, but it resonates as though it's been yelled. "Truly I expected you to put up more of a fight. Oh well...I suppose this works out for the better."

Wukong tries to stand up, fighting against the increasing pressure- only for the pain in his leg to flare, forcing him back down onto one knee.

"Hm... there are some hindrances that still remain though.... yes, perhaps this would be the best option." Her voice echoed in his head, ringing like bells. "It certainly would be more fun after all...."

Wukong shuddered as he felt cold chains loop around his wrists and legs. Through his blurry vision, he couldn't actually see them, but he knew. He knew they were there.

"Here is the deal, Sun Wukong." The Lady Bone Demon stepped into the circle, walking to loom in front of him. She held out her hand as though she was going to hold the side of his face, but didn't initiate contact, simply letting the coldness of her presence sink into his skin, frigidly threatening. Despite having fought enemies larger than himself multiple times before- this was the smallest Wukong had ever felt. "You will work for me. You will do my bidding. You shall never attempt to betray me, and in the end, you shall die by my hand. In return....your precious successor will not be reduced to crumbling ashes."

Distantly, Wukong could hear the sound of stone beginning to crack apart. His eyes burned too much for his golden vision to be of any use, but he could sense it. He could sense MK begin to crack and crumble.

There would be no way to fix him if that happened.

And Wukong knew full well, that handing himself over to the Lady Bone Demon willingly would mean horrible things for multiple people. He knew that holding one life over the many was a bad decision to make.

But at this point in his life- his old friends either long gone or already within the Lady Bone Demon's hands...

Well, his successor, who he'd honestly started to view as his son, MK was practically his only thing left to lose.

And he couldn't afford to lose it.

His voice refused to work, not even able to create a whisper. So instead, he lowered his head.

He didn't need to be able to see the Lady Bone Demon's face to know that it held wicked glee.

"Excellent." She hissed, and Wukong felt the invisible chains grow tighter, practically searing themselves to him. A cold wash of power ran through him, pushing the remnants of his own golden glow down, burying it under a freezing ocean.

It hurt. But if it meant there could still be some chance of somebody bringing MK back....

Then it didn't really matter what happened to him.

[drxwsyni]

Anonymous asked: “#11 and #37 with izuku midoriya? i don't mind the reader having either pronouns”

Pairing: izuku midoriya x gn!reader

Prompt: 11. “Sweetheart…what are you doing?”

a/n: i ended up only doing the first prompt since prompt 37 was already taken, but i did go with the general idea of what it meant!

Warnings: captivity, injury

_____

You’re so close.

So goddamn close.

The exit is right in front of you. It’ll just take a few seconds to grab something heavy, and smash the glass of the back door to pieces.

But first, you would have to get rid of the ankle bracelet keeping you tethered to the house. Getting outside was no issue―it was when you stepped across that invisible line that would inevitably have you convulsing with immobilizing electric shocks that posed the real problem. So, here you were seated in the kitchen, a place strictly off limits, trying to pry the mobile shackle from your body.

And it wouldn’t fucking come off.

Despite your efforts, it would seem the thing was impossible to remove without the key. But you didn’t have the key. Izuku did.

All you had was a screwdriver, and it was doing jack-shit for you now. No amount of prying and jabbing at the anklet seemed to have any effect. With each second that ticked by―each second that you weren’t “safe” in bed, each second that you weren’t locked behind the door that said screwdriver once succeeded in freeing you from―it ultimately had your heart beating faster. The dizzying pace clouded your thoughts, your senses that should be on alert.

You didn’t hear him coming.

“Sweetheart...what are you doing?”

His voice, always laced with sickly concern, and always chilling you to the bone. You practically leapt from your spot at the kitchen table where you were once focused on removing the bracelet.

Your mouth felt dry as you attempted a choked out response, posture frigid and deeply on edge. “Izuku...I―”

“Why are you out of your room? And...how did you get that?” His bright green eyes were fixed on the screwdriver still clutched tightly in your trembling hand.

What was once merely a small tool for escape now became your lifeline of a weapon. Your grip on it tightened, gaze flitting around for the best means of escape, body bracing for what was to come.

Izuku raised his hands slightly, a non threatening manner being imposed on you. Carefully, he took a step forward, and you took one back.

“Look at me, honey. It’s okay, just put that down for me, alright?”

Another step. Your lower back collided with the edge of the kitchen counter.

As much as you wanted to remain resilient, the prospect of your unknown future had your nerves buzzing with a rampant anxiety. You shook your head, holding the screwdriver out in front of you. “Please...just let me go, Izuku.” The cry for freedom came out quiet, almost inaudible as you could feel your legs shaking dangerously underneath you.

The smile that adorned his face looked faltering, like he was trying to keep himself calm, and in turn keep you calm. But he couldn’t treat you like another one of his hero missions. You weren’t some everyday civilian, falling victim to a villain. He couldn’t give you that professional reassurance and comfort that he gave others frightened by the impurities of society day after day. Because they would never mean as much to him as you did.

Because if he lost you, he would lose himself.

Izuku was barely holding that controlled exterior together. He knew you could never hurt him―that’s not what he was afraid of. It was you getting yourself hurt. Whether that be by your hands or his own didn’t matter, the threat of the possibility stood either way.

“You know I can’t do that. Out there...I can’t protect you.”

He drew closer as he spoke, encroaching like a looming threat of failure if you remained complacent.

The thought of being locked up after you’d worked so hard to get this far had adrenaline coursing through your veins. Albeit not a lot, given you were still weighed down by fear, but enough to fight back, even just a little.

Nothing you could say would change his mind. You knew that. And so did he.

You lunged at the hero, screwdriver in hand. You would’ve run in hopes of postponing your defeat, but where to? Surely not back to your room upstairs, or even worse, the basement.

Unfortunately, Izuku trained his whole life to fight people, and meeting combative moves like yours was nothing he hadn’t done before. While you tried to aim for his eyes, he was swift in dodging the attack. In mere milliseconds, he gripped your wrist, spinning you around and pinning it against your back. His other hand pushed you face first over the counter, trapping you underneath him.

The ordeal was over in the blink of an eye, you left to do nothing but struggle fruitlessly in his hold. “Let go of me! Please, Izuku...you―you’re hurting me.”

You maintained your grasp on the screwdriver, a white knuckled grip unfaltering as you remained immobilized. His fingers wrapped tighter around your forearm, pressing it further up your back, painfully so. In a last ditch effort to get away, you tried pushing yourself off the counter with your free hand.

“Why do you always insist on fighting me?! I’m just trying to help you―I love you!”

An icy chill encompassed your being, not at his words, but at the flash of electric green in front of you. He grabbed your wrist and pinned it to the countertop. From this angle you could see the laced power surging through his hand and up his scarred arm, unconsciously activating in the fit of anger, applying more pressure to your feeble frame.

“S-stop it, Izuku! It hurts, get off of me―”

Snap.

…

Knowing Izuku, and his habit to get lost in his thoughts, which subsequently transfers to how those thoughts endlessly spills from his lips―you knew apologies were being repeated by him like a prayer. Only, you couldn’t hear them.

You couldn’t hear anything, really.

Not your sobs, or your wails of pain. How the screwdriver clattered to the tiled flooring, a broken arm unable to support its weight.

Maybe it was for the better. You doubted that you even wanted to hear Izuku’s apologies, when this wasn’t the first time he’d lost control and fractured your bones. 

And it probably wouldn’t be the last.

[demurecas]

Six months. It's been six months.

It's all Dean can think about as he gets up and starts his day. Rubbing the restless sleep from his eyes, trudging through the quiet halls of the bunker, pouring himself a cup of coffee, sitting himself down in front of his laptop and the same pile of books as the day before.

Six months on the same case, the same question with no answer.

How do we get him back?

Jack joins him at the table first, a quiet "good morning" murmured as he opens a notebook where he's been recording his research. Some mornings he's more cheerful, bounding in with enough optimism that it's contagious, but today isn't one of those days. He quietly reviews his notes from yesterday before cracking one of the books on his stack.

Sam and Eileen swing by an hour later with donuts, which is a nice gesture, even if Dean's stomach is too sour to really enjoy the taste of the maple bar he plucks from the box.

At least the kid seems happy, carefully choosing an unnaturally pink donut with colorful sprinkles to munch on while he reads.

They make some small talk, mostly about what today's leads are and who is researching what. At one point Eileen puts a hand on Dean's back and rubs a soft circle over his tense shoulders, but mercifully she doesn't ask him to talk about what he's feeling.

Because what he's feeling is failure. What he's feeling is shame and loneliness and fear.

What he's feeling is a loss of hope.

"Dean?"

When he looks up from his laptop, the donuts and coffee have been cleared and replaced with a bowl of pretzels and bottles of Gatorade.

"Yeah bud?" he says blearily in Jack's direction, rubbing his face to distract from the way he's made himself wince. Bud. Buddy.All the stupid fucking names I called him.

There's no answer and it's only when Dean drops his hand away from his eyes that he sees why.

In Jack's hand is an envelope with Dean scrawled across the front. The handwriting is familiar enough to send Dean's heart racing.

His eyes dart from the envelope up to Jack's face with an unspoken question.

"I was saying I grabbed this tome because I think I have a lead on a combination of sigils that seems promising," Jack smiles timidly as he taps the large book in front of him with his free hand, "And this was tucked into the pages."

This time, Dean's eyes look from the envelope to Sam, trying to suss out if he knows anything about what it contains. His brother shrugs and shakes his head.

So he turns his attention back to Jack, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to take the envelope. "Good find, Jack," he murmurs quietly as he pushes himself from his seat, giving them all a weak smile as he excuses himself from the room.

When he's in his room, the door closed to separate him from his family, Dean tears the envelope open. He pulls out a few delicately folded pieces of lined paper, the careful handwriting a perfect match to his name scrawled across the front.

Dear Dean, 

Just reading the greeting makes him dizzy and he has to sit down, perching himself on the end of his bed and bracing himself for whatever may come next.

Dear Dean,

It's a Sunday night and as I'm writing this, you have just said good night and gone to bed. But before you left the room, you looked at Jack and then you looked at me and you said, "Today was a really good day."

It was a good day. It was the best day.

And for some reason, I just thought I needed to write it down. I don't think you get to live in the good days enough. I don't think you memorialize the times where you get to just enjoy your life. So I thought maybe if I wrote it down, you could look back fondly and remember this good day. Some day. 

Dean's vision is already blurring at the edges but he continues reading.

It was a slow day – or as you called it a "do nothing day". We don't have any cases at the moment and all of the longterm problems seem to be just distant enough that we've collectively decided on a day off.

Over breakfast, Sam informed us that he and Eileen had made plans for the day, though he wouldn't elaborate, no matter how much you prodded him. When you gave up trying to get him to reveal his plan, you turned your attention to Jack and I instead, asking us what we wanted to do.

Of course I defaulted to Jack and, of course, he defaulted to me, but when we finally got him to choose what he wanted, he said simply that he wanted to drive until we saw something new, something he'd never seen before. He's wonderful that way.

I expected you to put up a front or maybe tease him a little the way you do, to prompt him to give a more solid suggestion, but you didn't. You just smiled at him and said that sounded as good as any other plan.

Then Jack looked at me, thrilled, and said "Shotgun?" – the end tilted up like a question, as if he was asking permission to call it.

You laughed and put a hand on my shoulder, saying "he's learning" with something like pride in your voice and I wished there was something I could say. But there wasn't, so I just smiled.

I couldn't tell you both that I didn't mind sitting in the backseat of your car when he's riding in the passenger seat. I couldn't say that when I watch the back of your heads turned toward each other as the two of you speak over the radio, it helps me remember that there was a time you two existed together without me before. Reminds me that you two will be together without me when I go.

We drove down a long highway with no particular destination in sight, enjoying each other's company and the pleasant weather. I still don't know if you had a plan of where you were taking us or if you were really just waiting until something caught Jack's eye.

After a couple hours or so, something did, though I think you were starting to pull over before he even saw it.

"'Pick Ur Own Strawberries'," he read the words off the hand-painted sign, looking to you then back over the seat at me, "We should do that!"

I agreed that it sounded fun and your answer was slowing to a stop just in front of the roadside stand, a small smile on your face even as you made some grumbling comment about Sam and his penchant for fresh fruit.

We spoke to the woman at the stand and she gave us each small baskets, though you handed yours off to Jack so that he had two. Then Jack led us through the strawberry patch, stopping every couple of feet to bend down and pick the strawberries that he liked. I would follow just behind, pointing out ones he missed or filling my own small basket with the berries he purposely left on the vine for me.

You acted with your usual bravado, too cool or too masculine to do something you deemed childish or soft, but at one point I could see that you realized you were missing out on some part of the experience, so I handed you my basket and we switched places without saying a word.

It was so easy, so nice to be together like that. No threat of horror hanging over head, just you and me and Jack.

At one point I looked over and you two were studying a perfectly formed strawberry. You had it held between your thumb and your forefinger, the sun casting light over your heads so that you both looked golden. You said something that made Jack laugh and then you looked up at me in all your glorious triumph, your smile brilliant, and I wanted to say, "This is what I want. I want you and I want this for us, forever."

But I didn't. I couldn't, for fear of what might happen. If the Empty came to take me – not in front of Jack.

I hope that if it happens – when it happens – Jack isn't there to see it.

When we'd all finished, we brought our baskets up to the stand and paid for our gatherings, the woman handing over a scratch-and-sniff sticker to Jack who enthusiastically displayed it on his sleeve.

He walked in front of us on the way back to the car, his bag of strawberries swaying gently at his side.

You put your hand on my shoulder and looked over at me with this warm, satisfied look on your face and I just thought 'He must know. He has to know that I love him more than I ever thought possible, that every day I love him more than the day before.'

And when the thought crossed my mind that maybe you didn't know, I almost told you. Almost.

I hate the deal I made. I hate the way it looms over me because I see these glimpses of happiness with you and all I want is to say it – even if you told me you didn't feel the same, even if you told me you could never feel the same.

We drove home the way we came, though this time the Impala was filled with the fragrant scent of fruit as we took turns picking berries from the bag and eating them joyfully. You said you'd never knew fruit could taste so good.

When we arrived back at the bunker, we set some aside in the fridge for Sam, then continued gorging ourselves on strawberries as we watched a movie (Jack's turn to pick – he chose Shrek).

What if every day could be like this?  What if there's a life for us outside of cosmic wars and supernatural crusades?

Maybe you'll find this letter before I ever tell you about the deal and we'll find some loophole to fight our way out of it. Maybe you'll never find it at all and this overly long letter will be lost forever.

But if you do find it, whether I've worked up the nerve to tell you in person or not, I think you deserve to know how much I love you, Dean. If I could document every day that made you feel good, every moment that made you happy, just so you could remember that you deserve to feel good and you deserve to feel happy, I would. I'd dedicate my life to making you understand how worthy of love you are.

Maybe I already have.

So I love you, Dean Winchester. For as long as I've known you and until the end of time, I love you.

Yours always,

Cas

The sheets of paper shake in Dean's hand as he reads and rereads the last few lines, only stopping when he realizes he's crying – because if the stupid tears fall on the page, they'll ruin the words Cas has inked there.

He won't ruin another thing of Cas's.

He remembers the day that Cas described, remembers the sun on his face and his fingers in the dirt as he knelt down next to Jack. He remembers the way Cas's blue eyes looked in the rearview mirror, scrunched up from smiling so much.

He remembers how extraordinarily, stupidly happy he was that day. How happy he was with Cas.

And he lets it all out in racking sobs, the letter dropped to the bedspread. He puts his head in his hands and cries the same way he did six months ago, letting the grief and defeat consume him for a long moment.

A few minutes later, when the worst of it has passed, he wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands and his face with his jacket sleeve. When he's sure his hands are dry, he folds the papers back the way he found them, placing them back in the envelope with care. He places the envelope in the drawer of his nightstand, taking one last look at his name so lovingly written across the front before sliding it shut.

As he exits his room, rubbing at his face again to try and clear the evidence of what he's gone through, he expects to return to a room full of pitiful faces, their sympathy oozing out of them. It's almost too much to bear.

Instead, when he crosses the threshold he sees a flurry of activity, Sam scribbling something with one hand and sloppily signing with the other as Eileen nods, pointing to a different piece of the paper excitedly. Jack is hovering over the tome from before, reading off some passage that sounds ancient.

When he hears Dean come in, Jack whirls around to face him, a euphoric joy spilled out over his face. "Dean!" He throws himself against Dean hard, his arms pulling tight against Dean's body. When he pulls away, he nods, "I think we found it."

"What?" Dean's throat is tight with disbelief, his eyes still burnt out from crying.

Jack is practically bouncing on his toes, looking from Dean to Sam and Eileen to the book again. "Where the envelope was, in the book, a new translation of that last spell combined with different sigils," he says excitedly, the most energized he's been in months, "I think we found a way to get Cas back!"

His name spoken aloud for the first time in days, maybe weeks, is enough to jolt Dean into belief. If they weren't sure, if Sam and Eileen weren't absolutely sure, they wouldn't be scrambling the way they are now.

And if Cas had left the envelope in that specific place on purpose, then he must have believed it could have been a solution too.

"Alright," Dean says, clearing his throat and moving back to his spot at the table. "What do we do?"

[nomstellations]

It’s always Electrical [Within Us vorefic]

There are 3 imposters among us.

Pilot wasn’t too sure of what to do with himself after hearing that. Nothing has happened to anyone yet, but...the knowledge made him uneasy. Who could he trust out of the whole crew? Any one of them could be an imposter...but with no evidence, who could really say who’s who? For now all he could do is work as usual, albeit far more cautiously than before. It was hard for him to keep his anxiety hidden from his son, but today he left him in the care of a trusted crewmate as he worked in electrical. At the very least he could trust Tau...and the captain of their ship, Dandy! He’ll have this taken care of in no time, he was always reliable and level headed. Reassured by the thought he worked in much better spirits, humming to himself as he did wiring. The sound of the door opening got his attention, and he turned to look at the ominous silhouette standing before him...

“Ah, Captain! Come to observe me today?

Pilot could recognize that cowboy hat anywhere, even if he couldn’t see him clearly in the lights he knew that was Dandy. Ever since the announcement he’s started coming around and observing crewmembers to ensure their safety, and so far it’s been effective at preventing attacks. He admired his dedication to keeping them all safe, and he felt comfortable knowing he was there. Remembering the fact that he had his helmet off, he flushed a bit in embarrassment. “Uh, sorry about having my helmet off. I know we’re supposed to keep em on, but I was having a hard time with these wires...I figured taking it off would help.” He chuckled a bit nervously as Dandy strides into the room, waving a hand dismissively. He was always rather quiet, but Pilot never minded it much. It just made him an excellent listener! "Oh, it's alright then? Okay, I'm gonna go back to wiring...you don't have to do this y'know, but I'm really glad you do. It makes us all feel safer." Dandy doesn't reply, but he's looking around the room somewhat anxiously. It takes Pilot a moment to pick up on what's wrong, and he speaks up again. "Don't worry, my little copilot is safe in Medbay today, didn't want him getting hurt in here. When I'm done here, we can go check on him together! He always liked you, eheheh." Dandy's shoulders slump in relief, and he nods at him. Satisfied with his response, he turns back to his task and gets back to work.

Dandy found himself staring at Pilot, not to ensure that he was working but purely because he was lost in thought. His son was safe, which was a relief...but he wasn't. The threat of the imposters loomed over Pilot's head and he wasn't even aware that he was currently in a room with one. He wasn't going to be harmed under Dandy's watch though, he may be an imposter but he is their captain. He had grown attached to this crew and wanted no harm to come to them, especially when it concerned Pilot...his fondness for him was quite strong. He was here to ensure his safety, but today his methods were about to get a bit more... drastic. He had overheard the other two imposters discussing their plans, they were tired of Dandy's soft nature and wanted to act on their own, with their first target being the oblivious guy who worked in Electrical...that meant Pilot. They thankfully haven’t come after him yet, but he knew he had to act fast...Dandy wasn’t made to fight and he wouldn’t be able to take on the other two once they came here. So what was he going to do to keep him safe? Easy. He was going to eat him before they could. The telltale pop of a helmet being removed got Pilot’s attention, and when he looked back he found that Dandy had removed his helmet as well. He had never seen it off before, and took a moment to admire his features. A good part of his face was obscured by the shadow of his hat, but he could see the stubble on his face and how the bright red of his eyes contrasted his warm tan skin. “Pilot...” His voice was far more clear now, his southern accent had a slight rasp to it and Pilot found himself blushing a bit. Who knew his captain was this handsome? His face seemed troubled, though...

“Er, yes? What’s the matter, captain?”

Dandy approaches him, kneeling down to his level and cupping his cheek. He was so cute...he almost wanted to forgo his plans here, he didn’t want to break his trust and scare him. But the alternative, the possibility of Pilot being hurt or killed...he couldn’t bear it. “I...I’m sorry for this, Pilot.” Pilot blinks in confusion, what was he apologizing for? "Uh...why? Is it the imposter thing? It can't possibly be your fault, you're doing everything you can to keep us safe--" He cuts himself off with a quiet gasp as he notices that Dandy now has a second set of smaller eyes, staring at him. Not only that, but he’s opened his mouth to reveal sharp rows of teeth and a long, black tongue. It grazes his cheek and he flinches back, horrified. “You’re--!!!” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, they both know what he meant. He’s an imposter, the very thing he was supposed to be protecting the crew from.

“It won’t hurt, I promise. I have to do this to keep you safe.” Pilot tries to jerk away, but he finds that Dandy’s got a grip on him and he's a lot stronger than what he thought. He's left helplessly staring into the inky blackness of his mouth as it draws closer. He closes his eyes, expecting to be bitten on those sharp fangs...but he doesn't feel anything but cool wetness on his face. He opens his eyes to darkness, Dandy's insides are very dark and slimy, but for whatever reason he wasn't hurt or in excruciating pain. His tongue slides all around his face, not to taste but to slick him up for the trip. Pilot's still from the shock of it all, but the sound of a swallow pulls him back to reality. He was eating him whole and alive, and with another gulp pulling his head into his throat he begins to wriggle about in an attempt to free himself. Dandy keeps him held still for the most part, his strength is definitely not human as he continues to stubbornly gulp him down. Pilot can do nothing but await his fate as Dandy settles into a rhythm of swallows, he’s steadily drawing him deeper into the dark and slick confines of his body. He can feel himself starting to spill out into a more open space, is this his stomach...? It grows loudly as he starts to fill it, and the deep and consistent gulps from above tell him that this is his new resting place. As soon as he’s entirely inside he starts to struggle and kick around, getting himself covered in black slime. Dandy sighs, despite his nature as a shapeshifter Pilot still made a decent bulge in his stomach. He puts his own helmet back on, gently rubbing at him in an effort to calm down the muffled cries from his stomach. “Please, settle down...you won’t be hurt, I promise you. I’m just keeping you safe in here till-” Voices outside of Electrical get his attention, filling him with panic. He can’t be caught like this, he’s too full to defend himself or explain what’s going on. Grabbing Pilot’s fallen helmet he makes his way to a vent in the corner of the room, quickly squeezing himself inside. Pilot continues his struggling, but settles down as Dandy shushes him and encourages him to listen out. He can just barely hear them over the groans of his captain’s satisfied stomach, but the voices of the other two imposters fill his ears. Their vocal disappointment at their failure to devour Pilot makes him realize that Dandy was being true to his word, and that at the moment his stomach was the safest place for him. The bulge in his stomach settles down, and when they both hear the door to Electrical open and close once more he decides to speak up.

“D-dandy...I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I thought you were going to kill me...” “No, I’m sorry for scaring you. I’ll let you out now that they’re gone, but...” “But? But what??” “I’m, ah, sort of stuck in the vents now. I underestimated how much you fill me...” Pilot sighed, it was just his luck that this would happen. At least he wasn’t going to be harmed, and the quiet burbling and gentle movements from his stomach was honestly very relaxing after that adrenaline rush. Dandy was of course going to free him, but...he hasn’t been this full and content in a long time. He’ll take being stuck as a minor blessing for now.

[starry-sky-stuff]

Last Line Tag

Thanks for the tag @sleepy-night-child

In Want of a Wife:

“I think it would be a mistake to marry anyone to please your mother,” he said. “It would do you an injustice and would be unfair to marry a man you don’t love.”

Cecily shook her head. “You are being naive.”

Laurence raised his eyebrows. “Naive?’

“I will be twenty-five this autumn.”

“Yes, I know how old you are.”

“Most of the women I came out with are married with children already. If I wait any longer I’ll be on the shelf, and then everyone will wonder what is so wrong with me that I couldn’t find a husband.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, at all,” Laurence said indignantly.

“And if you think that the Duke’s a fortune chaser, wait until I’m entering into spinsterhood and men after my wealth will think they’re doing me a favour by deigning to propose,” she said. “And that’s if they even propose and don’t simply try to force me into marriage through scandal.”

“You would marry a man to avoid scandal?”

“I wouldn’t have a choice. If I was compromised my father would sooner drag me down the aisle then allow his family name to be steeped in scandal,” she said. “I don’t have the luxury of choice. And I don’t have the luxury of time. I cannot sit around waiting. If that means marrying a good, respectable man that I may not be passionately in love with, then so be it.”

“You’re an heiress, it’s not as if the threat of poverty looms over you. There’s no need to rush into a respectable marriage just for the sake of it.” 

Cecily scoffed. Typical of a man to assume a woman’s concerns about marriage were trivial. She was an aristocratic lady. Her entire upbringing, her entire education, had been for the purposes of finding a husband. It was a task at which failure was not an option, for failure meant a life of spinsterhood, confined to being little more than her mother’s companion. Gainful employment was not an option for her. Marriage was the only route to freedom.

She could see her life laid out before her if she didn’t marry. Accompanying her mother to lunches, assisting in her charitable endeavours, never having a say in her social engagements or even the decor of her bedroom. Watching Philip marry and have children. Chaperoning her sister, watching as handsome men courted her whilst Cecily faded into the background. 

“I want to be married. I want to have children. I want a house of my own.” 

“You want to escape your mother.”

“Yes, damn it! I can’t live independently without marrying. Is it so bad of me to want a life of my own?” 

“That doesn’t explain why it has to be the Duke.”

Because no one else had asked. Because no one else seemed to want to marry her. She’d been foolhardy and hopelessly naive, spending years pining away for Laurence. Even when he’d gone off to university and forgotten all about her, never replying when she’d written to him. She’d held onto her hopes until that first season, when she’d finally realised how fickle and fanciful Laurence truly was. Just how little her feelings mattered to him. 

And even after that, if she were being honest, she’d still held onto to a sliver of hope.

“Just because he’s your mother’s choice doesn’t mean he has to be yours,” he said. “I don’t care what kind of promises you’ve made to her.”

“No, I know what a promise is worth to you.” 

Tagging: @drippingmoon, @inkovert, @halleiswriting

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter eleven: after you've gone

word count: ~12.6k

rating: m

warnings: canon-typical religious blasphemy, though it's in full-force here with joseph so i wanted it to be noted in the warnings. there are mentions of self-harm, both past and implied presently, and they're not treated very lightly. elliot is having a hard time.

notes: there's a lot of moving parts in this so i apologize in advance if it feels a bit slow, but everything felt really important to include and i wanted to make sure nothing got left out. thank you so much to my beta @starcrier who literally proofed this beast with all of the love in the world.

i won't ramble on too much, but i did want to say that the reception for the last two chapters really made my whole heart just explode and i wanted to thank you all! what an incredible experience it is getting to write these two gigantic idiots. <3

“I saw her. Our mor.”

Helmi cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear, scribbling absently on the side of the file she’d continued nosing through once she’d gotten back to the bunker. Like this, she felt far from Kajsa—farther than she had in the longest time. Maybe since they had welcomed her into the Family.

“Did you?” She stretched back against the truck’s seat, feet kicked up on the dash as she scanned the page, going over her own notes. Starvation, classical condition. On animals and people? In the back seat of the truck, Peaches rumbled her discontent at lack of attention; Helmi reached back and scratched her ears until the rumble turned into what she recognized as a more contented purr.

“Yes. She is doing well. Her color is just as Ase said, you know. Perfectly balanced. Poor John—I can see his suffering.”

Helmi hmm’d, the thoughtfulness matching the patient rumble Peaches had rewarded her affection with.

“Is Deputy Pratt behaving?”

“I should hope so. He has no reason to have any loyalty to the Seeds, outside of fear.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Helmi was sure, in the very marrow of her bones, that Kajsa was smiling.

“And what did you give him, Helmi? To make him loyal?”

She considered. “A more impressive fear.” And then: “Also, I said I wouldn’t kill him.”

“That is just a more impressive fear bundled up pretty, my heart.”

“Mm,” Helmi replied in agreement. Whatever the case, she thought that Pratt had more to gain from fucking the Seeds over than he did by fucking them over—and that’s why Kajsa entrusted this sort of thing to her and didn’t do it herself, after all. If it had been Kajsa here, eyeing Pratt like a piece of lunchmeat, she’d have him drugged to the gills and barely aware of what was going on. Not being of use.

It’s why we make a perfect pair, something inside of her said, joy shared, joy doubled.

“Don’t rest on your laurels.”

Sorrow shared, sorrow halved.

Helmi sighed. “I’m not.”

“Keep putting pressure. I want them squirming, hjärtat.”

“I will.” She paused, sitting up in the truck and glancing out at the remaining members of the Family. Those that hadn’t given themselves a swift, clean death. After Kian’s face was crushed in, Kajsa had gathered them all and said, It’s going to be harder, from here. If you feel you cannot do it, if you think that you do not have the strength to answer our calling, then it is your time. We love you.

It had been the time for many. Morale had been—and still was—low. Ase’s death first, gut-wrenching and tragic, and then Kian’s; worse than the last. Worse, because while he had been grieving, while he had been suffering, he had still been their second-in-command. Meant to be infallible, even more so than Ase. He had been meant to carry them into their next life, after It was appeased. Contented. After It had turned the world to winter.

Now, more than ever, with only a handful of them left to huddle around their fires and sleep in the backs of cars, and kiss and laugh and hug each other in the inky black night, they felt like a ship adrift at sea.

Kajsa’s voice hummed in her ear, plastic and metal vibrating where it lay trapped between her head and shoulder. Helmi’s gaze swept away from the remaining Family members and turned her gaze back to the file. The Seeds were deeply rooted in this place—the tendrils of a tree that might be dead at the trunk but stayed for many decades after, if it wasn’t ripped out at the base.

“Did you hear me, Helmi?”

“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was distracted.”

“I am coming back,” Kajsa reiterated patiently.

“The others will be happy.”

“And what about you? Will you be happy?”

Helmi paused. She closed the file, dropped it back onto the dashboard and cranked the seat back so that she could stretch a little, her eyes tracing the tinny, ancient ceiling of the truck she’d lifted from Eden’s Gate. She exhaled, once, and then held her breath; closed her eyes, felt the ache of it between her ribs.

“I sense before me a lost lamb.”

“Not lost,” Helmi replied, her lungs tight. “Just—thinking.”

“Must I divine the dark cloud over your soul myself?”

She allowed her body to take air back in. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if it will be enough to appease the Father.”

“Do you wonder,” Kajsa hummed, “or do you worry?”

A moment of silence stretched. And then, the rich, melodic timbre of the Hierophant’s voice came through again, idle and pulled snug against her ear, like Kajsa was really right there again to say the words against her skin: “What will you do, if Staci Pratt defects despite your Machiavellian threats of harm so great he should never consider to incur it?”

“I don’t know,” Helmi replied uneasily. “It would depend on if he brought mor and the interloper, or if he just—”

“The answer, hjärtat, is that you do not know, because it has not been revealed to you yet.” Despite the interruption, Kajsa’s voice was pleasant and serene. Ever since Ase’s death, she’d been more tempered—like she was playing a role, filling a void. Helmi almost missed her cruelty. Like it was a creature comfort. “There is no use in wondering, because we will never know before it is our time to. We want for much. Whether or not we are given it remains to be seen. Our Father is a most...”

Her voice trailed off. Helmi tried to think of what words Kajsa might use; stringent, perhaps, ambitious, or even enigmatic—

“Wretched god,” Kajsa finished, a grin in her voice. “It does so love to watch us toil, does It not?”

“Yes,” she answered after a moment, because wretched resonated somewhere in her soul, somewhere in the marrow of her bones, reminding her why this had felt like home ever in the first place. Wretched, to watch them suffer, to give them so little information and let them suffer wreck after wreck.

In front of her, the dark of the forest swelled, breathed, reminded her: failure was not an option. Theirs was not a benevolent, forgiving God, the kind who would forgive sin if one only asked—the Father was wrathful, was vengeful, and would make them suffer their insolence and their ineptitude.

“I should get going. I imagine our mor will not be far behind, thanks to your ingenuity, and I want to be in Hope County to welcome her.”

“I am,” Helmi blurted out after a second of hesitation, “happy, that you’re coming back.”

There was a pause on the other end; and then, a soft breath, where Helmi thought maybe Kajsa was smiling again.

“Ingenting under solen är beständigt, my heart.”

The call clicked. Only empty air and static, then, buzzing faintly in the ear, the words dead in her mouth before she’d had the chance to say them back.

Nothing under the sun is lasting.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot was going to be sick. Nevermind the morning-after-dread of realizing she had caved in on her most basest animal desires—What, the man who’s perhaps lied to you the most tells you he’s never thought you’re crazy, and you let him fuck you? Come on, Elliot,—but listening to Pratt ramble nervously into the phone about how he didn’t realize everyone was gone, nobody stopped to look for him, nobody tried to call, he thought she had left too and she had, where was she? Was she okay?

“I’m fine,” she managed out. Guilt ripped through her sternum, burning hot and shameful. I’m fine, Pratt, don’t worry about me. Got well and truly railed last night, it’s fine. Oh, also, I’m going to have a baby. And I’m married. Don’t worry, you found out about the same time as me, just off a few weeks. “I’m at my mom’s.”

“In Georgia?”

“Yeah.” Elliot swallowed thickly. “Are you okay? You sound like shit.”

Pratt laughed uneasily on the other end of the line. “I’m with, uh—I’m with them.” He paused. “The Seeds. And their—the lawyer lady.”

“That doesn’t tell me if you’re okay,” she reiterated, more firmly.

He laughed again. “I’m on the phone with you, aren’t I?”

Frustrating. They might all be looming around him, waiting to hear what she was going to say. It was a trap, of course. Jacob or Joseph had done enough digging around in her past to find out they’d gone to school together, had gone to school dances, had basically dated—and they knew she’d evacuated the entirety of the Resistance otherwise. They were clearly laying a trap to get her to come back. But for what?

“Hey, um—” Staci cleared his throat. “Ell, there’s—a lot of bad stuff going on. There’s these people, and they’re—they’re just killing people, left and right, gutting them and sticking them up and—Jesus, they fucking split Miss Mabel open like a fish, and I’m—”

Oh, there it was; the sickness, the violent urge to throw up. The Family was supposed to be dead. They had been killing themselves off in pairs after Kian’s death, weren’t they? Elliot blinked rapidly, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart, the way it slammed against her rib cage and demanded penance.

Calloused fingers swept her hair to the side and squeezed at the juncture between her neck and shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. She closed her eyes tight, willing herself to accept it for what it was—John, comforting her, because even now he knew her well enough to see she was spiraling.

I can’t, is what she needed to say. I can’t come back, Staci, I can’t, not me and not my baby, my hands are already covered in blood I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

“—I’m so fucking scared, Ell.” Pratt’s voice wobbled on the other end, hitting straight at the fresh welt of guilt in her chest, ripping and tearing at it.

I can’t—

“I don’t want to be alone—”

I’m sorry I can’t I’m sorry—

“—I’m sorry—”

“I’ll come,” she blurted out, her voice hoarse, the burn behind her eyes and in her nose a threat of oncoming tears. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t bear to hear him like this, when this whole time he was supposed to have been safe. She’d let him down, and while she had a responsibility to herself, the responsibility to the others had always come first.

And, better still, was the tiny, tiny fragment of hope that the dark-haired woman with a mouth like broken glass would be left behind, too. The dog with the man’s face and the strands of her hair glinting between Its bloody teeth would stay here, in Weyfield. It would wait for her, but perhaps there would be some peace there, too.

It waits for you, It waits for us all, It will have you. As It gives, so too does It take.

“Tell them I’m coming back.” Elliot bit the words out through her teeth. “And tell them if I come back and you’re hurt, or dead, or—if there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to fucking kill them. Okay?”

“No need,” came Jacob’s voice over the phone. “You’re on speaker, Deputy Honeysett. We’re well acquainted with your particular brand of mania.”

“Great,” she snapped, feeling a vicious flush spread through her cheeks despite the fact that she didn’t feel bad at all for what she’d said. “You thought I was fucking manic before? I had nothing to lose, then. Imagine how much worse I’ll make your life now—”

John’s hand squeezed again. This time, she shot him a venomous look over her shoulder and shrugged him off. Elliot knotted her fingers in Boomer’s fur and prompted again, “Is that clear?”

The eldest Seed sounded like he was smiling when he said, “Crystal, Deputy.”

“Good.” She paused. “And don’t fucking call me that. I’m not a deputy, anymore.”

“Sure thing, hellcat.”

“Pratt—”

Jacob’s voice came again: “Have a safe trip.”

The phone call beeped once, twice, three times, and then ended. The hard knot of dread in the pit of her stomach did not lessen; she hit the redial button, and it went straight to voicemail. Again, and again, and again, her hands shaking as she thought wait, I didn’t get to say goodbye, I didn’t get to promise I’d be there, I’m coming Pratt, I’m coming please don’t be worried, before she shoved the phone into John’s grip.

“Call him back,” she demanded, “make him pick up the phone—”

“Elliot,” he began, “if he turned the phone off, I can’t—”

“Fuck you!” she snapped, coming to a stand and raking her fingers through her hair. “You fucking knew they had Pratt, didn’t you? You knew that he was still trapped there and he didn’t get out, and you fucking left him there, so that you could pull me back if it didn’t go the way you wanted—”

John stood too, setting the phone on the bedside table and lifting his hands. The gesture was meant to calm and soothe, see my hands? Here they are, no threat here, but all it did was make her angrier, stoke a fire inside of her that had apparently lain dormant since she’d left Hope County.

Elliot smacked his hands down. “Don’t treat me like some fucking animal, John.”

“I’m not,” he defended quickly, dropping his hands all the way back to his sides when Boomer barked twice, sharp and accusatory, hackles lifting. “I didn’t know Pratt was still there. I thought the Resistance had got him out, and I didn’t bother asking.”

“You should have bothered—”

“I’m just as displeased as you are,” John interjected dryly, the dark coloring of his tone implying that he was—but for perhaps a different reason. It struck her that he might, in fact, be so displeased because he was aware of their history, on some level. It did feel a little gratifying to know that he was squirming for such an insignificant reason.

“You fuckhead,” she spit. “You put a fucking baby in me and you still have the insecurity of a middle school boy.”

“We both know,” he replied tartly, “that our baby is not in any way binding you to me, Elliot. And is it so shocking, considering that the thing that I want most in the world is for you to come home, and you fight me at every turn—”

“Hope County isn’t my home anymore—”

“—but Staci Pratt calls you and cries a little into the phone, and you’re jumping at the bit to go back?”

“Fuck. Off,” Elliot bit out between her teeth, face flushing. “Pratt is my friend, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Right,” John agreed, “because you let the person you hate fuck you.”

Her mouth clamped shut, biting and swallowing back a wad of venom she thought might make her sick if she let it out. There was too much of it, the things that she wanted to say—fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, I fucking hate you, you make me sick, if anything is wrong with Pratt I’ll kill your brothers and then I’ll fucking kill you too—but she didn’t say any of it.

Instead, she said, “Get out. I’m getting changed and we’re leaving.”

John sighed, passing a hand over his face for a moment like maybe he regretted what he’d said. “We can’t.”

She felt her voice spike, near incredulous hysteria: “Pardon?”

“Old Father Time of the Job Ineptitude mentioned he had Federal agents showing up out of nowhere,” he snapped. The words had her stomach twisting; her first thought was a tiny spike of happiness at the idea of Cameron Burke, and then it was quickly doused by the sharp reminder that she’d stolen his gun and ran with it. Because he thought she was crazy. Because he was going to put her behind bars.

John continued, “He seemed to be implying it was somehow related to me showing up, and by proxy you, and if we up and leave—”

“It’ll make it look more suspicious,” she finished, feeling a little numb. “Okay, so—what? How long do we have to wait?”

He scratched his cheek, his eyes flickering absently over the duvet on the bed, like he was trying to map it out in his own head. No doubt, he was trying to operate on multiple timelines—the timeline of Not Raising Suspicion, and whatever timeline Joseph had given him.

Some things really did never change.

“After your mother’s Christmas party,” he ventured finally. “It’s not quite Christmas—could look enough like we’re sticking around for enough holiday cheer to be passable before leaving again. Pritchard’s clearly not unfamiliar with your mother’s...”

His voice trailed off. He looked to her as though asking for permission to say something critical; when Elliot remained stonefaced and immovable, he finished, “...temperament.”

“Nice save.”

“Well,” he replied, humble as ever. “Anyway, that probably wouldn’t rouse suspicion. If it is Burke, and your house isn’t getting stormed right now, I have to think he’s here on unofficial business. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just come and bust the door down and grab you?”

Elliot hoped that was the case. She hoped this meant that Burke was just trying to find her, and was not hunting her down at the behest of the government. If there was one thing that Joseph had been right about amidst all his doomsday-saying and whatnot, it was that according to the news, there was a big chance the government had bigger things on their hands. Bigger concerns than a tiny town in Montana and its cult inhabitants.

“Get out,” she said again. “So I can change.”

“You—” John sucked in a little breath, stopping himself from what was inevitably going to be stirring another argument; he lifted his hands again, this time in surrender. “Alright, Ell. I said you’d get anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

“Chop-chop.”

“I’m going. Mind if I pull some clothes on before I walk out into the house owned by your mother, where she has almost assuredly been sipping her vodka martini since four AM?”

She felt her eyes narrow. “Fine.”

Turning, she crossed the bedroom into the master bath and shut the door behind her, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes until fine webbing scattered across the dark of her eyelids. This was the last thing she needed—and it felt, surely, traitorous and awful to think it, to think, this is the last thing I need, Pratt needing rescuing, when the only reason she’d felt comfortable leaving Hope County in the first place was because she thought the only people who were left were cultists.

Elliot dropped her hands from her eyes, blinking a few times until her vision cleared. In the mirror—much as it had been since coming back from Hope County—stood a girl that she thought looked like a stranger. Blushed cheeks and kiss-reddened lips, her neck littered with love marks, the healthy glow blooming up from beneath the WRATH scar on her chest, exposed by her loosely cinched robe.

That’s not me, she thought, pulling absently on a strand of red hair and swallowing thickly. I’m not that girl.

Her face was softer than before, more lively color rising up around her eyes and cheeks and mouth. More of her freckles had come out. There was a tiny, tiny—almost imperceptible—slope to her tummy, now, too.

Not me, came the thought again, more distressed this time, her brows pulling together at the center of her forehead. That’s not me. I’m not that girl. Who are you, pretty girl? Not me.

The woman and her dark hair—dark dark dark, like an oil slick, looming in the corner of her mind. Her mouth red as pomegranate and stretched like broken glass.

I hear stress is bad for the baby.

A knock came at the door. Elliot blinked, feeling unwell and unsure of how long she’d been standing there, her hand having dropped to cup the slope of her stomach experimentally. Women did that, right? When they were pregnant? Did it make them feel closer to the baby? Did it make them feel more protected?

Did she feel safer?

“Ell,” John said, nudging the door open, “your mother is...”

Pulling away from the door, she cinched the robe tight and busied herself at the sink, turning the water on. As he stepped into the bathroom, she could see John was now fully-dressed, freshly-showered. She’d been standing in front of the mirror trying to recognize the person staring back at her long enough for him to do that, it seemed.

“That was a quick shower,” she said briskly, splashing her face and rubbing absently at her cheek. She could feel John’s eyes on her through the mirror, even though she refused to meet them.

“I’ve always preferred it that way,” he replied casually. And then: “Get distracted?”

Yes, she thought, but didn’t say, because then the things he’d said last night that had made her feel sane and normal wouldn’t mean anything anymore. John would have said I don’t think you’re crazy and he’d have to take it back, because if she told him there was a stranger standing in her mirror, he would think she was crazy.

“It’s weird,” is what Elliot offered after a moment, trying to find a way to be honest and redirect, “to see a baby bump. Even if it’s small.” She cleared her throat and fished her toothbrush out of the holder. Continuing briskly, she added, “And the scar. I spent a lot of time avoiding it.”

John’s expression had done that funny thing that she supposed was softening at her words. He stepped forward; the ghost of his fingers trailing her ribs over the robe made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

“I’m not done being mad at you,” she warned him, eyes flickering to meet his gaze through the mirror.

“I know,” he replied, tone agreeable. “I just—”

The brunette paused then, waiting for her to stop him before he smoothed the warmth of his palm over her hip, across the expanse of her abdomen. It was painfully intimate in a way that didn’t imply sex—intimate, in the way that she felt seen, that she could see the relief coloring the edges of his expression.

John pressed his mouth to the back of her shoulder. “Just missed you,” he murmured after a moment. “Getting to touch you. Even just like this. Especially just like this—”

Something panged sharp and unforgiving in her chest. “Well, don’t get used to it,” she replied tightly, brushing his hand away from the baby bump after letting it linger for a moment. “And I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Your mother was asking after you,” John said, by way of explanation, looking pleased from their little moment. Fucker. “She wanted to know if you’d be drinking coffee this morning. I think her exact words were, ‘Mr. Seed, would you ask my daughter if she’s going to take the risk of drinking coffee this morning? I know she shouldn’t be, with her condition—’”

“Ugh.”

“‘—but since we’re going to be picking out her dress for the Christmas party today, I could make an exception—’”

“Fuck me,” she muttered, wetting her toothbrush and putting the toothpaste on it. “Ask her if she can make it extra strong.”

“I’m actually enjoying being out of your mother’s ire for a minute.”

Elliot rolled her eyes. “No coffee for me.”

“Got it.” John headed for the bathroom door, and then paused again, turning to look at her. “Ell,” he began, “I really didn’t know—you know, about Pratt.”

That pesky little flutter of something agonizingly sweet—softness—in her chest flared again.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” is what she said, before she turned the toothbrush on and started scrubbing her teeth. That seemed enough of an answer for John, for once, because he left and closed the door quietly behind him after deliberating.

The minutes, and hours, and days—well, day or two—until they got back to Hope County were going to be something close to agony. She could only hope they had taken her seriously when she told them that she’d better come back to a Pratt in one piece.

I don’t want to be alone. Pratt’s voice echoed hauntingly in her head. She thought she could remember the sound of voices in the background—a woman’s, at least. Faith? Or John’s friend, Isolde? Surely Jacob and Joseph were there listening to him call her, too. She’d been so fucking stupid to let them get to her.

No, not stupid. Not stupid to want Pratt to feel safe, and like someone was coming back for him.

I’m sorry, she thought tiredly, as though the words could somehow get to him. I’m sorry, that it’s me you have to wait for.

I’m sorry that I won’t be the person you remembered.

I’m sorry.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You did so well, Staci.”

Faith’s voice jarred him out of the weird pause in time he’d been marinating in. It had been just a few seconds, maybe—Jacob and Joseph were talking in low voices, the dark-haired woman standing at the point of their little triangle with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed—that his brain had shut off, the distress in Elliot’s voice echoing eerily in his head. She’d sounded so upset. He wouldn’t have called, wouldn’t have started to ask her to come back, if he’d known how much she didn’t want to.

But that wasn’t true, either. He would have called, because Helmi had said, Either the Seeds are going to drag her back by her hair kicking and screaming, and eventually kill her, or she comes back and we keep her safe.

‘Safe’ had been the keyword there. He didn’t know how much he could take the woman at her word, but considering everything—well, it was better than trying to take the Seeds at their word.

Faith’s hand touched the back of his, startling him into a tiny jump. He cleared his throat. “Um—I wasn’t...Acting.”

“Still,” she replied sweetly, “I know it must have been hard.”

She was so polished—skin all dusted silver and moonlike, flushed with a little high color in her cheeks, her blonde hair tumbling around her face loosely. In the chapel, the air was tepid at best, and frigid at worst, keeping a little pink in everyone’s faces.

It was strange to look at her now. Her hands were soft; her skin unblemished. Just hours ago, he’d been sitting in the car, noticing the same kinds of details about Helmi—about how human she looked, hand slung over a steering wheel, her cracked phone plugged into the truck’s stereo and her chipped nail polish and the scars and bruises littering her knuckles. The way she’d shot him a toothy, wolfish grin as she cranked the volume up and said, What, Staci Pratt, you don’t like Blue Öyster Cult either?

In comparison, Faith didn’t feel human at all. She felt like a dream.

“Can—” Pratt came to a stand, rubbing his palms on the tops of his thighs. “Can I go? Lay down, or something?”

Three pairs of eyes snapped to him. The dark-haired woman, who Jacob kept referring to as Sol, completely ignored his question and looked at the redhead to say, “Has someone checked him for head trauma?”

“I’m not—concussed!” Pratt snapped, his voice wobbling. “I’m just tired.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. He looked like maybe he wanted to say something, and then reconsidered, saying, “Dr. Hale will take a look at you and then sure, Peaches, you can rest.”

It took every ounce of his self-control to not tell Jacob to stop calling him that. He had to remember that as far as they were concerned, he hadn’t been taken in by the “other side”, he’d been sitting scared and meek like a good boy at the compound.

Pratt’s eyes darted, catching sight of the woman that Jacob gestured to with a free hand. Right. The Fall’s End vet. She’d been here for what—a little over a year? He couldn’t tell if she was being held captive by Eden’s Gate or if she was there by her own volition, though the few times he’d run into her before she’d seemed like a pretty even-keel person. Didn’t she have like, two degrees or something? What was she doing here?

He made his way to the back of the church, meeting the curly-haired blonde halfway. Definitely looked too clean to be a cultist. “You’re not a people doctor, right?” he asked uneasily, watching as her head cocked to the side and her mouth quirked in a bit of amusement.

“No, Mr. Pratt, I am not a people doctor.” She fell into step beside him, opening the chapel door for him. “But I do have first aid training, which I think is about as good as you’re going to get around these parts.”

“I didn’t get a concussion.”

“That’s good. When was the last time you ate?”

His mouth twisted in a frown, trailing after through the snow as the cold began to sink into his bones. She seemed awfully confident moving around the compound, if she wasn’t part of the cult. But if she was, what was she doing here? How did—?

Pain bloomed behind his eyes, a fresh headache sinking into his nerves. Too much. It was too much confusion, about Elliot (pregnant? And John Seed was with her?) and about the Family and about all of these—these people that he didn’t really recognize hanging around the Seeds. And the compound was so quiet. Where was everyone? Had the Family really taken that many of Eden’s Gate out?

“Mr. Pratt?”

The woman opened a door into a bunkhouse that glowed with golden light from within and radiated heat. Two long-haired shepherds lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, lifting long faces and peering at him with dark eyes. He stepped inside and cleared his throat.

“Uh, a day, maybe,” he replied after a minute. Taking a seat when she gestured for him to, he shifted uncomfortably as she set a first aid kid on the cushion beside him and pulled one of the wooden chairs up in front of him.

“And slept?” She blew a curl out of her face and opened the kit, fishing around to find some alcohol wipes and Neosporin. He guessed he was a bit worse for wear than he’d thought, initially; not that he’d been taking great care of himself, even when it had just been him and Dani. She’d encouraged him to stay high, not stay better.

Fuck, I’m such an idiot.

He let out a little hiss when she pressed one of the alcohol wipes to a cut on his cheek.

“The same,” he replied, reaching up and brushing her hand away. “What—what are you doing here, doctor?”

“Arden is fine.” She sat back, regarding him curiously. “I’m cleaning that cut, Mr. Pratt. It looks agitated.”

“No, I—” Pratt let out a little breath. “I mean here. In the compound.”

Arden stared at him for a moment, like she didn’t understand why he was asking her that question. She lifted her hand and arched a brow inquisitively; when he nodded shortly, she leaned forward again, balancing her free hand on his shoulder and using the other to gently dab at the cut.

“I’ve spent the last month or so holed up in my house,” she explained to him. “Me, and the dogs, I mean.”

A little smile ghosted over her lips, and despite himself, Pratt felt a wry smile tugging at his own. It was difficult not to feel relaxed, when Arden moved with so much surety. In the glow of the radiators ticking away and the warm yellow light, especially.

“Mostly reading. They had assigned one of the boys to me—Santiago. I think he’s John’s man. He doesn’t strike me as one of Joseph or Faith’s.”

Pratt made a little noise of agreement, because he knew exactly what she was talking about. She dropped the alcohol wipes to the side and reached over for the Neosporin, dabbing some onto her finger and then reaching back up to resume her work.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “That you got—stuck, I mean. Here.”

“Oh, you don’t need to apologize, Mr. Pratt.”

“I feel partially responsible,” he admitted, feeling some of the tension flee his shoulders. “You know, being law enforcement and all—”

“Hold still, please.”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I guess what I mean is—sometimes it feels like a real failing on our part. All of those people, I...”

He paused, and Arden leaned back, giving him a pat on the knee. “That’s alright, Mr. Pratt,” and her voice bloomed with comfort. “Where was I?”

“Up at your house, with the dogs and maybe one of John’s men.”

“Right. I wasn’t allowed to leave, you know, on account of the—” She gestured with an elegant hand. “Cult running amok.”

He nodded. “Cult number two.”

Arden smiled, and continued, “And then just a few days ago, after one of them started killing those folks in Fall’s End, Jacob came up to get me.”

The way she said it made him feel, a little uneasily, that maybe he was misreading it. Jacob came up to get me did not sound like Jacob came to pick me up because I’m his prisoner.

And then she said, “He was worried, you know. Only having a radio up there. I know how to use a gun, but I’d prefer not to, if I don’t have to, and—”

“Sorry,” he blurted out, “but are you—”

She blinked light eyes at him, almost owlishly, like she didn’t understand the question. “Am I...?”

“With? Them?” Pratt gestured towards where the chapel lay, beyond the bunkhouse walls. “The—Eden’s Gate?”

“Oh!” Arden laughed, almost sheepishly; he felt a nervous little laugh bubbling out of him too, almost hoping for the relief of her assuring him that she was, in fact, not in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

She came to a stand and pulled a bottle of ibuprofen and a granola bar out of the kit, dropping them in his hand.

“Eat the bar before you take the ibuprofen,” she told him, “or it’ll—well, I’m sure you know. Upset stomach, and all that. Do you want to take a shower?”

Pratt’s fingers curled around the ibuprofen bottle. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m sorry,” Arden replied, not sounding very sorry at all, “I guess I just thought it a bit silly. Who else would I be “with”?”

His stomach somersaulted, sinking viciously. Suddenly, the granola bar—which had certainly been sitting in the kit for who knew how long—looked even less appetizing than before. While his vision swam for a second, the woman carried on conversationally, as though she had not just revealed herself to—

Well, to be in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

“But—they think the world is ending,” Pratt blurted out, lifting his eyes to look at her finally. “And—doctor, all the people they killed, and—”

“Don’t strain yourself, Mr. Pratt. You’ve been under quite a bit of duress as of late, I think, and it would be best to try and keep those stress levels down.” She moved to the small pantry beside the bathroom, shuffling around and producing a few towels, leaning into the bathroom to set them on the counter. “Though, you do bring up a funny point—have you been listening to the news? I suppose you haven’t. I remember listening to the news before all of this business went down and thinking that the world had ended a long time ago. We were just a bit behind, all the way out here. Do you want to take a shower?”

Blinking furiously, Pratt searched his brain for the answer; he muddled through the disappointment raking down his spine, the delicate little hope that had been fostered at the prospect of finding someone who was kind and not under the Seeds’ thumb being crushed beneath the weight of the reality of his situation.

“Yes please,” he managed out, his voice hoarse.

“Alright. Eat that bar first, so you don’t pass out in the hot water. And Mr. Pratt?”

“Y—” He had clumsily ripped open the granola bar and shoved half into his mouth, the fear of being seen as disobedient when Jacob Seed was within radius flickering like a wildfire through his body. He swallowed thickly, the dry food feeling like it was sticking to the inside of his mouth. “Um, yes?”

Her expression colored sympathetic, Arden reached down and fished a water bottle out of the case, dropping it in his hand.

“The honorific isn’t necessary,” she told him. “Remember, Arden is just fine.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled. “I mean—Arden.”

She smiled, this time with teeth. “Good. You holler if you need me.”

I won’t, he thought, even though she was probably preferable to anyone else coming to his rescue.

Maybe he really would rather be dead.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Scarlet insisted that John stay at the house while they went to the boutique. It was all a big show of his mother-in-law attempting, he thought, to be polite, though she failed miserably at it; and as much as John wanted to argue that it would probably be best if he came along—considering their late-night visitor—he could tell when a battle was a lost one, and when it wasn’t.

“Do you think you can do that, Mr. Seed?” she asked, pulling the objectively ostentatious fur coat around her shoulders and buttoning it. “Remain in my home for a few hours, without causing me any problems?”

He said, “I think I can certainly give it a shot,” to which the blonde rolled her eyes.

“Please do more than that.”

“Rest assured, I am fully capable of behaving myself, Mrs. Honeysett.”

He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Every second he spent in her presence, being reminded of how little she liked him given how much she didn’t know about him—or care to get to know about him, anyway—he thought, I cannot fucking wait to get back to Hope County and the resurgence of the Family. I cannot wait until that is my only fucking problem. Anyone else and she would have been thoroughly cleansed; clearly, Wrath ran in the family. Just the thought of it made his fingers itch.

Elliot had looked tired already, standing at the door and letting her mother go first. As soon as Scarlet was out the door, carefully picking her way down the front steps, John’s hand went to Ell’s hip; her lashes fluttered at the contact, but she didn’t jerk away; only tensed, considering the act of balking and pulling away from him but not yet committing. So there had been progress.

Her free hand came to his shoulder, resting there uncertainly. “Please don’t do anything to my mother’s house.”

“As much as I would love to, I will refrain from my wretched impulses. I am a man of God, after all.” He grimaced. “Do you think she’ll like me more if things are immaculate?”

“Ha-ha. She certainly will not.” She paused, letting out a little breath. “Okay. Back in an hour.”

He felt a smile tug at his mouth. “Ambitious.” His hand drifted to the small of her back, and he said, “Ell, before you go—”

“John, I don’t—”

Elliot turned to look at him at the same time that he stepped forward, closing what little distance there was and rapidly; she blinked, and her eyes flickered to his mouth instinctively, like she was expecting it—like she’d gotten used to the affection when he closed in on her like that. The gesture sent a little thrill through his stomach.

Mine.

“Don’t let her stress you out,” John murmured, keeping his voice low between just the two of them. “You’ll look good in whatever you pick.”

She turned her face away, cheeks going pink. “What’s this, huh? Still trying to make up for being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

He grinned. “You really have gotten brattier.”

“Goodbye, John,” she said, and then he leaned in and kissed her; the connection made every part of him sigh, collectively, as though he’d just been waiting for it.

Waiting for her.

Yes yes yes, it all said when she didn’t pull away, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater at the small of her back as her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest, yes, mine all mine.

Elliot did pull back after a moment, putting a bit of space between them—though it seemed more to catch her breath than anything else. She only pulled back enough for their eyes to meet; John’s gaze darted downward, watching pearly teeth as they tugged at her lower lip, worrying it there for a moment.

“To answer your question,” he continued as casually as he could, “that’s not how I intend on making that up to you.”

“So you agree?” Elliot asked. Her voice came out evenly, despite the color blooming underneath the freckles on her cheeks. “You were being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

“I did so miss our banter.”

“Bunny,” Scarlet called impatiently from the driveway, “the boutique is going to get crowded if we don’t get there when it opens.”

“I’m coming!” Her gaze darted back to him. “The best way to make it up to me would be to say the words out loud,” Elliot informed him as she inched toward the door. “So that baby can hear them, too. At least you’ll have been more honest around our child than with me, if we’re keeping a running tally, and we should—”

He tugged her back from the doorway again, lighter, more playful as he went in to kiss her a second time; but she pulled back, just out of his reach, hand planted firmly on his chest.

Elliot said, “I told you not to get used to it.”

“I’m not,” he answered lightly, “just taking what I can get.”

“Elliot.”

“Coming!” Elliot cinched her coat up more snug, closer to her throat and where the scar lay expertly over her sternum, and snagged the keys off of the counter to the beat-up Honda Civic John had lifted from Eden’s Gate. Right. He couldn’t wait to hear Scarlet’s input on that car ride.

The redhead made it down two steps before she paused, turning and looking at John and going, “Um, bye,” in a tone that was more sheepish than he anticipated; it was almost shy, and it caught him so off-guard that he didn’t even get the chance to muster a response before she was making her way across the snowy driveway.

“Drive safe,” John called, once he’d gathered his senses a bit more. Elliot glanced at him over her shoulder and then ducked into the car, closing the door and beginning to pull her way down the drive. He waited until they’d turned onto the freshly plowed road before he turned back into the house and closed the front door behind him.

Boomer had seated himself in front of the window, letting out a little whine as his tail swept along the floor.

“C’mon, furry sentinel,” he sighed, not risking putting his hand within biting reach. “Just you and me today.”

The Heeler whined again, apparently thoroughly displeased at this news, and stayed rooted at the window to watch for his girl to come home.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he hit the redial button on the number they’d gotten a call from that morning and waited as the phone rang, pacing around the polished living room. It rang enough times as he idly adjusted glasses on a bar cart that he thought for certain no one would pick up—and then the phone clicked, and a warm voice came through.

“Hi, John.”

He blinked in surprise. “Hello, Faith. How’d you get this phone?”

“Isolde passed it to me when she saw your call. She wanted me to tell you that she’s too busy to talk to you.”

A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like everything’s operating as normal, then.”

“I suppose.” Faith paused. “Are you coming home soon?”

“I am.”

“With Elliot?”

“Yes, she—” John cleared his throat and made an effort to sound as unbothered as possible. “She’s very concerned about Deputy Pratt’s well-being.”

“We’re taking good care of him. Will you tell her that? Better than he’d be getting out there, anyway,” and she said the word out there with such a surprising amount of venom that John realized he’d nearly forgotten about the Family’s reappearance. Well, there couldn’t be that many of them left, could there?

And then Faith said, “A lot of us are dead, John.”

His hand went to the mantle for a little support as he leaned against it. There was a bit of a bite to Faith’s voice—almost accusatory. A lot of us are dead, she said, as he stood in the plush home of his mother-in-law while they went dress shopping for a Christmas party. It occurred to him that none of his siblings—nor Isolde—were aware of what they’d been dealing with the last couple of days; they must have felt like he was getting off easy.

“The Father says we only have a little while longer,” she continued, “and that if we can’t fix this in time, we won’t wait for you. He’s been alone, a lot. Talking to God. Praying for more time, for you.”

The words made his stomach wrench, a little. He would have felt worse if he didn’t know already that there was an exit plan in place, one that Elliot was already on board for. “We’re only here for another day, and then we’re leaving” John replied. “The sheriff mentioned some—Federal agents. I don’t want to rouse suspicion and bring them down on us again.”

“Do you think it’s Burke?”

“Maybe.” He pressed his forehead against the stone mantle. “Probably. No one’s come storming in yet.”

“I hope it’s him. I hope he follows you all the way back here.” And then, darker: “He has a lot to apologize for.”

John made a low noise of agreement. It felt good to have a conversation with someone who seemed to be on the same side as him, for once—no bickering with Scarlet, no bickering with Elliot, and no bickering with Isolde. As of late, it seemed he was only capable of incurring arguments; though that did seem to be changing quickly with his wife.

“We’re having a service soon. Did you want me to tell Joseph anything?”

“Ah, no, that’s alright. I just wanted to let you know we had a plan.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“No,” John said again, more quickly and with a bout of unease sprinting up his spine. “No, that’s alright. I’ll let you go. We’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Alright.” Faith’s voice lightened when she added, “Tell Elliot I said hello.”

Bad idea, he thought, but said, “Of course,” and hit the end call button. It wasn’t until his entire body relaxed that he realized he’d been fully tensed, waiting for some kind of verbal blow—and though there had been a few, he felt...

Fine.

I feel fine.

It was fine. Everything was fine. Joseph was praying for more time for them. They’d make it back without a hitch. And then, when the world ended, and took the remainder of the Family with them—

Well, that would be all the better.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“My children.”

The heaters rattled, clicking in the lukewarm air in a steady, mechanical heartbeat. Candles lit throughout the chapel drenched the members of Eden’s Gate in a strange, golden glow, and as Joseph’s voice carried all the way to the back where Staci sat between Jacob and Arden. He could see in the front row sat Faith and the dark-haired woman—who he’d come to understand was Isolde Khan, John’s old business partner—and there was a moment where Joseph’s eyes fixed on her before they lifted back to the congregation.

“God has truly been testing us,” the man continued, pacing away from the altar the front, hands folded behind him. “As you know, I have spent a lot of time in silence and solitude so that I might be the most open to receiving from Him. For the longest time, I thought—had we done something wrong? Had I led us astray? Were we being punished?”

An uneasy murmur rippled throughout the crowd. In the front, Pratt could see Isolde writing something down in a notebook; he wished he was closer, so he could see what it was—what was so interesting that she was taking notes now, of all times? What could she possibly be doing?

Preparing for the worst-case scenario, he thought idly, shifting in his seat. Jacob’s eyes cut over to him and he cleared his throat. The shower had done nothing to ease his nerves.

“But I’ll tell you—devout, and loyal, we have not been left to the wayside.” Joseph stopped, pressing a hand onto a woman’s shoulder, squeezing. “I have heard His voice. I have received His word. We are not only followers of God’s word—we are His soldiers.”

The noise that passed through the congregation this time was brighter, agreements—it must have felt good. Not just passive sheep, to be shepherded; soldiers. Capable of violence. And they were.

“We are His warriors.”

The woman Joseph’s hand was on was getting teary-eyed, and when he departed from her to sidle his way down the aisle, she all but collapsed in on herself, folding in half to bury her face in her hands. Another attestation of acknowledgment rippled around him, louder.

“This world is a wretched, vile machine, taking in and spitting out sin, flooding our garden with locusts,” the Prophet continued, his voice lifting in volume. “We are, my children, the only people who have the great fortune of seeing this—of knowing what no one else in the world seems capable of understanding. God has told me—”

Sick, Pratt thought dizzily, I’m going to be sick.

“—that a life of bliss awaits us, if we can only...”

Joseph paused, as though he needed to look for the words, as though he hadn’t been reciting this all day in preparation for the sermon; Pratt knew that he must, the assured cadence of his voice coming so firmly that there was no way it wasn’t rehearsed.

“...look past the dread, and the fear,” he continued earnestly, allowing his hand to be taken by another member, “because fear is the language of the Devil—if we can look past it, and dedicate ourselves fully to His cause, there is only happiness and serenity waiting for us on the other side of this.”

“How do we do it, Father?” a man to the other side of Jacob cried out, his voice a panicked fever-pitch. “How do we show Him we’re devoted?”

Joseph’s head turned. His gaze landed on Pratt, lingering before lifting to the congregant. “We’ve got to stop the machine.”

Optimism flooded the crowd. An easy solution. Stop the machine, like it was nothing. Like they weren’t dealing with a group of people who killed as easily as they did.

“Throw your bodies upon the gears, upon the wheels, upon all the apparatus,” Joseph intoned dutifully, pacing back toward the front. “Whatever it takes to bring the machine to a grinding halt. We can no longer passively take part in the End—we are warriors of God, and our divine right is not instinctively endowed. It is earned. And we will show that we have earned it by exterminating these interlopers invading our garden.”

Pratt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Eden’s Gate members came to a stand around him; loomed in his vision; eclipsed what little murky light reached him. Cheers and applause rolling around in his head. He thought for sure he’d heard this all somewhere, before—

Oh, yes. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all! The irony of Joseph lifting lines from an activist’s speech was not lost on him.

A heavy hand gripped the collar of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. “Stand up,” Jacob muttered. “Good posture’s important.”

He steadied himself on the pew ahead of him. Amidst the chatter of the congregation, eventually quieted down by Joseph’s patience at the front of the chapel, he could hear renewed excitement. More life had been breathed into the peggies than he’d seen in a long time—well, considering that he’d only been here roughly a day, and the whole place felt like a ghost town even now, that was saying something.

“Please,” Joseph called lightly, “join me in prayer.”

Heads bowed. Pratt let his chin drop to his chest, but his eyes didn’t close; his gaze darted to his right, where Arden stood, hands clasped politely in front of her. Her head did not bow for prayer.

He was only vaguely aware of the words coming out of Joseph’s mouth, redirecting his eyes back to the floorboards beneath his worn shoes. Lord, we pray that you might show us guidance and wisdom in these uncertain times; show us how to be most like you, for only you are perfect...

Elliot was going to come back to this. She was going to come back to this, and he was going to have to figure out how to get her out of here without any of the Seeds noticing. Helmi had said, meet me out back, by the river, in three nights, but he couldn’t keep track. Had it been one night? Two? Less than one?

“I am your Father,” Joseph was saying. “You are my Children. Together, and only together, will we march through the Gates of Eden.”

A rousing amen echoed around him. They milled about, chatting excitedly—perhaps delighted to have a focus for their ire, for their agitation. The members of Eden’s Gate looked worse than Pratt remembered. Dirtier. Thinner. More exhausted. He thought that it must be nice to have a purpose—

Fuck me, not that shit again.

He filed out of the row behind Arden, and with Jacob behind him, following her to the front where Isolde and Joseph stood. They were speaking in low tones, bundled close together; she tapped her ten against the front of her notepad in what looked like an agitated tick, but he couldn’t hear what it was she was saying. By the time they were close that he might have heard, Joseph lifted his head from where he’d bent a little to speak closely and looked at him, smiling.

“It was nice to see your face in the crowd this day, Deputy Pratt,” he said, his voice warm. “Did you enjoy the sermon?”

Pratt opened his mouth, and then closed it. He didn’t want to play this game.

“Go on, Peaches,” Jacob prompted, clapping his shoulder.

The nickname sparked something angry inside of him, like dragging a match against the sandpaper side of the box. If there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to kill them, Elliot had said.

Pratt turned his gaze to Joseph. “I thought the Mario Savio part was a bit much.”

A surprised, abrupt laugh barked out of Jacob. Joseph’s expression remained flat and serene. In fact, the only person who seemed to have any negative opinion about his words was Isolde, narrowing her eyes as she turned to look at him fully.

“We’re not exactly looking to hit notes with the intellectuals in the crowd, Deputy Pratt,” she informed him coolly. “They don’t care who said it first. They care who said it better.”

“Y—” Pratt swallowed. “Okay, well—”

“‘Okay, well’ shut the fuck up,” she snapped. “Or I’ll have Jacob take you out back and put you down like Old Yeller.”

“You can’t,” he protested quickly, “Elliot said—”

“Do you think I care in the least what some woman five states away said?” Isolde cut over him quickly, the elegant, soft roll of her accent a strange and unsettling juxtaposition to her words. “I’m getting this ship in fit fucking order, and that means I don’t need you inspiring dissent. Anyone with an opinion that is less than glowing, radiant, gorgeous—they get taken care of, whatever that means. Got it?”

Pratt closed his mouth tightly, until the pressure was beginning to build between his molars. I just have to make it until Elliot gets here, and then—and then I’ll—then I can get—

He took in a little breath. “Yes.”

“Peachy.” Isolde flashed a smile that was all-too-saccharine, and then turned to Joseph. “Let’s sit.”

“Of course.”

They departed to a pew just to the left of them. Jacob was grinning at him, wolfish.

“Thought about telling you she wrote it,” he said, “but that was much more entertaining.”

“You look pale, Staci,” added Arden, her voice light as it redirected from Jacob’s apparent joy at his suffering. “Maybe you should go lay down. I don’t want you straining any of those injuries.”

Okay, he thought, and maybe the words came out of him but he couldn’t tell; he couldn’t tell anymore, but he did want to go lay down. Lay down, and close his eyes, and sleep until Elliot got back.

He’d never been happier at the prospect of seeing an ex-girlfriend.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When they arrived at the boutique, Sylvia was standing outside, bouncing on the balls of her feet in what Elliot could only assume was an attempt to get warm. It was difficult, to focus on something as inane and arbitrary as dress shopping when she knew that Pratt was back in Hope County, dealing with God-knew-what the Seeds were throwing at him.

Well, the Seeds. And more. The Family, who were supposed to be dead, and—

I hear stress is bad for the baby. A familiar accent, wasn’t it?

“Well, are you just gonna sit in there all day or what?” her mother asked, having stepped out of the passenger side.

“Did you invite Sylvia?”

Scarlet sighed. “I thought it might be nice, for you.”

It was an unexpectedly sincere gesture on her mother’s part. She swallowed a thick emotion down, clearing her throat and managing out, “It—is, mama, thank you,” before she got out of the car and took the keys with her, heading towards the front doors of the main street store.

“Howdy, Freckles!” Sylvia greeted her warmly, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. “Been a few. Wyatt’s still got your Jeep, he’s been runnin’ it a few minutes a day to make sure the battery doesn’t go bad.” She smiled brightly, turning to Elliot’s mother. “Mrs. Honeysett, you look mighty lovely.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Sylvia tugged the door to the boutique open, ushering them inside so that she could trail in after. The inside of the store was toasty warm, making Elliot regret having worn a scarf, but it was too late now—the coat and scarf combination were doing the work to keep her scar covered.

“I just love this place,” Scarlet sighed, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “What do you think, Elliot? Maybe something blue. I’d put you in green, but with that red hair, you’d look like a Christmas ornament. Blue’s a nice winter color—very fashionable.”

“Sure, mama,” Elliot replied, brushing her fingers along the silk of one of the dresses. The last time she’d been in anything that blue and nice had been back in Hope County. At her “baptism”. The same one Burke had been dragged to, the same one that John had held her under for just a little too long for, maybe distracted by the Marshal’s arrival back then.

“Psst.” The sound of Via’s voice caught her attention, pulling her from the waking memory. The blonde had pulled what appeared to be the most atrocious Christmas gown that could have been looked at off of the rack, holding it up and lifting her eyebrows as Scarlet chatted enthusiastically with the store’s saleswoman.

“Stop it,” Elliot said, fighting back a smile. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, dead serious, Freckles.”

“It has mistletoe on it, Via.”

“How else am I supposed to fetch a husband, if not by readily-accessible entrapment?”

Well, she thought a little dryly, that is how John got a wife.

It was odd, to think of the moment with anything less than hostility—to have come to a point where there were things more pressing than a marriage that, in the end, might not matter anyway. John had said that he knew the baby didn’t mean she’d take him back; had acknowledged there was no guarantee. For once, he’d shown up in her life with every intention laid bare for her to see.

Maybe not every intention. But she’d root them all out, eventually, and pretend like it hadn’t become something of a game, to catch John in a lie and watch him squirm.

She let the boutique’s owner show her around, clearly making quite a show for her mother, and politely turned down any suggestions for a deep v or off-the-shoulder type of garment. Sylvia had picked out a few; most blue, some blush, a few red, and then loaded some into Elliot’s arms.

“Try ‘em on!” she chirped. “Yes, even the green ones. Maybe your mama doesn’t want an Elliot Christmas ornament, but I do.”

Elliot heaved a sigh, though it was only half-sincere—anything delivered with Sylvia’s bright, cheery smile, she was hard-pressed to feel anything less than good about. Maybe that was dangerous, to be so comfortable with someone.

Or maybe, she thought, closing the dressing room door behind her, that’s just how having friends are. You remember what that was like.

She did. As she undressed and zipped the back of one of the red dresses Sylvia had selected—thoughtfully aware of the fact that she’d want most of her chest covered—she regarded herself in the mirror. There was that stranger again, flushed cheeks and bright eyes staring back at her. A familiar nose shape, a familiar slope of her cheekbones—but the rest of her. Where had she gone?

With one hand she pushed the door open, the other one lifting the back train of the dress as little as she walked out. A grimace had planted itself on her face, even despite Sylvia’s elaborate applause at her appearance.

“Oh, bunny, you look darling,” her mother sighed, having turned to take a look. “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

“Not big on the sparkles,” she admitted.

“I like them. You’ve always looked good in red, though. That fair complexion of your father’s.”

Sylvia grinned. “Try on a green one. I wanna imagine how you’ll look on my tree!”

Elliot stuck her tongue out at the blonde, turning around and scurrying back into the changing room. There were a few more dresses—even a green one—that were in the running, but eventually, she’d settled on a floor-length piece, dark blue velvet and halter-topped to get the most sternum coverage. When she’d redressed and rejoined the group outside, her mother was beaming as she gossiped with the boutique owner.

“Elliot’s quite modest,” her mother said conversationally, “and she’s already married, you know.”

“Thank you, mother,” Elliot sighed, a little smile fighting its way onto her face.

“Whatever are you still wearing your coat for? Your face is all red.”

“I’m—” She paused, swallowing. “Still cold.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? It’s eighty degrees in here. And your face is all red.”

Sylvia had glanced up from across the store, neck-deep in dresses of a warmer shade. Elliot could feel the eyes on her—her friend, her mother, the boutique owner—and she cleared her throat and tugged absently at the tag on the dress.

“It’s fine,” she said after a minute.

“Well, at least take your scarf off.”

“I think it’s a lovely scarf,” the owner tried, a little helplessly.

“Mother, it’s—I’m fine—”

But her mother moved too quickly for her to realize what was happening; her mother’s hand unwound the scarf with expert ease, and then froze, her eyes fixed on what Elliot thought assuredly was the little of her WRATH scar, revealed.

Her stomach rolled. Heat flooded her body, worse than before—it was the kind of sticky-wet heat that came with the threat of throwing up, the kind that crept up the spine and gripped by the nape of the neck. Elliot felt her lashes flutter; she dropped the dress abruptly and yanked the scarf out of her mother’s hands to wind it securely around her neck again. The boutique owner had quickly turned to the clothing rack, as though something very emergent had occurred on the inanimate objects.

Stupid. She was so stupid. She should have just worn a sweater. She shouldn’t have looked at her scar that morning and thought, maybe it is something to love, she shouldn’t have ever risked the chance that her mother would see it, stupidstupidstupid—

“My God,” Scarlet said tightly, the tone of her voice washing Elliot with shame. “What did you do?”

I’m sorry, she wanted to say, automatically. Mama, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not good anymore, I’m not—

“Phew, I sure am dressed-out,” Sylvia announced, having come over. “I’ll have to go home and weigh my options. Ell, you wanna head outside for some air?”

“I think that’s best,” her mother replied curtly, before Elliot could even think to formulate a sentence. “I’ll finish up in here.”

She thought about trying to say something—trying to explain, maybe, what it was that had happened. But how could she? Her mother had suffered through the years she’d inflicted pain on herself, after daddy and after Mason, and she had told her mother she was better, now. Healed. Good. What could she say, to make it alright?

Because there was no world where she could say, I didn’t want it, and mean it.

Via’s hand fit snugly in hers, tugging her lightly out through the front door of the boutique onto the street. It wasn’t until she took in a lungful of cold, dry air that she realized she’d been holding her breath; her lungs ached, her head swimming, and she was gripping Via’s hand too tightly.

“Hey,” Sylvia said softly, “s’okay.”

It’s not, she thought miserably, it’s not okay, I’m not okay, I want to go—

Where? Where could she go?

I want—

Nowhere? Anywhere?

—to go—

“Home,” she managed out unsteadily, “I should go home—”

Sylvia gave her hand a squeeze. “You want I should give your mama a ride back to the house?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, sniffing. “Yes, please.”

“Okay, Freckles. Sure. You just—maybe you just take a little drive for yourself, collect your thoughts.” Via paused, and then leaned a little to catch Elliot’s eyes; though her vision blurred from the threat of tears, the blonde still smiled a little. “You gonna be okay all by yourself?”

It was a strange question to ask, but Elliot knew what she meant. Are you safe? Alone?

“Yeah,” Ell replied in a thick, watery mumble. “I am.”

“Okay. Can you give me a call when you get home?”

She nodded weakly. Via pulled her into a hug, tight and gentle all at once, enough to make the dam break; just for a little, just for a minute, the tears streaked down her cheeks and caught up in the fabric of the scarf where it wadded against her jaw.

My God, what did you do?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, pulling back and sucking in a sharp little breath. “Um, I’m really—s-sorry—”

But Via shook her head firmly and brushed some of the hair back from Elliot’s face, wet from her tears. “Don’t apologize. Go get a little breather.”

She fished the keys out of Elliot’s pocket for her, putting them in her hand and hesitating.

“Promise you’ll call,” she reiterated.

Elliot nodded. “I—I promise.”

“Okay. No take-backs.”

“No take-backs.”

Via gave her another hug before ushering her towards the car. As she climbed in and turned the key, her hands shaking, she thought about the way her mother had looked at the scar—with disgust. Horror. Shame. Via hadn’t looked at her like that, when she’d seen it. She’d seemed embarrassed, at having put Elliot in such a position; but not like that. She hadn’t looked horrified.

John didn’t look at it like that. He’d spent a lot of time last night, tracing the shape of the scar with his eyes, with his mouth, reverent and adoring. Makes you hungry, doesn’t it?

At least leaving would be that much easier.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They came back separately.

When John heard the front door open, he’d been starting a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He poked his head around the archway to look out in the foyer, only to find Scarlet standing there, furiously unbuttoning her coat and dropping her gloves into the drawer. Two dress bags hung on the coat rack.

“Ell outside?” he asked casually, coming around.

“Certainly not,” Scarlet replied tartly. “She’s—”

And then the woman let out a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment—for the first time, Scarlet Honeysett looked to be composing herself, which he thought she was nearly incapable of losing sight of. It seemed even the impenetrable armor of the Honeysett matriarch had its own weaknesses after all.

His tiny little thrill at the sight of Scarlet looking troubled was short-lived, however, because she said, “My daughter walked into the boutique sporting this—wretched scar—”

Oh, he thought, suddenly.

“—never been so humiliated in my whole life—”

Oh, no, because he knew exactly what she was talking about and Elliot would be—

“—have no doubt, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet bit out viciously, “that scar is new and you have certainly not influenced her away from such activities.”

He needed to find Elliot. She would be distraught; why hadn’t she come home with her mother? And why wasn’t Scarlet more pressed concerning her daughter’s well-being?

“And where is she?” John asked, ignoring the stinging anger bubbling in his chest. Wretched scar, she’d said. Like it wasn’t beautiful. Like it wasn’t gorgeous. Like he hadn’t spent a whole night looking at it, running his hands and mouth over it, knowing that Elliot had looked at him and wanted it and trusted him and if there was something more devoted, it was carrying someone’s child. “Elliot? Where is she?”

“Taking a moment to regain her senses,” the blonde replied sharply. “She has vowed to be home soon. Mr. Seed—”

He had gone to reach for his coat, pausing at her words and looking at her expectantly.

Scarlet twisted the gloves in her hands for a moment, her brows pulling together.

“I just think,” she finally said, “that as her husband, you are responsible for her as much as I am. You have to be taking care of her when I’m not around.”

“I do,” he replied.

“Evidence says contrary,” Scarlet snapped. “She has come back to me with more—damage—”

The sound of a car pulling up outside snapped John’s attention elsewhere. He knew that if he stayed much longer in the conversation, they would be leaving sooner than what they had planned, if only because Scarlet wouldn’t tolerate him in the house for the things that he wanted to say to her. Damage, he wanted to say, that is only as bad as it is because it’s compounding on your incessant need to brush aside her problems like they’re nothing, like she didn’t need help then.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, pulling his coat on and opening the door. The rush of cold air bit at his face and hands; Boomer came rushing out around his legs, springing down the steps and hurrying to the driver’s side of the Honda. John was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him—and it didn’t matter, anyway.

She didn’t open the door when Boomer got there, scrabbling at it for her eagerly. She kept her hands on the top of the steering wheel and pressed her forehead into it, the engine ticking as it cooled. When John got there, he reached for the door handle to tug it open. Elliot hit the lock button.

“Ell,” John said, “open the door.”

She lifted her head tiredly from the steering wheel. Where her hand sat over the lock button, her fingers trembled a little, and her face was flushed—not with health, but with the sickly red of feverish, panicked crying.

“Baby,” he tried again, a little more urgently, putting his hand on the glass of the window, “Boomer wants to see you.”

Elliot’s eyes were fixed on his jacket. “Would you—” She stopped, her voice muffled by the glass, and then she took a deep breath and said, “Would you even be here if I wasn’t pregnant?”

“What?” John blinked at her.

“If I didn’t have the baby,” she tried again, her voice thick and watery with unshed tears, that pouty lower lip trembling, “would you have even come for me?”

He stared at her. It had never occurred to him, that there might be a world in her head where he didn’t come for her, where he didn’t find her, where he didn’t try and bring her back.

“Of course I would,” John said, drawing her eyes to him. “I love you, Elliot.” And then, more urgently: “I love you, with or without the baby.”

She looked away from him, then, staring out the other side of the window, fingers curling uselessly against the steering wheel even as the keys lay in the passenger seat—like she wanted to run. Like she wanted to floor it, and go somewhere, anywhere.

“Open the door, Ell.” He swallowed thickly. “Won’t you?”

The door lock clicked. He tugged at the handle and it opened with ease, Boomer instantly shoving his face into Elliot’s side and whining, tail wagging so furiously his whole body moved with it. John pushed the door open the rest of the way and reached for her, and her hand caught his wrist and pulled, and she buried her face into his chest and trembled like a leaf in a breeze.

“I’m so tired,” she moaned miserably into his chest, hiccupping with grief, “I want to go home.”

John wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head and keeping her tugged close.

“I know,” he said. “We’ll go. We will, I promise, Ell, okay?”

“Please—” The redhead pulled back to look at him. “I can’t—you can’t—lie to me, anymore—”

“I know,” John said again, a little helplessly, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. She was clutching him so tightly he was sure her nails would leave marks on his skin, even through the fabric of his clothes.

“I won’t.”

[voidcat]

– a case of bad luck

3. making a scene

m.list ; prev ; next ; wc: 2.7k

a/n: rmr when i said i'd not post a chapter befre writing at least one chapter ahead? ahahaha anyways,,, here's wonderwall. song name mentioned at the end of the chapter!!

He doesn’t show his face for the next few days.

The feeling of being watched goes away with him, despite knowing it’ll be over shortly.

Finding things to occupy your mind starts off easier than you thought, no one bats an eye to it either. Slowly rumors start to spread about the boy who hasn’t shown his face in weeks.

Exes complain and bad mouth, friends stick around and make excuses, some believe he ran off to chase a dream or start a new life; a theory from each head, all speculating, not even close to the truth of it.

Then comes the news reports, a close friend must’ve heard from the cops, body found dead, covered in bruises. ‘They say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, crossed an alley too narrow at a time too late.’ Nobody speaks of the bodies found with him, someone must’ve messed with the crime scene.

“So, how are things going with him?” a voice from your right snaps your attention.

What?.. You stare at your friend, then realize she must mean Dazai.

“Not much. He’s still in town, we hang out sometimes.” The lie slips off smoothly yet they seem disappointed at your answer. Then remembering what he claims to have said to them, it makes sense in a way, although a dumb way it is.

“Do you think he was murdered?” “What could he have done to die a brutal way?” they join the flock of gossipers. Nothing new or exciting to do recently, taking a guess has become the new sport, as if a correct guess could earn them something of a meaning.

You close your ears to the same whispers of different voices and try focusing on what’s at hand. Maybe you should remember what it is for first.

The dreaded feeling comes back after few more days and with it, so does he.

Waiting in the same spot just like the last time, another suspicious smile decorating his face, accompanied by fresh bandages. Rolling your eyes at the sight of him, you look for a means to escape, even just for one more day but your friends spot him short after, wave their hands at him and push you to his direction.

Lovely.

A cloying voice to match that smile, he greets you first. “Hello darling-“ “Don’t call me that.” You cut in. He pays no mind.

Like last time, the two of you begin to walk, ignoring the curious looks of your friends focused on your back. “Have you thought about my offer recently?”

“Honestly? I forgot.” You expect a raised eyebrow or a glance thrown your way at the very least. “I have a life of my own, you know.” He shows no sign of emotions or annoyance.

“And so do they.” He shrugs and looks at the each store window you walk by. It’s the air within him, that rubs you the wrong way, you decide. The way he talks as if he is discussing over what to eat for breakfast when it’s lives, living breathing lives you’ve spent your whole life with that he threatens.

Exactly how many times has he done that to not care at all?

Another answer- no, a possibility, an explanation to this lies in your mind and you brush it off –or try to do so. It’s cruel, maybe not exactly but such an idea shouldn’t come to your mind so easily, no matter how… logical it sounds to be.

“What do you want me to do? What do you expect me to say? Just blindly agree?” your steps begin to get louder, more pressure applied to each one you take.

Then his voice rises, a stretched out ‘ah’comes first, “Bella, you’re making a scene,” he makes a move to drape an arm over your shoulder as you take a step forward to escape it. “-especially when you don’t even have the slightest clue what I’m asking for.” And comes back the empty tone of voice with his last words.

Few steps ahead there’s a turn you can take. You wonder if he will stop when you part ways, will he wait, walk after you to grab your arm and make you follow him again? Another voice tells you instead he will keep walking ahead, not even sparing a glance your way, already aware you’ll fall defeated to fear or curiosity only to trail after him again.

But still, the possibilities are still worth the risk, no matter how true he is to his threats, it’s better than to walk into an alley with him again.

People around walk on and continue their lives, out to enjoy the sun or to hang out after their not-so-busy lives. You don’t cross the street at the lights like you did the last time.

From the corner of your eye you peak at him but the bandages cover a good portion of his face, not that he is loose with his expressions and mimics. You focus on the walk again.

“Whatever it is, it must be something dirty, or risky, considering you’re threatening me into this.”

“Now now, don’t flatter yourself just because you have an ability. It isn’t anything big, just a small chore I don’t want to deal with.”

“From the way you talk, the list can go from taking the trash out to murder y’know…” To this, he just lets out a dry laugh. You’re unsure if it’s a good thing or not that he doesn’t even deny it.

The scenery around begins to change slowly, store by store, people by people. Maybe this is a good time to take a turn right or back, before ending up in a part of town who knows where. Nearby you spot a pot of flowers and stop as you reach it. A checkpoint, of sorts. It used be enjoyable at least, to have little checkpoints of your own on paths you took daily, on streets you weren’t familiar with. Stores, a pavement stone sticking out, a cat that sleeps in the same place all day, all to yourself, –as if a checkpoint could actually serve you as if life is a video game.

As you stop, he does too. “That’s fair.” He shrugs, “but it’s nothing big. I just want you to capture this guy by the end of tonight.”

Narrowing your eyes, you observe his face, “why, is the mighty Dazai incapable of such a simple task or does he carry an infectious disease of sorts?”

“Neither,” crossing his arms behind, he rests his head. “I just don’t feel like doing it.” Unbelievable.

It’s your turn to cross your arms this time, take a step back and balance your weight, just to say alert. “So let’s say that I agreed to this, will you get off my neck? Even if it fails?”

“Ah, bella, failure isn’t an option in your case.” You wince at nickname, again, and positive why he avoided the first question. Like it or not, getting involved in even the tiniest task would link you to the mafia somehow, an accomplice, even if he says he will leave you, there’s no guarantee someone else won’t show up. And this time with a better excuse to use, that’ll get worse for you if the said person is tortured or murdered.

“Okay, I… have a song in mind but-“ you look around and down and around and at his face again, he seems to be waiting for you to finish whatever it is you’ll say. Straightening up, you speak the next words with more confidence, no matter what, showing any signs of weakness or submission is not an option. “-even if this whole ability thing is real, I doubt it will work unless it’s night time.”

He waits there for a moment, looking more like he dozed off then considering what you’ve just said. “Alright!” he claps his hands in front of him suddenly, “I’ll be waiting by the door around 8. Don’t make me wait.” “wait!-“

Coat wavering in the air, he turns and continues walking the direction you two were following.

Your ‘How the hell am I supposed to find an excuse to get out at 8?’ waits on the tip of your tongue, his shrinking form looking more and more punchable with each passing second. Waiting a little longer to make sure he’s gone, though it isn’t important since he made it clear he knows where you reside, you begin to walk back home.

Now each word spoken, his gestures, moves and his voice start to come back at you one by one. Want it or not, you did agree to become an associate to them, even if it’s a weak link. A disposable one, easy to trace, not important enough to protect. Taking one arm off, you hold your bag in front and search for your earphones.

If you’re really going to do this, that ability thing better be working. Typing in the song title and you click play, putting it on repeat, that might help get you in the mood at least.

A dinner like any other evening, occasional chitchat mixed with the clanking of cutlery. Your cat peaks from the door frame and goes back into the living room, leaving the three of you alone. Few nods here and there, hums instead of ‘yes’ and ‘no’s.

You consider if you should try to sneak out or make up a lie to go out, though there’s no guarantee on the latter that they’ll allow. That is, until you see alcohol in the mix and stay silent, then offer once to refill their glasses and refuse “No thank you, it’s a school night after all.”

Pleased with your reply, their attention is back on talk about their day, few complaints here and there, and soon after they grow tired. Dimming the lights and burning an incense stick in a far corner of a room helps to set the mood.

“You seem tired father, why don’t you go to bed earlier tonight?” he doesn’t even loom up from his cigarette but the heavy eye lids suggest he is keen on the idea.

“Mother, didn’t you say you have an early meeting tomorrow? It’s better to sleep now and review the papers in the morning than to stay up all night.” If she suspects your sudden interest in her schedule, she doesn’t make a comment. And always being the first one to go to bed, she puts the documents into a neat pile and gets up first.

You wait for the sounds to come to an end and glance at the nearest clock. 8.05, not bad. Who is he to complain when he didn’t even bother to ask if it works for you anyway?

Tiptoing to the door and grabbing the keys, you ignore your cat’s curious gaze and grab your shoes.

Like he said, he waits 20 meters from your house.

“Ready?” he offers his arm, which you ignore.

Putting on your earphones and pressing play, you let out a breath. “Just lead the way.”

With music in your ears, the journey there goes faster.

At first you lend an ear to Dazai, seeing his mouth move, but once it’s clear he’s just babbling about some random thing, you let your focus loose and allow the tune to surround you.

Losing count on how many times the song replayed, you eye Dazai, waiting for a word on at least what you’ll do.

And as if on cue, he stops whatever nonsense he was sputtering and that tone comes out of his mouth again. You make a mental note to control your body language better in the future.

“It’s just one man, slightly taller than me, built in but not very bright. He should be easy to spot in the next turn to the left, I doubt he got company.”

Turning the volume down, you slow your steps to match his pace. “So he is just… there? Why would he even walk into a trap?”

“Oh he isn’t! But he will arrive in-“ he pulls out his phone to check the time, “-in half an hour.” as his voice starts to get more excited, not genuine like a kid’s, but fake, you get a bad feeling in his intentions –worse than before.

“What if it doesn’t work and I cannot use my ability?” you ask and immediately regret upon seeing a smile on him, as if he was waiting, –who are you kidding, of course he was waiting! “Well that sounds like a you problem, doesn’t it?” he says with a shrug.

“Good luck! I’ll be back in an hour!” he turns around and walk into a shadowed corner before you can run after him.

Eyes fixed on where he was standing a while ago, with that smile on his lips, you mutter to yourself, “What the hell…”, and turn the volume back up.

In the remaining minutes to his arrival, you’ve taken off your earphones, humming to yourself and waiting by the corner.

By the time he arrives, you watch him look around for a minute then walk into the alley with ease.

“Hello, sir! If you’re not busy at the moment, can I borrow 5 minutes of your time?” Adding a sweetness to your voice isn’t hard but he seems vary of you.

Who wouldn’t be? In the dead of the night, a high schooler appearing in an alley when they’re supposed to have a meeting.

“Oh please, it’s nothing big. You see, I’ll be auditioning for a band and I’m waiting for my friend before we go in.” You wave your hand like it’s nothing. “And though I know I’m somewhat decent, I need actual criticism from someone who won’t sugarcoat it for me. Would you like to hear me sing?”

He doesn’t look impressed, nor does he look like he wants to deal with a brat. But twisting his lips once and looking around for a sign of arrival, it’s clear he prefers to hear you once and get rid of you for good.

“Okay and before we begin, if you understand the lyrics, please don’t get any ideas. The actual theme and story of the song lies in the verse.” You flash a smile when he raises an eyebrow, maybe it was a stupid thing to say, it’s not like everyone can understand a song in a foreign language on first listen, even if they know the language.

Pulling out your phone, you press play, keeping rhythm to the beat with your foot and drum your fingers to your leg.

“I am not, I am not, I am not, I'm alive, live-” you begin singing and close your eyes for a brief moment.

Perhaps you should’ve picked a… more convenient song, instead of spending your day til dinner listening to this.

But would another one be as interesting as this to witness? It’s a hard no, of course not.

Yet this doesn’t help silence the creaking sounds from earlier leave your head. And now those mixed with the song itself, sends a shiver. Would that happen to me if I sang it in a moment of weakness?

You wait with your back to the cold wall, check the time again and like clockwork, faint footsteps reach your ears.

It’s Dazai’s face to show itself first, peaking from the street opening like your cat did today during dinner. He spots you, and him, and his expression changes suddenly.

Unsure what he thinks of this, you decide don’t want to learn it, or any other expression of his now that you’re at it. Decoding him means knowing him, to an extent, and this also means spending time with him, getting closer to him. None of which you’re eager to participate in.

As he opens his mouth to say something, you push yourself off the wall and take a step to your right to avoid colliding.

“There. I’m going home.”

Steps long and fast, you leave immediately, putting as much distance as possible. Hands into fists, moving in sync with your legs and your gaze focused ahead. It seems trip back home will go faster than it was to get here. You ignore for the night how easily you could turn your back to him and just walk.

song: Crows - Rest in Bigger Pieces Remix by Car Seat Headrest

yep, thats the full name. if u listen to it, it'll make it easier, but if u dont, here's a brief summary:

the song is written for one of will's friends, cate wurtz (for one of her webcomics) the main theme of the song and the webcomic is in the verse but lyrics beside it are references to having sex at a park at night, hence the reader telling "dont get any ideas"

[gunmetal-magnus]

And what if I can’t?  What if I’m not worthy of my ideals?

As I stare out my apartment window and watch the drizzling sky, I’m drawn to the subtle gradient of yellow.  Clouds coasting through the sky, gray yet without dismay.  And the sun?  The sun will live to break another day, that I am confident in.  I only wish I were so confident in myself.

....

Life is strange.  Mine in particular looks like it might be going in a good direction.  I’ve been getting interviews for jobs and as someone who’s spent their fair share of time hopelessly unemployed and depressed, not knowing what to do with themselves (besides salsaing with suicide ideation), I should be elated about any progress.  I wish I could say that I am or even that I was but that wouldn’t be accurate.  The truth is that I’m a harrowing hailstorm of things - surprisedsleepybusycuriousthankfuloptimisticexposedhorrifiedcriticalnervousanxiousinsecurepressuredtired - it’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?

Knocking on the looming doors of success, I find myself feeling the crushing weight of my expectations.  The walls are a deafening white with not a texture or pattern in sight.  If you try to touch them they ripple like water.  There are no windows for me to peer through.  Fog creeps around me like a cheetah stalking its prey.  It’s so thick you could choke on it.  Success is...scary.

I know I know, that sounds a ridiculous thing to say, shouldn’t I be more afraid of failing?  Welllll...no.  You see, the weight I mentioned earlier was not merely crushing, it was also comforting.  Over time failure became familiar and eventually, my friend.  I got used to failure as the status quo, smothered in its cosy embrace and the threat of change, of combing out of this embrace into the chilling embrace of uncertainty, of becoming someone worthy of their success - it’s unfamiliar, it’s scary.  But just what is so comforting about not achieving your goals - about not getting what you really want?  For me it’s because of one paralyzing question: And what if I can’t?  What if I’m not worthy of my ideals?

“But…I’m…I’m just a soldier, I-I’m not worthy.”

It’s a terrifying prospect that I could give something my all and find that I just couldn’t do it.  I don’t want to be saying “I did my best and it wasn’t good enough,” because what I may mean is “I wasn’t good enough.  I don’t have the power.”  But that’s exactly the point!  I do have the power and if that is true then I have to come to terms with my responsibility to that power - that it’s up to me to use that power because when you can do the things that you can do...and then the bad things happen...they happen because of you.  I don’t want that burden so it’s easier to cast it off and reinvent the narrative by claiming powerlessness.  It’s easier to identify as a fraud and be done with it, to say to myself “men like me should’ve never dared to believe.”

Haha…paradoxically in our journey to discover our own power we discover just how little power we hold, that our only power is in ourselves.  Time and how bound we are to what we know at present, our surrounding circumstances, and the fact that we’re only people who can only do people things - these serve to remind us that the power of what we control and free will are only so vast.  It’s strange - you are responsible for how you use your power but not the outcome because you’re not omnipotent.  Bad things don’t always happen because of you.  Sometimes they just happen.  Sometimes things in general...just happen.

Let’s say I achieve success, what then?  The pressure to maintain is immense and to exceed - it’s even more so.  Who perpetuates this pressure?  For many of us it’s society but the greater threat lies within the darkness of our own hearts.  The societal gaze is nothing without validation and that validation comes from our self-worth and how grossly entangely that is with achieving success.  There is an expectation of linearity and escalation in progress, if you get good grades you’re expected to keep getting good grades and then some, so it’s shocking and disappointing when you don't.  People wonder how that could’ve happened, you wonder how it could’ve happened, you start to doubt yourself...should you though?  Writer and retired athlete Christopher Bergland challenges the expectation of linearity in success and explained in a conversation with his daughter, “I learned as an athlete that in order to succeed and become the best that I could be, I had to fail again and again—but always keep trying. Inevitably, every time I raised the bar, and took on a new athletic challenge, I would have to fail first in order to ultimately succeed and break a record." He embraced failure as part of the ebb and flow, it was part of success.  To him, failure was no reason for doubt.  So why should it be for me?  I don’t know, because life’s not that simple I suppose?  Identifying as unworthy and fraudulent, these are not easy to shake.  Negative self-identity manifests itself in habitual self-sabotage.  Worrying about how we align with our perceptions of ourselves, procrastination via instant gratification distractions like Instagram scrolling and going back on our promises such as taking that drink we know we shouldn’t become commonplace - habitual and they will take habitual work to undo them.

Even so, is this really just about the burden of ideals?  Perhaps not.  Susanne Babbel writes in her article “Fear of Success'' that the physiological reactions to trauma and excitement over success are similar - too similar. “When we experience a traumatic event — such as a car accident or a school bullying incident — our body associates the fear we experience with the same physiological feelings we get while excited.”  Heart tensions, shortness of breath, quivering and more - they are triggered in me by both stimuli and my body cares not for the messenger, only the message and that message is “be afraid.”  

if I’m responding to excitement as if it were trauma, the question is what is my trauma?  

…

Babbel mentions that throughout our lives, we may be made to feel less than, “many of us — especially if we've been subject to verbal abuse — have been told we were losers our whole lives, in one way or another. We have internalized that feedback and feel that we don't deserve success.”  I knew someone who made me feel like this, I called her my mum.  I spent a lifetime being told by her in one way or another that I wasn’t good enough.  I remember being dragged into the unlit attic by her for losing a crayon as a child, I remember being shouted at for getting some mediocre grades in junior high school - being told that I better do better, I remember being told that she had given up hope on me - I remember, all of it.  We don’t talk anymore - except we do.  I internalised her voice and I made it my own, I began to identify with failure.  I have an excerpt from an old journal entry that illustrates this identity crisis all too well.

                                                                                                                               5.11.20

“Sometimes I really wonder

If it’s better

To be a 

Fuckup

Than a Success

Without

The Interesting Mess.

...Why do I have to compromise the things that make me who I am to be happy?...Why can’t I have my misery?...I hate doing the right thing...Maybe I like being a failure, a mess, a no man’s man.”

By this time I had long since left home but you can’t outrun your demons, only challenge them.  I have only begun to unravel this voice due the therapy I have recently completed and am fighting this battle every day.  Sometimes I lose and they gain territory.  Other times I manage to reclaim it and even add more.  It’s an endless battle.

And yet, the voice of Failure clings to me like some foul smog.  Since he doesn’t want to let me try and fall, he’ll say, “It’s comfortable here.  Flounder into the fondue of failure, it’s what you know - it suits you.  What precisely is so wrong with failure in the first place?”

…

It’s a good question.  In an ideal world, the answer may be, “nothing in particular,” because I don’t need to succeed to be valid - do the people you love need to be successful for you to love them?  I should hope not.  However, it is not so simple for me to love myself.  Failure will cost me something more than money and a career.  The price of failure is stagnation, embracing the non-linearity of progress and I hate that.  I’m grossly impatient and want to move forward with my life, not wallow in the depths of Misery Mires.  I’ve been stuck here all my life and I’ve just begun the journey out of here.  Failure, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t suit me as well as you think.  I must change sometime because I don’t want to die in the claws of the demons from which I was born.

I can’t stay in my comfort zone.  Yet I can - I’d even quite like to.  Why?  Because...because...deep down I’m still reconciling with the idea that I’m worthy, that I’m worthy of living a life worth living, that I can be what I say I am without fear that it’s all a lie and always will be.  The only way for me to challenge such a belief is to fly in the face of it - to say that “I am worthy” and to act like I mean it, whatever that means - I don’t quite know yet.  My therapist and I agreed that this would be a long road and that ideals are nothing without practice.  I guess all I can do now is drive…

“If you aren’t worthy, you’ll keep trying until you are.”   In order for me to be worthy of my ideals, I first need to believe that I even have a shot.  Beyond that, I need to believe that I deserve to take it. Being worthy means recognising my power to change and the responsibility to act that  comes with that.  Simultaneously, my power is not all-controlling as I am only a person.  Success isn’t linear and failure is a part of that.  However the burden of trauma is heavy.  The self-sabatory habits I picked up from that will require me to reinvent my self-identity and in turn deconstruct those habits.   Lastly and perhaps most importantly, I need to be willing to give the process time.  Can I?  Haha! - s-sure, why not?

Perhaps one day I will find myself staring out into the sky - maybe it’s drizzling, maybe it’s not.  Maybe through an apartment window, maybe in a lush field as the gentle breeze brushes by.  The clouds are coasting by as they always have, slowly but surely.  What colour are they?  Who cares, I don’t even know what colour the sky will be.  Maybe it’s illuminated with a lovely peach pink that reaches out and touches the heart of my inner romantic.   Maybe it’s an apocalyptic red that leaves you weak in the knees - the possibilities are endless but it doesn’t matter - it doesn’t matter what may be.  What matters is what will be and 

I will be watching.

I’ll say I’m worthy and

I will mean it.

I don’t know yet know how

But I will

Because that’s what I’ve decided.

[fatefulfaerie]

Blades of the Yiga (Pt. 1/3)

Zelda kicked up sand with every tumultuous step, gasping for breath and feeling as if her lungs would tire.

She panted every breath. Even a short, forced swallow made no difference, her dry throat not soothed in the slightest before her breaths became heavy again.

She took no care to her lightly fisted hands, her impropriety as she ran as fast as she could, shadows of palm trees flitting past her.

Zelda continued to run as she took a look behind her she knew she couldn’t afford, the sight of red making her turn her head back and run even faster.

The outside of her right foot suddenly rolled in the sand, curling in such a wonky way that the oddity was only outweighed by the subsequent and sudden pain. Zelda closed and opened her eyes as it happened, reacting with a deflation of her shoulders, but she readily ignored it. She was determined to survive this, to get back to Gerudo town, to any one of those warriors who would offer her aid.

She kept running with a slight limp, but it was no use, two Yiga warriors sliding in front of her and readying their vicious sickles.

Zelda inhaled at the sight, her breath shaky as she staggered back. She turned quickly around at the mere hope that they were alone, but she only found another red-clad mask-covered Yiga.

She fell backwards onto her hands, softening how hard she hit the sand as her knees bent in front of her. Zelda looked desperately between the two sides, in her green eyes a plea for mercy she couldn’t bring herself to voice.

They approached her and she felt her hope wither away, a single tear dropping upon her cheek as one of the Yiga loomed before her, readying his sickle to strike.

Everything her father said about her being a failure, everything she felt about being alone, it was all true. This world that would grow to hate her for her lack of sealing power, that was endlessly disappointed by her, had left her alone for dead.

She bowed her head and clamped her eyes shut as the Yiga moved his arm to strike forward, preparing herself for pain, for a death and assasination she couldn’t escape.

She heard the cool, slithering, metal graze of a weapon, yet no harm came to her.

Zelda looked up to see why, the movement of her head slow and cautious until she saw not tight, red fabric, but brown leather boots. Her eyes widened and, in her shock, a soft and sharp gasp parted her lips.

It was him, that boy, that knight, that one who was given everything, who pulled the sword that seals the darkness with ease while she still cried before statues upon statues of the goddess Hylia. It was that swordsman who was assigned as her knight attendant and yet seemed undeserving of everything he was given. It was that knight who kept his silence, who she assumed hated her for her incompetence and couldn’t even bring himself to utter a word of anything more than hate.

It was the knight with whom she acted the most improperly, her anger childish and the resentment she felt towards herself lashed out towards him.

It was Link.

He was protecting her, the self she knew deserved protection the least, and by his hand even more so. Yet Link stood there nonetheless, with the light of the sunset shimmering on his sword, scowling at his enemies, all because Zelda was in danger. With one movement of his sword and a flaming threat in his blue eyes, the two remaining Yiga assailants backed away in fear.

Zelda couldn’t stop staring at his determined expression, his courageous battle stance, his beastly blue eyes, his whole being, his whole life devoted to her safety. She felt a jolt in her heart as she watched the gentle breeze run through his dirty-blonde hair and studied his stance that absolutely radiated courage. Nothing would move him, would budge him from how he protected her.

The assailants had fled to the horizon, Link watching them until they no longer could be seen, hidden in cowardice by rampant desert winds. Link turned to Zelda as he lowered his sword.

He looked at her and it looked as if he were choosing his words carefully, the slight furrow in his brow ensuring Zelda that she must prepare for words of hatred, berating her for her defenselessness, for her carelessness, for her powerlessness.

But with a single blink, Zelda saw his eyes change. She had known them as neutral, having adopted the practice of endlessly searching them for any emotion and becoming frustrated when she found none, none to relate to, none to confide in. He was just so perfect that next to her, the failure, she had no choice but to hate him for the comparison the kingdom made. But in one single blink, Link’s eyes changed from a neutrality that burned--that to her, read like hatred--to something just a bit softer.  

Zelda was completely flummoxed as she tried to read it, Link sheathing his sword and taking a slight pause before he knelt before her, meeting her eye-line.

“Are you okay?” Link asked, Zelda recognizing the emotion as concern. Link was concerned for her. These bright blue eyes weren’t filled with hate or contempt or anything of the sort. And yet, that is exactly what she had thrown towards him. Her guilt bubbled and rose.

Zelda nodded, figuring she needed to respond in some way, the first of many things to make up for her childishness.

“I’m so glad I was here in time,” Link said. He didn’t blame her at all.

Zelda took a deep breath. She could hardly believe she was actually talking to him, having a conversation with him.

“So am I,” Zelda said in reply, Link standing back up. He offered his hand.

Zelda’s hand was hesitant as she reached to take it. Their fingertips brushed and that jolt in her heart returned. Their palms met and his fingers, his secure clasp felt like the safest thing in the world.

Link obviously took not notice of her newfound revelations as he pulled her up to standing.

He was about to detach his hand when she crumbled at the weight upon her two feet, Link hurriedly catching her other arm to keep her up.

“Your Highness?” Link asked, searching the pain in her face before his gaze went down to her foot, floating around her other ankle.

“I think I hurt my foot,” she said. “When I was running.”

Her face winced again as she tried to put weight on it. Link felt the way she clamped his hand.

“Don’t try,” he insisted. “We’ll get back to Gerudo Town, don’t worry.”

Zelda nodded as Link looked at how far it was. The distance wasn’t too great, but it was nothing he would ever force her to walk in her condition.

“Your Highness,” he said, returning his gaze. “Is it alright if I carry you?”

Zelda gave quick nods in affirmation.

Link brought one arm around her upper back and another behind her knees. Before she knew it, Zelda felt Link sweep her off her feet and into his strong hold. She slid her arms loosely around his neck.

“I’ll leave you with the guards at the front entrance,” Link said as he walked holding her. “They’ll take care of you. It’s obvious you feel I’m not the right knight attendant for you. I’ll go ahead and inform the king. The Gerudo will protect you from the Yiga until the king finds someone better suited to your standards.”

“No,” Zelda said. Link looked at her with a very slight surprise. Zelda wondered if she was getting better at reading those calm waters of his or if he was getting better at expressing them. “I want you.”

Zelda watched his neutrality return as his glance shifted beyond her to Gerudo Town. She wondered if he heard her before he spoke again.

“There’s a way for me to get into Gerudo Town,” Link said. “Urbosa told me about it and it does work. If you would like me to stay with you--”

“I do,” Zelda interrupted.

Link said no more, but Zelda could feel him changing from walking a straight line to veering away, likely to avoid the main entrance.

She stayed in his arms in silence, eventually tipping her head against his chest and waiting until the rhythm of his steps subsided. Zelda’s head popped up as he placed her against the outside wall of Gerudo Town.

Zelda could tell they were at the very backside, Link bringing a single finger to his mouth. They may not be seen but they could very well be heard, the throne room very close. Urbosa may know of the secret way in, but her own attendants and warriors did not.

Zelda watched with her back against the stone wall as Link dug in the sand, unearthing delicate Gerudo vai attire, hued with blues and greens. Link brushed off lingering sand as Zelda figured it out, Zelda’s hand going to her mouth.

Link stood up with the folded clothes in his hand, seeing Zelda’s silent reaction, the way her green eyes danced with an encroaching laughter.

He slightly tipped his head to one side.

Link put down the clothes, pointing at her before placing his hands over his eyes, his hands returning to his sides once he felt his point was made.

Zelda bit her lip to stop herself from laughing as she covered her eyes with her hands and closed her eyes. She heard the rustling of fabric and surprised herself by wanting to sneak a peek.

Before long, she felt his foot tap hers, the non-injured one, of course, Zelda opening her eyes to see Link standing over her.

Only he was so separated from the stoic knight she saw just a few moments ago. He was dressed in light, Gerudo fabrics and in fact made quite the convincing vai to the naked eye. Zelda in particular found herself staring at the muscles exposed by the revealing garb, his arms, his abs…

She rid herself of that train of thought by remembering he was dressed in clothes meant for a woman. Zelda stifled a laugh as best she could.

Link shook his head as he picked her back up. Zelda inwardly questioned her composure as she felt her cheeks warm at how close she was against his skin, her arms draped around his bare and, admittedly strong, shoulders.

“It’s the only way in,” she heard Link whisper as they approached a smaller entrance, a Gerudo guard nodding as they entered the town.

“I get it,” she said back, now actively resisting leaning against his chest.

“Take me to Urbosa,” Zelda said. “She will know where we can stay, and fetch a doctor. Not to mention she is likely worried sick.”

Link paced the steps up to the throne room, Urbosa standing up immediately.

“What happened?” She insisted as she walked forward.

“Link saved me from a Yiga attack,” Zelda explained. “But I hurt my ankle beforehand trying to run.”

“Take her to my chambers upstairs,” Urbosa said, addressing Link. “I’ll fetch a doctor immediately.”

Link nodded.

[queenof-literature]

Wolfie

Wild meets Wolfie. The second part of my series, Hero of Wild! 

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778263

AO3: queenofliterature

Link could always talk in his dreams.

He didn’t know why, it always came out as a painful gargled mess in real life. Once, one of the treasure hunters at Dueling Peaks Stable heard him trying to talk to himself and said he sounded like a demented toddler, causing both brothers to cackle. He kept trying, he could feel the words on the tip of his tongue and each time he thought for sure he could reach them. He never did. There weren’t always cruel words when he tried to talk, sometimes it was just scathing glares like the gossiping women in Hateno. Sometimes it was mothers dragging their children away from him as if he were a rabid dog. Eventually, Link never talked again. Not that he couldn’t take a joke, but he was the Hylian Champion. What would people say if they heard their champion talking like that? Not to mention that using his voice sent waves of fire through his throat. Enough people knew sign language, he could get by with a notebook if he had too. It was fine.

It wasn’t fine.

Watching all the other Links chat the long traveling days away hurt more than he expected. They were fun, and they understood him in ways others didn’t. They were Heroes of Courage too, they knew how hard the expectations could be. But Link, or, Wild now, wasn’t one of them. He had failed his Zelda, his Hyrule, and his friends. Why should he deserve new friends? But a selfish part of him wished he could talk to them. Wished he didn’t have to try and wave for their attention to add an abysmal amount to their conversation that had already left without him. It wasn’t their fault they could talk. It wasn’t fair to ask them to slow down so he could sign something half of them didn’t understand completely. Apparently, sign had changed over the centuries.

He wanted so badly to be able to talk. He had so much to say, so much that his Zelda had taught him and what he had learned on his adventure. Did they know how cooking hot-footed frogs bring out certain properties that are cancelled out when combined with other materials with hidden properties? He had done so many experiments with his cooking and he had found out so much! Oh well. He’d probably just annoy them anyway. That’s what happened when he talked in his dreams. People would make fun of his voice. Zelda would make fun of him for being a failure who can’t even talk properly. The other champions would blame him for his death, and when they didn’t they told him to shut up and do his job, in his dreams he never took his vow of silence. He thinks he had dreams, deep in the Shrine of Resurrection. His death on loop, his failures repeating in his mind. Sleeping leads to dreams.

He didn’t like dreams.

~

Twilight had the last watch tonight, although Wild tried to take over a watch every single night. Twilight tried to connect with Wild, he really did. He just didn’t know how. Focusing on everything was hard to do. If Wild wanted someone’s attention, he had to wave and hope they noticed. He would never go out of his way to gain someone’s attention, and he would never do more than a little wave. Sometimes Twilight would be able to catch it and ask who he wanted. Most of the time it was just little facts about his Hyrule. He was trying to be helpful and Twilight appreciated it. It was just hard to communicate with the shy boy. Especially when they were walking, when they all had to look out for monsters.

Twilight could see why his name was Wild. In that battle against the Lynel, he was an elegant force of chaos, breaking equipment, finding odd ways out of a situation, and seeing the battlefield in ways no one did. That was his element, the wild. Twilight wanted to get to know him in his environment, but it’s not like he wanted to chuck the boy into danger. He just wanted to see that spark again. Ever since Wild joined the group, the hollow spot he felt wasn’t so hollow. He never told anyone, he would sound insane, but Wild was meant to be here the entire time. Twilight just didn’t understand why Hylia waited so long.

Speaking of Wild, the boy was sleeping curled up in his thin bed roll away from the campfire at the edge of camp. He wanted to sleep further away, but everytime he tried Time told him to get at least within the bounds of camp, as to not be taken by a monster in the middle of the night. Wild huffed through his nose, but did as he was told.

Everything about him was a paradox. He was untamed, and yet he wasn’t disrespectful. His scarred face showed experience, but his age showed adolescence. His eyes were ancient and haunted, but also carefree and bright. Wild was a conundrum that Twilight and the others desperately wanted to solve.

Wild came with so many questions. Why couldn’t he talk? Was it physical with the scars on his neck? Mental, with the anxiety he clearly faced? Both? Neither? Did he just hate them? Twilight and the others had no idea.

Something about Wild made the wolf within him claw to get out. Not in an angry way, or a way that hurt. But in a way that the wolf wanted to help him, protect him, and ease his pain. He wanted Wild to talk to him and to trust him. Perhaps it was him being jealous of Warriors and Wind, and he shouldn’t pull Wild into his jealousy. No… it was deeper than that.

It felt like Wild was to Twilight as Twilight was to Time. Damn. He’d have to talk to the Old Man about this tomorrow.

~

“Link.”

“Link.”

“Link!”

Link’s eyes snapped open, only to be met with a lid of glass, surrounded by water. No no no. Not again. He didn’t die again. He didn’t. He didn’t fail again!

“Link, you failed me.” The voice was Zelda’s.

“No. Please Zelda this is a mistake. I’m coming. Let me out! Zelda I’m coming!” Link screamed, slamming his hands against the glass, hands turning red. But the glass didn’t budge.

“You left me, Link. You arrive one hundred years late to stop Calamity and you disappear two weeks later. I’m rebuilding a kingdom and you’re playing hero. You think your shiny new friends care? You’ll kill them, just like your last ones.” Zelda’s voice filled his ears no matter how hard Link covered them.

“No! Zelda I’ll come back! They need my help! The Master Sword told me!” Link pleaded.

“So now you feel your connection to the sword? I prayed for seventeen years. You don’t deserve the sword Link. You deserve nothing.” Water began to rise within the chamber. Link panicked and banged on the glass once more, but nothing changed. Nothing would ever change.

~

Twilight was twenty minutes into last watch when he heard soft noises coming from within camp. Twilight sighed, there were many restless nights with eigh-nine Heroes of Courage in one place. Whether it be nightmares, insomnia, the Heroes of Courage sometimes just had a hard time with sleep. But someone would sense it and wake up to comfort their friends. Twilight was close with them, but he didn’t want to step on any toes or cross any boundaries.

Hm. He should have heard rustling by now, one of the other heroes rising to comfort another one. But all he heard were the same soft noises becoming increasingly strained. Now that he thought about it, Wild hadn’t slept in the past few days they were together…

Twilight whipped around and looked at Wild from across the campfire. His scarred face was pulled into a pained expression, even from what little Twilight could see under the hood he insisted on keeping pulled up, even in sleep. His skin was pale and clammy, and his hands were scratching at his scars, turning them a bright red. Oh Hylia, Wild suffered from nightmares, and pretty terrible ones if they all looked like this. Perhaps he hadn’t slept at all since they were grouped together because of them. Wild seemed like the type to be embarrassed at needing help. They all were to an extent.

Twilight desperately thought of a solution. If it were the others, he could wake them up and give them reassurances or a gentle hug, depending on who it was. But with Wild, he had no ideas. Wild didn’t like to be touched at all so he couldn’t imagine he’d be very keen to affection after a horrifying nightmare, Twilight knew for a fact he slept with a knife and his slate nearby. But he couldn’t just leave the kid alone in a nightmare that would probably only escalate. Shit, what did he like? Maybe Twilight could throw a rock at him to wake him up? Hylia no that’s an awful idea. Shit he was so bad at this. Oh wait! Animals! Wild loves animals just like him! He could transform into a wolf and be gone by morning. It wasn’t ideal, Wild wouldn’t assume he spoke sign and therefore wouldn’t be able to talk, but he could at least offer physical comfort if Wild wanted.

He would have to be careful. The others knew about Wolfie, but if Twilight wasn’t there come morning, they would panic and wonder where he was and why he left them unprotected. And Wild hadn’t met Wolfie yet, and there were many savage animals in his Hyrule. This wasn’t his best idea, but it was the only one he had. Slowly, Twilight crept out of camp. Not far enough to leave the camp unwatched, but far enough from prying eyes who might happen to be awake. His transformation to Wolfie didn’t really hurt anymore, it was just the uncomfortable feeling of bones shifting. Once he was fully transformed, he silently trotted back to the edge of camp where Wild was.

What was the best way to go about this? He certainly did not want to get stabbed if Wild saw a giant wolf looming over him. So maybe a quick wet nose to the face then back up? Yes that seemed best. Twilight stalked forward, pressing his nose between the hands scratching at scars to stop him before he hurt himself further, then quickly backing away as Wild jolted awake with a small gasp and grabbed the rusted knife under his bedroll. Wide eyes gazed rapidly around for a threat. Wolfie shrunk down and whined, trying to make himself look as nonthreatening as possible.

~

Link gasped awake. A threat. His hand immediately went to his knife, desperately looking around to what was trying to kill him tonight. Yiga? Bokoblin? Moblin? After frantic eyes scanned the whole area, they landed on a hunched over wolf, stunning Li-no Wild. That’s right, he was in the camp with the other heroes. Keeping the knife in front of him, he eyed the wolf suspiciously. Wolves didn’t act like this, they would have bit him immediately since he was at the edge of camp. He knew he should have slept in a tree like always, but it seemed rude to be up high and more protected than his new group. The wolf, still having his head down slightly, approached him slowly. Not in the slow stalking motion that meant it was waiting for an opening. It almost seemed inviting. Wild wished he could talk to it. Was it hungry? He could spare some food but he didn’t want other wolves coming to this area. What in Hylia was going on?

~

Twilight continued to approach slowly, watching the knife wearily. Wild let him approach, though Twilight could tell he was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? At least Wild has some sort of self preservation. Soon, Twilight was at the knife. This was the moment of truth. He ducked under the knife and sniffed Wild’s hand, before nuzzling it slightly. Wild almost dropped the knife in shock, blue eyes wide. Twilight began to walk closer to Wild, before huffing and laying his head down in his lap. Looking up, he saw the clear shock on Wild’s face. Hesitant and shaking hands reached to pat his fur. Once he realized it was okay, Wild buried his hands into soft fur. Twilight wagged happily that his plan had worked, until he felt something wet on his head. It seemed the soothing motion only had Wild’s nightmare come back full force. Wolfie whined guiltily.

Wild attempted to tell him he was okay, but all that came out were rasps and words so broken Twilight couldn’t even begin to comprehend them. Twilight’s heart broke for the boy. It seemed he really wasn’t physically able to talk. Wild’s hands went to scratch at his neck and face again, but Wolfie intervened. He wanted the boy to cope however he could, but he didn’t want Wild to hurt himself. Wolfie sat up and nuzzled into Wild’s neck to prevent his hands from reaching it. Wild tried to say something but Wolfie couldn’t understand no matter how much he tried. Wild’s dam broke completely as he buried his face into Wolfie’s fur and cried, trying to use the fur to muffle any sounds he made. Twilight stayed the entire time, even as Wild’s small cries turned to hiccups and he got drowsy, Wolfie stayed.

His original plan was to leave as soon as Wild fell back asleep, but the teen had all but collapsed on him as they laid down. He didn’t have the heart to move and possibly wake the boy, leaving him alone to transform back into Twilight who he felt he couldn’t open up to yet. So Wolfie stayed. Time could make up an excuse for him in the morning, he was the only one who knew. He would see Wild draped on top of him and the tear tracks on the younger’s face and know what happened. As a wolf, he had better senses. If something came close to them, he would know. For now, he stayed by Wild’s side.

~

Time’s eye opened a crack, he’s always one of the earliest risers in the group. He sat up, back cracking slightly from sleeping on the ground before turning to say good morning to his protege on watch. Time froze when he realized his protege was nowhere to be found. He grabbed his Biggoron Sword and stood quickly. Twilight wouldn’t just leave them unguarded. Time’s eyes scanned the area, before landing on their newest addition draped on the wolf form of his protege. Time’s posture relaxed, although his abrupt rising woke some others in their party. Legend and Warriors had also awoken.

“Seems the new guy has finally met Wolfie.” Legend smirked at the sight before him, smirk only dropping when he noticed the tear tracks on Wild’s face.

“Seems like he had a rough night.” Warriors commented. “Leave it to our resident wolf to cheer him up.”

Wolfies’ eyes peeked open glaring slightly at the other heroes, almost daring them to wake the boy on top of him before dozing off once more. Time chuckled slightly. Seems his protege was a little protective over their newest member.

“Where’s Twilight?” Warriors asked, masking his concern. “He wouldn’t leave us to the monsters would he?”

“No.” Time shook his head. “Wolfie isn’t panicking so I’m sure he’s just checking the perimeter or scavenging. He wouldn’t leave us without Wolfie here to alert us.” Time resonated. He held back his relief when the others bought his excuse. Time smiled once again at Wolfie and Wild, not making too much noise and risk waking the others. Breakfast could wait a little while.

[littlemisslol-fic]

Summary: Two years after the events of Barviel Keep, Varian has tried to adapt to the expectations brought by being a King’s Ward, with mixed results. Haunted by ghosts, Varian is forced to face the demons he tried to leave behind in Bayangor when his abdication is forcibly stopped by a third party, out for revenge against the Bayan Royal bloodline. On the run, with few allies left to turn to, Varian finds himself chasing a ghost through a series of tests that only a true heir of Demanitus could ever hope to pass.But the shadows are ever present, looming and dark, and not everything is as simple as it might seem.

Notes: It's the beginning of the end.

Varian’s feet were glued to the floor. The absolute shock of seeing Merrick— if he was here, where was Arianna?— standing in front of him— how had he gotten here so quickly?— was more than enough to leave Varian stunned. His brain was trying to parcel through too many questions at once, he couldn’t keep track; his mind was firing on so many synapses at once that it wasn’t registering any of them.

Eugene and Rapunzel were already reaching for their weapons, frying pan and sword ready. Varian stuttered to life enough to begin grabbing for his alchemy belt, only to realize that he didn’t have anything left. He’d used the last of it against Cerise. The feeling of dread in his guts only multiplied at that, especially when Merrick began to move.

The mage pushed himself off the wall, casual and calm in a direct contrast to the Coronians in front of him. Merrick paced outside the threshold of the door, eying the invisible line between the rooms. Varian was reminded of a prowling animal, like Hector’s bearcats. With a small, testing motion Merrick stuck a boot out, smirking when it crossed the barrier with no trouble. Merrick did a little hop over the barrier, as if expecting to be stopped, and delighting when he wasn’t.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do that?” he asked them. When none of the Coronians replied, he continued on his own. “Because it’s been a hot minute, let me tell you. Ol’ Geldam had this place locked tight for centuries, trying to keep me and mine out.”

He shrugged, looking around the room with a sense of smug satisfaction. When his eyes landed on Varian, his grin sharpened.

“Good thing his descendant turned out to be a bit of an idiot, huh?”

Rapunzel scowled, pointing at Merrick with her frying pan. “You leave him alone!” she demanded.

Merrick paused at his place at the top of the stairs. He focused on her frying pan, like one would stare down the barrel of a gun. He pursed his lips, arching a brow.

“Hm, right,” he said, “You two are still here. I’ll be real I was hoping it would just be the crow alone, but I can make this work.”

He brought up a hand, waving flippantly. On cue, a group of people appeared from thin air, the room shuddering with the series of loud pops that rang through the air. Varian flinched at the loud noise, whirling around and tensing up when he saw they were surrounded. He turned back, letting out a shout when he saw figures sneaking up on his friends.

“Look out!” he yelped, a second too late. Rapunzel and Eugene let out twin cries when they were grabbed from behind, their arms drawn back. The clatter of sword and pan against marble were damning, rattling around in Varian’s skull and finally shaking him to action. He ran for the closest weapon— Rapunzel’s pan— only to feel a hand on his wrist jerking him to a halt.

Merrick held quick, even when Varian tried to pull away. The alchemist hadn’t even noticed him moving, when had he even—

“Ah-ha, nope,” Merrick chided him, “None of that, thank you. You’ve got a job to do.”

“Let go!” Varian demanded, trying to yank his arm out of Merrick’s metal grasp. “Let go!”

The man scoffed, shaking Varian’s wrist roughly. “Let go,” he mocked, “Sheesh, get something original maybe. At this rate it’s not even fun, just pathetic.”

He dragged Varian back toward the tomb, rough and uncaring when Varian nearly fell over. Instead, Merrick merely wrapped an oppressive arm around the alchemist’s shoulders, keeping him in place. Varian cringed, unable to keep from tensing under the deceptively casual touch. Merrick may have been playing like things were fine, but Varian could see the underlying danger.

“Don’t touch him!” Eugene shouted; his cry cut off when the man holding his arms yanked him back. The brunet yelped at the feeling of his arms being drawn too far, stressing his shoulders and forcing him to be quiet. Merrick snickered, turning back to Varian.

“Do you know why we led you here?” he asked. “Because I assume you’ve figured out that mommy dearest isn’t around, hm?”

Varian swallowed the knot in his throat, shuddering. All of this had been for nothing. He’d lead Rapunzel and Eugene across the map and directly into a trap, gods he was so stupid—

“Why?” is all he was able to choke out, tears starting to well up. He’d wanted so badly for it to be her, been blind to everything, Eugene and Rapunzel had both tried to warn him and he’d just ignored it, and now they were all paying for it. The crushing feeling of failure, an old friend by now, sprung to life in Varian’s chest, cloying and overwhelming. He’d been such an idiot. Merrick, uncaring of the crisis he’d just sparked in Varian, only snorted, gesturing to the coffin.

“Because of your blood, of course,” he said, as if that explained anything. When Varian remained quiet, Merrick continued. “Geldam was a tricky old rat, I’ll give him that. He stolefrom my family, and to protect his ill gotten gains, he created this place.”

He gestured around the tomb, and to the center dais. “We’ve been trying to break into here for yearsto get our property back. But once it was locked down, only one of his heirs could open it with blood, willingly given. He knew exactly what he was doing, that bastard. Knew that no one from his family would open the tomb, or his coffin.”

Varian shuddered, leaning away from the podium. Merrick seemed delighted with his fear, patting Varian on the shoulder in sarcastic comfort.

“Cerise thought if we forged a letter, it would have drawn you out,” the mage admitted. “But after a few months the trap was still there, and you were still locked up tight in your pretty castle— so we elected to go with my more… direct approach.” The mage sighed, huffing a laugh. “I guess her plan ended up working, in the long run; she’s probably laughing at me right now.”

Varian’s eyes squeezed shut, trying to force the tears back. He wouldn’t cry, not here, not now— this was all his fault, who was he to cry about it? He shook his head roughly, trying to dispel the despair. He was such an idiot.

“Aw, jeeze, you’re not gunna cry already, are you?” Merrick patted Varian’s shoulder in false comfort, “We’ve barely gotten started!”

Varian shoved at him; strategy be damned, he couldn’t help but lash out. That got Merrick to let him go, a win, but Varian’s arms were immediately caught by two masked adults, a new problem. Merrick danced out of the way of Varian’s blow, snickering. Once Varian was contained he drew close again, taunting.

“What?” he leaned close to Varian’s face, tilting his head. “Did you reallythink Queen Crow was still alive after all this time? That she’d survived in a place like this—” he gestured around the tomb, his voice echoing, “—just for the hell of it?”

He leaned closer to Varian, so their noses were nearly touching. Varian couldn’t help but flinch away, squirming back for as much space between them as possible. Merrick seemed to revel in Varian’s discomfort, leaning all the closer.

“You didn’t really, right?” his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard of you; you’re supposed to be smart. So why did you come?”

Varian remained quiet. He tasted salt on his cheeks. Merrick’s eyebrows furrowed, almost confused. “You wanted her to be alive that badly, hm? Wanted mommy to come make things better?”

“Shut up,” Varian choked out, shaking his head. “I- you don’t know anything.” His voice was barely over a whine, he couldn’t muster up anything beyond that. Merrick’s confusion flipped again, back to the smug mockery.

“Ha, there he is!” Varian got a pat to the head for his trouble. “Thought you’d forgotten how to talk for a second there.”

“Leave him alone!” Rapunzel demanded from behind them, kicking a bare foot at the mage in front of her. Merrick paused, attention shifting from Varian and onto the older woman. Merrick seemed annoyed at the interruption.

“Wanna knock it off, princess?” he asked, “I don’t really have the patience for you right now.”

“You are going to let us go.” Rapunzel’s voice was strong, regal. Commanding. Like a proper queen.

Merrick only let out a loud laugh at that, popping a hip and leaning against Geldam’s coffin with a casual air. Rapunzel held strong, spine straight and her eyes set in a glare. The mage seemed unhappy with how she refused to be scared by him, but Merrick only played it off with a flippant shrug.

“Am I now?” he asked her. “Because something tells me you’re in no place to be making demands, no ma’am. In fact, I’d say that if you don’t want me to just kill the Crow and drain him like a pig over that coffin, you’d do best to hold your tongue.”

Varian flinched at the threat, a shudder inadvertently crawling up his spine. Willingly given, he repeated to himself in a twisted attempt at comfort. The blood has to be willingly given. He can’t kill me until he gets what he wants.

Rapunzel seemed to figure the same, as she kept pushing. “You’ve committed crimes against Corona and her people,” she spat the words like the insult they were. “No matter what you think you’ve won by tricking us here, it won’t mean anything when you’re put on trial—“

Merrick only laughed, shrugging. “I’d loveto see them try and make a prison that could keep me in,” he challenged. “Let alone meet the person you send to try and catch me. That’s the thing with magic, you see. Makes us a pain in the ass, for people like you.”

“Like me?”

“Perfectionists,” Merrick said blandly, “Goodie-two-shoes. Boot lickers. Whatever you want to call it. You and yours sit up there in your perfectcastles, living your perfect lives, and you don’t ever notice that the people on the ground level are suffering. Aldred was the same.”

“Aldred was a monster—“

“And you all were bloody aware of that!” Merrick actually raised his voice for the first time. Varian flinched again, rattling the armor of the Bayan who held him in place. That seemed to divert Merrick’s attention from Rapunzel and back onto the boy, who shook as the older teenager approached.

“Your father caused so much suffering,” he hissed, getting into Varian’s face once more. “And for so long, the only people who were willing to do anything about it were my family. We sacrificed so much to see him dead, all while the other nations stood by and let it happen. And now we find out that he left one last little stain on the world. It’s my duty to wash it away. Hell, you could even call it my destiny.”

Merrick straightened, taking a breath. He forced himself to relax, the tenseness in his spine slowly uncurling. When he turned back to Rapunzel, it was back to the strange, flippant calm he’d had before.

“You and your family only cared when Aldred took something that you thought was yours,” he flatly accused. “Bayangor had been in a spiral for centuries before then, but you didn’t care to do a thing until it directly affected you. Corona may pretend to be innocent, but there’s a special type of evil in people who are willing to stand by and let others suffer.”

Rapunzel seemed at a loss for words, shaking her head quietly. “You can’t blame us for things that happened before we were even born!” She seemed truly confused by it. “Corona is helping Bayangor now, Aldred is dead now, isn’t that exactly what you wanted?”

“I want my birthright.” Merrick said. “And if I have to break a few spines to get it, then so be it.”

He looked back to Varian, arching a brow. “I really didn’t think luring you here was going to work,” he admitted. “I thought for sure I’d have to drag you here kicking and screaming. That was the plan, you know.” He scratched his chin in thought. “To grab you at the coronation. Bring you here, force you into this. If I’d known it was going to be this easy I would have just dangled a turkey leg on a string or something.”

He shrugged, gesturing to his men with a wave. “Ah, such is life. Search them,” he said, approaching the coffin with more interest. It seemed to rumble with a hazy kind of energy when he got too close, the stone lid rattling. It was obvious that the enchantment was reacting negatively to Merrick’s presence. Varian couldn’t help but feel a little fascinated by it, the intricacies that would have been needed, but his attention was drawn away by the feeling of hands patting him down.

Varian scowled as one of the Bayans holding his arms began to root through his pockets. From the sounds Eugene and Rapunzel were making, they were getting the same rough treatment; clattering noises echoed around the tomb as miscellaneous objects were tossed to the ground. Varian aimed a kick at one of his captors, only for the woman to avoid it and smack him for his trouble.

The woman ripped the note and adder stone from Varian’s pocket, holding them up to the light.

“Sir.” Merrick turned, taking the items from her. Varian scowled; even if the note was fake, made by Cerise and Merrick, the stone was something that had been given to him. It was his—

“Where did you get this?” Merrick’s voice was strained. He held the adder stone up in the torchlight, gaze intense on the little runes. They shone bright gold, much too bright to be a reflection of the torches. Varian could just see through the hole in the middle, the desaturated gray of the stone, before Merrick brought his attention back with a snap of his fingers. The boy scowled, playing petulant.

“Found it,” Varian immediately shot back. He wasn’t about to give up Ori, even if the man seemed to have a trick or two up his sleeve. The man was hiding for a reason, even if it had nothing to do with the tomb. Varian had thought that Ori had meant to help in the search for Aisha, but if this place was where he meant, then the adder stone truly had been the best thing to give Varian. When they met again, he’d have to thank the mage for his help.

If they ever met again.

The man in front of him wasn’t pleased with the answer Varian gave, if the pissy expression on his face was any indication. It made Varian feel a pulse of pride; he still had the ability to get under people’s skin when it mattered, apparently.

“Try again,” Merrick snapped. “I recognize the handwriting. Next wrong answer loses you a finger. Where. Did you. Get this?”

“A friend,” Varian shrugged. Merrick’s face only got darker. The man turned to the room at large, holding up the adder stone. It shone brightly, distractingly so. Merrick held it like it was trash, loose and delicate like he couldn’t bear to have contact with it for longer than necessary.

“Lookie what the crow found.” Merrick showed the stone to his men, dangling it between two fingers. “Looks like one of my siblings has swapped sides.”

The Bayans all made the appropriate noises of disgust or anger; Varian almost rolled his eyes from the theatrics of it. Gods it seemed that whole family was made of showmen.

“Guess that lunatic isn’t as dead as I thought.” Merrick mused. “Great to know he turned traitor; it’ll make hunting him down easy enough. I am going to need a hobby once this is done.”

He flicked the stone up into the air, like one would a coin, but instead of catching it Merrick let it drop to the floor. It hit with a crack, the adder stone shattering like glass. Shards scattered everywhere, disappearing around the room. Varian winced when it did— he’d liked the little stone, it had been a small comfort in the darkness of the tomb.

Merrick watched it smash, uncaring.

“Anything else?” he asked his men, who all responded with a negative. “Wonderful. Let’s get this show on the road then, shall we?”

The soldiers holding Varian pulled him closer to the coffin. The boy struggled, trying to dig the heels of his boots into the floor, but the polished marble offered no purchase. They dragged him up on top of the small platform, holding him tight as Varian tried one last yank of his arms. Their grip was like steel, Quirin’s cloak nearly tearing under their fingers. Varian found himself face to face with their attacker and tried to keep the shaking in his hands hidden.

“So, Varian.” Merrick’s voice was nearly a purr. Varian stilled when he felt gloved fingers grab at his chin, his whole body tensing at the horribly familiar act.

He was trapped, entombed in stone and dark oak wood. A thousand portraits stared down at him, glaring, watching, examining, like a bug under a microscope. Father, right in front of him, holding him in place and keeping him under the rushing waves, suffocating him, drowning him—

“I have a little job for you.” Merrick’s voice cut through the haze of memories. Not father, though someone who proved just as much of a threat. “Just a favor, if you don’t mind.”

“Go to hell,” Varian tried to force himself to stand straight. If not for his family, then at least for himself. Merrick seemed taken aback for a second, blinking, before letting his hand drop from Varian’s chin.

“Oh, ho, so the crows got some iron, after all.” Merrick snorted, a rough rush of air. “Cute. No, okay, I know I phrased it like a request, but you really don’t get a choice here.”

“Blood has to be willingly given, right?” Varian kept his chin high. His hands shook behind his back. “I don’t care why you want in there. You get in that coffin over my dead body.”

Merrick pursed his lips, considering. “Hm, we’re growing a spine now, are we? Final hour show of bravery?”

Varian didn’t reply, keeping the scowl firmly on his face. Just like old times, something cynical in him whispered. Rapunzel definitely would be able to tell this was a fear response. A choice of fight from fight or flight. She knew him well enough to see the false bravado, though hopefully Merrick would fall for it, just as Frederick did, all those years ago.

Merrick tilted his head, appraising. He seemed to pause in thought, thick eyebrows knitting together. Varian held his stare, locking down his emotions and trying to hold himself together under the fear. Merrick suddenly straightened, seemingly finding his silent answer. He looked over Varian’s head, toward where Rapunzel and Eugene were.

“Kill Fitzherbert.”

Varian let out a wordless shout, kicking his feet out and pulling against the people holding him still.

“No!” he screamed, falling on deaf ears. Panic flare up his spine, desperate and cloying. He couldn’t focus on anything other than where a man was taking Eugene’s sword off the ground and unsheathing it. He yelled again, a garbled mix of curses and rage as he aimed another kick at Merrick in an attempt to stop what was happening.

Rapunzel was frantic, panicking, the woman forcibly dragged back from her husband and grabbed by the hair. Varian winced when her head was yanked back, obviously painful from the way she yelped. The men pushed Eugene so he was nearly bent over, the third one raising the sword high. It gleamed in the torchlight, shiny and dreadful. Varian screamed again, choking it out through the knot in his throat.

“Wait!” he shrieked, voice going squeaky, “Wait, wait! I’ll do it! WAIT!”

Merrick, still next to Varian, held up a hand. The man with the sword paused, the blade held high over Eugene’s prone neck.

“Care to repeat?” Merrick’s voice was smug. Varian scowled, tugging his arms out of the grip of the soldiers behind him. They let him go, surprisingly, letting Varian get into Merrick’s face for once. Even if he was shorter, it was more than enough to give Varian his voice back.

“I’ll do it,” he spat. “If you let them go.”

Merrick arched a brow. “Really?” he asked, “What, do they owe you money?”

Varian’s glare only intensified. “Let them go.” He took a small step back. “Or neither of us get what we want.”

Merrick’s grin sharpened. “Open it,” he ordered. “And they’ll walk away. We both know I’m not here for them.” The man held out a knife, holding it by the blade. “I assume you know what to do.”

Varian’s world focused down to the knife in front of him. He could hear Rapunzel and Eugene behind him, telling him not to do it, that they would be fine, but he couldn’t find it within himself to believe it.

He’d gotten them into this. It was his responsibility to get them out.

He took the knife from Merrick, holding it in a shaking grip. The blade glittered in the firelight. It looked razor sharp, with an ornate handle of carved bone. Obviously old, but well cared for. Interesting. Varian had barely touched the thing when he heard his sister speak up behind him.

“Varian,” Rapunzel’s voice was shaky. “Look at me.”

He turned to her, trying to keep his breathing even. Her chest heaved, the princess tugging at the restraining grip on her arms; Rapunzel shook her head frantically, her hair swinging every direction.

“Don’t.”

Her voice was strong, but her eyes were blown wide in fear. Eugene, to her left, looked pale, spooked. It was obvious how he felt about the whole situation. Varian shot them what he hoped was an easy smile, pushing down the fear. He must have failed, from the way she refused to look away.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “I promise.”

Rapunzel’s expression got even more horrified, struggling again. “Varian!” she shrieked, her volume only getting louder when he turned away from her. “Varian!”

He stepped toward the coffin, breathing deeply. He held the knife so tightly it nearly dug into the leather of his glove. He could sense Merrick looming behind him, making absolutely clear that he wasn’t trusted to keep his word. Varian shook the feeling of eyes on his back— he quietly took his left glove off, looking down at the wound he’d made before to get the door open. With a grimace he pushed the blade into the cut, breaking into the skin once again and drawing a well of blood to the surface.

The wound had barely had time to close, so he didn’t have to press hard, but it still sent a sharp sting rattling up his arm. He stood before the coffin, sucking in a deep breath before he held his hand out over the chalice in the statue’s hand. With a damning plip, blood began to drip from his cut and into the cup. Varian wasn’t positive that was where he was supposed to bleed on the creepy statue, but it seemed as good a place as any.

Everyone held their breath. Even Merrick and his men seemed frozen, waiting for something to happen. The mage was impatient, stepping up to Varian’s side and eying the statue.

“What’s it going to do?” he asked, eyes following another drop of blood as it fell into the cup.

“You think I know?” Varian shot back, “You’re the one who wanted to be here.”

Merrick pulled a face, sneering. He opened his mouth, probably to make another threat, when both teenagers were startled when the statue in front of them began to move.

Varian stumbled back out of instinct, well versed in magical bullshit by this point. He watched with a twisted sense of fascination as, with the grinding noise of stone on stone, the statue slowly rumbled to life. It sat up, much like a human would. Its face was static, unmoving, unblinking. It was creepy, to be honest, the way it turned its unwavering gaze around them all. It seemed to linger on Varian, making him take another step back; he didn’t much appreciate being watched by a creepy carving, thank you.

The statue of Geldam slowly raised the cup up, bringing it to its lips and tipping it back. Varian nearly gagged once he realized what it was doing.

It was drinking his blood.

Disgusting.

The statue seemed content with the offering. It slowly lowered the cup from its face and took one last look around the tomb before settling back down to lay on the top of the coffin once more. Once it was back in place, the whole lid began to shift, moving to the side and exposing the interior of the coffin at last.

Varian shuffled forward, unable to help it. He briefly heard Rapunzel and Eugene telling him to get away from it, but he couldn’t resist leaning over and taking a peek inside. His nose wrinkled at the sight within, the disgusting view rolling his stomach a little.

As one would expect, a skeleton lay within the coffin. It wasn’t… clean, however. A few patches of hair, and even a small area of dried, flaky skin on the face was still attached. Varian swallowed the bile wallowing up, instead opting to look away from the dead eyes of the skull. Geldam’s skeleton was clothed in fineries, think velvet and golden jewelry fit for any king. A tarnished crown sat upon his head, multiple amulets and necklaces lay across his chest, and even rings, gold and silver both, were still on boney fingers.

The centerpiece of it all, however, was a thick Staff, clutched tightly by the dead man’s hands.

It was ornate, carved silver, a twisting design made to mimic vines or the gnarled roots of a tree. They all curved up into a delicate top, where they held a large, clear crystal in their grasp. It was beautiful, seemingly mythical, even. It held the same kind of aura as the rest of the tomb did. Varian’s mouth went dry at the sight of it, the feeling of pure energy surrounding it setting off alarm bells of every kind in his mind. Stay away, his instincts whispered, dangerous.

“There it is.”

Ah, right. Merrick.

The mage looked nearly shell-shocked, eyes wide with wonder. Varian felt himself tense when the older teenager drew closer, so they were shoulder to shoulder.

“The Novis Staff.” It was said so quietly that Varian almost missed it. The name was familiar, Ori had mentioned it. He looked back down to the grave, eyes locking on the silver. This was why all this had happened? Caused the feud?

All this, for a stick?

A sudden hand on his shoulder startled Varian. Merrick drew him close, smirking when Varian tried to push away.

“Congrats, Crow,” he said. “You just destroyed your family legacy. Your daddy’s about to be realpissed in whatever layer of hell he would up in.”

Varian shuddered at the closeness, shoving at Merrick’s chest. Being so close to the other teenager made him feel nauseous, a rolling, ugly feeling that was a mix of disgust and fear.

“You got what you wanted,” Varian muttered. He was sick of all of this, he wanted to go home. “Let us go.”

Merrick pursed his lips, not looking away from the Staff. “A deal’s a deal, I suppose.” He brought up a hand and waved it over his shoulder. “Let the princess and her boy-toy go, I guess. Their use is over.”

Varian felt a weight lift when he saw his family being released, only for it to come right back when he felt Merrick’s arm wrap around his shoulder once more. A binding bar of iron to keep him in place.

“He did what you said,” Eugene spoke up, at last. “Hands off the kid.”

Merrick scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I said you two get to go,” he clarified. “I didn’t say shit about the Crow.”

Varian’s stomach sank. He knew this was coming, he’d heard the specifications when Merrick had said it, expected this, but it still made his guts roll with dread. He couldn’t even feel disappointed, more of a resigned acceptance. If there was anyone who was to blame, it was him—maybe it was best for them to leave him behind to be buried here with the ruins of his bloodline.

Eugene took a step forward, looking ready to throttle the mage, only to be stopped by a sword blocking his path. One of the Bayans stood between him and Varian, keeping the distance between them. Varian winced when the grip on his shoulder tightened to the point of pain.

The coffin in front of them may as well have been a chasm. Varian had never felt more separated from his friends in years. His hands shook, and the side of his body that was pressed up against Merrick felt uncomfortably warm. He could see the way Eugene scowled, how Rapunzel was pale. It made the dread in his stomach only grow.

The mage to his side snickered at his own joke, peering in to stare at Geldam’s coffin. Varian saw the gears turning in Merrick’s brain, in the way his eyes focusing on the Novis Staff. He flinched when the green-eyed man moved, leaning forward and bringing the arm not holding Varian up.

“Wait,” The alchemist blurted, before he could think. “There’s been traps-”

Merrick paused, eying Varian. His fingers were only a hair away from connecting with the silver of the Staff, ghosting just above its surface. Merrick twitched pulling his hand back and arching a brow.

“Good point,” he acquiesced. There was a solid second of silence before he gave Varian a nudge, jostling him. “You grab it.”

Varian scowled, glaring at the man, before reaching in and, hesitantly, grazing the tips of his fingers on the surface. He grit his teeth, bracing, before allowing his fingers to curl around the handle. Varian’s eyes closed in preparation— for an explosion, for a trap, for something— but after a solid second of peace, he peeked one eye back open.

The Staff was freezing cold to the touch. Colder than it should have been; it was like touching something made of pure ice. Even through the thick leather of his gloves, he could feel the way the cold permeated everything around the Novis Staff. Stranger though, was the feeling of… rightness, that came when he touched it. Something in him felt the energy coming from the thing, surely magical in nature, and he could feel it reaching to him, beckoning him; it called to him in the depths of his chest, like a magnet. Holding it, having its power connected to him… it felt right.

Varian was so caught up in the feeling that he missed Merrick grabbing for the Staff until it was too late.

“Yoink,” the mage laughed, snatching it from Varian’s lax grip with a harsh tug. “Mine now, thank you.”

Varian blinked, shocked, as the connection severed. He tried desperately to cling to the tattered remains of it, but they slipped from his proverbial fingers quicker than he could react. His hands twitched, the feeling of cold leaving just as quickly and leaving his fingers dreadfully numb.

Merrick smirked inspecting the Staff for a moment, before frowning. The large crystal in the top, once glowing a light blue, darkened, instead looking almost midnight navy.

“What the hell did you do?” he demanded, shaking the thing in Varian’s face. The alchemist staggered back, surprised when Merrick actually let him go.

“I didn’t do anything,” that he knew of, “How could I have—”

Varian cut off as the room around them suddenly shifted, the ground beginning to rumble. The alchemist was nearly knocked off his feet by the rough shaking; like the tomb was tearing itself apart at the seams and would surely crumble with them all inside. Varian fell into Geldam’s coffin, sending a pulse of pain up his ribs and making it hard to breathe for a second. He heard the others, Coronian and Bayan alike, scream as they too were bowled over by the harsh earthquake.

The way he’d fallen, catching himself on the lip, meant he was face to face with the skull of his ancestor. Varian cringed back, starting to push himself up and away, only to stop as a bright blue light began to overtake the dusty old bones. He watched with abject horror as the corpse began to rattle, not in sync with the earth and stone, but instead under its own power.

Varian shrieked, flailing back and falling on his ass on the stone before the coffin. He felt his mouth go dry when, over the lip of the stone, he saw a skeletal hand lift up and grab onto the edge. His breath left him when the fingers moved, flexing, and clinging like they would if they still had muscle and skin attached to them. The fingers twitched, and Varian felt the sudden urge to vomit when the rest of the skeleton began to pull itself up into a seated position.

His attention was pulled away from the horror show in front of him when the others in the room began to scream again, accompanied by a bone shattering BANGthat echoed around the chamber. The alchemist watched in slack jawed horror as the coffins surrounding the circular tomb, all eighteen of them, burst open at once, sending shards of stone and dust into the air.

He caught sight of Eugene covering Rapunzel, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw they were both okay. At least someone was doing alright. Merrick’s men all had their weapons drawn, the Coronians forgotten for the time being as they stood with their backs to each other, a formation to cover every angle. Merrick was still holding the Staff, looking furious at this sudden chain of events.

A ghostly howl filled the room, a cacophony of voices filling the air and screaming in utter agony; everyone alive covered their ears from the volume of it, voices of every type screeching in a horrible harmony loud enough to make the ribs rattle in Varian’s chest. The boy managed to finally flip onto his knees, staring in horror at one of the closest coffins.

Stumbling from within was the figure of a young woman, draped in heavy armor and dragging a massive war hammer behind her. Everything about her was a ghostly blue, and her ghostly figure was slightly transparent. The worst thing of all, however, was the sight of her head being split in twain, a horrible cleave right down the center of her face. There was no blood, the wound looking strangely clean, however everything was visible in excruciating detail.

Varian gagged at the sight of the inside of her skull. The woman stepped forward, sluggish and odd, her gait almost drunk as she stepped into the room. Her one eye scanned the room, focusing on each person in turn, before she opened her mouth and began to scream.

She rushed forward, a blue mist following her every footstep. As she drew close Varian realized with startling terror that he recognized her. She was one of the women who had glared at him in the hall of portraits, bitter and angry looking. Aldred had never mentioned her, too wrapped up in the more impressive names from their line, but Varian could tell from the bridge of her nose and the stripe of teal in her hair.

The woman lifted her hammer, descending on the Bayans with a lethal speed. One of the humans, a man, tried to raise his shield but was too slow, the ghost bringing her hammer down and slamming it onto his skull. All of them screamed when it immediately crushed his skull, the man dropping like a stone in a spray of blood and bone fragment. The other Bayans all began to panic, one of them taking a swing with her sword only for it to pass through the ghost without a prayer of damage.

The spirit paused, snarling at the humans in front of her like a feral animal; it sounded nearly demonic, nothing close to a human voice. Her screams were met with the collective of voices ringing out once more. Varian felt the urge to wail along with them, something in his chest tugging and commanding him to join the oppressive opera surrounding them.

From the other graves came a sudden wave of spirits, descending on the humans like a deadly flood. There were too many to count, at least fifty ghosts surrounding them all and attacking anything that moved. Varian pushed his back against the stone of Geldam’s coffin, staring with horror at the faces of the ghosts running by.

He’d seen them all before, in the cold halls of Barviel Keep. Maybe not exactly as they looked here, as their portraits had been them at their most perfect; the ghosts were all brutally mutilated in some way, missing limbs and ripped open torsos, cleaved open heads and one, horrifically, missing their head entirely.

The spirits all had the same dead eyes, soulless and dark and empty, shrouded in fog and almost transparent. They were stained in blood and offal, some of them more so than others, but all of them very obviously dead, dead, dead. Varian shuddered when one ran right by him, leaving him be to charge Merrick. The man yowled, backed away by the creature and fighting back with a plume of flame from his hands.

Varian shrank back from the heat, the rising panic in his chest slowly clawing up and into his throat. He peeked over the top of the coffin, catching sight of Rapunzel and Eugene, back-to-back and fighting with everything they had. It was obvious that pan and sword weren’t working against the new foes, but they’d already seemed to figure out a way to keep the attention away from them.

The tomb had descended into anarchy. Varian caught sight of multiple bodies dropping as the Bayans tried to fight the tide of ghosts back, all of them failing. He heaved a breath as he caught sight of one Bayan screaming as they were overwhelmed and fell to the ground. Varian shuddered at the sight of his ancestors; all of their faces were contorted into pure rage. He caught sight of Geldam, some others he knew the name of, some he didn’t. All were recognizably… him, however, in the way all their portraits had been. Same eyes, same noses; and as always, that damn stripe burst from their hairlines. A marker. A brand.

The spray of souls seemed to finally slow, the last few emerging from the tombs at long last. Varian saw two figures he actually knew by name appear, joining the fray just as the others had. The two Aldred had called his grandparents, Kamron and Abelia, looking as dreadful as ever— but if they were here then…

Varian watched the final tomb with a sudden, dawning dread. If the rest of the family were here, regardless of where they’d been buried…

Oh.

Oh no.

One, final figure emerged from the darkness beyond the tomb. He was tall, foreboding. The man had deep wrinkles set in between his piercing blue eyes, wrinkles made from a lifetime of scowling. His face was a mess of harsh angles, all coming together into a pointed nose and angular chin. His salt and pepper hair was combed back, slicked down and generally imposing.

Varian was frozen, locked in place and paralyzed by pure, unadulterated fear. A shock of cold ran down his spine, horror frying any sort of thought in his mind beyond run, run run—

Aldred hadn’t changed a bit since the last time Varian had seen him.

He was still as imposing as he’d been that last day on the tower. His blue eyes— perfect mirrors of Varian’s own, needle prick points of blue on pale canvas— scanned the room, finally landing on Varian. The boy locked up even further, his spine pressing into the stone behind him as if he could shove his way through it and escape. Varian’s breaths came in stuttering gasps, the alchemist unable to get enough air into his lungs. He felt compressed, like a fist had him in its grasp and had begun to squeeze.

Aldred’s attention was locked onto Varian, the ghost of a man sneering as Varian stared at him in abject terror. Varian shook like a leaf; why couldn’t he move?

It was an odd sort of standstill they found themselves in. While the other ghosts seemed content with attacking the Bayans without rest, Aldred’s spirit focused on Varian to an uncomfortable degree. The boy couldn’t even find it within himself to blink, his eyes wide and locked onto the man in front of him. Aldred smiled, something smug and malicious, and opened his arms, as if asking for a hug.

“My son,” he crooned. His voice was raspy and deep, but just as it had been the last time Varian had heard it in his nightmares. Aldred took a single step forward, his long cloak flaring out behind him. “It’s been so long.”

Varian bolted.

In something akin to pure, animalistic fear, Varian threw himself over the coffin, landing hard on the stone. He could hear Aldred approaching behind him, over the hammering of his heart. It made him run faster, like a rabbit from a wolf— he needed to get the hell out—

“Rapunzel!” his voice was a full shriek, any sense of decorum lost as he stumbled down from the dais. He caught sight of her hair over the fighting and began a dead sprint for her. He felt sluggish, like his body couldn’t keep up with his whirling thoughts— father was here, coming to take him back to the Keep and drag him down, down, down until he drowned— and he nearly slipped on the final step. He needed his sister, damn everything else, he needed her.

“Rapunzel!”

The woman whipped around, catching sight of Varian across the room. He saw the exact second she noticed Aldred behind him, her face going ashen white. Varian ran for her, tunnel vision crawling in through the fear.

Get to Rapunzel, his thoughts screamed, she’s safe, I need to be safe, I need her to stop him-

A hand wrapped around his wrist.

Varian whirled around, a scream caught in his throat. He threw his free hand out, shoving at whoever had grabbed him— he had no time to think, he just needed to get away, put as much distance as he could between him and father, he needed OUT—

He came face to face with green eyes.

Merrick’s face was set in a deep scowl, looking at Varian like he was nothing but a bug to be squashed. Varian looked past him; the sporadic breaths the boy tried to make doing nothing to help the way his mind swam in a soup of primal fear.

“Rapunzel!” He screamed again, flailing around and scanning for her. He just caught sight of her before he felt a thick arm wrap around his waist.

“I’m not done with you, yet,” Merrick snarled. Varian tried to tug his wrist like a feral animal in a trap, it made his wrist hurt and his shoulder ache, but he needed to get out—

“Let’s go somewhere a little more private, hm?”

Varian barely had time to try and buck his way out of the grip before Merrick pulled him back, the air cracking around them. The world went sideways, just as it had with Ori, but this time Varian didn’t bother to try and stay cautious. Something in him didn’t have the strength to fight through the world rearranging itself combined with the adrenaline crashing through his veins like raging fire.

Battle lost, he let the darkness consume him.

And then he was gone.

[charliesradiodemon]

Charlastor Week Day 6: Hurt/Comfort

(This is a bit different from my usual charlastor-centered works. I’ve recently been interested in Heaven and the angels and what they think about the yearly exterminations and I got an idea for this fic because of it!

I hope you enjoy!)

Hurt/Comfort

The spear raised slowly above the angel’s head. It looked a little worse for wear, but it hadn’t succumbed to it’s injuries just yet.

Despite their best efforts, Charlie and Alastor could only injure the heavenly being. It had bested them both and now they lay on the rooftop of the Happy Hotel, battered and bruised, defeated by a single angel.

It stumbled over to Charlie first, limping slightly. It didn’t seem too concerned with its injuries nor did it make any noise that hinted it felt any serious pain.

Once it made it to its destination, the bloodied being stood above Charlie, who could barely move an inch.

She couldn’t give up now. She had to move, she still needed to save the hotel and Alastor. Everyone was depending on her to keep them safe, and Charlie couldn’t bear the thought of losing her friends.

With a groan, she lifted herself up from her prone position slightly, coughing weakly. Despite the slow pace the angel limped at, It was far too late for her to get away. When she looked up, she found that the angel was already there and ready to strike her down. She needed to get up. Even if she didn’t make it out of this extermination, she could at least slow the angel down until the bell tolled.

But then she collapsed before she could push herself up all the way. The angel loomed, holding the spear at the ready while watching its prey helplessly exert itself on the ground.

It was truly a pitiful sight that was too much to bear, even for the angel. It was time to put the demon out of her misery and bring her salvation.

The spear fell quickly and Charlie couldn’t do a single thing to get out of the way. Tears pricked her eyes as she shut her eyes and waited for the blow to come.

‘Alastor I’m so sorry...’

But it never came.

A spray of blood mixed with a low grunt caught her attention. When her eyes shot open, a new surge of adrenaline rushed through her, giving her enough strength to twist her expression into anguish. With an audibly panicked gasp, Charlie found Alastor knelt before her with a long thin spear sticking straight out of his back.

He was still smiling at her even as the angel removed the weapon with a sickeningly slick sound. Once he looked up to her when he found her unharmed, his smile weakened. “Charlie, go.” He breathed as he fell forward.

Charlie shrieked. “A-Alastor!” Using the rest of her strength, she reached forward and caught the love of her life in her arms. Though she faltered, she quickly recovered when adjusting to his weight.

The angel couldn’t move seeing the demoness uncontrollably sob over the fallen mortal soul. Tears flowed freely as her desperate hands clung to him. “No! No no no no, Al, please!”

But no response came.

The angel stood above them, spear in hand but not at the ready. Instead the heavenly being stared down at them, confused and curious all at once. The damned mortal soul risked his life for another. His selfless reaction was a clear act of love for the bawling demoness that held him. What was most surprising was the fact that she’d seemingly forgotten about the angel that loomed over them, its job still unfinished. Even with the threat still present, she still paid the angel no mind. She could easily be struck down with the demon in her hands, but it didn’t seem to matter to her.

‘This is ridiculous...’ He thought with a shake of his head. He raised his spear, ready to finish the job. But once he took a good look at the female demon’s face, he froze once more.

“You’re not my brother! Not anymore!”

With a cough, the defeated angel before Michael laughed with a pained wheeze. “You sound like father,” he coughed once more and closed his eyes, accepting his fate. “I know I’m a fool Michael. And I know you’ll never understand why I did what I did, but it doesn’t matter anymore,” Lucifer opened his eyes and looked to the side, keeping his gaze fixed on something. Michael didn’t have to look to see what exactly he was staring at, he knew the first woman was watching from afar.

“Get on with it then, Michael. Just don’t hurt her please. This was my doing,” He smiled, even when he knew he was going to die. “Promise me you’ll let her live. It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.” Michael watched his blood brother in horror, completely baffled how even when he laid battered and beaten, he could still smile at the reason he was in this mess. How could he worry about the first woman when he was about to die by his own brother’s hand?

Being a being of love and goodness, Michael instantly recognized the unconditional love his brother had for Lilith. It was the purest love one could feel, something he’d never seen in Hell. That is, until today. Somehow, in the cesspool that is Hell, he’d found it.

And he found it in a demon that looked so much like his brother.

‘No. It couldn’t-‘

The booming toll of a bell caught the angel’s attention. He needed to get back before the portal closed and stranded him in the pit of suffering.

With one last look at the pair, Michael flew away feeling too many things all at once. He had never enjoyed these cleanses, but he had never once felt remorse for participating in them either. He was an angel of mercy and he was so sure that he was granting these sinners mercy by putting them out of their misery. It was just his job as an archangel: to bring mercy to the wicked.

But never had he seen anything as beautiful or pure like love in Hell. Not like this.

‘Lucifer and the first woman... And now his own offspring with a sinner... and that sinner sacrificed himself for her...’ It was mind boggling. No, it was damn near maddening. This challenged everything he believed in.

He crossed the barrier and his wounds instantly healed, causing him to sigh in relief. His foes this year were far stronger than he anticipated.

“Michael? What’s wrong?” A familiar voice broke Michael out of his thoughts. It was his sister and underling Azrael, and she was covered in blood. It was a normal sight for the returning angels to be covered in blood, but it looked as if Azrael bathed in blood of the cleansed.

Michael removed his bloodied mask. “Oh nothing! Just... thinking.”

“Oh? What about?”

“About... Do you think these creatures are capable of love?”

His angelic companion burst into hysterics at the suggestion. “The damned souls? Love? Oh don’t be silly brother,” she sighed, attempting to calm herself a bit. “If they were then we wouldn’t be putting them out of their misery now would be? Father told us that, ‘ if they truly knew love, they wouldn’t suffer.’ We’re just helping them move on from their horrid lives.” She explained as she admired the bloodied tip of her angelic spear with a smirk. It was clear that their job was just a game to her. Michael would have scolded her for her being so callous, but he couldn't help his distracting thoughts from taking over. Then a thought hit him.

If that sinner hadn’t surprise him so suddenly, Michael would have fully impaled him. He wondered if he was still alive. Part of him hoped that he was strangely enough.

And the girl- the girl who looked too much like his fallen brother. She mourned for the sinner, she held him close and shed tears for him. She was too alike Lucifer to be a coincidence. Just like his brother, she cared too much about others to consider her own safety. Had he not hesitated, she would have perished alongside the mortal she seemed to care about. She was certainly Lucifer’s child: a dramatic, hopeless romantic.

For the first time in his existence, Michael quietly prayed for the sinner’s recovery.

_

Alastor was not yet dead, but he was losing blood so fast that it was almost inevitable.

The extermination may have been over, but all the hope that remained in Charlie’s heart flowed out of her like the blood of her lover. Alastor’s warm blood oozed out of his back in full force and stained her hand. Guilt, anguish and helplessness hit her harder than the angel ever had. Her tears flowed freely, dripping from her cheek and onto her love’s face. Yet, he wasn’t reacting to it in the slightest.

Again, she was a failure. She couldn’t protect Alastor and instead had to be protected and put him in immediate danger. Now he lay in her arms, beaten and broken. “I’m so sorry Al,” she sobbed, bringing his body as close as she possibly could. “I couldn’t protect you.”

An unbloodied hand suddenly rested on Charlie’s tear-streaked cheek and began wiping the tears away. “Shhh stop crying my love. Crying doesn’t suit you in the slightest.” It was Alastor’s voice, but his voice was warped, making his words came out like static, yet he still sounded so sure in his tone- as if he was sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

“A-Alastor?” She whispered with a sniff. Her eyes widened down at him, her expression unreadable aside from the shock.

He chuckled and nodded slightly. “Yes, I’m still here,” he said calm and cooly. “You can’t get rid of me that easily I’m afraid.” The static died down a bit, clearing his tone ever so slightly.

Charlie’s tears burst from the floodgates with renewed strength. Her heart pounded in her chest, feeling everything from euphoria to relief. “I-I-I th-thought you were dead! I d-d-d-didn’t think you were gonna make it!” Charlie hiccuped, wiping the flooding tears from her cheeks before they overwhelmed Alastor. She wanted to look at him with unobstructed sight, but the relieved tears continued to replace her anguished ones.

“I was very close to it, don’t mistake me. But-“ he gingerly lifted himself out of Charlie’s arms, but immediately collapsed again. Charlie promptly caught him, pressing a hand on his chest to make sure he stayed.

In the moment he got up, Charlie saw it. From the exposed flesh on his back, she saw the inky tentacles that remained gathered right over where his heart would be. It seemed the majority of the flowing blood had come from Alastor’s projections, rather than his own person. They’d taken the brunt of the blow, but Charlie hadn't seen exactly how far the spear went into him. Thankfully though it didn’t seem to be an emergency just yet.

“No, stay here a little longer and relax.” She said sternly before snaking her hand up to his cheek. “You scared the shit out of me. You idiot.” an airy laugh escaped her lips as she brought her forehead to rest on his.

Alastor chuckled in response, suddenly feeling stronger by the second. In this life Alastor hadn’t sustained many injuries, but he knew that this was not normal, not in the slightest. Something must be healing him, but he couldn’t figure out what or how.

But for now it didn’t matter. Everything that did was still here. “I know I’m a fool, darling. But please forgive me, this fool had too much to lose.”

[i-just-love-spop]

At the end of the world

‘If you really want to protect me so badly, why don’t you protect me from her?’

But she wouldn’t do that even if she knew the truth about everything, would she? Because Adora loved the praise she was getting from that awful woman. She wouldn’t risk that just because Shadow Weaver was hurting her best friend, right?

Catra felt sick and disgusted at herself for thinking that way a few seconds later.

There it was again – the awful, dumb resentment that was eating away at her sometimes, that had shown its ugly face time and again over the last few years, its appearances becoming more and more frequent the older she grew.

It turned Adora’s kind words and gentle touches to poison in her head.

—

Written for the prompt “you hurt her, you die”, requested a total of three times by different people: @altheaudaku @whoufflewhovian200311 and @brenda4082

I contemplated using the prompt for something that takes place during the final season of the show or after the show, but I always ended up going back to the idea of it taking place when Catra and Adora are in their young teens.

Heads up, this got pretty long and also really, really angsty. There is some fluff later on, though, I promise.

[There is an additional line at the end that makes the angst even worse, it’s not in here in case anyone wants the story to end on a lighter note. I’m going to add said line in a reblog.]

I really need to write more fluff with these two instead of making everything even more angsty than it already was in the show.

TW: Child abuse, mental and physical.

If you are in a situation like this in real life, please don’t keep it to yourself. Tell someone so you can find a way out of the situation. You deserve better ❤️

I’ll probably rate this mature on Ao3, just to be safe.

—

Summary: In which Adora protecting Catra in training gets the latter in trouble, and Shadow Weaver’s words haunt Catra to a point that she doesn’t dare (or want) to talk to her best friend about what is really going on.

—

Catra had her back against the wall. The robot‘s deadly eye was pointed directly at her. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

She hadn’t been careful enough and the damn thing had laid a snare that she had fallen right into. Even worse, now that she’d lost her weapon she had no real way to fight the robot.

The teen covered her face protectively. She had merely seconds to think of a way out of this situation before-

“Hey princess!” That was Adora’s voice. Catra looked up to see that her best friend was now standing in between her and the bot, her staff raised. “That’s my best friend you’re targeting right there!” She hit the robot once, twice, three times, and growled. “You hurt her, you die!”

A moment later, she’d stabbed the robot right through the deadly eye and it sunk to the ground, crackling with electricity one more time before all light in its eye disappeared completely – and with it, so did the simulated princess.

Adora wiped sweat off her forehead.

“Whew, that was close.” She offered Catra a hand to help her up. “I think that was the last one.”

The brunette was about to take her best friend’s hand when a voice rang through the room, cold and menacing with a calm, terrifying angry undertone.

“Good work, cadets!”

Shadow Weaver’s voice made Catra’s blood run cold.

Her outstretched hand turned into a clenched fist as she got up herself, her knees weak.

Despite the fact that she was taller, stronger now, the woman that had less raised than barely tolerated her throughout her childhood still made her feel small and vulnerable just by being present.

“Especially you, Adora. You will truly make an exceptional leader one day.”

The blonde flinched a bit when the older woman touched her face in a gentle gesture. It wasn’t that she wasn’t proud of the praise she was getting... but despite everything, she was still scared of Shadow Weaver.

“I- thank you,” Adora replied, gulping a bit. “I was just doing my best. We all were.”

“Of course.” The blonde relaxed a bit when finally, the older woman let go of her face. “It just so happens to be that your best is a lot better than everyone else’s.”

Catra could practically feel the woman glaring at her. The brunette felt herself shrink smaller and smaller.

This wasn’t fair.

She had beaten almost as many robots as Adora had – and that was saying a lot, especially since this was one of the rare occasions that they were practicing with real lasers... but none of that seemed to matter in the wake of the mistake she had made in the last few minutes.

“Go now or you’ll be late for dinner. We’ll discuss your performances more in the morning.”

Catra got up immediately. She just wanted to get out of here before- but everyone else was closer to the door. Before she could reach it, her body froze in the air and the door slid close behind the last of the others as if by an invisible hand, and Catra was trapped inside... alone with the woman that she hated and feared more than anything in the entire word.

“Not you, Catra.” Her body was lifted into the air, surrounded by a chillingly familiar red glow as she was turned around by force to face Shadow Weaver. The woman’s voice was hateful, menacing, and Catra dreaded what would come next. “That was a poor performance, even for you.”

“T-that’s not true! I took down three robots! Adora just had one more! I was good today!”

The young girl’s voice was shaking. Shadow Weaver was looming over her, the older woman’s eyes narrowed to slits.

She was livid, and that Catra tried to defend her behavior made her even angrier.

“Don’t try to vindicate your shortcomings, your failures.” Catra felt her body tense when the grip the red glow had on her became stronger, more powerful, and started to hurt. “I would say that I‘m disappointed in you, but that would imply that I had actually expected anything else, anything better from you in the first place. I didn’t. We all know you’d be nothing without Adora here to save you.”

That hurt.

Shadow Weaver had years of practice. She knew which areas to target for it to hurt the most.

Adora was Catra’s best friend, and she was the only good thing in her life... but being reduced to the girl’s helpless, useless sidekick was degrading.

Shadow Weaver loved reminding Catra that Adora was like one of the moons that lit up the world, while Catra herself was barely a firefly in comparison that the older woman could crush between her fingertips at any given moment without it being a big loss to her or the Horde. That the brunette was practically worthless, and that her only worth was directly connected to Adora.

Catra felt sick.

“T-that’s not true! I don’t need her! I never needed her!”

For all the defiance in her words, her voice was squeaky and quiet.

She was terrified.

“Oh, but you do.” The shadows closed around her, separating her from the rest of the world, and Catra once again felt like a frightened little girl instead of the young skilled teen that she actually was. “The fact that she has taken a liking to you for a reason beyond my understanding is the only reason I keep you around here in the first place instead of throwing you back to the thrash that you crawled out of.”

Her voice was cold and monotone, and that just made everything worse.

Shadow Weaver made Catra feel small and helpless and useless.

She heard more than what was being said, and despite the fact that the words she did say were already hurtful enough, the threat that loomed behind them made it so much worse.

‘You’re not a person. You’re barely a broken toy that we don’t throw away because my favorite child still likes you for whatever reason. Should she ever cease liking you, that will be the end of your existence.’

Catra wanted to jump at Shadow Weaver, to hurt her the way she was hurting, to yell all of her cruel words back into her face, but instead, the teen just stood there, frozen in fear and terror, her words getting stuck in her throat.

She closed her eyes and braved herself for what she knew would come next.

One blow, then a second, then a third, accompanied by more demeaning, spiteful words.

The teen bit her lip so hard it drew blood, barely managing to keep herself from crying out in pain and desperation. She swallowed the tears that were forming in her eyes bravely. She would not give this woman the satisfaction of hearing her scream and seeing her cry anymore.

—

“Catra, are you okay?” They were sitting in the lunchroom now, Adora across from Catra. While the former was shoving the food into her mouth at an insane speed, the latter was just picking at the ration bars instead of eating them. The blonde glanced at her best friend worriedly and lowered her voice. “Did- did she hurt you again?”

Catra flinched.

So her best friend had realized what was going on, after all?

Did she know how bad it was?

What did she assume was happening?

...should Catra talk to her about it?

“I-” The brunette started, but she never finished the sentence.

She wanted to ask all of these questions, so badly. She wanted to ask Adora for help, to ask her to talk to Shadow Weaver and stand up to her and help Catra. ...but Shadow Weaver’s words kept repeating at the back of her mind.

‘We all know you’d be nothing without Adora here to save you.’

That wasn’t true. She didn’t need Adora to save her. She could do this on her own.

Catra didn’t need anyone to protect her when she could just become strong enough to protect herself.

Adora didn’t make Catra who she was.

Catra wasn’t worthless.

She’d prove that to everyone.

...so she just shook her head.

“I’m fine. And she isn’t hurting me. I just hurt my shoulder a little during training and then stayed behind to patch myself up. Her shadows just creep me out, that’s all.” The words came out surprisingly convincing. She sounded almost indifferent. Catra pushed her plate away. “I’m just not very hungry.”

That wasn’t true, exactly, but she was pretty sure that whatever she would eat she’d throw back up instantly anyway. She was pretty sure her stomach was currently in her chest instead of her belly after the blows it had taken.

Her entire body ached... but at least nothing was bleeding this time.

She’d just end up with a couple of bruises.

She’d live.

She always had.

Adora cocked her head to the side. She knew something was up, even if her best friend didn’t tell her what it was. The blonde girl was a bit ditzy, but she wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t blind. She’d known Catra long enough to be able to tell that much. If only Adora could get her best friend to open up to her somehow...

“Come on. You have to eat something.”

First things first. That was what was most important right now.

They didn’t get that much to eat around here. Skipping a meal meant going to bed hungry and possibly not being able to appease one’s hunger in the morning when they got their next meal. Catra needed to eat, or she would regret it later.

“I said I’m not hungry!”

Catra got up.

Her voice was harsh and cold, and she pushed the table so hard that the plate flew off it, splintering into a thousand pieces, the food splashing all over the floor.

There was a second of regret within Catra... but she felt too sick to eat, anyway. She wouldn’t have been able to keep anything down.

The room went dead silent for a moment and the two were just stared at – then everyone continued to go about their day.

Fights were a daily phenomenon around here.

As long as nobody got killed, nobody bothered to interfere.

The brunette couldn’t stay here any longer. Not with all these people, not with the other cadets from her squad, and especially not with Adora.

She stormed out of the room.

“Catra!”

Adora sighed, took one last bite of her meal, then ran after her.

—

“Catra wait!” The younger girl stopped short. She felt a pang of guilt form in her stomach. She hadn’t wanted Adora to miss dinner because of her. Adora took a moment to catch her breath when she was finally next to her best friend again. “Can... can you please tell me what’s going on? Did I make you upset? I’m sorry...”

Her best friend didn’t even look at her.

“It’s just- I can’t believe you stole my kill like that!” Catra hissed.

That wasn’t it. Not really. But it was close enough to be believable.

Adora looked at her in shock.

“That’s what this is about? Catra, this wasn’t a game! You almost got really hurt!”

There was a reason they rarely trained with actual laser fire, and why only cadets that passed certain tests were allowed to do it in the first place.

People got hurt occasionally, and, albeit very rarely because their instructors usually managed to stop the training simulation before it happened, someone died.

It was necessary to remind them that this wasn’t a game every now and again, to keep them in their toes and to make them aware that, when they finished training, they would be fighting in an actual war.

People got hurt in wars. People died in wars. What was now an occasional training session would be their day-to-day life in a few years.

Adora always looked out for Catra, but in the training sessions that were actually dangerous, her protectiveness reached a whole new level.

She couldn’t help it... especially in situations like earlier, where her best friend had looked so genuinely scared.

“I know that. I’m not stupid. I could have handled it.”

Catra’s voice was monotone. She still didn’t look at Adora. She rather eyed the floor instead.

She didn’t want her to see how badly she was hurting.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say- it’s just- You just kind of looked helpless, and I thought-”

Adora bit her lip and hanged her head. She’d just wanted to help her best friend, but that had backfired massively, and now Catra was mad at her... and her apologetic rambling just made things worse.

“Well, I wasn’t!” The brunette hissed.

...alright, maybe she had been helpless. A little. But she would have found a way out.

She always did.

She didn’t need Adora for that. She didn’t need Adora for anything.

Shadow Weaver’s words had really gotten to Catra.

“I was just trying to protect you!” The blonde defended herself, trying to get through to her best friend’s thick skull. Adora didn’t like fighting with Catra. She just wanted to get this over with. ‘It’s not because I think you’re weak, or that you can’t protect yourself. I know you can,’ she wanted to say. ‘But the thought of you getting hurt... I can’t take it. It drives me completely crazy.’

She reached for her friend, wanting to take her hand to comfort her a little, but she never actually got to touch her or to say anything else.

“WELL, YOU’RE DOING AN AWFUL JOB OF IT!” Catra snarled, in a tone that made even herself a bit taken aback by the poison in her words.

Adora’s shoulders sagged a little as she let her hand sink.

Catra felt awful. She wanted to break down into Adora’s arms and cry while she held her... but that would have been weak, and Catra wasn’t allowed to be weak, especially not in front of Adora. They weren’t supposed to be weak or vulnerable at all. It made them a liability in battle if they were. Adora would have hated her if she‘d known the truth about everything – if she‘d known how weak Catra truly still was, even after all these years.

...and then there was this tiny, spiteful voice whispering in the back of her mind that Catra tried to tune out so badly.

‘If you really want to protect me so much, why don’t you protect me from her?!’

But she wouldn’t do that even if she knew the truth about everything, would she? Because Adora loved the praise she was getting from that awful woman. She wouldn’t risk that just because Shadow Weaver was hurting her best friend, right?

Catra felt sick and disgusted at herself for thinking that way a few seconds later.

There it was again – the awful, dumb resentment that was eating away at her sometimes, that had shown its ugly face time and again over the last few years, its appearances becoming more and more frequent the older she grew.

It turned Adora’s kind words and gentle touches to poison in her head.

For a moment, Catra almost hated her best friend... and then her anger turned to desperation, and she hated herself for even thinking like that for a single second.

Adora was the only good thing about this awful place. The only thing that kept her sane. How dare she even so much as think something like that?

...how dare she let Shadow Weaver’s words get to her to an extent that it influenced her friendship with Adora?!

‘What is wrong with me?!’

She couldn’t look at Adora anymore, so she turned around and ran away again, back to the room they all shared to sleep that was currently pretty abandoned since dinner was barely over.

—

Catra curled up in bed; Adora’s bed, to be more specific – because it smelled like her and that helped her calm down a little –, and she just sobbed silently for a couple of minutes.

Then she heard the door open and close again, and when she looked up, Adora was sitting next to her on the bed and offered her her hand.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” the brunette mumbled, glancing over her shoulder instead of actually turning around to face her friend.

Catra was more upset than she was angry, and she didn’t want Adora to see her cry, despite the fact that the blonde was probably able to hear her sobs anyway.

Adora hanged her head, but she pulled herself together and smiled weakly.

“You don’t have to. But you’re obviously upset, and I’m not going to leave you. Not now, not ever.”

Catra’s heart melted. She sat up and moved closer towards her friend until her back touched Adora’s, and they sat like that for a long while, Catra still sobbing silently, but now, each of her sobs was accompanied by a comforting squeeze of her hand.

—

Eventually, their peaceful togetherness was rudely interrupted as the door opened once more.

“Rogelio?” Lonnie called out as she stuck her head through the door. “Okay, no, he’s not in here, either.” Then she spotted Catra and Adora and walked up to them. “Hey, have you guys seen-” She cut off in mid-sentence and coked her head to the side at the fairly weird image of the two girls sitting back to back in the bunk. “Why are you two sitting like this?”

“We had a fight, and now she won’t talk to me,” Adora replied, scratching the back of her head with the hand that wasn’t holding Catra’s, a weak smile plastered on her face. The fact that she was still very upset was unmistakable in her voice.

Their fellow cadet raised an eyebrow.

“Then why are you holding hands?”

“Catra gets sad when we fight,” the blonde replied without thinking.

Her best friend blushed and let go of her hand immediately, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“I do not.”

...yes, she did.

She hated fighting with Adora.

Lonnie just shook her head and groaned.

“Why are you guys so weird?”

“We’re not weird,” Catra growled.

“Yes, you definitely are.” Lonnie rolled her eyes. “Adora, when you’re done being a weirdo about Catra, you can come play with us in the locker room if you want. Kyle invented a game that sounds pretty fun. It involved something with spinning a bottle, I think? I don’t know, I kinda forgot.”

“I’d love to.” Adora bit her lip. “But only if Catra can come, too.”

Lonnie shook her head.

“Adora, I know you’re nice and all, but none of us actually understand why you hang out with her so much in the first place. Catra’s mean, and she doesn’t like us. And, quite frankly, we don’t like her, either.” Lonnie had had her less bad moments with Catra – moments where she’d felt sorry for her, moments where she almost felt like they could be friends... but Catra had always gone back to her usual cold, rude demeanor immediately afterwards, and Lonnie was incredibly tired of that. Either the girl wanted to be her friend, or she didn’t. And if she couldn’t keep being nice to Lonnie and her friends, Catra obviously didn’t. Lonnie wouldn’t play this game any longer. “Even if we would allow her to come, she wouldn’t want to, and if she did, she’d ruin our evening... so sorry, but no thanks.”

The blonde growled.

“Don’t talk about my best friend like that!”

“But she’s right,” Catra mumbled. “I don’t like them, and I wouldn’t want to play their stupid game anyway. Feel free to go without me if you want to.”

She had a very hard time not breaking down in tears, but the last thing she wanted right now was to be vulnerable again, especially in front of this stupid girl that was always trying to steal her best friend from her. ...the same stupid girl that she’d hit in a fit of jealous rage back when they were kids, and that had patched her up after a particularly bad training session that one time. And that Catra had then snapped at as a ‘thank you’ the next day.

...the more Catra thought about it, the more certain she was that, had she been anyone else, she wouldn’t have wanted to be friends with herself, either.

“No. I won’t. I’m staying with you,” Adora replied.

Catra almost managed a smile.

Damn it, how was this girl so perfect?

Lonnie shrugged.

“Whatever, suit yourself. Have you guys seen Rogelio?”

“No, sorry. I think I saw him at dinner, but I have no idea where he went afterwards,” Adora replied. “He’s definitely not been in here since we finished dinner.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway. I’ll find him, probably. You guys have ...fun?... with whatever the heck you’re doing. See you later.”

—

As soon as the door closed behind her, Catra’s hand found Adora’s again.

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

“Yeah. But I wanted to,” the blonde replied with a smile. “Besides, I didn’t want to go play with her after that anyway. I like Lonnie, and I like hanging out with her, but I don’t like the way she talked about you. You’re my best friend. Nobody is allowed to speak to you that way.“

“I... thank you.”

The brunette was still facing the wall, her voice was extremely quiet.

“Catra, listen, I...” Adora started, trying her best to find the right words. “I’m sorry about earlier. I know you can take care of yourself. It’s just... the thought that that robot could hurt you, or worse...” She gulped. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch. I had to do something.” Adora squeezed Catra’s hand again. “I’d never let anyone hurt you. Especially not a princess. I promised I would look out for you, remember?” Adora smiled at her softly. “I’m intending to keep that promise for the rest of my life.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Catra replied without missing a beat... then flattened her ears. “But thank you. I don’t want anything to happen to you, either.”

She gulped. She was being hurt... but it wasn’t Adora’s fault, and there was nothing she could do about it – not without putting herself in danger. And Catra didn’t want that.

The one thought she could bear even less than having to take these blows all her life was the thought of Adora taking them for her.

...the resentment was gone now, replaced by warmth and worry.

“I can’t lose you,” the brunette whispered. “Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t know who I’d be without you.”

It wasn’t an apology, exactly... but Adora didn’t blame her.

Catra had never been good at apologies. Most people here weren’t. This was as good as it got, and she appreciated it.

Besides, at least part of the situation had been Adora’s fault, after all, so she didn’t really blame her.

Catra finally turned around to face her best friend again, allowing the blonde to wipe the tears off her cheeks. The brunette just let her do it without complaint, even enjoying the touch.

It made her feel warm inside.

Maybe being weak for once was okay, after all.

“Yeah, me either.”

Adora shrugged and pulled her best friend close. She was just happy they weren’t fighting anymore, and that she could finally hug her again to properly comfort her.

Catra snuggled up to her, her head nestling against the crook of the blonde’s neck.

“Good think we’ll never have to find out, right?”

“Never,” Adora emphasized. “I’m never going to leave you. You’re my best friend. I don’t want to be anywhere without you, ever.”

She stroked Catra’s head, making the girl purr happily. The blonde liked Catra’s purrs, especially when she so close to Adora’s chest. They made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“And even if you leave... wherever you go, I’ll go. Yesterday, today and tomorrow. Forever. One day, it’s going to be you and me, together at the end of the word,” Catra added.

The thought made her a weird amount of happy. She hadn’t thought she would be able to smile again after the day she’d had, and the memories still made her shake, and the bruises still hurt... but she was smiling now.

Because Adora made her happy.

“Exactly. Nothing can separate us.” Adora beamed as she touched the picture they had carved into the bed when they were kids, shortly after they‘d first met. “Just like nothing can separate tiny Catra and Adora. They’ll be there on the bed frame together until the end of time.” She squeezed Catra’s hand. “Come on, we should get some sleep now so you don’t accidentally sleep in again tomorrow.”

Catra stayed silent for a moment, then breathed a silent “Okay.”

The two of them fell asleep arm in arm, the brunette sprawled out over her best friend.

[izaswritings]

Title: building trust

Fandom: RWBY

Synopsis:  Oscar and Oz stage a prison break. Qrow… complicates things. 

(Or: in which Oscar takes over as the voice of reason, Oz is Guilt, and Qrow is just having a very bad and emotional day, and these two are not helping. Rebuilding trust is harder than it looks—  it’s all about the small steps.)

Notes: This fic is kind of an unofficial sequel to this story here, (or here) but you can still read this one on standalone if you want. Shoutout to the anon who told me I had to write the prison break fic-- this is for you, anon. 

AO3 Link is here.

.

“This is…”

There is little left to say between the two of them, looking down and out over Mantle’s ruined and smoking streets. It is three hours after Oscar fell from Atlas, and now he is back again on the floating city, standing at the edge of the drop. From this height Mantle is a depressing sprawl of smoke and ruin. On the ground, the situation had been gruesome, but their view of the destruction had been limited. One house burning on a street corner, a few empty streets of rubble, and all the people vanished from sight, huddling away in the shelters. Any bodies slowly being buried by the snow.

As terrible as it sounds, in Mantle the Grimm had been the only trouble, and even then, not much. As Oz had put it, when Oscar had asked— evading Grimm is child’s play after almost a few thousand years of practice.

Ah, Oscar had said, at that. Well, when you put it like that…

Even finding an airship managed to be a far easier task than assumed. Oz knows where the military base is. Oz knows how to hotwire a ship. Oz knows… a lot of weirdly illegal things, actually.

“Your judgment is unappreciated,” Oz had said.

It’s just, this is the second time I’ve helped steal an airship, Oscar said back, and sighed. I can’t help but feel like we’re just going to end up facing a giant robot again.

“Deeply improbable,” Oz had begun, and then a soldier had started shouting and Oz dropped the conversation to yank back the controls and put them in flight.

And now, here they are: Atlas, again, in a private sector cordoned off, as close as they can get to the military custody cells without being detected. Getting off Mantle was, hilariously, the easy part. It is this next part that makes Oscar hesitate.

Oz is still in control—still bearing the pain of exhaustion and bullet wound bruises both, because in all this cascading disaster Oscar has yet to get either proper healing or an actual nap, and their aura is all focused on blocking out the cold—and it is Oz who looks away from the sight of Mantle, hands clenching tight over the knob of the cane, gripping the Long Memory like a lifeline.

This is awful, Oscar whispers, feeling thin. There is no surprise in his voice, in him. No horror. Just a quiet, seething sort of anger, a frustrated ache that this happened at all. That it has come to this.

Oz, for his part, can hardly seem to face it—he closes their eyes and turns their face away, breathing in slow and shaky. Oscar goes quiet, watchful. He can feel Oz’s thoughts as his own, which is why he knows what the other thinks of all this. The tangle of emotion is sobering. Regret, grief, anger… and a bitter taste all across their tongue, the awful bite of betrayal, because deep down they’d both thought Ironwood better than this.

This time, it is Oscar who offers the words they both need to hear. It… it isn’t your fault.

Oz exhales out a shaky breath, but his laughter is soft and bitter. “No?” He drags their eyes back to the ruined landscape below. When he speaks, his voice is distant and wondering. “How far Mantle looks from here. How shrunken. A failure on our part. A sign of neglect, really. A sign to do better.”

Oscar considers him. Doesn’t speak.

“I wonder if he ever saw it the same way,” Oz observes, clinically. He stares down at Mantle as if there is an answer in the smoke. “Perhaps, when he stood up here, looking down upon them… maybe he just saw Mantle as small.”

Still. Oscar is stubborn. How were you supposed to know what he thought about it?

“You are turning my own words against me,” Oz murmurs back, and finally turns away from the ledge. He walks them back to the building, their alleyway. The stolen airship sits half-hidden by a building, and with any luck, it’ll stay undetected. Oscar is praying the chaos is enough to confuse the sensors. “And on the same day, no less.”

Doesn’t make it less true.

A few blocks down, the military holding cells await. They’ve moved swiftly enough Oz doesn’t think Qrow will be at the prison yet—the hope is that he is here, for holding or interrogation or both. And given that this is the highest-priority military cell, and Ironwood called for Qrow’s arrest personally… the chances of him being here are high. Now, they just need to find him.

Oscar looks up at the barbed-wire walls and the very tall building, and sighs. More breaking and entering. Well, all right. Let’s steal a military scroll.

Oz hums, already scanning the entrance, walking up to the gate. “I thought you disliked stealing.”

They only bring out the giant robots for airships. We’re fine.

Despite everything, that actually gets Oz to smile again. “Hm. Sound logic, I suppose.” He turns and surveys the gate, then lifts his hand to wave at the officer stationed by the entrance. “Hello! Can you help me?”

“A kid? But what are you...” The guard’s gun lowers, and then she stills. “Wait. Your face. Aren’t you—!?”

The officer doesn’t get a chance to finish. Oz knocks her legs out from under her, calmly whaps her over the head, and then handcuffs her as she groans. He takes the scroll and opens it, surveying the device. The gate clicks open without any further issues. Oz looks out over the military holding yard and sighs. “Well. And now for the hard part.”

Everything else wasn’t hard?

“Stealing the airship didn’t require breaking and entering, I’m afraid. And this was just sense. Getting in the actual building will be just as hard as getting out.” Oz sighs a breath through their teeth, and glances down at the handcuffed officer, still looking woozy. “Especially if we do not want to be caught. I did not think about that. Hopefully, we will be gone before she gets out of the handcuffs.”

We could… wear a mask?

Oz considers this. “…No.”

But—

“No.”

Well, do you have a better idea?

Oz clasps their hands behind their back, looking up to survey the building. Oscar waits for him to think it out. Oz had explained some of it on the way here—it’s not as guarded as a prison, but it’s still a place designed to hold higher-ranking criminals, enemies that Ironwood places on top priority.

Oscar doesn’t like the look of the place. The sleek walls. The shiny surfaces. The glint of the barred windows seems cruel. After all that walking through Mantle, to stand in Atlas and witness the sheer wealth of difference between them makes something in him harden.

Oz must come to a decision—he lifts the cane and spins it in their hands before tapping it down hard on the snow. “The old fashioned way, then, I suppose,” he says. He heaves a heavy sigh. “We are a bit too small to believably steal any armor, unfortunately.”

I don’t think physically breaking our way into a prison is a...very good idea? Also, um. We are still… injured. Won’t that—hurt?

“Usually, it is not.” Oz starts for the door, cane by his side. “But if there is any bright side to this situation—” Oscar mentally makes a face, and Oz sighs again. “Yes, I know, and I agree—but again. Atlas is on high alert. Grimm are converging on the city. And Salem…”

That old bitterness, half-memory and half just Oz rises up, like static in Oscar’s soul, and together they both glance back at the shroud of dark storm clouds slowly moving in on the city. In the past hour, the wind has picked up to a howl. It won’t be long, now. The thought makes their aura shudder in dread and fury.

“Well. Salem is, currently, a far larger threat. I have no doubt that Atlas’s sensors have picked up on her invasion by now. If there was ever a time this prison would be understaffed and vulnerable… now is likely it. It is, too, why we were able to land the airship up here in the first place. Two days ago, I suspect we would have been shot just getting in the sky.”

They’re nearing the door, now.

“But… yes. We are still injured. Fighting will… likely aggravate the injury, regardless of our aura.” Oz hesitates. “If—I understand if you would rather not—”

No. It’s fine. Oscar settles back, shifting through the information. We need to get Qrow out. And if this really is the best time to do it—and the best way… His thoughts firm, steady and cold with determination. We can’t hesitate. There’s no time.

“…Very well.” Oz turns their eyes back to the door, and hefts the cane in hand. Though not in control, Oscar can still feel it—the shift in emotion, the cool blanket falling over their thoughts. The turmoil, the grief, the anger, the lingering fear Oz won’t acknowledge about seeing Qrow again—all of it, buried beneath a laser-eyed focus. “I will be quick.”

Just… try not to push us into passing out?

“Hm, yes, that would be unfortunate. Not to worry—I know our limits.”

I thought you just said you were out of practice.

Oz calmly holds up the officer’s scroll, unlocks the front door, and walks through. “Well. That was an hour ago.”

That’s… not comforting.

This—with the door open and the two of them already inside—is about when the guards finally notice them.

The ensuing fight is rapid-paced, and terribly one-sided. For someone who claims to be out of practice, Oz is swift and brutal in a way that runs entirely counter to his usual manner—he strikes the guards with merciless force, leaving crumpled and groaning bodies lying still on the floor behind them as they push their way into the prison. It never goes too far—no bones broken, no bruises that will lead to unfortunate death—but it is definitely impressive, and Oscar would be awed, if not for the looming sense of resigned doom that he’s definitely going to be feeling this fight for a while. Bruises for days. He’s not looking forward to it.

Oz, currently in the middle of slipping a scroll from the highest-ranked guard’s pocket, pauses at this. “In my defense,” he says mildly, standing them up to limp towards the next door, “we were already in rather rough shape. You would be feeling it anyway.”

I’m just… not looking forward to facing a full-scale invasion like this.

“…An understandable worry,” Oz admits, after a pause. “But you do not… have to feel it alone, as it were. I am happy to take on the burden should the aftereffects be—unpleasant.” He lifts their head. “And once we have a moment to breathe, our aura should start easing some of the pain. We will be okay, Oscar. We simply must hold on until we can rest again.”

Oscar hums a quiet agreement, watching through their eyes as Oz takes them up the hall. He’s frowning, slightly, brow furrowed. They’ve gotten in, but from here on out Oz is uncertain of where to go.

Oscar leans in, not so much taking control as sharing it, and ignores the rising ache of pain as he flickers their head to the side to look up at the front desk of the precinct. Do Atlas personnel keep records?

Oz blinks. “…Yes, actually.” He beelines for the desk, tapping at the computer keys. “A sound idea. Atlas is keen on efficiency. They should be—” He makes a noise. “Ah-ha. B-block.”

Second floor, holding cell 4E… doesn’t seem far. We should hurry.

“Agreed.” Oz spins the cane through their hand and heads for the stairs. Somewhere, an alarm starts to sound. Oz presses a hand to their side with an uncharacteristic curse, and sprints for it.

They make it to the second floor with only minimal resistance, and Oz heads right for the door half-way down the hall. “Here. This room.” He takes up the scroll and presses it to the scanner. The light clicks green. Oz closes the scroll and takes the handle, as if to push the door open—and stops.

There is a long pause. Oscar waits. Oz stares down at their hand for a long moment. There is the slightest of trembles through their fingers before he forces their hand to still. He takes a breath—tightens his grip—

Oscar gently pushes Oz out of the way, and then he is here again, he is himself again, in control once more. Physicality slams into him, the pain sharp and sudden and impossible to ignore, a stitch building in his lungs from the overwork. Still, this switch in control is almost too easy, which is telling enough, but Oz fumbles in something like shock.

Oscar—

And wow, okay, ow, that fight really pushed all the limits he didn’t even know he had, okay. Oscar grits his teeth and rides out the sudden wave of pain, spots dancing behind his eyes. Beyond a brief and pained hiss through clenched teeth, he manages to swallow it back. “It’s fine,” he whispers, once he feels he can breathe again. “It’s fine.”

Oz hesitates. I should…

“We all need to talk.” Oscar straightens with a pained exhale. “And we will. But there’s too much happening. One thing at a time. Prison break is—” He exhales again, smile twisting wry. “Is, um, probably a bad time.”

Oz is quiet for a very long moment. Oscar waits. They have very little time to lose, perhaps—already he can hear alarms beginning to ring, orders shouting out—but Oscar sets his feet and waits, calm, for the answer.

…Thank you. Oz sounds tired.

Oscar tilts his head and doesn’t bother with a reply, just turns the handle and pushes the door open into the holding cell. Light casts through the open door. Qrow is sitting on a lone bench in a dark cage, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. He doesn’t even look up when the door opens—but the person sitting next to him does.

“A kid?” Robyn Hill looks surprised. “Who the hell… wait. You’re the one from the dinner. With Ironwood.”

“Um,” Oscar says, mentally backpedaling for all he’s worth. What? Robyn? Why? “H-hi?”

Well. This is certainly a surprise. I don’t recall Ironwood putting out an arrest for her.

Yeah, neither does Oscar. Was she arrested with Qrow? Did they take her in just because? That seems... shitty.

At her comment, though, Qrow’s head snaps up. His eyes fix on Oscar and go wide. He straightens like he’s been shocked. “Wh—Oscar!?”

Oscar stares at them, trying to get his mind back on track. Oz chooses this moment to be unhelpful and go utterly silent, which is. Okay. Fine. After a pause, Oscar works his jaw and manages a weak smile. “Oh, um. Yep. That’s me.”

“How did you get here?” Robyn asks, still looking bewildered, but it is Qrow who jumps to his feet and heads towards the bars. “Kid,” he says. “Kid, I thought you were dead!”

“What?” Oscar says, and Oz says, The report, the officers must have told them, and Oscar snaps his mouth shut. “Oh, right. Right.” He pauses, a sinking feeling in his gut, a mingled dread from Oz and Oscar both. “Um.” He doesn’t want to tell them about Ironwood just yet. Not if he doesn’t have to. This just… isn’t the place for it. “It’s a long story.” He moves for the cell doors, holding out the guard scroll. “Let’s get out of here, first.”

Qrow passes a hand down his face, looking ragged but relieved, laughing quietly in a way that doesn’t make it sound like he’s laughing at all. Robyn just shakes her head. “No, wait,” she says, as Oscar unlocks the cell. “I don’t understand. How did you even find us here? This is a military facility!”

“They’re distracted with other things, right now,” Oscar says absently, pulling open the grate. His side aches. He bites back the wince. “They were undermanned. Um, I found keys.”

Robyn scowls at him. “You broke into a guarded government facility all on your own?” She sounds half-way between incredulous and impressed, and turns to shoot Qrow a glare, as if asking for an explanation. Qrow, too, is looking at Oscar oddly, his brow furrowed. He’s holding something tight in his hands, Oscar realizes suddenly—a small object, something reflective, that he’s flipping absently through his fingers.

Oscar meets Qrow’s gaze, calm, and offers a pale smile. “Not… entirely on my own,” he says, careful, and when Qrow goes still, he flips the Long Memory so he’s holding in it in both hands, a silent answer to the question he sees on Qrow’s face. He waits. Qrow doesn’t respond.

Oz is silent, too—a tangle of something like guilt and a pale regret, exhaustion—but all Oscar does is nod, and collapses the cane to clip it on his belt again. “It’s just me right now, though,” he says. Shouting drifts up from the floor below. Oscar turns to Robyn. “Can you fly an airship?”

She looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You gonna explain what the hell that cryptic-ass statement was?”

Oscar actually grins. “Sure.” The shouting grows louder. “Just, um, later?”

She considers him. Then she nods. “I can fly a ship.” She claps Qrow on the shoulder, and for a moment her voice goes awkwardly gentle. “Come on, asshole. Time to run.”

Qrow seems to jolt back to himself. His fingers clench around the thing in his hand. “Right. Right.” He shakes his head, turns to Oscar—and then shakes his head again. “Lead the way, kid.”

Oz murmurs in the back of his mind, muted. He seems shaken.

Oscar looks Qrow up and down. He does seem shaken. Oddly disconnected. There’s blood flecking off his sleeves, his hands. Oscar doesn’t like that look of it—it gives him a bad feeling.

His lips press. There’s no time.

“Let’s go,” he says, and rushes from the cell.

Escape is marginally easier than breaking in—Robyn seems almost too keen to bust some heads, and once they pick up their weapons she fights with gusto. She seems angry, and more than happy to take that anger out on the guards who’d locked them up. Oscar supposes he can’t really blame her. After everything she did for Mantle, the last few hours were probably like something from her own personal hell.

Qrow’s weapon is bloody all the way to the hilt, poorly cleaned. Qrow actually flinches when he sees it. Oscar is getting such a bad feeling about this.

Oz, too, is quiet. This isn’t good.

Yeah, obviously. But Oscar swallows it back.

They are running through the halls now, only slowed by the continuous stitch in Oscar’s side. He’s limping badly, and his cane is getting more use as a crutch than a weapon right now. Ow, ow, ow. He gets the sense Oz wants to offer to take over again, except they both know that’d cause too many problems right now. Oscar tilts back his head, looking at Qrow from the corner of his eye. “What do you think happened?”

…The object in his hand—it looks like a badge, don’t you think?

Oscar almost trips. Oh. Oh, no. “Do you think—?”

I am not sure. I wasn’t aware for a majority of those moments, and you only met him once. But… General Ironwood’s men are—incredibly loyal. It would not surprise me if…

Oscar presses his lips in a thin line, chest aching at the thought. He hadn’t known Clover Ebi well to have much of an opinion, but if Oz’s guess is right—that must have hurt.

“All good, kid?”

He looks up to see both Robyn and Qrow looking back at him, Robyn’s face creased in worry and Qrow’s blank in a way that makes him want to hide. Oh, shoot. He manages a smile. “Um.” How to salvage this?

We are still running for our lives. A rather more pressing issue at the moment, I would think.

Ah, right. “The airship is behind the building?”

Robyn shakes her head, looking exasperated, but turns back around to run. Qrow stares at Oscar for another long moment and then looks away so quick his neck snaps, and doesn’t look back again.

That… is not a good sign.

“Too late to worry about it now,” Oscar mutters back, and shoves out of the prison doors, side burning, breaths wheezing. The stitch in his lung is starting to become something agonizing. To Robyn: “It’s—t-there, that alley, it should be—still running—I hope—”

She is already turning the corner. “Got it. Get on!”

“T-trying!” Oscar wheezes out, and pushes forward. Pain flares up his side like the stab of a hot poker. His leg buckles again. Oscar makes a strangled noise and tips sideways, arm snapping out for the wall—

A hand grips under his arm and drags him upright. Qrow. He catches Oscar mid-stumble and pulls him forward, dragging them up the ramp and turning just in time to raise his weapon. The sharp ping of a blocked bullet rings out. “Close the damn doors!”

“On it!” Robyn is already in the pilot’s seat, flicking on the controls. “Hold on!”

The ground shudders and Oscar lunges for the airship wall, leaning heavily against the seats and gripping the seatbelts for support. His side is splitting in pain. His head spins, his vision going blurry. The bottom drops away, his ears popping from the pressure; outside the window, he watches as Atlas slowly fades into the clouds, the airship rising up into the sky. They’ve made it. They’ve made it!

He can’t breathe. Every inhale feels like it isn’t enough. Oscar curls up over his side and fights the urge to throw up.

Oz’s voice snaps in the back of his mind, sharp and calming. Oscar. Breathe.

“I—can’t—”

A moment of pause. Then: Let me take control.

Oscar grits his teeth. “But—”

You’re on the cusp of hyperventilation, and with our injuries as they are, such a thing will not be pleasant. I appreciate your concern, and I am grateful, but your wellbeing is far more important than my insistence on avoiding my problems. Let me help.

Oscar bows his head and struggles for one lingering second, and then drops control all at once. It’s one of their rockier switches—for a moment their head dips forward and they almost blackout, and then Oz snaps to awareness and inhales sharply, fighting to get their breathing back under control.

He sits them up straight and places a bracing hand to their side, leaning heavily against the side of the ship. He closes their eyes and slows their breathing, taking deep breaths despite the panicked burning in their lungs.

Oscar, dizzy and distant, his head clear now that he’s away from the pain, takes scope of their state and winces. The little strength they’d regained from their rest in Mantle’s pit is all but gone now. The weariness drags at him.

I… I’m sorry.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Oz murmurs back, and their aura flickers up, focused solely on their side. Thankfully, the airship has heating, which means their aura’s healing properties can now be fully utilized. “We, ah… perhaps pushed our luck too soon.”

“That so?”

They still— their shock two-fold, the flash of surprise belonging to Oscar and Oz both. In their exhaustion, they’d forgotten where they were. Across from them, Qrow is standing against the airship door, looking down at them with an expression turned cold and hard. “That isn’t exactly like you, Oz.”

…Oh, crap.

Oz doesn’t reply. For a moment he is very still, and then he forcefully relaxes, clenching and unclenching their fingers. His ache for the Long Memory is so strong that even Oscar can feel it, but Oz doesn’t reach for the cane, just pushes them to sit up straight and leans back against the wall, hands still pressed to their side.

“…Perhaps,” he says, finally, with slight strain. “But it has been a—rather tiring day. Even for me.” A pause. “We… all make mistakes.”

Qrow’s face darkens, a flash of anger like a storm. “Yeah, that’s an understatement.” His fingers are white-knuckled on his sleeve, his jaw tight. He straightens, looking ready to snap—

“Okay,” says Robyn, from the front. She turns back to look at them. “I’ll bite. The hell is going on? What the fuck just happened to the kid?”

Oz visibly winces. In the back of their mind, Oscar sighs. Oh, geez.

Oz speaks very quietly, under their breath. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to—”

At this point, switching might make things worse, Oz. He pushes back, for once—hilariously—refusing control. Rebuilding trust, remember?

Oz sighs, but seems unsurprised, and Oscar suspects he perhaps just wanted to hear someone else say it. He straightens, then winces again when the pain in their side flares, bad enough even Oscar can feel it, though it’s muted by the distance.

“That is…” Oz exhales, hard. “I am Professor Ozpin. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hill. I have heard… good things about you.” He manages a smile. “To make a long story very short, I am—paired with Oscar through an old curse that has had me reincarnate again and again, until Salem is defeated. Oscar is my most recent incarnation. He is also, in fact, still here—I am just briefly taking control.”

Robyn blinks fast. She stares at them for a long moment, as if waiting for the punchline, and when one doesn’t come she sits back in the pilot’s seat and turns her face to the window, looking bewildered. “That’s… okay, then.”

Argh, we look so weird…

Oz’s expression twitches into a wan smile, but Qrow shifts and the smile drops, stone cold. Qrow does not look at all pleased. His eyes are bright with fury. “But why bother introducing yourself, anyway?” Qrow sounds icy. “Let me guess. The moment you give up control, snap! Gone away again, right?”

“What?” Robyn says.

Oz doesn’t react. For Robyn’s benefit, he says, reluctant and forced, “I… also have spent these last few months— mostly unaware, as it were. I have only just returned.” His eyes flicker to Qrow. He takes a long breath. “I… I want to say that I am—”

“Save it.” Qrow’s voice snaps. “Why now? Why today? Why the hell are you back?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Oz stares calmly back, but Oscar can feel his exhaustion, soul-deep and aching. They are both of them at their limit. “I… I am here. To stay. Even after Oscar takes back control. I am simply in control now to manage—the damage.”

Robyn’s eyes flash back, her hands tight on the airship controls. “The kid’s hurt?”

Qrow straightens at that. “What happened?”

Oz—

“They will find out sooner or later,” Oz says simply, cutting Oscar off. “Best to know now.” He closes their eyes and takes another breath. “Oscar sought to convince Ja—General Ironwood to change his mind about Mantle. Ironwood… did not take well to this.” He pauses, then sighs. “He shot us off a cliff.”

There is a long, awful silence. Qrow looks pale. Robyn’s hands are white-knuckled on the controls. “So that’s it,” she says, voice tight. “That’s it. That’s—where he stands.”

Qrow stares. “…Are you serious?”

“…It broke our aura.” Oz presses their hand against the wound, breathing shallowly. “Only a bruise, thankfully, but… if Oscar’s aura had been any more depleted, we would not have survived the bullet, let alone the fall.”

Nothing. Qrow is still. Perhaps it is the shock about Ironwood, or whatever happened that bloodied Qrow’s weapon and left Clover Ebi’s pin in his grasp, but all his anger seems abruptly drained. He slumps against the door, hand covering his face. For a moment the only noise is the rattle of the airship, battling against the storm.

Oz looks away. “I understand if you cannot forgive me,” he says, in the silence. “And I will not ask you to. But Salem is coming. And if we do not act soon, then Atlas will meet a fate even worse than Beacon.” He lifts his head, but still, cannot seem to bring himself to look back at Qrow. “I… understand if you don’t trust me. I have not, after all, proved myself trustworthy.” He hesitates, longer, and then, quietly: “But please. Whatever the plan… let me help.”

Qrow breathes in. Breathes out. Straightens against the door. “I don’t trust you.” Blunt. Sharp. Oz doesn’t flinch, but his eyes close, and Oscar would cringe if he could. “And forgiveness isn’t even on the table, frankly. But.” Qrow scrubs a hand down his face. “Fuck, if James has really—well. We could use all the help we could get.” His hand lowers. His eyes are sharp. “Hey, Oscar.”

Oscar brightens in interest. Me?

Oz says, cautiously, “He’s listening.”

Qrow stares at them, as if trying to see Oscar past Oz’s eyes. “Do you trust him?”

Oscar’s response is immediate. I’m willing to try.

Oz winces. “Oscar—”

Like I said before. It’s never too late to build trust. Not if you’re willing to mend it.

Oz hesitates. Takes a deep breath, then pauses again, unsure of how to voice it. “Ah, he—”

“Stop.” Oz’s mouth snaps shut. Qrow closes his eyes. He looks tired again. “I can tell. Kid’s face is an open book, even when you’re the one wearing it.” His eyes open. He lifts his hand and looks at his palm. Oz was right—it is Clover’s badge, small and silver and flecked with drying blood.

Qrow looks at the badge for a long time, then gently closes his fingers around it. He tucks the badge away in his inner coat pocket, where his flask used to sit. “Well,” he says, to the wall. “If Oscar’s willing to give you a chance… fine.”

Oz falters, obviously taken off-guard. His surprise is tinged with something sharp and golden, a rush of relief. “I—that’s—thank you. I will—”

“I’m not done.” Qrow’s stare bores into them. “I don’t forgive you. At the moment, I’m too angry to really consider it. The kids… who knows. Maybe they’ll be a different story. But whatever happens. Whatever comes next? You’re not in charge. And if you step out of line, if you lie—again?” Qrow leans forward. “This is it, Oz. One last chance.” His voice rasps. “Try not to fuck it up, yeah?”

Silence, again. Qrow leans back against the door. He seems drained. Tired. He closes his eyes.

“I understand,” Oz says. He looks down. “Thank you.”

Another pause. The silence stretches. Oscar nudges him, and Oz takes a breath. “Qrow. I am sorry for your loss. He seemed like a good man.”

Qrow’s jaw clenches, and he looks up, livid—but Oscar is already in control again, blinking fast from the blood rush and pulling a face at the floor. Qrow slumps. “That—!”

“He meant it.” Oscar presses at his side, closing weary eyes. He feels tired, but—pleased, too. Oz is a quiet sigh in the back of his mind, but his emotion is a tangle of guilt and bone-deep relief. A chance. It is more than Oz feels he deserves, but that is what he’s been given.

Still. I wouldn’t exactly label that conversation as having “gone well,” Oscar.

“No,” Oscar agrees, “but it’s a start.” He lifts his head and gives Qrow a weak smile. “Thanks for hearing him out.”

Qrow sighs again. “The things I do for you kids.”

Oscar laughs at that. Then he trails off. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, shoot. The others—” He tries to sit up, and hisses when his side twinges. The pain is fading under the focus of their aura, slowly and surely, but it’s still seizing. “Salem is coming—and they think I’m dead or, you know, that you’re in prison—we need to—can we—?”

“Calm down, pipsqueak.” Robyn. She’s already flicking through the controls. “Finally, something I can do. That conversation was dramatic, don’t get me wrong, and it did explain some stuff, but wow that was awkward to sit through. Give me a sec.”

Qrow puts a hand back over his face. In the back of Oscar’s head, Oz is a momentary burn of embarrassment.

I’ll admit. I forgot she was there.

Oscar snickers once, smothers it at Qrow’s glare, and gives Robyn a smile. “If you can reach them—”

“Got it.”

Static crackles through the airship. A voice bleeds through. No-nonsense and sharp—Maria. “Who is this?”

Oscar sits back, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion lingering, listening to the sound of his friends’ voices. Jaune. Ruby. Nora and Ren and Weiss and all the others. He closes his eyes with a smile, calls a weak affirmative when they demand after him, and lets their relief wash over him, warm, welcome. They’re all alive, they know he’s alive—Qrow is as willing to work with Oz as he can be, and sooner or later they’ll have a plan.

Salem is coming. The storm is almost upon them. But there is a warmth, Oscar thinks, in knowing he won’t face it alone.

Maybe Ironwood never saw Oscar for Oscar, and maybe he never saw Mantle as a place worth saving—who can know? But the people here care, the people here see him, and together, he thinks, they can at least give Mantle a chance.

Oscar.

He pries his eyes open. Qrow and Robyn are talking with the others—hashing out a place to meet, to plan. Soon they’ll all be together again. Soon they’ll figure it out.

Thank you. I know I have said that numerous times today, but… truly. Thank you for giving me a chance.

Oscar hums, and closes his eyes. “Had an advantage,” he mumbles back, exhausted. “Knew you meant it.”

Oz feels lighter. Almost as if he wants to laugh. True. Oscar’s head dips. Oz’s voice is warm. Rest, Oscar. I’ll wake you when we land.

He knows Oz will. There is a peace in knowing that—in having Oz watch his back. Oscar tips his head forward and lies down on the airship seats, and lets the crackling static of his team’s voices and the rumble of the airship carry him to sleep.