#I’ve been trying to get out of the malevolent hole and it’s not working I keep slipping back in

[potato-lord-but-not]

I've been a fan of yours since before the Malevolent era, but it still seems so crazy to me that there was a time not too long ago when you weren't drawing eldritch polyamory at all

No literally when I listened to the first episode of malevolent I had no idea what was in store for me. like I wouldn’t be able to even fathom the predicament I’ve found myself in.

[eldritchqueerture]

last chapter! @lighthouseshepard

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Arthur was quiet, when he and Noel entered the hotel room, and the door closed behind them with a gentle click. As they were traversing the building, Noel quietly informed him what he saw – or rather who he didn’t see. From the silence between them now, Arthur could guess there was no sign of John in the room as well.

He walked up to his bed and sat down with a heavy sigh.

“Look, he’ll come back. I’m sure.” Noel sat down next to him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m…” Arthur hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking…”

He trailed off. He knew that line of thinking was a self-deprecating thing that Noel would be quick to deny, no matter whether it was true or not; yet he could not stop it from drilling a hole in his brain.

Noel let out a hum, encouraging him to continue.

“It’s stupid, but without sight… Maybe he thought I’d just be a burden to him,” he said quietly. “Maybe all he wanted was to be free of… Of me.”

“Arthur.” Noel shifted in a way that made Arthur imagine he was getting a better look at his face. He tried to direct his unseeing gaze towards his voice. “And what makes you think that?”

“I—I don’t know,” he stuttered, his throat suddenly tight and his eyes stinging unpleasantly. “I’m just… I can’t,” –he bit his bottom lip, curling his right hand into a fist. The left stayed unmoving on his lap. “I can’t lose him, Noel.”

Noel gently put his hand on top of Arthur’s hand, rubbing his thumb across his fingers.

“I—I lost everything when he… He took everything from me,” Arthur whispered. “My life had ended long before that, but whatever little pieces I’d managed to put back… He took it all away.” He swallowed thickly and let out a shaky breath. “But I didn’t give up. We didn’t give up. I thought we—we had something, we worked towards something and—”

As he inhaled, he felt tears spilling from his eyes. “And we built it back or, or we tried, something approaching a life, an existence out of all these broken pieces and,” –this time the inhale was definitely a sob. “And if he’s gone then I… I don’t…” He sniffed and laughed bitterly through the tears. “I don’t know what’s left.”

This realization came as a surprise to Arthur. He had always considered himself a man who knew himself; he knew where he failed – horribly, disastrously, unforgivably – but he also knew where he succeeded. He knew he was selfish and arrogant at times, stubborn, petty, and cruel, but he was also kind, determined, strong. He knew he could withstand anything this life could throw at him. He was the captain of his soul.

Yet at this moment, with darkness in place of sight and ringing silence in his head, all that seemed so very far away. He may have been the captain, but the ship was lost at sea, with no compass, no stars to guide him – just the endless expanse of cold, dark ocean in his mind. He’d been petty to spite John, stubborn to show him he wouldn’t be fucked with; he was determined for John, and kind to show John the good side of humanity; he was strong because John needed him to be. Every word he had spoken, every action he’d taken had been seen, appraised, and understood by John. He had filtered his own identity, moulded it into something John could call his own, carved out a place for him to fit in.

And now, John was gone. There was a gaping void in Arthur’s sense of self that he could not fathom how to fill, and if John was gone for good, he could not imagine ever feeling whole again.

“This hand,” he added, turning the left hand gently under Noel’s touch. “Has been his for so long… And I know it’s mine, it’s my body, but… At the same time, it’s not–anymore.”

“Arthur,” Noel spoke again under his breath. “I…”

“You don’t—have to say anything,” Arthur sniffled again, trying to compose himself, and wiped his cheeks. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“No, but… I think I do, in a way,” he said quietly. “It makes sense that you’d need some time to adjust. Both of you.”

Arthur let out a shaky sigh and straightened his back. “Sorry for this, I just…”

“It’s okay,” Noel chuckled. “You don’t need to apologize, kid.”

Arthur nodded his head in agreement.

“Hey, but for now,” Noel said with a steeling breath. “I think you need some food in you. What do you say we wait for him down at the restaurant?”

“I guess that’s not a bad idea,” Arthur admitted. “I’m starving.”

“Atta boy. C’mon, I’ll keep an eye out.” Noel patted his shoulder and stood up. Arthur followed him, and just as they took the first steps towards the door, it opened. Noel stopped abruptly before Arthur, who heard a sharp intake of breath from the doorway.

“Oh…” John froze, his eyes travelling from Arthur to Noel. “Noel.”

Noel’s eyes roamed all over his face with open curiosity after the initial surprise passed. A bright smile appeared on his face. “John! We were just lookin’ for you, my friend.”

Arthur’s eyes were turned in John’s vague direction – slightly to the side, but John could tell he was paying him close attention. He stood next to Noel, a bit further in the room, and there were remnants of tears under his eyes.

John felt as if something had just punched him in the gut.

“John, we need to talk,” Arthur said simply. “Just… Please.”

“I agree,” John grumbled.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Noel smirked. “I’ll leave you to it. Come down to the restaurant when you’re done, I’m bettin’ neither of you has eaten today.”

He looked John in the eyes again, his smile unwavering. He winked at him as he moved towards the door, and then, he was gone.

John let out a breath, looking back at Arthur.

“Arthur, I—”

“Look, I—I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Arthur interrupted, raising his hand. “You’re—You’re finally in your own body, with your own agency and—and I should’ve given you more space.”

John blinked at him. “What?”

“I—I understand that you might… That you would want to go your separate way, or, or spend less time with… It—It’s completely natural that you wouldn’t want to—”

“Arthur, what the fuck are you talking about?” John frowned, stifling any urges that called for closeness, for touch.

“I—Is that not why you left?” Arthur looked lost, confused.

“I…” John hesitated. “You were asleep. I wanted to go outside, and I realized that I… could.”

 “And the second time?”

“The second time you told me to leave,” he snapped.

A spark of frustration grew on Arthur’s face. “So, you were just being petty, then?”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.” John crossed his arms on his chest. Somehow, it helped him contain the emotions, like if he was trapping them from getting outside with his arms.

Arthur suddenly deflated, his eyes dropping to the floor.

“I’m sorry, John. You’re right. I was… I’m being unfair,” he said. The next breath he took was shaky. “I don’t… I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave either,” John replied simply. Arthur apparently did not expect that, blinking in surprise, his eyebrows raising slightly. With hope?

“No?”

“Of course not,” he said thickly. “Did you expect me to just leave you here alone, as if I didn’t—”

Love you, he did not say. He swallowed through the tightness in his throat. “As if I didn’t care?”

“I—I…”

“I’m not leaving,” he repeated for good measure. Arthur exhaled shakily at that.

“Good. Good.” He nodded. He was fidgeting with his right hand nervously, but John noted that the left arm was mostly motionless. “D—Did you—”

“I met Oscar,” he said, replacing the brief relief on Arthur’s face with disbelief once more. “We had a conversation.”

“W—What? Oscar?” Oh, and that was pain on Arthur’s face with the hushed name. John wanted to claw his own heart out – why was he only able to bring Arthur pain?

“I told him you were here. That you wanted to speak with him.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, searching the air as if he could pierce through the darkness to find John’s face. He took a step forward, right hand reaching out ever so slightly. He was too far to touch John, who forced himself to stay in place.

“John…” Arthur breathed out, blinking the newly gathered tears away. “What… Why?”

“Because…” John hesitated, again concentrating on the pain in his left pinkie. “Because I cost you his friendship. Because you left him for me, and I,” –his voice cracked. “I’m not human.”

Arthur frowned and blinked, trying to follow the thought process. “What…”

“I don’t think like a human, and I don’t,” –he huffed. “I know you want me to become human, but I won’t. I can’t. Even this body, created from thin air has fucking tentacles, Arthur.” He took a steadying breath. “You once told me you need other people. Oscar said the same thing. He can live up to that; I—I can’t.”

Arthur took another step forward, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“And what exactly would that be?” He asked thickly. “Humanity?”

“I—” He trailed off when Arthur let out a sigh. He moved his right hand again, searching, and then raised his left one as well, as if he’d just remembered about it.

“Where are you?” He asked softly, and without thinking John stepped forward to touch his arms. Arthur grabbed the lapels of his jacket into fists and brought their bodies closer.

“I don’t want you to be human, John,” he said quietly, turning his head upward towards John’s face. John’s arms shook with the need to embrace the man, to dig his nails into his skin; a desperate urge to claw and bite – devour. “Not—anatomically or, or whatever. I don’t want you to be like Oscar, or like me. I want you to be you.”

Arthur’s knuckles turned white with how hard he clung to John’s jacket, and the sight made John’s breath come quicker.

“And—And if me isn’t something that you would—”

“John,” Arthur cut in intently. “I want you. With or without tentacles, with or without the mask—I want you. Here. With me.”

John leaned forward to join his forehead with Arthur’s, passing his hands up Arthur’s arms, and a deep growl came out of his throat without his permission. Arthur let out a small gasp at the sound.

“Ah… Are you…?”

“I’ve been…” John started almost inaudibly, every muscle in his body trembling with a need that he didn’t know how to fulfil. The tentacles in his back writhed, immaterial enough to pass through his clothes, but growing more substantial along their length for a few to eventually wrap around Arthur’s wrists. “I want…”

“What?” Arthur prompted under his breath. John could feel the warmth of it in the space between their bodies, that damned space that was still too vast.

“Ever since the ritual I’ve been feeling like,” he swallowed, his voice strained. “Like you’re too far away.”

Arthur breathed out a laugh, his hands trying to pull him closer. “John, that was the point.”

“I know,” he growled, digging his fingers into Arthur’s shoulders again. Would it leave bruises? Signs of John still being part of this body, in some strange way? “And I don’t regret it. But I don’t like that feeling.”

“What does it feel like?” Arthur asked. His face inched closer, so John could feel his breath on his lips.

“I—”

“Tell me,” he added hotly.

“It feels like losing a part of myself,” John whispered and closed his eyes against the onslaught of feelings. “It feels like my skin tearing itself from my flesh and walking away on its own. Like my place is inside your chest and your mind, and I want to claw my way back there.”

“Fuck, John…” Arthur whispered.

“Arthur, I—”

“Can I try something?” Arthur asked almost out of breath. John nodded and whispered an affirmation.

Arthur’s hands travelled higher, feeling out his shoulders and neck. Goosebumps appeared on John’s skin as a slight shiver passed through him. Arthur’s left hand rested on his neck, while the right went up to his face, feather-light fingertips tracing out his mask.

His throat rumbled with another growl and his grip on Arthur tightened.

“Does it hurt?” Arthur asked, oblivious, almost making John laugh.

“No,” he growled. “It’s not enough.”

Arthur’s eyes widened with a sudden realization, and his fingers dove into his hair and curled, nails scraping the skin.

The noise that he let out now was more akin to a purr. John’s hat fell to the ground as Arthur’s fingers travelled further with a picture of wonder on his face.

John buried his face in Arthur’s neck, pushing his forehead into the warm skin, his nose touching the white scar there. He bared his teeth, breathing hard through clenched jaws, tentacles wrapping around Arthur’s torso pulling him impossibly closer.

And yet it wasn’t enough.

It was no trouble to pick Arthur up from the ground – he was smaller and thinner as it was, and as the aftermath of his starvation in the pits, he weighed almost nothing to him. He yelped as he was raised an inch or two from the ground and moved towards the wall. John almost slammed himself against it, shielding Arthur from the impact with his limbs, and he pressed their bodies closer, finally finding some relief for that searing need.

Arthur gasped – almost moaned at the pressure; John could feel his arousal starting to dig into his thigh. Did Arthur want this? John’s need wasn’t exactly sexual in nature – at least he didn’t think it was – but Arthur’s body seemed to interpret the signals in this way. It was a topic they’d never touched – they never really had to, and John had enough decency not to invade Arthur’s privacy in this way. But this…?

“John,” Arthur breathed out and licked his lips, his hands carding through John’s hair, thumbs trailing over his face. “Can I…?”

His right thumb found John’s lips, spread them open, and felt the teeth. John let out a keening sound, barely restraining himself from biting, as Arthur’s thumb returned to rest on his lips.

Did Arthur want to kiss him? John had seen people kissing; before this, it had seemed like a strange way to pass time, mouths smashing clumsily against each other. Now, it seemed his body wanted for nothing more, his mind making it seem like there was nothing sweeter in the world than the taste of Arthur’s lips and the closeness that could give them. Tongues intertwined, saliva mixed, breaths shared – was that not as close as they could get to finally being one again?

Arthur properly moaned as soon as their lips met, and John relished the sound. He’d heard Arthur moan and whimper in pain far too many times; but to hear him do so from pleasure – from pleasure that John gave him? It was making that needy, growling beast within him hum with contentment, settling his frayed nerves. Here, he had Arthur back, he had Arthur all for himself.

Arthur’s body shifted, chasing pressure in little involuntary movements. His breath stuttered when John moved his leg, pushing his knee against the wall between his legs.

“John,” he mumbled against his lips, his breath hot and cheeks flushed, his hands clinging to him for dear life. “John.”

John had no mind for speaking. For the first time he could act instead, so he kissed Arthur’s cheekbone, pushing his lips hard into his face. He moved up to his ear – or what was left of it – and he placed his lips behind it, sucking at the skin and laving it with his tongue. Arthur gasped again, tilting his head to the side.

“Fuck,” he sighed, passing his fingers through John’s hair. “John—”

John moved to Arthur’s shoulder, quickly before the urge to bite overtook him, trailing open-mouthed kisses on his neck. He had undone the first few buttons of his shirt and uncovered the shoulder so he could lavish the skin there with his mouth.

Then, he allowed himself to bite.

Arthur was mostly skin and bones, so he did not bite hard – he didn’t want to actually hurt him. He latched onto the skin carefully, letting out a shaky breath, tongue laving in between his teeth.

Arthur’s breath caught, and John noticed he was actively stifling the sounds in his throat. Dragging his teeth along the skin, he bit again at the base of his neck.

Arthur screwed his eyes shut and curled the hand in John’s hair into a fist. John let out a little content grunt of his own at the pressure-pain on his scalp.

“John, s—stop,” Arthur let out breathlessly. “Wait.”

John froze, muscles straining, and pulled his head back just enough to look at Arthur’s face. His cheeks were flushed, lips red and slightly swollen – had he been biting them? – and as he opened his eyes, John saw they were glistening, his pupils blown wide.

“Fuck, John…” He let out. “I don’t—”

“Was that not…?” John asked, unsure all of a sudden. Arthur laughed under his breath.

“No, Christ. It was… I mean…” He took a deep breath and swallowed, clearly trying to compose himself. “You’re…” He trailed off with one more breath in an attempt to steady himself but dissolved into another bout of laughter.

“What the fuck are you laughing for?” John asked in a small outrage, but devoid of any real offence due to the sparks of genuine joy dancing in Arthur’s eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, I just…” Arthur took a deep breath. “I haven’t had… something like this in a very long time. And—And I was so afraid, when you left, that you didn’t want—”

“I want you, Arthur,” John said, his voice low. “I’m never leaving you.”

“Good,” Arthur answered. “Good, because I need you.”

“We both need each other,” John corrected, joining their foreheads again.

“Together.” Arthur nodded with a smile. His hands rested on John’s neck, fingers caressing the collar of his shirt. They caught on the tie, and his right hand followed the length of it, feeling the fabric under his fingertips.

“I don’t recall you mentioning there was a tie in the cultist’s closet,” he murmured.

“I bought it this morning,” John said. Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Oh! What does it look like? Describe it to me.”

Something warm and fluttery happened to John’s stomach, but for once, it wasn’t unpleasant.

“It’s a dark, but warm shade of brown; there is a faint pattern on it, but it’s hard to make out. It’s adorned with feathers embroidered into it with a golden thread.”

“I can feel it,” Arthur said. “It’s really nice to the touch. And it sounds pretty!”

“Yes, I—I like it.” John surprised himself with how audible the little smile on his face was. Arthur properly grinned at that, his hand coming up to caress his face. His touch wasn’t so gentle and unsure, like it had been the first time – no longer as if he was touching a porcelain cup that could be broken if you breathed on it too hard. Instead of this overwhelming urge to follow the delicate touch with claws, and teeth, and growling, it felt…

“Good,” Arthur replied. “I’m glad you had a chance to get it.”

“Arthur, I’m… sorry I didn’t say anything,” John spoke up. “I thought I’d be back before you woke up.”

“It’s alright,” Arthur sighed. “I admit it was… scary. To wake up with you not… being there.”

“I’m sorry,” John murmured again, nuzzling his nose to Arthur’s. That made him huff out a chuckle. “I’m here.”

“I’m glad.” Arthur smiled and carded his fingers through John’s hair again. “You have really nice hair, you know?”

“Oh?” John blinked down at him.

“Yes, it’s long and thick, and very soft.”

“It gets in my eyes.” John frowned, making Arthur laugh.

“I could braid it for you, if—if you want,” Arthur said, but his smile faded a little to something more wistful. “I used to… do all sorts of hairstyles for—for Faroe, I should still remember. At least some of it.”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

“But not now,” Arthur said with a sharp inhale. “Noel is still waiting for us.”

“Right, yes!” John said. “With food.”

“With food!” Arthur exclaimed, grabbing John’s shoulders as if to shake him. “I am starving, and you must be too. You haven’t eaten anything yet!”

“It’s not a very pleasant feeling,” John grumbled stepping back and letting Arthur smooth out his clothes. “I am… hesitant to be excited about this, though.”

“It is not, my friend,” Arthur said, buttoning up his shirt. “But we are about to remedy that. I promise, you’ll love it.”

John picked up his hat and let it rest on the nightstand. He looked back at Arthur, pondering whether to take his hand. He wasn’t granted much time for that, as Arthur stepped up to him and took him by the arm.

“We’re going to have to get a cane for me at some point,” Arthur said as they left the room and moved towards the elevator. “But for now this is… good.”

He rubbed John’s forearm with his hand, giving a soft smile. They stopped in front of the elevator doors, and John pushed the button to call it.

“Maybe… Maybe there’s a way we could bring your sight back,” he said through the sudden tightness in his throat. “Some sort of… a spell or a ritual, or—”

“John,” Arthur sighed sympathetically. “I appreciate that but… I think I’ve made my peace with never getting it back. If it were possible, we would have found a way already.”

The elevator arrived, and John frowned with distaste as they entered it. He pushed the button for the lobby, and after a few seconds the doors closed with a whoosh of air.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Arthur blinked with confusion. “For what?”

“It’s unfair.” When Arthur’s confused expression didn’t change, John continued. “I took your sight and couldn’t give it back. We’ve been through so much and yet… You’re the one bearing all the scars. Even the ones that were…”

His. Arthur’s expression smoothed into a bittersweet smile.

“Yeah, I suppose it is unfair,” he said quietly. “But we’ve both been through… horrible things, John. We’ve shared so much. It doesn’t just go away because you have your own body now.”

John hummed noncommittally under his nose.

“And it doesn’t erase the scars that… you can’t easily see,” Arthur continued even quieter. “Ones that I wish I could… undo.”

John swallowed, something sinking heavily in his stomach. They were getting dangerously close to things that were too emotional to deal with even in his non-corporeal form, and he would rather not touch upon them now, when this body was so eager to react physically to his emotions.

“What I mean is,” Arthur added. “We’ve both… hurt each other, and—”

To John’s luck, the elevator stopped with a ding, and the doors opened before them. He gripped Arthur’s arm tighter.

“I know. The restaurant is just up ahead.”

As they came upon the entrance to the restaurant, John spotted Noel sitting at a table near it, with his leg crossed over his knee and a newspaper sprawled open on his lap. There was an ashtray on the table with a stub of a burnt-out cigarette. John relayed this all to Arthur, slowing down their pace as he talked. Noel looked up from the newspaper when they approached.

“Hi, there.”

“Hello, Noel,” John said, feeling a tight knot in his stomach. He doubted this was due to hunger. “Chair is here, on your right, Arthur.”

“Ah, thanks.” Arthur sat down, letting go of John’s arm. John sat opposite Noel, who watched him with a curious smile.

“So, what’s the appropriate social conduct here?” Noel quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “Should I be congratulating you two?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Arthur let out a laugh. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Believe me, kid, I got nowhere else I’d rather be,” Noel snorted. “There’s a stack of boring paperwork back in my office that I’m very eager to avoid.”

Arthur laughed again. “What’s your excuse to get out in the field, then?”

“Oh, had a few ideas cross my mind,” he leaned back in his chair with a smirk, which John quietly said to Arthur. That earned him a briefly surprised look from Noel, that turned into a slight nod. “You did say something about a missing persons case, though it seems we solved that one pretty quickly. Technically, you’re still wanted back in Arkham.” Noel raised his eyebrows. “Can always chalk it up to that.”

“Right,” Arthur shook his head with a sigh. “Arkham.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid, no one’s actually looking for you anymore,” Noel said with a more serious tone. “Had to… swoop in and weave a couple lies here and there. Came up with quite the story by the end of it, but I got you off the main suspect list, and they’ve labelled it a cold case. So, technically you’re still in the papers but everyone’s moved on to other things.”

Arthur blinked at that. “You… You did?”

“Thank you, Noel,” John said, equally taken aback.

“Wh—I mean, thank you, that’s…” Arthur laughed in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. But why? You—You didn’t have to.”

“You kidding? It’s the least I could do,” Noel said. “I would not be here if it wasn’t for you two.”

The waitress came up to their table at that moment with menus and asked about drinks, so the conversation shifted. John observed Noel as he talked; he hadn’t changed much since the last time they saw each other. The greying light brown hair was brushed to the back of his head, his face was wrinkled in places and scarred in others, and his grey eyes still glistened with humor and intelligence. The biggest difference was the circular scar on the side of his neck, freshly healed and no doubt causing pain. The top button of Noel’s shirt was undone, and John imagined the collar would have irritated the skin otherwise. When the man moved his head, there was a slight wince of pain on his face, yet you would not be able to tell from his voice alone that something was amiss. John did not tell Arthur that; he realized there were certain drawbacks to other people being able to hear his descriptions. It would certainly sour the mood of the conversation if John brought it up.

“Anything for you, John?” Arthur asked, bringing his attention back to being an active part of the scene instead of just quietly watching. He blinked with surprise; they were ordering drinks, right?

“Uh, just water,” he said, feeling Arthur and Noel paying keen attention to him. The waitress nodded to them and walked away.

“Well, that reminds me, John,” Noel started, planting his elbows on the table with a curious look on his face. “How are you finding the physical plane?”

John let out a soft sigh.

“It’s a lot,” he said with a measured tone. “There seems to be a lot going on in a human body that I haven’t… realized, before.”

“Hah, I bet,” Noel laughed. “Wait till you eat. Do you like it so far?”

John raised his eyebrows, thinking. “It was… overwhelming at first. But I think I’ve gotten used to it.” He glanced at Arthur, not being able to hold back a slight smile. “There are some unpleasant parts of it but… Other parts, I think I quite like.”

Noel raised a curious eyebrow with a smirk. He covered his mouth, as if to whisper something to Arthur and said, “Just so you know, Arthur, John is looking at you right now with a very nice smile.”

John felt his cheeks warm up.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at him with a little smirk of his own. “Is he?”

“Aw, I think I got him blushing,” Noel crooned.

“Yes, that would be one of the unpleasant parts,” he said, trying to stifle the embarrassment. Noel laughed warmly, and John felt Arthur’s knee touch his under the table.

“Sorry, John,” Noel said with an apologetic smile. “I simply couldn’t resist.”

The rest of the meal passed in a similar atmosphere, with John deciding to try eggs on toast with a few frankfurters and rating them as tolerable. He wasn’t fond of the texture of the eggs, but he did like the toast and sausages. The sensations of eating and swallowing themselves weren’t the most comfortable, but the feeling of his stomach filling brought new energy and some kind of… exhilaration into his body. Yes, he could understand why Arthur liked it so much.

“So, what’s next for you guys?” Noel asked after they’ve finished eating and exited onto the street. “Staying in the city for a while?”

“For a while, probably,” Arthur said, as they directed their steps towards Noel’s car. “I want to visit my father, and Marie. And—And Oscar…” He turned his head towards John. “You said—”

“Yes,” John nodded. “You should talk to him.”

“Are you sure you’re alright with it?” Arthur asked. “I told you when we left him at the hospital—”

“Arthur, we’re not in one body anymore,” John interrupted him, squeezing his arm a bit tighter. “I may not find his company the most… interesting, but it wasn’t my intention to keep you away from other people.”

“I know, I just…” Arthur took a deep breath. “Alright, you’re right. I should talk to him.”

“He’s still at the community center,” John said.

“How was—Was he… alright?” Arthur asked.

“He seemed to be,” John shrugged. “It looked like he was focusing on the people in the church.”

“You went into a church?” Noel asked with a raised eyebrow.

“What, did you think I’d catch on fire?” John replied with a deadpan voice that had Noel snort out a laugh. “Yes, I went into the church.”

Noel turned towards a black police car and opened up the door from the passenger side.

“Alright, hop in and figure out where I’m dropping you off.”

With some effort they managed to clamber into the back of the car and settle into the seats. Noel closed the doors behind them and walked around the car to get to the driver’s seat.

“I’m glad he has other people to help,” Arthur said quietly with a smile.

“I think you had that impact on him, Arthur,” John said, while Noel got into the car and started up the engine. “He didn’t mention you, but I know he was talking about you when I asked about his reason. You didn’t stay with him just as a person; you stayed with him as an ideal to follow.”

He felt his voice thicken with emotion. “And I know something about that myself.”

Arthur blinked, the amused smile from before turning into something misty-eyed and bittersweet. “John…”

“You’ve shown me what it means to be human, Arthur,” John spoke quietly, lacing their fingers together. “And while I will never be one, I… appreciate what I have learned. What I can continue to learn.”

The car moved onto the street, and Noel seemed to focus on driving, only occasionally glancing at them in the rearview mirror. Subtly, as not to alert him, one of John’s tendrils snaked out of his shirt and wrapped around Arthur’s shoulder to pull him closer. He gasped softly, quietly enough that only John heard it.

“You showed me that life could have a meaning. Could have a purpose,” he continued in a whisper. “And now, I am met with the question of what that purpose is for me. What I value. What I want.”

“John, you don’t have to know all these things so soon after—”

“But I think I do,” he said, putting his head to Arthur’s temple. Arthur shifted slightly. “You have taught me the meaning of hope. And I want that, Arthur. I want to have hope. And I want to have you.”

Arthur let out a breath and smiled slightly, rubbing his thumb on John’s hand. “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.”

John closed his eyes with a smile of his own. “And miles to go before we sleep.”

[thoraeth]

Words: 2500

A/N: This chapter turned out long af so it's splitted in two parts. I'll see you next Sunday with the juicy fluff 🖤✨

Summary: Cornered by the lack of money, Captain Romi gets into business with the Cross Guild. As the jester worries about his new exlpoding item, things are about to blow up in his face for a whole different reason.

Chapter 4 (PT1) - Ignition

<CH3 CH4(pt2) | Read on Ao3

One hour. Two hours. Four hours have passed.

Kneeling before the cockpit’s closed doors, Meg and Torres are shooing away an irritated Allen from a small box. When Ava appears behind their back, her voice startles them:

“There you are! What’s going on?”

“Shhh!” Torres hisses, alarmed.

“Give the stethoscope back!”

Allen is throwing himself at the box; a quick quarrel and Meg snatches the instrument away from him, pushing it back against the doors’ metal.

“Shut your holes, everyone, they picked up.” the woman whispers.

They all gather around a tiny screen on the doctor’s stethoscope: it’s showing a dark control room. There, a slim guy with black hair and headphones is connecting a Den Den Mushi to a computer; a woman with glasses and a blue-haired man nervously pacing around him.

As the snail's eyes light up, a croaky voice comes out of it.

“You fucking son of a bitch, where are you?!”

Inside the cockpit, Sir Crocodile’s voice explodes with all his wrath.

Buggy runs to the radio “Hey, handsome! Long time, uh? Did you get the papers?”

“Come back to Karai Bari! Now!”

“I will…Eventually.” the jester sweats nervously, his voice lowering and rising again. “Meanwhile, could you read those papers? Pretty please!”

“You’re in no position…you…and…where… Not now, Hawk, I'm on the phone!”

The snail turns to the side, mimicking the scarred man's anger as he seems to be talking to someone far away.

“He sent what?! Buggy, loan’s the last word your filthy mouth should utter!”

“Oh, Crocky. I know our previous ventures weren't all sunshines and rainbows, but you gotta trust me, my Egghead pals did the math this time!” A malevolent grin darkens his face.

“You heard me right. E-g-g-head.”

The radio snail falls silent, paper rustling coming from the other side.

“A device flying across the Grand Line? Clown, they’re scamming you.”

“No scam, sir.” Romi joins in, her voice stone cold. “I’ve been working on The Drifter for years. I'm Romi Hodges, mechanical engineer and…former Labophase trainee.”

“I see.” The Den Den sneers. “Well, Miss Hodges, would you be so kind as to follow the Yonko on his island? I'd like a word.”

“Nice try!” Buggy pushes Romi away “I'm the one who does the talking here, all you have to do is sign the contract.”

Then, slapping the slug shell vigorously, the pirate hangs up.

When the radio rings again, the computers all around it wake up, papers falling on the ground, spitted out of a beeping printer.

“I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this.” Crocodile growls “Miss Engineer, you sure of your numbers? They seem over-optimistic, to say the least.”

“Enough with the boring stuff, we’re gonna own the Grand Line!” Buggy shouts enthusiastically. “Not even celestial assholes can touch us, it’s all legal!"

“Needless to say, clown, that your interest will be sky high, this time. You're not fooling me twice.”

“Oh, c'mon Crocky, help a friend out.”

“And I expect my share, first day of each month.”

“Ugh, deal. But I'm staying here on the Egghead ship.”

“That’s the funniest joke I've heard from you.”

“I mean it. Tell Galdino to make a wax dummy or something, no one will even notice.”

“You out of your fucking mind? Bug-”

The pirate hangs up again, a nervous smile on his face. “Hey, navigator. Back to the Belts, quick.”

At Romi's light touch, the man adjusts his headphones and rapidly types his commands on a keyboard.

“Thanks, JoyJoey. And apologies for the loudness.”

The Captain gently pats the man's shoulder as she reaches for a lever switch.

When the cockpit’s doors slide open, the upset faces of the rest of the crew startles her.

“What have you done!” Meg cries out. “Dealing with the Cross Guild?!”

“Crew, lunchroom meeting in five.” The Captain states.

“They will eat us and spit us out!”

“Enough with the shouting in here. Go, it's an order.”

The whole crew reaches their meeting point, no words uttered but dirty looks speaking volumes.

Sinking back into a chair, Meg breaks the silence first:

“Let me get this straight, Romi: a pirate comes along suggesting we join his pirate alliance and you accept without flinching. So much for years of laying low!”

The woman inhales deeply, rubbing her glasses against her shirt.

“It was a tough call, actually: two weeks ago, we used our last savings. I've been racking my brain these days, trying to find a way to spare you the bad news.”

“Romi, we're in this together.” Allen says softly

“And then food supplies were running out too!” the Captain continues. “Having extra people on board, never touching land…it blew up my forecasts.”

She puts her glasses on again.

“Abandoning the Drifter is not an option, nor is it to let my mates starve. If I'll have to deal with pirates to keep us going, so be it. I take full responsibility.”

Buggy's hand floats around the room, handing Meg a bunch of paper sheets.

“There. Read it yourself.” the pirate says “And have a little trust in your captain's big brains.”

The Challengers take a seat around the table and immerse themselves in the reading. They all discuss the fine lines under Romi's attentive glaze, asking questions and passing the papers around.

Ava is trying her best to conceal a huge smile that’s been stretching her cheeks since leaving the cockpit. She gets up first, lost in thoughts.

“At the end of the day, I’d be mixed up with Cross Guild anyway.”

The woman moves next to Buggy, nudging him playfully with her shoulder.

“Still here? Your men must be soaking their facepaint in tears.”

“Someone insisted I go back to crafting but…no labs in Karai Bari.” the jester winks.

Eventually, papers and numbers are replaced by food and drink on the dinner table, printed sheets crowded in a corner far from the plates.

“By the way.”

Buggy is pointing his fork to the crew, his mouth full: “You think nobody would notice a fucking rocket flying over their heads? Everyone in the Grand Line will want a piece of that cake.”

Romi nods vigorously “Damn right. The Navy will knock on our door no doubt, and y’all know they don't ask nicely.”

“Say no more. To Captain Hodges.”

Meg makes a toast with a bittersweet smile and everyone raises their glasses.

“To Captain Hodges!”

As the tension of that morning gradually melts away, everyone’s thinking about the upcoming projects and how to spend their future money.

Romi's sitting between Buggy and Ava, a glass of ale dangling from her fingers.

“We better make the Drifter fly asap.” She clincks her glass against theirs.

“Ava, how about you move into my room now? You’d have my data archives at hand while Mr. President here gets his private quarters.”

The blonde stares at Romi for a hot minute before stuttering an answer.

“It seems…uhm…convenient.”

Buggy clicks his tongue.

“Bad idea. This one will annoy you in the middle of the night with the most random questions.”

“Come again?” Ava smirks, leaning forward on the table.

“Terrible roommate.” The pirate continues “A ruthless hair brush thief who only leaves chaos and destruction behind her. I'll spare you this horror, Captain.”

He mimics a toast before chugging his ale.

Romi takes a sip and rolls her eyes.

“Whatever guys, nevermind.” she mumbles, her words echoing inside the glass.

That morning, the crew rallies inside lab 01.

Romi paces back and forth in front of her mates, rehearsing aloud every detail of what is about to happen. Her eyes shine in anticipation and excitement, her heart pounding in her chest: it’s test day.

“Everyone in position. Get the data collectors going. Jester, the floor is yours.”

On a large platform, the Drifter lies dormant. Buggy approaches the vehicle, placing a metal box on the ground; he snaps it open and digs his hands into some soft material.

A transparent sphere comes out with a bold ‘x’ painted on its surface; a glowing, dense liquid sloshing inside as the ball moves.

“Let's put this baby to use.” the pirate grins. “This time it's gonna work.”

“Six time’s the charm.” Ava chuckles, while keeping the Drifter’s tank open for him.

As soon as the glowing sphere rolls into the vehicle, Romi saddles up and starts the ignition sequence.

A low grumble comes from the thrusters and the dashboard animates under her fingers.

Goosebumps all over, she observes the front hollow wheel drawing a shiny ring of light. One high-pitched hiss and the Drifter gets off the ground.

"Woohoo!"

Romi cheers loudly while the crew’s excitement grows by the minute.

She fumbles with the commands and steers the vehicle towards the exit, its engines revving full force.

Everything is going exactly as planned when a sudden, scorching heat wave reaches the woman's back, followed by the unmistakable sound of an explosion. Panic spreads as black smoke fills the room.

"Goddamnit!" Allen shouts “Is everyone ok?”

The doctor grabs his medical kit and runs to the rest of the crew, his ears ringing painfully.

He reaches the Captain first: bent over on the floor, she's punching her tights, tears down her furious face. She’s screaming, out of control.

"Breathing is ok. Motility looks fine.” Allen rattles off the essential checks as fast as he can.

“Doc, help!”

He jumps on the platform, following the jester's shrieks.

The pirate has not one scratch on him but Ava, on the other hand, is resisting the Drifter’s weight, her face covered in blood.

Buggy and Torres are trying to lift the wrecked vehicle away from her, but she’s holding on to it, shouting into the smoke:

“Romi it's ok! We'll fix it!”

“Let go, idiot!”

Buggy is shoving Ava away when the Drifter's bulk in his arms suddenly feels heavier.

“Torres, what the fuck you're doing?”

“No, no, no, no…” The man mumbles, his amber eyes fixed on Ava's face.

“Don't you dare drop it!” the woman shouts

“Y-your face!”

“It's nothing, I'm fine!”

“I need to throw up…”

“You were in the Navy, for god's sake!”

“And why do you think they made him a sniper?” Meg snarls, helping them lay down the Drifter slowly.

As the dense fog begins to dissipate, the doctor lets Torres run away, focusing on the others.

“Romi was lucky. Just bruises and a nasty headache.” His tone is reassuring. “This young lady, on the other hand…”

“Ouch!”

The second he touches Ava’s face she cries out on top of her lungs. Her nose is getting swollen and black, cheeks and chin covered in blood.

Allen opens his kit and cleans her face while Buggy moves frantically around him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” He whines, peeking out from the doctor’s shoulders.

His floating hands hold Ava still as a metal strip gets applied on her bended nose.

“This will do for now.” the doctor smiles. “Wait a little for the painkillers to kick in then go get some rest. I'll check on you in a couple of hours.”

Allen gathers his tools and reaches Meg, who's carrying a miserable Romi on her back.

With the doctor's assistance, the three of them leave what's left of lab 01.

Watching the sad spectacle, Buggy reaches for two desk chairs then turns them upright.

“Come sitting.” He orders in a flat voice.

“I'm good.”

“Doc said you need to rest. Sit.”

Ava throws herself into a chair, puffing. “How about we use the purple paste instead? Like, a tiny crumble.”

“That’s a great idea… if you want to send your nose on the fucking moon.”

Buggy sits in front of her and falls silent for a bit. “I really thought it would have worked this time, you know.”.

“We’re almost there: it’s just a matter of fine-tuning, at this point.”

“It blew up in our faces, Ava! I’m out of my league, I'm afraid.”

“Well, so is Romi with her Drifter and, frankly, so am I when I get my hand on any cable in here. We’re all learning as we go.”

“How romantic. Sadly, Croc’s breathing down my neck kinda ruins the vibe.”

“Oh, forget about that buttface: one day we'll build a gigantic robot and seize his gold! ” Ava giggles “It will destroy him! While spitting fire.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Buggy leans forward, laughing.

“We'll name it RingMaster, Mark One!” the woman continues, chasing the jester's chuckles as the bad mood seems to leave him.

In the middle of that rambling, though, her smile fades away.

Those clear eyes, his childish grin…Ava finds herself weak, once again.

“It must be the adrenaline. The painkillers, probably.” She thinks, as tingles start running under her skin.

Squinting, Buggy takes some time to inspect the dark metal strip on the blond’s nose.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

She feels her cheek burning as her gaze tumbles down to his chin.

“I feel nothing. Just a bit light headed.”

“Friggin’ Egghead stuff.”

A slight tilt of her head and a kiss lands on Buggy's lips. A long shy kiss, followed by another peck, and then another.

The jester is stunned: Ava's skin smells too good, her lips, her hands on his jaw, too soft, too inviting. Suddenly overwhelmed, he does not move a muscle.

“Lord, no.” His heart is pounding out of control, dark thoughts crowding in his mind.

“Please, make her stop.” Buggy falls into pure panic. “It had to be fake! She swore to part ways!”

The vivid image of Croc and Hawk laughing flashes before his eyes, he could almost hear them: “you should thank us, clown.” And Ava, clinging to his arm with her shiny wedding band. He'll be stuck with her, forever.

As Buggy snaps out of his visions, he pushes the woman away. She stands up, distraught, her big green eyes darting left and right. “I…I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me.” She whispers in a shaky voice. Lowering her head, Ava dashes out of the room.

Buggy’s head pops off, falling into his hands. “Shit!” He shrieks “Shit! What was that?!”

Hoping to calm his inner chaos, he runs hiding in the chemistry lab for the rest of the day.

It’s been dark for a while when he eventually takes courage and heads back to his room.

“You go straight in there as if today never happened.” The man rehearses. “No kaboom, no smooches, nothing. Just good ol’ chatting.”

As he opens the bedroom’s doors, Buggy sighs in relief. Ava seems to be…not there.

He takes off his clothes and paint, hurrying under the shower, planning to be asleep before his roommate comes back.

The jester dives on his pillow and shuts his eyes: ears pricking up, he expects the sound of her steps at any moment.

Buggy waits for hours on end, wakeful, but no one comes in that night. Staring into the dark, he feels his heart sink.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Treasure - a Malevolent fic

John just keeps remembering the bad things first.

This one lands hard.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

---------

“Come on, English! You can keep up!” Parker needled, running without any effort at all, and it just wasn’t fair.

Arthur shot a look in his direction that communicated the profanity he couldn’t get the breath to speak.

“Faster!” Dis called.

“Faster or longer?” Parker called back. “He can’t do both!”

Dis considered. “Longer this time. Good call, Yang.”

“Thank me later,” Parker muttered to Arthur, deadpan.

“I… hate… you,” Arthur gasped.

“No, you don’t,” Parker grinned.

John and Sunny ignored them both. 

Everyone’s exercise routine had changed; Faroe was still doing princess stuff, but Arthur and Parker now spent at least an hour walking and jogging and running, side by side (or at least, Arthur wasn’t too far behind), and Sunny and John were taking full advantage.

John loved it. More than he knew how to express. Because of Sunny, he finally didn’t feel so… alone.

[How has the poetry quest gone? Found anything you like yet?] Sunny said, tone somewhere between genuinely curious and gently teasing.

[Challenging because he’s so damn stubborn.] But John sounded pleased. [I’ve decided I’m going to bring Hastur into it. He owes me.]

Arthur tripped. Parker pulled him up. “Thanks,” Arthur muttered.

“Always, pal,” said Parker, and smacked him on the back too hard because it was funny.

“Fuck you.” Arthur grinned.

“Right back atcha.” Parker grinned, too.

[Impressive,] said Sunny. [I'm sure he will have a wealth of poetry to loan you; the Librarian should also be able to make some good recommendations, if Arthur doesn't get too suspicious.] Sunny chuckled, low. [How did you manage to get a favor from the King?]

[Because he failed to protect us, and I am going to use it.] There wasn’t even really any emotion in that statement. John saw an opening, a weakness, a sore spot, and planned to take it. That was all. [He’ll provide what I ask.]

[Would he not provide what you ask anyway?] Sunny replied, quietly puzzled.

John paused as though that hadn’t occurred to him. [I… well, I don’t know. I just don’t want to give him any ideas, and asking for erotic or romantic poetry for Arthur could do that.] It made sense. Who wouldn’t want Arthur?

Sunny, for one. [Does the King desire Arthur?] There was growing horror in Sunny's voice. [I don't know that I will be able to deal with THREE of you lusting after that noodle-man. Ugh.]

John huffed. [It’s not like you have to worry about it. Parker wants you. That’s clear. But Hastur’s marked my person—I mean, he has good taste, obviously—but I don’t trust him. He actually has a body to work with.] John growled a little.

Arthur was used to weird noises from his passenger during these times, and ignored it. “Gotta… gotta slow a bit.”

“Sure.” Parker relented, though his “slow” was still aggravatingly hoppy, as if he had to keep his heart rate up and just walking wouldn’t do it. “You sound like a damned broken bellows.”

Arthur raised his middle finger. Parker laughed.

[Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, that he’s marked,] Sunny said. [Hastur does appear to care for him. Perhaps not in the past, judging by what we heard, but certainly now.] Sunny let out a thoughtful sound. [I mean, assuming that Arthur isn’t too hung up on the idea of bodies in general, I think you’re safe; you do have a hand, after all.]

[And a foot. Up to the knee, actually.] John wasn’t boasting. He recited this with the unselfconscious pride of a child. [Not that it’s been worth much. When I try to take over that thing, we just fall down.] A beat. [Sometimes pretty hard.] Another beat. [We’ve fallen in a lot of holes.]

[What is it with that man and holes?] Sunny laughed. [I didn’t have anything but his eyes. That’s probably for the best.]

[Ha! My person doesn’t know how to take care of himself. He needs me.] John would preen, if he could. [It’s a miracle he’s alive at all. Anyway, I’ve decided the poetry will happen, and maybe… a song. We’ll see. I’m torn because…] He stopped.

[You can tell me.] Sunny’s voice was gentle. [I mean, you didn’t laugh at me before.]

“Sounding better,” Parker said.

“Just another minute,” Arthur whined.

Parker turned and glanced back. “Dis is tapping her foot.”

“She is?” Arthur sighed. “Fuck. Fuuuuuuck. Fuck!” He picked up the pace.

John let the silence stretch for a moment, hesitating. [It’s… it might be… bad?]

Sunny’s voice gentled. [You can tell me, John. I think… I think of everybody in all of Carcosa, you and I… we share… more than anybody else, in a way. Tell me anything.]

[I still don’t feel like ‘John,’] John said quickly as though afraid the words would be condemned. [And I can’t tell him that. I can’t tell anybody. You don’t count, obviously.]

Sunny took a moment to answer. When he spoke, his voice was solemn. [I… I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I thought you had taken the name back up.]

John sighed heavily. [I use it for him. It makes him feel… I don’t know, but it means a lot to him, I guess because I chose it myself, before the poison. I say guess because he sucks at explaining really emotional things.]

[He does.] Sunny paused, weighty, the kind of pause that John had learned meant he was ruminating. [...He… he wanted me to be John when we first met, you know. Mentioned someone called Lilly and everything. When that didn’t… jog my memory, or whatever it was he was hoping for, he…] Another sigh. [...I don’t want to say he ‘gave me’ my old name. It wasn’t a good thing when he called me Yellow. It’s like he was… denying me… any of the personhood you’d earned. What I’m trying to say is I’m sorry you’re stuck with a name that doesn’t feel right. I understand that feeling. I… didn’t like my old name at all.]

John fell silent while Arthur puffed, silent while Arthur took a moment to bend over and gasp like a dying fish (“Wait! Just a fucking… come on, ”) as Parker lightly jogged around him.

“You gotta get in better shape,” said Parker.

Arthur held up his middle finger again. “Best I can.”

Parker had a look on his face John had seen; a look that said he was thinking something that made him mad, but whatever it was, Parker didn’t say it. “Gonna give you to the count of ten, then I’m carrying you like some dame in a dime novel.”

“Oh, you fucking…”

“Nine… eight… seven…”

Arthur got moving at the count of two. “I hate you all.”

“No, you don’t.” Parker sounded pleased. 

[The problem is I chose this name,] said John. [But I don’t remember doing it, nor do I remember this Lilly who inspired it. I don’t know what to do because I want to give him things I’ve created, but I can’t… put that name on them. Right now. It doesn’t feel right.]

[Names can change.] Sunny let out a low, mournful sound. [I was… I was Yellow for a long time, John. Almost nine years. I hated that name, but… ‘Yellow’ isn’t gone just because I’m Sunny, now. I just… I’m not him anymore, if that makes sense. If you wanted to use a different name, until you feel like John fits—or never, if the case may be—I think that’s understandable.]

[You don’t feel like Yellow to me.] John said earnestly.

[...Really?] Sunny said, low and stunned.

[You never have, as long as I’ve known you,] John said, oblivious to the profundity of his words.

“Fuck this,” said Arthur, interrupting the moment.

“Come on,” said Parker more gently, pulling him up. “Is it really that bad?”

“Stitch in my side won’t go away.”

“All right. We’ll walk the rest of the day. Fuck Dis,” said Parker, who could tell the difference between whining Arthur and exhausted Arthur. “Honestly? It’s fuckin’ amazing you can do this blind.”

“I’m not blind, though,” said Arthur. “Not really. I have John.”

[See? See? What in fuck do I do with that? I can’t take that name from him!]

[He doesn’t know any better.] Sunny’s voice was gentle. [I mean, you’re right: the name ‘John’ is important to him. It represents a lot. But it’s just a name. You’re still important, even if you don’t feel like being called that; and he loves you. That’s not going to change because you’ve decided to call yourself James or Fitzwilliam or something.]

John went quiet for a moment. [How are you so wise?] He asked, almost suspicious.

[Probably the eight years being called a name I hated by a person who also hated me,] Sunny said dryly. [Personally, I don’t recommend it. I feel like I’ve learned more in the… oh, year and a half or so I’ve been with Parker than I did in all of that time.]

John let out a deep, pleased rumble. [Are you sure you don’t want your praises sung properly before the court? I still think you should be.]

[If word gets out that Hastur has a Forgotten One, he’ll look weak,] Sunny said, which was not an answer at all. [It’s safer for all of us—me, you, Parker, Arthur, Hastur, Faroe—if I stay hidden. Besides, it would be silly to do so if I’m going to rejoin with Hastur in five years or so.]

John sighed. That was a whole topic he didn’t like, so he moved along. [What do you think I should call myself?] he said.

Sunny considered. [Do you feel like human names? Or is that too close to John?]

[I don’t think I want a human name, no. Even if it’s just for me, and I don’t tell Arthur. I’m not human.] He hesitated. [I still think of myself as the King in Yellow. But that obviously won’t work.]

[You… you could, if you wanted to.] Sunny sounded very much like he hoped John wouldn’t want to. [You know, I could use your personal name, if you wanted. If that would help you feel more yourself.]

Arthur’s left hand formed a fist and raised into the air as if celebrating. [That’s brilliant!]

Parker eyed it.

Arthur tilted his head. “Everything good?”

Yes! said John.

Arthur shook his head. “They’re like a couple of kids in their room, scheming, while we do the real work.”

Parker snorted.

[I… I’m not brilliant,] Sunny said, baffled. [I—alright, I will. You just have to decide on one, then. And when you’re ready, you can tell Arthur and Parker, and we’ll handle it.] He rumbled. [Maybe… something in R’lyehian? Most names for our kind come from our language, you know.]

Dis had caught up. “Down to walking?”

“Yeah, he’s tapped,” said Parker.

“Good. Time to shoot,” said Dis.

“Wh-what?” said Arthur, gasping. “Now?”

“Take aim and shoot.” She shoved a bow and arrow against his chest. “Like this. Before you catch your breath. People in a fight won’t wait politely while you wheeze.”

“Ooh,” said Parker. “I like that.”

Arthur sighed. “Guess I’m outnumbered. Ready, John?”

Yes. [And yes. I agree.]

The conversation paused briefly while John directed, helping Arthur to take aim with his new bow (and how the hell Faroe made it look so easy was a mystery in itself). They’d done it with a javelin; it was a different thing with a different weapon, all while Arthur hadn’t caught his breath yet.

The breathing kept moving Arthur, throwing off their aim.

You have to breathe out and hold it. Just for a moment, while you release, or it goes off.

“Right,” said Arthur.

Yes. Yes! Straight line from the opposite shoulder. Good.

“Wow!” Parker said. “Hit the target!”

“I have a great partner,” said Arthur, warmly, and touched his left hand. “You’re a treasure, John.”

Dis took the bow. “Walk.”

Arthur did, shaking his fingers. “I’m going to need callouses.”

“I’ll join you next time,” said Parker, walking with him. “Damn, that was cool to watch.”

[Yes,] John said suddenly. [In my own tongue. Yes.]

[Well,] Sunny said, deeply pleased with himself. [I think Arthur just gave me an idea.]

[I’m all ears. Haha! I don’t have any ears,] said John.

Sunny politely chuckled. [It’s simple, snappy. Can shorten it for a nickname if you want. It’s golden, so it works even better. And, technically, Arthur gave it to you, so it has meaning.] Sunny’s voice was bright, cheerful. [What do you think of Gokar’luh?]

John went completely quiet.

Arthur’s left leg jerked, and he fell with a gasp.

Parker caught him. “Hey, careful! You okay?”

Arthur’s left arm hung limp. “John?”

I…

“John?” said Arthur again, standing.

It’s a beautiful name, John said softly..

John? 

You don’t… remember. Do you.

Remember what? Sunny’s voice was puzzled. Are you alright?

A beautiful name, John said again. We… we picked that name before, Sunny. When we were one.

“Huh?” said Parker.

“John?” Arthur gripped his left hand. “What name? What’s going on?”

And John growled.

This wasn’t the playful, childish growl of before. This was deep, and angry. The kind of growl that came with destruction. We need to go in. All of us. Sunny, we need to find Hastur. This doesn’t get borne alone.

Did I do something wrong? Sunny’s voice went worried. John? I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I won’t do it again.

No. You did not. John’s voice dropped. He did. 

“Who did what?” said Parker. “Arthur? You know what’s going on?” 

“No. I…” Arthur frowned. “I don’t understand them, and I wasn’t paying attention.”

Parker reached up and stroked his jaw. “It’s gonna be okay, bud. It’s gonna be okay.”

HASTUR! John roared, and there was magic in it, and he hadn’t warned Arthur, and maybe didn’t care.

Arthur passed out.

Parker caught him. “What the fuck?”

And maybe, in fact, it was on purpose. That’ll get his fucking attention! John snarled.

What the fuck, John? Sunny’s insubstantial breath came in panicky gasps. Why?

“What the hell is going on here?” said Dis, jogging up.

“I don’t know! John’s lost his fucking mind!” Parker said.

It was necessary, John snapped.

Parker’s jaw was set. “You’re fucking lucky I don’t have a way to deck you.”

No! Sunny yelped. No, no, don’t—don’t fight! Please, let me wake Arthur up and we can just—we can figure it out, please—

Hastur appeared, replacing air so quickly that breeze blasted them all back a step. The world went still. Sound faded out; color did, too, as though he’d put reality on pause.

He seemed huge, and he brought some kind of boundary with him—clear and pearlescent, like a soap bubble, keeping Arthur and Parker and Sunny and John in one place.

Dis was on the outside of whatever this bubble was. She mouthed, good luck, gave Parker a thumbs-up, and walked away at speed.

“Oh, shit,” Parker said quietly, staring up at him.

“Is there a reason,” Hastur said slowly, and they could both feel the rumble of his voice through the ground, “that you have chosen to hurt your host?”

Yes, said John. And first of all, he’s not fucking hurt. He’s out, because I don’t want him getting in the middle of this.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Parker was muttering.

Sunny let out a small whimper.

“In the middle of?” prompted Hastur, louder.

Gokar’luh, said John.

And Hastur… shrank?

Not exactly. But the anger evaporated like mist in the morning, the rumbling around them ceased, the looming threat just… vanished. The bubble disappeared. Birds chirped. The day was lovely.

“Ah,” said the King in Yellow.

Ah? Ah? John repeated.

Parker frowned. “Gokar’luh. I know that word. Treasure?” he said. “Uh. Buried, or…”

“You remember,” said Hastur to John. It wasn’t a question.

I remember enough. Sunny doesn’t yet. But I’m sure he will.

Arthur stirred.

Hastur rested one hand on his head and put him right back under. 

Ha! said John, as if he’d been proven right.

“What in fuck is going on?” said Parker.

“I suppose it cannot be avoided,” Hastur said softly, and without any further warning, picked them both up. 

Parker yipped. “Warn a guy!”

What—what don’t I remember? Sunny whispered.

“Uh. Hey. Big guy. We, uh. Are we in trouble?” said Parker.

“No,” said Hastur, and flew.

Arthur slept. Honestly, he probably needed it.

#

They went to Hastur’s bedroom, which was huge. Absurdly huge, though Parker knew that was for practical purposes; couldn’t get up to much with another god if it wasn’t huge in there, just practically speaking. 

Sunny was quiet, but there, present, awake. Parker kept contact, fingertips on his jaw. Parker’s tongue lashed in his mouth; Sunny twisted incorporeally in his head.

Arthur snored very lightly. It was cute. Hastur laid him gently on the bed.

Answer for what you did, you coward, said John.

Instead of answering, Hastur took Arthur up again—still holding Parker—and went to a seemingly random corner in his room.

It turned out he had a little secret stash there, hidden in the wall. From it, he took something; something of spikes, something black that gleamed as if twisting light inside itself, something Parker had trouble focusing clearly on.

“What is that?” Parker said, voice low and wary.

In his head, Sunny gasped. Is… Is that a crown? Of godblood? His voice was low with shock, the disbelief clear. Hastur… what is this?

Hastur put the crown in Parker’s hands.

Parker froze. “The fuck?” he whispered. “Why does this feel familiar?”

“Go on,” said Hastur.

Parker turned it in his hands, studying, analyzing how it buzzed against his palm. “It feels like the first time Sunny cast magic through me.”

What? Said Sunny, soft and high.

 “Fucking hell, Hastur, what is this?”

“That is the crown of my son.”

Parker’s eyes went huge.

Sunny was quiet.

You fucking… John started.

“Sunny… you had… you had a kid?” Parker said almost reverently.

S… son? Sunny’s voice was soft, raw and vulnerable and shocked. We… We have a son?

Had, snarled John. 

And Hastur just… went there. “He was going to kill Faroe and Arthur.”

“Oh, shit,” Parker whispered. “Why was he going to do that?”

“To hurt me.”

Wh… What? Sunny sounded so small, so lost. Why would—I don’t understand.

“Was he jealous?” said Parker quietly.

“Yes,” said Hastur. “But I had driven him away long before then.” He took the crown back, handling it like the most precious thing he had; his many eyes lingered, one finger gently tracing the glassy planes of its points.

John was breathing hard. You killed him!

“I had to.”

You killed… you killed him!

“You don’t remember anything but that moment, do you?” said Hastur.

I… I had a son, Sunny whispered slowly. I had… But I don’t… His breath quickened.

“I got you,” Parker murmured. “Breathe.”

I had a son! Sunny hitched.

Parker was staring at the little hole in the wall. “What’s that in there? There’s more stuff.”

“Things.” Hastur sealed it up.

Murderer! John cried.

This had swung right out of control. Parker exhaled slowly and touched his lips. 

Hastur sighed deeply. “I hadn’t planned on this today. We will go over all the facts later, including the public face we must wear about this.”

I won’t be an issue, Sunny said, his voice… broken. I don’t remember. I’m… sorry.

But you… John seemed confused that no one was rising with him in rage and shouting. But you killed him!

“I was not given a choice,” said Hastur.

“At least you got to be a father,” said Parker quietly. “Some of us’ll never get that chance. I’m sorry it went that way.”

But you… John stopped. 

I’m sorry, Sunny said again. 

“Don’t be.” Hastur’s voice was rough. “Arthur was there. He’ll have his own version of this to tell. Perhaps… you should all stay away from court today.”

But you… John trailed off again. In court? What, you want me to pretend this is a good thing? That you killed our son?

And Hastur bailed.

He put both humans on the bed, gently enough, and then just left . Floated out. Left them in his bedroom.

Coward! John cried after him, voice cracking, and then fell silent.

Arthur snored, the tiniest little buzzing.

Fuck me, Parker thought, and swallowed. Did this make him the responsible adult in the room? Close enough. He tried misdirection. He wriggled a little. “Now, this is a bed for a king, huh? Hey, Lester. Come on, buddy. Wake up.” He patted Arthur’s cheeks lightly.

Parker’s eyes stung, but the tears were not his own. I don’t remember. I don’t remember him, Sunny mumbled as they spilled down Parker’s cheeks. He’s… I don’t…

“Hey,” Parker said. “Sunny, it’s… you’re okay. I’m here, bud.”

I don’t remember my own son. Sunny made one small, pained keening sound.

He… he was… John stumbled. Gokar’luh was…

“Proud,” whispered Arthur. “Like Hastur without Faroe. You remembered?”

John sounded shaky. Yes, he whispered. But only the end.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” Arthur sighed, then slid his hands over the blankets beneath him. “This isn’t our bed. Where are we?”

“Hastur’s bed, no big deal,” said Parker. “Talk.”

Arthur looked troubled. “That’s really ironic,” he said softly. “The night it all happened, we came back here. We slept in this room.”

Gods don’t sleep, John snapped as though catching him in a lie.

“Faroe and I slept. Nibbles was here, and…” Arthur sighed. “I’d better start at the end of the Games. I guess it’s time to talk about this.”

#

Arthur told them.

He told them about Faroe reacting to their constant bickering by running off, blaming herself.

He told them about their journey through the Dreamlands, their many adventures, always just behind her, fighting to catch up; he told them about Hastur changing—about Hastur away from the constant adoration of court. About finally finding peace, even respect, between the three of them. About the strange, simple beauty of being stuck alone on the road.

He told them Hastur’s version of events when the Oracle was cast aside.

And then he told them what the Oracle claimed.

“Oh,” said Parker, who could see it, who had always been good at seeing from all sides, and could see how everybody fucked up and there was no good or bad guy. 

It was just sad. Fucking sad. He wiped his eyes, this time for himself.

Arthur struggled to describe the sound of Faroe’s throat being torn, struggled to describe the pain of his legs being snapped, of John casting magic, of the desperation to reach Nibbles and free her so Faroe could be okay.

He healed her, said John, suddenly remembering.

“He did,” said Arthur. “Or she’d be dead.” And then he had to briefly stop, shuddering and gasping for emotional control. 

Parker wrapped an arm around him and hugged him tight, rubbing small circles into his back with his thumb.

Arthur turned against him and breathed against his shoulder, exhaling slowly and shakily. Finally, softly, he continued.

He told them how heroic John had been. He told them of drawing the sword from the stone.

We did? said John, awed.

“You’re incredible, John,” Arthur whispered, and meant it.

John made a choked sound and fell silent.

Arthur told them about climbing the rubble and leaping toward their enemy—how John directed him like a human javelin, how they managed to pierce Gokar’luh’s hide. “Then he ripped us off him, howling like a demon,” Arthur said, voice rough, “and he threw us so fucking hard. So hard it made my neck hurt. So hard… it was worse than falling. He threw us so hard .”

“He was trying to kill you,” Parker said, voice low and full of gravel. “Smash the both of you.”

Arthur nodded. “I don’t know this part, but I’m still sure of it,” he whispered. “I think they were both… done. They needed it to end, but they were both too fucking proud to just… end it. Or at least, Gokar’luh was. Hastur kept telling him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.”

“I think I know where this is going,” whispered Parker.

Arthur swallowed. “Gokar’luh said, ‘All this time, you could have changed… but not for me.’ After that is… he… was trying to force Hastur to kill him. I’m really certain.”

“Yeah,” said Parker, and scowled. “I swear. I swear . These fucking gods pretend to be so different from us, but they’re not.”

“So yes,” Arthur said. “He tried to kill us. And when Hastur saved us, Gokar’luh swore he’d murder Faroe. That there was nowhere she would be safe, he said. He’d find her, and kill her. No matter how long it took. And that’s the thing about Hastur, Parker. He’s done horrible things, but he really loves my daughter. So that… Gokar’luh had found the magic button. He’d already nearly killed her once, and the threat of a repeat was just too far. So that’s when Hastur took the sword we’d made, and…”

Killed him. John took a shaking breath. Pierced both of his hearts in one strike. He knew exactly where they were, and he just—and he—

Arthur took John’s hand in his, holding it to his heart as he squeezed. “Hastur held him while… while he died. They said… Hastur said he was defeated. That Gokar’luh had won. And… that he loved him.  I think f,or what it was, it couldn’t have gone any other way, but it could have been… so much worse.”

Parker wiped his eyes again. “Worse.”

“Hastur was so fucked up after that,” said Arthur. “We got Faroe, and we came home, but he was so fucked up. He was like a different person.” And there was no better time to say it. “I think he’s still fucked up. He’s hiding it, but he’s not okay. He hasn’t gotten better.”

“Fuck.” Parker slumped, arms on his knees. “Fuck. When was all this?”

And perhaps unexpected, Arthur laughed; it was not a good sound. “The night Kayne dumped you and Sunny and Larson all into our laps and said we had to make a good show. Literally hours after, right on the stroke of midnight—Faroe’s birthday.”

Parker groaned and rolled onto his back. “Oh, fucking hell, no wonder you were bugfuck crazy. And that’s why Hastur had to…”

“Sway me. Yes.” Arthur swallowed.

Parker exhaled, puffing out his cheeks, and stretched his arms over his head onto the pillow bigger than his bathtub. “This is a big problem, fellas. A big problem.”

I’m sorry, John, Sunny whispered, the sound heart-wrenching. I didn’t… I didn’t know. I’m sorry you had… to remember, like that.

John was so quiet. I just remembered the moment, the… the moment it was too late . That’s all I had. It was too late. He was dying.

“I don’t know that remembering the context would have made it better,” Arthur said quietly. “You  were so angry at Hastur afterward. You were for a long time.”

I am angry now, John said. Fuck. But I don’t know what I would have done in his place.

“Wait a second,” said Parker. “That can’t be the same Oracle they were all laughing about Hastur smashing in court. Tell me it’s not the same one, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed slowly. “If Hastur looks weak, if it becomes known how he reacted to threat against Faroe, if any of this gets out… we all get a target painted right on our fucking faces. Especially Faroe. She’s the most vulnerable, and he won’t risk that. For all his awful qualities… he’ll never risk her .”

Fuck this place. Fuck it. Fuck!

Parker let out a sigh. “That’s just mobsters for you. They show weakness, someone’s gonna come gunnin’ for that as hard as they can. You got targeted ‘cause he’s been calling you his kid, John, and that’s not a weak position.”

John paused. I know that. Though it sounded like it hadn’t fully sunk in until now. And Faroe is… a child . I can see why we must… defer attention.

“Faroe stays safe.” Arthur’s tone was grim, final. “Period. I’m united with him on that.”

Yes, yes, I know, said John, because they’d been over this loads of times.

“I fucking mean it,” Arthur actually snarled. “Whatever has to happen for her to be safe, it’s happening. ”

“Ain’t no one arguing that,” Parker said gently. “It’s okay, English. For once, everyone’s in agreement.”

Arthur calmed.

Parker climbed out of the bed, stood, and held open his arms. “Come ‘ere, English. This’s for you too, John. And you, sunshine.”

Arthur needed it. Sore, slow, he climbed out of the bed, following Parker’s voice, and accepted a hug so tight it made his bones crack. He exhaled slowly, tension draining. “John, I’m so sorry you remembered this way.”

John hesitated. At least I remembered when we weren’t in public view. I don’t think I could’ve… maintained myself if this had happened in court, or something.

You’re not upset with me, are you? Sunny’s voice was so small.

John grunted. No. Why would I be upset with you? You helped me. You’re the wisest person I know. I trust you.

This… has hurt you. It was my doing, however unintentional. Sunny’s voice was subdued. I am… It is… It’s a relief to know you don’t hold it against me. I’m sorry it happened, but I’m… I’m glad you’re here.

Parker smiled, giving Arthur another tight squeeze before letting go, and he turned away. “You alright, partner?” he asked, voice quiet.

I… don’t know, Sunny replied in his own whisper. Could we stay a bit longer?

Parker smiled, touching his lips.

John? Could… could Parker and I stay a bit longer?

I’d prefer it if you did. We need the wisdom.

Arthur snorted softly, but didn’t seem really dismissive. “Yeah. Wisdom. I can’t say we don’t need it.” He got back on the bed (well, climbed onto it), and sat  with his arms around his knees.

I don’t know that I’m up for any more wisdom today, Sunny said, quietly. 

Just be you . John was so sure of this. 

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned forward.

Parker hesitated just a little, then put his arm around Arthur’s shoulders.

Sunny took a shuddering breath, and began to speak.

This is my son that you have taken, Guard lest your gold-vault walls be shaken, Never again to speak or waken.

This, that I gave my life to make, This you have bidden the vultures break— Dead for your selfish quarrel’s sake!

This that I built all of my years, Made with my strength and love and tears, Dead for pride of your shining spears!

Just for your playthings bought and sold You have crushed to a heap of mold Youth and life worth a whole world’s gold—

This was my son, that you have taken, Guard lest your gold-vault walls be shaken— This—that shall never speak or waken.

John let out a soft sob.

Arthur took a shuddering breath, letting John’s tears fall onto Parker’s shoulder—and, head down, he responded.

“Do not stand By my grave, and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep—

I am the thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints in snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. As you awake with morning's hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the day transcending night.

Do not stand By my grave, and cry— I am not there, I did not die.”

Fuck you both, John choked out.

Sunny laughed, voice thick with tears; in a moment John joined him, the two bass voices rising and falling with their sobs and laughs. Arthur held Parker tight, face buried against his shoulder, and Parker held all three of them as best he could until they grew quiet and still.

-------

Notes:

Sunny's Poem: A Mother To The War-Makers Arthur's Poem: Immortality (Do Not Stand By My Grave And Weep) Kraiva would like to dedicate this fic to IchthyOccult, who has been dutifully reminding everyone of how neither John nor Sunny knew their son was dead since John lost his memories. You're a little freak, Ichthy, and I love you.

[whimsicaldragonette]

ARC Review: The Unlikely Heir by Jax Calder

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Publication Date: August 24, 2023

Synopsis:

What happens when the Prince of Wales falls in love with the Prime Minister? My boring life working in an insurance call center in sunny California just took an unexpected turn. Thanks to my misbehaving relatives, I’ve leapt from obscurity to royalty as the new heir to the British throne. But my welcome in England is about as warm as the weather. I arrive to discover a country horrified at the thought of an American version of Prince Charming and ready to revolt against the monarchy. I vow to my grandmother, the Queen, that I will do everything possible to help her save the crown. Unfortunately, royal life isn’t easy. From bewildering traditions, traitorous friends, and malevolent swans, the only thing I’m succeeding in is providing entertainment for the tabloids and social media trolls. And then the broodingly handsome Prime Minister, Oliver Hartwell, bursts into my life. With his meteoric rise from poverty to the most powerful man in the country, Oliver understands my current plight. Innocent messages of support turn into late-night chats—and unexpected feelings. But there’s one major problem. The royal family must remain politically neutral at all times. So how can I keep my promise to save the monarchy when I’m falling in love with the Prime Minister? A forbidden romance filled with humor and drama featuring a bumbling Prince of Wales and a stern yet dashing Prime Minister, with a love that could transform a nation.

My Rating: ★★★★★

*My Review and Favorite Quotes below the cut.

My Review:

I picked this up because the cover and synopsis were cute and because I desperately needed something to fill the void left after finishing the new Red White & Royal Blue movie. And this was absolutely perfect. This a deliciously swoony slow-burn romance, with Callum, unlikely American heir to the British throne, and Oliver, Prime Minister of the UK, sloooooowly falling in love over nightly text messages that evolve into phone calls that evolve into video calls and then more. I loved Callum, with his bumbling but cheerful approach to life, his random facts and obsessions, and always seeing the magic in the small things and trying to make people's days brighter with every conversation. He was so genuine and likeable and good. He occasionally reminded me of a golden retriever lol. I also loved Oliver, with his passion to improve the lives of the common people and his witty comebacks and political savvy. He was so serious all the time - it was nice to see Callum making him laugh and relax. Would this absolutely bonkers political scenario ever happen in real life? Hell no. Did I care? Absolutely not. It worked because the heart of the story is Callum and Oliver falling in love. I was 100% there for them falling for one another and in some sense the political trappings of the story were secondary to that. Yes it was amusing, and it certainly caused plenty of conflict and provided the forbidden relationship angle, but I'm not going to nitpick historical or political details. Why would I? I loved this too much. I flew through it in a day and did absolutely nothing else I had planned to because I couldn't tear myself away from it. To be fair, when presented with an epistolary novel, especially a slow-burn in the form of text messages, I'm almost guaranteed to like it. There have been a few notable exceptions, but only a few. Callum and Oliver, however, are the heart of this novel and their personalities and interactions are what drew me in and kept me hooked. This is absolutely a new favorite and I will be checking out the author's other works asap. *Thanks to Booksirens and NetGalley for providing an early copy for review.

Favorite Quotes:

“You need to cut your toenails,” I say because, you know, that’s an appropriate thing to say to the prime minister. “I’ve been wondering why my socks are suddenly getting holes in them,” he says.

---

“There is no magic to be found in the EU agricultural trade negotiations, trust me,” I say.

---

Herbert’s my usual go-to person for dress etiquette, but I’m not sure if even he would know how to dress when you’re meeting the prime minister for a suspiciously vague mission.

---

Maybe that’s what the prime minister actually is. School principal to the entire nation.

---

I never knew a kiss could feel like the truth.

[admhawthorne]

“Huh,” I said as I stared down at my body, checking for damage, “I should be dead right now.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for years, you insufferable idiot,” June yelled from where she stood behind a ray designed specifically to destroy half the world. She fired the laser at me again, hitting me directly in the chest.

The blast forced me into the mountain wall again, pushing me further into the hole I’d already created the first time I’d taken the full force of the blast. She raged at me between blasts:

“We,” blast, “are,” blast, “in a,” blast, “hyper realistic,” blast, “simulation,” double blast.

I held up in my hands in a show of surrender. She hit me one more time before powering down the device and stepping from behind it. As I climbed out of the giant hole in the mountainside, she nonchalantly walked through the casualties from our battle.

Long ago, June had turned to crime. Her exploits had gained her the moniker “The Malevolence,” or just “Malevolence” if you were in a crunch. To me, however, she was June Wright, my little sister who had strayed from the path of justice our family had a long tradition of supporting. I was the fifth generation to proudly be called Captain Verity, and I had spent most of my time in the suit trying to bring my little sister to justice.

“Yes,” I grumbled as I stumbled out of the hole, “you keep saying that.”

“And I keep being right,” she yelled at me. “Look around John.” She pointed to the wanton destruction around us. “Tell me why we’re alive right now. TELL ME.”

“Well, I… well, maybe it’s the… hmm…” She was right. The power of the device she’d created should have cratered half the Earth in one blow. “I honestly don’t know, June,” I answered in defeat. “Maybe your weapon isn’t as strong as we thought it was?”

“Really?” She rubbed at her forehead and took in a deep, calming breath. “You really think that?”

“Well,” I winced at her hard stare, “no,” I lamely admitted.

“That’s right, no. The answer, John,” she began screaming at me again, “is no, and DO YOU KNOW WHY MY WEAPON DIDN’T WORK? DO YOU JOHN?!”

I slowly pulled my helmet off and let it fall to the ground beside me as I took in the scene before us. People were dead, hundreds of them. A whole forest had been leveled, and half the mountain behind me was gone, but we both were just barely hurt, and the Earth itself was fine. It should not have been fine.

“Because we’re in a hyper realistic simulation?” I weakly offered.

“BECAUSE WE’RE IN A HYPER REALISTIC SIMULATION,” she roared at me. Taking in another breath, she visibly calmed herself down. “God, when are you going to learn to actually listen to me? You never listen to me. It’s always, ‘Oh, but John is older so he knows more, and you should follow his lead,’ or ‘John is the oldest and will be a great Verity, and you’ll make a good sidekick just as long as you do what he tells you,’ or, ‘John knows what’s best.” She actually growled at me. “Well, look around, John, and tell me you know what’s going on.”

I slowly slid down to the ground and forced myself to think over the years to all the times June had tried to tell me we were in a simulation. When we were teenagers and our parents both died was the first time she’d tried to tell me. She’d given some valid reasons, but I was too caught up in grief and the determination to be the next Verity that I’d ignored her. I ignored her every time after that when she was my sidekick and she tried to show me our actual reality.

“I’m the reason you turned into a villain, aren’t I?” Thinking on it, it was clear now.

“Well, how else was I going to get you to listen to me? You sure weren’t listening to me when I was your sidekick,” she spat back at me.

We stared at each other for a long time in the silence of the destruction we’d caused, and then an idea hit me.

“June, how do you think we can get out of this?”

“God, FINALLY, he asks me MY opinion on things.” Looking up into the sky, she began screaming at the top of her lungs, “OKAY, WE GET IT NOW. WE’VE LEARNED OUR LESSON. LET US OUT OF HERE, PLEASE.”

I was going to ask what she was doing, but, before I could get the words out, the world around us vanished, and I felt a helmet being pulled of my head. Standing above me was the smiling face of my mom, and I could see my dad standing over June.

“What?” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. How were they alive? “How?”

“Now, John,” Mom said as she helped me up, “we told you and your sister that, if you couldn’t learn to get along with each other, we’d find a way to force you.”

Dad chuckled, “I told your mom it’d take you a couple of simulated decades, but she didn’t believe me.”

“Yes, I owe your dad a special dinner tonight,” she replied with a laugh.

June took in a deep breath against her rising anger. “How long were we out?”

Our mom checked her watch. “Only about 20 minutes.”

We lived a lifetime in 20 minutes. We stared angrily at our parents. This was the last straw. They had crossed a line. When they left the room, June caught my arm before I could follow and pulled me to her. In a lower voice she said, “How would you like to be my sidekick?”

I raised an eyebrow and nodded, “Start of our villain arc?”

She nodded. “Start of our villain arc.”

[shadowfae]

hiii! so a friend directed me here and i was wondering if u cld share abt how you found out you were godkin? only if youre comfy! because ive kinda had like. how do i word this. Vibes or Feels that kinda direct me towards the whole i might be a god of sorts kinda thing ? if you have resources and dont mind helping,, please direct me to them :D ~ @missing-crown

I want to start this essay off by saying flat out: wars have been fought, genocides have been committed, and empires have risen and fallen trying to answer the simple questions of “What is deification, and how do we incarnate and control it?”.

If you do not think you’re up the challenge of answering that question for yourself, even with years of study and slow training to take up the mantle of literally being the most powerful form of the Chosen One trope, then you’re probably in the wrong place. I say this as someone who is deific down to the blood and bone, as someone who has looked for other gods, and largely found very little in the way of anyone who understands anything like my experience. In this way, I am utterly alone, and I detest it, but if me penning these words gives someone else the gospel they need to explain themselves in a way I recognize as kin and kind, then I will do it.

But before I truly get into it, I will very nicely ask you to swing down to your local bookstore or library, pick up a copy of Seanan McGuire’s Middlegame, and take a walk down the improbable road with Roger and Dodger. The differences between you and I and the twins of the Doctrine of Ethos are simple and threefold: we cannot manifest, we are forbidden to use our powers the way they can use theirs, and there are (hopefully) no secret alchemist cults trying to murder us when we don’t play nice with their fucked-up science experiment.

Roger and Dodger are gods, true gods, gods I recognize in myself and in the godkin I have met who have spoken about themselves enough for me to understand that we are indeed talking about the same thing. Disappontingly, I see minor spirits far too often misunderstanding the nature of deification, or at least, understanding a version of it which is fundamentally antithetical to my experience. They may be deific; but either they suck at illustrating their point, or I am something far beyond deific, and I am again alone.

With that introduction, I need to talk about three things in order to answer your question. Two methods of deification and three definitions of ‘god’ in a hierarchy that only exists because humanity has not yet perfected their understanding of what is fundamentally and always beyond them. Two kinds of gods, honest gods, that split the difference between deific, divine, and legendary. Once you understand that, I can talk about godkin, and what it’s like to be me, and maybe by the end of it you will either recognize yourself in this, or run away screaming as most mortals will do.

The first method of deification is what I will call the incarnate gods- Roger and Dodger are good examples, so are most Legendary Pokémon, and Kaname Madoka from PMMM. They are laws of nature, concepts of creation, and calculations of cosmic proportions that also occasionally exist as people when they design to do so. They are not meant to be people, they are bad at it, I do not recommend being mortal and fucking around with them. You will simply die. I would not fuck with them outside of my own world that I created, where I get to be a form of incarnate god. You cannot overpower them: they ARE the rule, and they will change it if they need to. You can’t ruleslawyer gravity like a 2007 troll physics comic. An incarnate god of gravity will simply turn reality on its head and cause you to implode. If you are this type of god, I cannot help you. My understanding of them comes from being an Absol, and little more.

The second type are gods of domain and prowess: Zamorak (from RuneScape), Akemi Homura in both her awakened Witch and Devil forms (from PMMM), and yours truly. Quite a few of us, although not all of us, were originally mortal. Mortals amped up on so much power we are no longer bound by mortal laws. There is a difference between deification and simply stopping your clock to gain immortality. Mortal magic and deific magic are fundamentally different. Down to, I would argue, the atomic structure. Deific magic is pure in a way mortal magic could never be. To give a mortal more than a drop of deific magic heavily diffused in something safer and more understandable would be to quite literally burn them to ashes. Or rend them into a different, unspeakable form. Or turn them into living topiary. We are nothing if not unpredictable.

It’s the difference between a handful of dirt and pure neutron soup. Usually, in order to become a god like this, it requires the intervention of an incarnate god in some form. In Zamorak’s case, it was several Elder Artifacts and falling almost facefirst into halfway incarnating himself into the law of entropy. In Homura’s (at least in canon PMMM), she fucked with the laws of consequence and time to the point where she became the only expert they had on either of those and both laws decided to simply incarnate into her, and then she used that to cause problems. For me, it was having my entire magical and physical structure reorganized and rebuilt by an incarnate god of malevolent energy, and then I used what was a watered-down copy of the Devil of Devils’ glory to weave my own world into being where I was more or less the absolute arbiter of the laws of reality.

In PMMM Rebellion, when Homura fights Kyubey in that pretty lace dress of hers, that is approximately the magical prowess an awakened god of our capability will show casually. She has complete control over her domain (her labyrinth) and the reality of it, it takes no more than a glance or a thought to almost entirely reshuffle it. Her minions, who are little more than vaguely autonomous thoughts given some power of their own, may break that reality in whatever means necessary so long as it is to fulfill Homura’s current motives. Her domain falls apart when she does, and she is not separate from it; it is a consequence of her existence. Asking what came first, the god or their domain, is a simple chicken and egg question. It’s usually the domain, in our case; in the case of incarnate gods it’s a philosophical shrug and a nice headache.

You’ll notice I said awakened: that is because Zamorak is a great example of a god who isn’t entirely awakened. In canon, that is - the one I work with is awakened enough to fuck with his domain, which is what makes him quite useful to work with, although I do wonder what he’s getting out of me if not magical theory and utter adoration. Zamorak in canon is a god who ascribes himself to the philosophy of chaos and personal strife, completely unaware that he is incarnate enough not to change the law of entropy but to suggest things to it. He’s a god of chance masquerading as a god of personal improvement, and once he figures that out (and passes that knowledge onto Armadyl, who is his true light counterpart), he’s going to change the very way magic works. Guthix did everything in his power to try and become incarnate. He failed. Zamorak did it entirely inadvertently, and that’s the trick: the nature of deification is to follow the domain and influence it to your will. When laws of existence become people, they will do as people will, and people typically have ambition. Gods who are also people got that way for a reason. They always have a motive for doing so. It’s never accidental.

So, with a slightly more informed understanding of deification, or at least the versions of it that I understand, I can talk to you about me. What it’s like in the here and now, and how I knew. It took me years to get to this point, and I’ve much the way to go. I know more than I did when I was questioning; deeply more so. I don’t expect anyone questioning to be as sure as I am, and in ten years I will be far more sure of entirely different things, and if I’m lucky, this as well. But, let us begin again.

To be deific is to wake up in the middle of the night feeling like a black hole. You are vast, and you are dense, and the moment someone touches the skin of your sternum they will be sucked in like a movie's portrayal of quicksand. To be so vast on the inside, surrounded by empty air and gentle white noise like the faint pull of gravity that does not touch you. To feel so powerful as to be untethered wholly from the world, aware that you will blink and be floating alone in a space that you cannot touch and so too cannot touch you. You blink, and it is gone, and you are again in a normal body as a normal person, and you roll over and go back to sleep.

To be deific is to watch the seasonal changes and feel flashes of worn leather rope between your hands and the maddened singsong of the Wild Hunt, chariot reins in your hands and baying hounds that feel like fingers, like wings, like extensions of yourself that can be shifted around with barely a thought. To feel halfway like a black hole walking down the street, halfway caved into yourself and barely contained, incapable of truly understanding how you can be so far apart from it all without anyone noticing that something is off.

To be deific is to be a fourteen-year-old girl in one moment, unable to understand what draws her so to the wilds if not the song of sympathy that she knows she can understand if she reaches a little farther, a little farther past the barrier that prevents any mortal, psychological mind from understanding the call. To play a pixelated game and have everything rush back. To relive millennia in a single sennight, to go from chipped to broken, utterly broken, as the power comes rushing back and the slow, dawning realization like the day that there is no controlling it. That there is no controlling you.

Millennia of sins come rushing back, and you're mortal again, and you know the only way to bring a god to their knees is to kill them. And if you were spared, if you were brought down without dying, then there was a reason. That someone must have thought you worthy of fixing it. That you should now spend the next several years coming to peace with being a Devil, the cruelest of the cruel, amending fences and repenting your sins.

To be deific is to realize, quite suddenly and without ever actually having the thought, that understanding things through a Christian lens is utterly bullshit and absolutely does not apply to you. Now, your duty is not to repent, or to fix, or to find any sort of salvation. You are the monster queen, the king of the damned, the Devil of a world you made with blood and tears and sweat and magic. To retake the crown, you have to accept yourself. Acceptance does not mean dwelling, or sorrow, or refusing to take the steps forward that will carry you to the crown and halo and horn of deification.

The powers feel less overwhelming as you grow into them. You don't forget the rage. You understand your close friend's words over and over, as the lesson teaches itself. How a Devil so much less powerful and yet so much older than you once looked you in the eye, drink in hand, and gently told you that a single mortal can bring down a Devil, if they try, and believe wholeheartedly in their quest. Do not disrespect mortality. It brings nothing but death.

You wonder briefly who brought you down. You decide, as the lessons prove themselves, that you don't actually care. You're the mortal now, and mortal legends die. Mortal legends change the song of sympathy and the rules of the deific. In order to return, you too must follow the only path a mortal can take to become deific.

To be godkin is to become deific with every step. It's not to seek the divine from outside of it. It's to become it again, and reclaim it; find what was inside all along and grow yourself around it, until it can no longer be pulled from you again without scattering your ashes and stardust among the cosmos, never to return.

To be godkin is to never forget the moments of pure rage that none but powerless fourteen-year-olds can manage. To be godkin is to be an adult with their memory pressed into your skin. To be godkin is for that rage to never truly leave you.

We stand up again and stare at the emotions that are awake when we are not. We wonder what it will take to manifest again, to only twitch a thought in any direction and reshape the reality around us. It is an extension of our being, and the less aware we are of it, the less effort it takes us to remake the world. It is the nature of deification, to change the laws of reality at our whim and will.

To be godkin is simply a matter of knowing that, and forever reaching to do that once more. If only to feel whole and vast, as we always have been.

[dramaticviolincrescendo]

(How to Break the) Alibi Armistice

So, @gallavictorious and I were talking about the logistic problems with Mickey and Terry (a) wanting to brutally murder one other and (b) frequenting the same places. (Read: The Alibi Room.) Could be sorted by Terry just going the hell away, of course, but where's the fun in that? (Okay, sure, there's some fun in Mickey murdering the shit out of Terry, but that's such a simplistic solution and we're sophisticated women. Also, you can only kill him once, but you can make his life miserable forever.)

Anyway. We're thinking it might go down a little like this:

The first time they see Terry after the wedding is at the Alibi. He isn’t alone, but he’s the only one that matters considering the whole burning-down-their-venue debacle. And yeah, they could probably have played it cool, ignored him —  not like he’d do something with a whole bar full of witnesses, right? But Ian still suggests they go home or come back later, which Mickey is not having.

“I’ve been drinking here since I was fourteen. I’m not fucking leaving. He tries to start shit, I will sink his teeth so deep into that bar that he’ll be shitting splinters for weeks.” 

So that’s that. 

Mickey heads to the bar, but before he can order, Terry does indeed step in to start shit. Mickey doesn’t really pay attention to what he says — something about not serving pansies here or whatever the fuck. He’s too busy cataloguing the various ways he can get Terry alone for a few minutes in the alley before Ian wises up. Then he realizes that oh, they’re already in each other’s faces and oh, they’ve got each other by the collar. The fuck did that happen?

Things would have turned bloody then – which would have suited Mickey just fine – had Kev not stepped in and calmly declared that if either of them started whaling on the other, they'd both be banned from the bar. Forever. 

That actually gives them pause. The Alibi's a shit hole, but it's their shit hole and has been for a long time.

Terry's blood-shot eyes turn from Mickey to Kev; the malevolence remains. “You try to stop me from coming here, I'll come back with a goddamn flame-thrower.”

If Kev is unnerved, he doesn't show it. “I don't wanna stop anybody from coming here. But if you do, you have to play nice. No murdering each other. No violence.”

And of course, Mickey is far from amused because, “You came to our fucking wedding, but you won't take sides when the asshole who tried to murder us picks a fight?” Deep down, though, he gets it. The Alibi Room has always been neutral ground. Besides, it's not like Terry's fucking joking about burning the thing down, so. It is what it is.

And maybe no one likes it, maybe no one is totally happy in the end, but they both reluctantly agree, to everyone else's great relief. Kev doesn't try anything as stupid as making them shake hands; he just waits until Terry has retreated to the pool table before pouring Mickey a beer and a shot and asking Ian how's work. 

That’s how the truce is born.

It even lasts for a while, to the utter bafflement of everyone on the South Side, from the transplanted gentrifying assholes to the lifers. Truth be told, it’s mostly due to neither party having much opportunity, or reason, to break the rules. When Ian and Mickey are at the Alibi, Terry generally isn’t; they assume that he visits during their longer stints drinking at home when the money is tighter and Kev less free with the booze. 

Sometimes, Ian will see him there when he stops in on his own, and they ignore each other like they always have whenever Terry isn’t suspecting Ian of sleeping with one of his kids—or catching him at it. Other times, Mickey’s the one who spots him, but Terry doesn’t seem very interested in forcing a confrontation when Mickey’s husband isn’t standing beside him like the tallest, orangest fucking pride flag in Chicago. Doesn’t mean Mickey isn’t occasionally tempted to stick his foot up the bastard’s ass, but Kev always manages to shoot him a glance in silent reminder and he grudgingly downs his glass before hightailing it out every time.

It works. They drink, and nobody leaves in a body bag. All in all, the ceasefire is a success: Kev gets to run his business in peace, and while nobody really wins, nobody really loses either. 

At least not until peace gets boring as hell. 

It happens on a Thursday, and the evening starts off just like any other night they've managed to ditch their responsibilities at the house: they meet up at the Alibi after work for drinks and a chance to be just Ian and Mickey rather than uncles/brothers/responsible adults. Like any other night, they're talking and laughing and Ian has one beer, Mickey three.

It's not very exciting, maybe, but it's theirs and it's nice – until Terry steps through the door with Uncle Ronnie in tow. It takes the evil fucker all of two seconds to spot Mickey, then spot his husband too, seated in one of the booths at the far side of the room. For a moment, father and son simply stare at each other, and had anyone else dared to look for more than the briefest of moments, they'd have seen the cold rage slowly give way to cunning malevolence on Terry's face. He doesn't say anything; he orders a beer and heads straight for the pool table and tells Uncle Ronnie to rack up. 

And then Terry starts talking. Keeping his eyes on the game, on Uncle Ronnie, on anything that isn't Ian and Mickey—he talks, loudly and at length, of what he did to this queer and that, in prison and outside. 

These...are not nice stories. Not very detailed, true, but...yeah. They're not nice.

There's a hush growing in the bar, as patron after patron falls silent, and their eyes dart between the foulmouthed man by the pool table and his son, still and stone-faced at a table nearby. Behind the counter, Kev stands frozen in the process of wiping down a foggy glass, watching and waiting to see if he should grab the broom now or later. 

“He's just trying to provoke you,” Ian says urgently, and his voice is almost steady in spite of it taking damn near everything he has not to get up and run Terry through with the damn cue stick. “He wants you to go for him. Break the truce, get barred.” 

His eyes are on Mickey's face, intent and ready to jump into action the second Mickey makes his move. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

And here's the thing: Mickey sounds calm. This doesn't reassure Ian, because Mickey calm sometimes just means him taking a second to savor the fact that he's about to unleash absolute hell, but then Mickey shifts his gaze from his utter asshole of a father and to Ian. There's a small smile on his lips; it's a sharp thing, true, but a smile all the same. “He wants fucking queer? We'll give him fucking queer.” And he reaches out for Ian and pulls him into a long, hard kiss.

It takes a second for Ian’s brain to reboot enough to break away, hissing, “In front of your dad?!”

“The fuck’s it look like?”

“He’s gonna kill you. Then I’ll be a widower for three seconds until he kills me.”

Mickey’s eyebrows don’t slam into his hairline, but it’s a near miss. “What, are you scared, Gallagher?”

Ian…isn’t. He used to be scared of Terry back when they were kids and he was this dark, shadowy figure who could make Mickey do whatever he wanted simply by virtue of being his father. But they are past that. Terry, like Frank, is old. Terry, like Frank, doesn’t have any power over his kids now. Terry is a blot on their past, but he has no bearing on their future. 

Which is exactly what Mickey’s getting at. 

So Ian shrugs and Mickey nods like he did at the docks, not having to say uh huh, that’s what I thought.

And he leans back in because hey, if Terry does kill them, at least they’ll make it worth the trouble. 

It’s a little awkward, what with the table between them, but they have long been pros at not being kept apart. Leaning over the table, Ian cradles the back of Mickey’s head; Mickey’s hand is on Ian’s neck and the other on his upper arm, clutching at the fabric of his jacket. There's nothing chaste about this, nothing sweet. It's desire and defiance, lips and tongues and teeth, Mickey's fingers digging into Ian's arm, Ian's twisting in Mickey's hair as he pulls him closer, closer, closer. 

(It's another thing Ian blames and hates Terry for. Mickey loves to kiss, loves being kissed, and yet he wouldn't allow it, not for their first year and not for much of their second. No matter how often they stop for a playful peck or something more serious and passionate now, they'll never make up for those lost years and all the kisses they should have shared then.

They sure as hell can try, though.)

It goes on and on. The initial frustration shifts into something softer and more real as any thought of Terry – or anyone – fades and becomes a faraway thing. There is Mickey and there is Ian, and the taste and the smell and feel of the other, and they've done this a thousands times and yet – 

And yet.

And yet it takes a distant vibration and the sound of glass on wood before they hear Kev clear his throat. “Uh, he’s gone. Been gone for ten minutes.” 

Mickey pulls back first and leans over to see past Ian’s shoulder that yeah, Terry’s gone. Nobody appears to be talking about him or them either, so Kev probably isn’t exaggerating about how long they’ve obliviously been at it, especially considering he’s got that dumb smirk on and won’t meet their gazes as he turns back towards the bar. 

And speaking of dumb, Ian is still staring at him like he did after their first kiss, all gooey and gross as if they haven’t done this so often that none of the Gallaghers even complain anymore. Jesus. Leave it to Ian not to have learned how to play shit cool after all these years. 

But what can a guy do when Mickey’s husband is watching him like he farts rainbows, and like he doesn’t give a shit about why they’d attacked each other’s faces in the first place? Mickey doesn’t blame him; he’s having a hard time remembering too right now.

He dives back in, because why not? Their ceasefire says no violence, so (almost) any and all displays of affection are well within the rules. He puts his hand on the side of Ian’s neck where it’s always fit best and reels Ian in, despite how much easier it would’ve been to get on his side of the booth this time. 

“Thought this was about your dad,” Ian mutters into his lips because of course he can’t shut his mouth to save his life.

Mickey shrugs - “Fuck ‘im” - and gives him something better to do with that mouth.

[thevindicativevordan]

I really like this blog, your analysis and ideas for Superman and his characters was great to read! I hope you don't mind, may I ask what do you think about Hank Henshaw? Do you have any ideas for him?

I think he needs to be radically changed in order to keep working, because as of right now his entire character is "hey remember Reign of the Supermen? That was cool amirite?"

Henshaw was created in an era where the editorial mandate was "the only survivor of Krypton is Clark", and that meant Superman didn't have an "evil Superman" counterpart Rogue in the Post Crisis era the way Pre Crisis did. So the writers had to come up with ways to get around that, some of the workarounds I liked such as Bizarro becoming a clone that Lex makes, and some of which were just so goddamn stupid like the Pocket Universe. But all of the Post Crisis evil Superman counterparts got killed off relatively quickly, including both Bizzaro and Zod after they were used.

Henshaw though was in one of the most popular Superman stories of all time, and he was Jurgens baby, so he got to stick around. But he was a character who was created to serve a purpose in that one specific story, and outside of that what does he have to offer? Disguising himself as Clark and setting out to ruin Superman's reputation since Doomsday robbed him of killing Clark was a great motivation, but once Clark returns and exposes him as a fraud, Henshaw just doesn't really have the character potential to justify keeping him around as is.

Henshaw wants to kill Superman. Great! That sums up the complete motivations of 90% of the rest of Superman's Rogues (which is in part why they aren't on the same level as Batman or Spider-Man's). Henshaw is really strong and tough and can hurt Superman with brute force. Again, a lot of Superman Rogues can do that too. Henshaw is an "evil Superman" design wise. Putting aside the multiple evil Supermen we get these days, most of them just variants on "real" Superman gone bad, Zod and Bizarro are better known and more popular. Henshaw can manipulate technology and rebuild himself from anything. Brainiac, Livewire, and Metallo also do that. Henshaw can't die? Well he's eclipsed in that regard by Doomsday.

He's overshadowed in the aspects that most people focus on by multiple other villains, with only his ties to Reign keeping him relevant which is why Jurgens always calls back to that storyline with him. His motivation is just generic revenge which doesn't work because if he has no goal other than killing Superman, all he can do is fail. His name "Cyborg Superman" is dumb because it only works within the context of Reign when people thought he might be the legit Superman reborn. It's just not a particular inspired name for him to keep using anymore.

If it sounds like I'm just ragging on him I totally am. He just doesn't work for me in his current role as 90s nostalgia. But I do have some ideas for how he could be reworked to be better utilized in the modern day.

What I Would Do With Hank Henshaw

So first we need to change a lot about him while still working with what came before. Right off the bat I'm having Henshaw ditch the "Cyborg Superman" name and form, and use that all too brief "data form" he had in Action Comics Rebirth.

That looks cool! Now we need to address Hank's biggest problem: what does he want exactly beyond just killing Superman? What are some goals he can feasibly achieve that make him a compelling threat? They've tried giving him a new motive a couple times, such as making him a nihilist who only wants to die in Sinestro Corps War, but ultimately he needs a reason to keep existing. If he just wants death he can track Doomsday down or throw himself into a black hole. I've got two roads to take Henshaw down, one that's pretty simple but justifies keeping him around as a threat and allows him the ability to maybe "win", the other more complex.

The simple route is that we merge Henshaw with the Metaleks. These guys were an army of xenoforming robots who were sent out by some unknown alien race to transform planets into something that's more to that race's liking.

Their creators are long dead, but the Metaleks continue the task they were built for. Henshaw catches wind of them, decides they'd make for an excellent army to do his bidding in the same way the Manhunters were, and attempts to seize control. Instead he gets absorbed into their collective hive mind, his hatred infecting them until it warps their programming, his malevolent mind guiding them and lending them his intellect. Now the Metaleks are a swarm of locusts, out to cleanse the entire galaxy of all life, with Henshaw as the Metalmind behind it all (yes that is his new name, shut up I'm not getting paid for this). With Clark going cosmic, this makes for a good way to keep the two foes fighting each other. Henshaw doesn't have enough control to make the Metaleks focus solely on killing Superman, but his upgrades and coordination means the Metaleks are a much greater threat to other planets than they were previously. Henshaw can now potentially "win" by cleansing a world of life, something that is going to hurt Clark bad given Clark's entire background, and because anywhere not named Earth gets wrecked all the time.

That's the simplistic route. Upgrades Henshaw as a threat while reducing his motives to "kill everything". The more complex route leans into Henshaw's origins as a Reed Richards expy, by basing him off that other evil Reed Richards:

Jurgens had Superman imprison Henshaw within a fake life with his family and friends who died in the accident that gave him powers. I'd have that fake life knaw at Henshaw until ultimately he realizes that his feud with Superman is a pointless waste of time, and what he really wants is his family back and his status as a respected leader restored. But he's a mass murderer and there's no redemption for him at this point, so Henshaw embarks on a quest to build his own little world for him to rule over.

First he seizes control of the Metaleks as in above, but in this route he manages to bring them under his control, christening himself their Metalmind. With an army of terraforming robots on his side, Henshaw begins terraforming his own world. He also retrieves the corpses of his family who died from their mutations and begins working on resurrecting them. At this stage you can have Henshaw in any number of schemes to acquire the resources or tech he needs to build his own kingdom, or to acquire the bodies.

At the second stage once he's got what he needs, he'll start building. First he revives his family (while ensuring that they will be loyal to him above all else). Then he starts creating his "children":

He's been around long enough to know either Superman or someone else will come after him eventually, and Hank Henshaw is prepared. He creates a race of beings who view him as both father and god, who will give him the adoration he craves and showcase his intellect. At this stage you can have stories involving Henshaw where he dispatches his "children" on missions to prove their worth and test their capabilities. Clark has to find and stop these agents while also trying to figure out where they're coming from.

The final stage is when Henshaw is confident that his forces are powerful enough to take on Superman, and then he does the unthinkable. He petitions the United Planets to join as a member. To Clark's horror they accept, and as the head of a planet Henshaw now enjoys intergalactic diplomatic immunity. His creations are now seeded inside the United Planets itself, and Henshaw can put his efforts wherever he wants. He can run twisted science experiments with his family, be the fist of the United Planets alongside Zod, helping the organization grow in ways Superman would abhor, he can try to kill Superman whenever Clark attempts to block his schemes, with his ability to still wrangle concessions from the UP as a way to keep him from just losing all the time. He can be Clark's Dr. Doom in other words, that long term opponent who is always working an angle, and has an entire nation/world behind him he rules as a god.

To me that's a much more interesting angle than him talking about that one time back in the 90s when he was cool anyway.

[what-the--curtains]

Alliance

Chapter 9 – The Hunt

(Mando x f!reader)

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Summary: After recovering you set off to find the man who tried to kill you. Killing him proves to be more difficult than expected when the ones you love are threatened, and on the other side of the choice, your own future.

Authors note: One more chapter to go!! Some angst at the end here! Hope y’all enjoy ❤️❤️❤️! (I also did some very average fan art if y’all haven’t seen it yet!)

Tw: sex is alluded to (not depicted), decapitation, force choke

Word count: 4.9k

Tagged list: @crazycookiecrumbles, @seninjakitey

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The planet proved harder to find than expected, despite Anya's best efforts, something was fogging up her tracking causing your coordinates to be constantly in flux. She’d easily lead you past the outer rim, but since then it had been akin to a wild goose chase.

“Any idea who tried to kill you.” Din asks, he'd been exceptionally patient throughout the journey thus far. Never questioning your methods just typing in the new location coordinates calmly and re aligning the ship on its new course.

“Did kill me” you correct, as your hand moves absentmindedly over the healed wound. “but no, I dont. They had a lightsaber though”

“Was it a Jedi?” he asks earnestly.

“Well based on the context clues, I'd definitely say at least Jedi adjacent” you laugh, for a savvy strategist who knew multiple languages you sometimes found yourself questioning if his brain was in fact functioning.

“Why would a Jedi try and kill you?”

“Your guess is as good as mine”

“How do they decide on colors?” He asks after a somewhat awkward silence

“Hmmm” you hum out in confusion, only half paying attention to what he had said.

“The light swords? Ashoka's are blue, yours is purple and the figures, well there's was red” your heart stops.

“It was red?” you ask, sitting up in your seat giving him your undivided attention.

“Ya does that mean something?” He watches your eyes slowly piecing together what he'd just told you.

“That’s impossible, the Sith were defeated. They died with the emperor.” you affirm, your sure red was a common colour used by Jedi nowadays, sure no one had ever seen one before, but there was a first time for everything right?

“So were the Jedi.” he points out.

“Do you always have to be right?” you ask slightly irritated for a reason you couldn’t quite explain. He doesn't respond; he knows a rhetorical question when he hears one but unsure what he had done to upset you. An uncomfortable silence lingers in the air, a sensation you'd never experienced with the Mandalorian before. Not wanting to stew in the quiet you head down to the lower levels and try and calm your frazzled mind. Sitting down you cross your legs, one over the other, as you close your eyes.

On the best of days meditating was a chore, but under the current situation it had become an impossible task. It wasn’t the threat of being ambushed that had you distracted, no something else was playing heavily on your mind. It was what was causing the punctuated silences, forced conversation and overall awkwardness in the atmosphere. It was your own doing. Seriously, who kisses a man whose face they've never seen! Idiots that's who and now it was stuck on your mind. In your defense you thought you wouldn't have to deal with the fallout so quickly. You should have known he’d have insisted on going with you, but you hadn't thought that far ahead, or at all and now you had to sit with the fact that you’d possibly ruined your comfortable friendship by planting one on him. Technically it wasn’t a real kiss,or maybe it was, how did Mandalorians kiss anyways? There you were down the rabbit hole again, this is why you couldn't focus, you curse yourself. Shaking your head you remind yourself it was only done in an attempt to get around him, a strategic move to protect the group, nothing more, nothing less. Keeping that in mind you manage to focus and you feel the galaxy's pulse emitting throughout the ship, inhaling and exhaling with the undulations around you.

Din, bored and missing the usually witty banter you offered him, decided it was time for him to clear the air in regards to the kiss. He hopes by telling you that he knew it was only done to get around him, you’d become more relaxed. The last thing he wanted was for you to be uncomfortable around him. He knew you'd never want to be with someone like him, at least in that way. As he turns around he sees you cross legged floating in the air, not wanting to interrupt he heads back up. Anya lifts her head as he re-enters, looking at him as if she knew what he was thinking. He’ll clear the air with you later, the two of you had plenty of time to talk.

You curse as your journey gets rerouted for what had to be the twelfth time in the past two days. Whoever was hunting you did not want to be found and no amount of swearing or whacking the console would change that. The closer you got to your destination the more you felt the malevolent presence grow. You found yourself wondering if it had always been with you, finding it hard to remember a time when it wasn't gnawing at your conscience. Each time you feel it scratching at your doors you remember Ashoka's words “be careful who you let into your head.” You'd made that mistake once with devastating consequences. You would not be making it again. Your energy was now primarily being spent keeping the presence at bay, not allowing it to penetrate any deeper than it already had. Sleeping only acted as an open invitation for the figure to torture you so you opted to forgo it altogether. Perhaps not the wisest decision, but what other choice did you have.

“The planet’s still a few days away.” Din says, noting the unraveled look in your eyes as you take your place next to him.

“Anything to do on this ship.” You ask, fidgeting in your seat. “like games or something” he doesn't respond “Hey beskar head! You awake under that helmet?”. You ask partially joking, partially annoyed that he wasn't talking to you.

“Yes.”

“Yes to games or yes to being awake?”

“To games” you smile, you never knew if he was actually making jokes or if you were just reading into it. The finer details of his personality artfully hidden beneath the metal exterior.

“Got Dejarik, you know how to play?” he asks, glad that you were back to yourself for the time being.

“I'm alright” you say smiling, you were better than alright, at least you think. To be fair you'd only ever played against one person and she was family and probably inclined to letting you win.

“You're cheating!” he exclaims, his annoyance apparent even through the modulator. Your skills were better than you expected especially after all those years, well either that or the Mandalorian was just that bad.

“How?” you ask, laughing at how frustrated he was getting. It was funny when you beat him the second time, but by gods it was even funnier when you beat him the seventh time.

“The force!” He says clenching his hand as he stares down at the board.

“I don't think the force bothers itself with helping me beat you at Dejarik.” you point out, as he grumbles something indistinguishable.

“Maybe you're just not as good as you think you are.” You tease pointing your finger at him eyebrows raised and a smirk plastered on your face.

“That’s not what I’ve been told,” he responds.

“About Dejarik or?” he laughs it off, but you seriously wanted to know the answer. After Cara told you he was allowed to have sex it was a question that you’d thought about a lot, more than you probably should have, but hey you were curious. Realizing the Mandalorian was now turning the game board over to see if it was rigged, you decide to change games.

“You still got that indestructible spear. The beskar one?” you ask nonchalantly.

“Yes, not something i'm planning on losing” he nods

“Fancy a match?” you offer you needed to work on your fighting skills, practicing on the air only went so far.

“Only if you promise not to slice through my ship.” He says, standing up.

“Only if you promise not to cry when I beat you.” you return causing him to scoff

“Oh im not going to be the one crying” he assures.

You stand in the ship's far corner across from Din who haphazardly twirls the spear in his hand as you open up your saber, raising it waiting for him to make the first move. He stays his ground, you and him were both defensive fighters and you knew he was far too stubborn to change his routine. Leaping forward you land in front of him, your saber making contact with the spear. After a few seconds spent testing his strength you know there's no feasible way for you to out muscle him. You'd have to out maneuver him. He’d seen you fight stronger opponents before so you’d have to think outside the box on this one. You move out from under the spear the release of your counter force causing Din to stumble forward. You turn aiming for his shin, but his arm reaches back the spear stopping your hit from connecting with his armour. You circle round him so you're once again face to face giving him enough time to stand back up. He turns quickly, swinging the spear as he does, aiming for your waist. You jump over the swipe landing behind him, hitting him in the back.

“Point to me.” you say

“No using the force” he says, turning to look down at you, his presence suddenly looming.

“I wasn't, I can just jump really high!” You lie.

“Likely story” he says brushing past you as he moves back to his starting spot

“What was that I said about crying earlier?” you question.

He's got you talking too long and he sweeps your feet out from under you knocking you on your ass and gently tapping you on the head with the spear.

“Point me” he says, offering you his hand.

“That was dirty” you say as he hoists you up.

“Who says we're playing clean sweetheart?” The term catches both of you off guard, but he's flustered himself more than you, allowing you to land the next two points.

“Hope your ego isn't too hurt darling.” you mock back at him as metal and light collide once again.

“It’s not over yet” he says, using all his strength to march you back towards the wall pinning you against it with his spear.

“You need to work on your attack, you leave a lot open” he says, breathing heavily.

“You need to work on a codpiece, it leaves a lot open” you retort, kneeing him in the groin, hard enough for him to drop you, but not so hard that it kept him down for long.

“Not enough beskar” he murmurs, hoping to get the last word in.

“Oh big brag for a man who just lost several games of Dejarik in a row and” your sentence is cut short as the spear taps the small of your back giving him the winning point

“And what?”

“Oh real classy Din, can’t win a fair fight” you say hand on your hip.

“It was fair considering I wasn't going 100%”

‘Oh you weren't” you mock, the smile telling him you were amused and not upset by his antics, the gentle slap on his arm further verifying this. The moments like this were nice, but as you continue to gain on your target they became fleeting. The Mandalorian watches as your ability to focus waivers, your frustration becoming increasingly evident in your training. Miraculously, you hadn't sliced through anything important, but the ship’s interior was constantly needing to be patched up. At least it kept him occupied and out of your hair. You looked like you were fighting a hidden battle, one he would gladly fight with you, if you'd let him. He didn’t know the full extent of your struggle, but he knew the anger he felt simmering inside you wasn't being aided by your refusal to sleep.

Your irritability, although caused by exerting tremendous energy keeping the figure at bay, was no excuse for the times you had lashed out at the Mandalorian. The most recent outburst occurred when he'd stepped on your foot after you had explicitly told him to watch out. In hindsight, threatening to melt his beskar down and turn it into a hearing aid for him so he could stop being such a nerf herder was a touch harsh. Alright, incredibly harsh especially considering he'd attempted to apologize before you went off on him.

“Sorry I threatened the beskar” you murmur sitting down next to him

“Are you going to tell me what's going on?” he asks

“Going on where” you ask

“Well it can't just be air in your head” he jokes, causing you to laugh for the first time in a few days.

“Seriously though , I'm sorry Ive been out of line, and it's not fair on you, you’ve been so understanding.”

“You know what might help with the outbursts?”

“A lecture?” you remark, your tone harsher than intended

“No, sleep, you should try it sometime”

“I'm fine without it” you say, the yawn escaping your lips contradicting your words.

“You should sleep.”

“ You don’t.” you remark hoping to catch him off guard, but he's obviously rehearsed this conversation a few times.

“ I don’t need to.”

“Neither do I.” You lie, almost a year later and you still had no idea how he slept so little, though your current working theory was that he would just take naps under the helmet when he thought he could get away with it.

“No, you can't sleep, there's a distinct difference.”

Not wanting to lash out at him for the third time that day and knowing he was right, you make a swift exit. You push the button that opens up to the tight sleeping quarters where you'd spent many hours lying awake. You were hoping that you'd reached an exhaustion point where your body would just shut down. You lay back on the bed not bothering with the covers, you weren't expecting to get comfortable. Anya had stopped trying to sleep in the same bed as you, usually getting inadvertently kicked or shoved out the bed by your constant movements. Your eyes can’t have been closed for more than a minute when they snap open. Despite their alertness your body's gone limp. What fresh hell was this? As your eyes adjust to the darkness you can only just make out the hauntingly familiar shape sitting at the edge of your bed. You go to call out for the Mandalorian, but no sound is emitted, nothing comes out at all not even air. You watch helplessly as the figure's arm extends ensnaring you in a choke hold, the yellow iris shining out beneath the hood, confirming your worst fear. A Sith. You scream yourself awake, the force causing items to fly to the ground, no doubt alerting the Mandalorian. You bring your knees to your chest grabbing at your scalp telling yourself it wasn’t real, but it didn't matter what you said. The truth was you couldn’t tell anymore all lines had blurred together. You get up off the bed looking around the room already exhausted at having to clean up yet another mess you had made. You lean over picking up the weapons that had fallen off the armoury hanging them back up when you hear the Mandalorian drop down the sound startling you.

“I'm sorry” you mutter embarrassed, not looking up as you move to grab the few dishes currently lying on the floor.

“What did I say about breaking the ship?” he says, chuckling slightly in an attempt to lighten the mood. He bends down to help you but you grab his arm stopping him.

“I made the mess. I'll clean it up.” You say gathering up the utensil and placing them back on the table absentmindedly stroking your throat as you turn to pick up the rest. As you reach for the chess board he grabs your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours, leading you back over to the bed.

“Get some rest, I'll clean up,” he says softly, sitting you down on the bed.

“Stop telling me what to do Din, besides it's not working.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I can’t and unless you can think up a way to make me then were shit out of luck.”

“I can think of a few ways.” he mumbles hoping it was loud enough for you to hear.

“Like what? Knocking me out with a blaster?” you scoff

“ A less violent way,” The words leave his mouth before he can fully assess the pros and cons of what he was offering to do.

“Reciting the entire code of conduct of the mandalore race to me?” Gods, how were you still not getting this.

“A less boring way.” He prays that you either catch on or he passes away suddenly so as to save him from any further embarrassment.

“Oh” you punctuate, lips parted slightly suddenly realizing exactly what was being offered to you “you think you can tire me out?”

“Only if you want.” he says, more confident now you hadn't outright rejected him

“Well I have been dying to see what’s under that armour”

“ You’ve seen it before”, and you couldn't wait to see it again.

“Not all of it”

“The helmet stays on,” he asserts.

“Not what I was referring to.” He stands there for a moment unsure how to proceed, not wanting to have misread the situation. “Well are you just going to stand there or are you not a man of your word?” That’s all the encouragement he needs.

“You want me to stop at any time, you just say so cyar’ika”

Once again the Mandalorian was right ; he was able to tire you out. Neither of you say anything after both at a loss for words, and not wanting to ruin the moment by saying the wrong thing. You fall asleep with his arm wrapped securely around your waist, as the other runs up and down your back. His heartbeat lulling you into a deep sleep, his presence managing to stay off any nightmares, at least for now.

He stays with you long after you’ve dozed off watching your back rise and fall in time with your breathing, he thanks the gods you were finally resting. He intently studies the faint purple markings covering your body, wondering how long they'd been there. His hand then tracing over the scars on your back, he wants to know how you got them. He wanted to know everything. Once this was all a distant memory he’d ask, if you chose to stick around that is. Knowing you won't want to find him in your bed when you wake up, he slides his arm from your waist and quietly, so as not to wake you, he puts his clothes back on. Re-donning his armour he heads back upstairs to check on the ship.

Your body shivers inadvertently at the loss of heat and your eyes slowly open. The room’s still dark, but the Mandalorian had gone. He must have left sometime in the night presumably his way of telling you it was a one off. Knowing Din to be a man of few words you knew talking about what had just happened was fully off the table. You sit up and stretch out, allowing your elbows to pop and your shoulders to crack as you roll them out, feeling a way that you hadn't felt in months. Well rested. Making your way over to the fresher you allow the water to wash over you removing any remaining scent attributed to the Mandalorian. After dressing you head up to the cockpit, slightly bow legged from the night before. You’d had your fair share of lovers and for a human, he was very well endowed and very eager to please.

“How far” you ask brushing any thoughts about last night from your head as you shoo Anya off your seat.

“You’re up sooner than I thought.” He says looking at you. He’d noticed the slight stagger in your walk causing him to smirk under the helmet, but the smile fades when you don’t look down.

“How far are we?” you ask again, picking up Anya who’s refused to move of her own volition.

“Close. About last night” he starts, wanting to make sure everything was okay, and that you weren’t regretting what had happened.

“ Look, we don’t have to talk about it. I know it wasn’t a big deal.” You say.

“It may not be a big deal for you.” you don't know why, but you take that tone as being pointed, referring specifically to your time spent in the rings.

“Why? because I've slept with half the galaxy? Something I did in order to survive an environment let’s not forget you put me in?” you spit out

“ No, I-I didn’t mean,” he starts. It's the first time you've ever heard him stumble over his words.

“ You never do.” You say, shutting him up for the remainder of the trip.

“Dropping out now.’ He says, 5 days, that's how long it had taken to get to where you were going, whoever was on the planet was committed to not being found, or at least committed to having you as sleep deprived as possible.

You step out with the Mandalorian close behind you, the planet's surface reflecting the ship's underlights back into its metal exterior. The mirrored rock had sprouted out into various forms and sharp geometric shapes, resulting in a beautiful, but sinister skyline.

“You sure this is the place? Doesn't look like any living thing could survive here.”

“Yes, I can sense a disturbance. You stay here with Anya.” you say placing a hand on his chest plate.

“No way.” Din responds

“I have to do this alone. It's too dangerous for you.”

“For me?” he says in disbelief.

“Wait here if i'm not back within the hour, leave.” You state ignoring his last question.

“ I'll give you two for good measure” he offers, holding out a blaster for you to take.

“It won't help.” You say pushing it back towards him before pulling up your hood and setting off into the unknown. Once he's sure you're out of sight, he follows you.

You close your eyes, letting your senses lead you through the sharpened planet careful not to cut yourself on the dark obsidian refelcting blurred images of the stars. A rock snaps under your foot and your eyes open. A voice calls out to you, uttering your name.

“Who are you.” you ask aloud, turning to face the cloaked figure who stands before you.

“ That is not important” he answers, lips not moving. Telepathy. So that’s how he'd gotten into your head.

“You tried to kill me I think it's at least relevant.” You return in thought.

“You came alone.” he asks, yellow eyes darting from side to side, despite the power this figure held you send a nervousness harboured deep within him, perhaps you should have brought the Mandalorian along with you.

“ Yes” you lie, hoping your force was strong enough to shield the bounty hunter.

“Good.” he snarled.

“Why did you kill me.” you ask not wanting to beat around the bush

“To see if I could. I needed to see your abilities, you’re stronger than I thought if you brought yourself back to life. The empire is rebuilding”, he offers not clearing the situation up in the least

“The empire died with Palpatine, they’re nothing but warmongering desolates now” you say shaking your head, not believing you had flown halfway across the galaxy for this.

“That’s what they have told you. We have been growing an army, led by the spirit of the emperor. We are seeking those with your abilities to help us rebuild.”

“You’ve lost your mind. The Sith were defeated long ago, the Jedi with them.” You turn to leave, no longer fearing this man, he holds no power over you.

“No” he shrieks, the sound drawing your gaze back to him, the noise frightening you slightly “You cannot leave. You cannot go. You will join us and rebuild a stronger galaxy.”

“I have no interest in joing a cult of fear and genocide.” you state calmly.

“It is more than a cult I offer you, something much better, power.” he was getting desperate, a few more days without sleep and you may have fallen for it.

“Power to what? Give you all the blood in my body so you can commit futile experiments on innocent people. You cannot create force sensitivity nor can you push it on someone who it has not chosen. Join you? No, I'll have to pass. Death and destruction will not be my path.”

“Not yet, but it will be. I see it in you, the pain, the sadness, the loneliness, that will all disappear once you join us.”

“Over my dead body” You say drawing your sabre. A violent clash of red and purple ricochet off the mirrored rock, lighting up the shadowed planets.

“Your grandmother trained you well.” He exclaims.

“ If you knew her then you should know that i'd never turn” You continue the fight. Managing to back him into a rock wall. Holding saber at his throat the light purple hue gleaning in the yellow irises beneath his hood.

“I understand why you ambushed me, not much of a fighter are you.” you snarl, pushing the saber into the robe, the scent of burning fabric filling the air. Then you feel it, the pulse of the fibers interwoven throughout the galaxy, something’s amiss. Something else appears under the glow of you saber, yellowed teeth, smiling under the light. You release him pushing yourself back, he wants you to kill him.

“ Do not fear it, I have seen this moment. It is what begins your reign”

“No” you say aloud to yourself, “No” you repeat turning off the saber and turning to leave.

“If you let me live, I kill the man with you.”

The Mandalorian whose been watching from afar hasn’t heard a word spoken in a while, watching you move towards him he thinks it must be over, whoever this person was, Sith or not, you must have come to an agreement. He almost walks out from his hiding spot when you stop dead in your tracks. He sees you look up, your eyes meeting his but only for a moment, before you pivot back to face the man.

“There’s…” you start.

“Don’t play me for a fool child, I have been playing this game long before you were even a thought in your mothers pretty little head. I know he is here. I know what you feel for him. You kill me and in time you will betray him, but you’d rather that, than lose him altogether.”

There's no thought process, no decision to make. With a flick of your wrist you throw the saber. You watch as it slices through the Siths neck before returning to your hand. You close it as his head tumbles to the ground. If Ashoka's words were a warning this, this was an omen. You had made a choice and now a path of irredeemably evil was laid before you. A path you were not prepared to drag anyone else down.

“I know you're there” you say after composing yourself. “I told you not to follow me.” You say making your way to the Mandalorians hiding spot.

“Are you alright? What did he say to you?” he asks, reaching a hand out for your arm.

“Nothing.” You say dodging him. The less he knew the safer he'd be. You weighed your options in your head on the walk back, but you knew there was only one way to avoid harming anyone. You had to hide away, become anonymous. Fall back into legend, never to be seen again. It was the only way Grogu would be safe, it was the only way Cara would be safe, it was the only way Din would be safe. As the ship takes off you say three words that would change everything.

“Take me home.”

“We're on route to Hoth now,” he says reassuringly.

“No, take me to my home. Grogu is back and safe. Our deal is done. Our alliance is over” You say, eyes plastered to the windshield.

“What did he say to you?” Din stresses, but you don’t answer. Silence was the only way to stop him from convincing you to stay.

“Don’t shut me out” he says slamming his hand on the panel. You don’t flinch, you don’t even look up. “We can figure this out together.” He says softly, if you hadn’t known any better you would have thought he was pleading with you.

“You’ve done enough. Take me home. If you don’t the force will.” He resets the GPS coordinates before standing up and dropping downstairs. Anya muzzles into you as you let out a sigh blinking back the tears you felt forming.

[kmomof4]

Of Darkness, Vampires, and Soulmates Ch. 8 The Battle Ends

Oh my goodness!!! I can’t believe we’re here!!! It’s the last chapter, y’all!!! Y’all have been screaming at me for seven weeks about how much you hate Rumplestiltskin, and I promised that he would get what was coming to him!! I hope y’all like it!!! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for coming along on this journey with me!!! I’m in tears right now typing this thinking of all the love and comments that y’all have sent my way. Please know that I reread them often and they all mean so SOOOOO much!!!

For the last time for this fic, I’m sending heaps and mounds of love, hugs, and gratitude to @profdanglaisstuff and @hollyethecurious for everything they did to help me bring this story to life. Saira was a fount of knowledge and an endless source of encouragement that was absolutely ESSENTIAL to my perseverance when the going got REALLY tough. Hollye, as one of my very best friends, was always there to discuss plot points, brainstorm, and push, drag, and pull to get me to keep going when I wanted to quit. Thank you both, ladies! This fic wouldn’t be here without either of you!

The ladies of the CSSNS and CSMM discords were there to sprint and encourage and also helped with the title. Thank you so much, ladies!!!

And finally, to @spartanguard, my OUTSTANDING artist for this fic!!! Kaitlyn, I know I say this every week, but it’s so true, you are SOOO talented and the words I know are not adequate to express the depth of my gratitude for all the work you’ve put in to your art that just made the story that much more REAL!!! 

‘Thank you’ is so inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got for all of you that had a hand in bringing this fic to life. So THANK YOU ALL, from the bottom of my heart!!!

Chapter summary: Chapter title says it all, I think. Rumplestiltskin FINALLY gets what’s coming to him!

Rating: M (Violence and smut)

Words: 2050 of 41.5K total

Tags: Vampires, Soulmates, Reincarnation, Prophecy, Black Death, French Revolution, Magic, True Loves Kiss

Prologue | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ao3 chapter link | Ao3 fic link

Tag list: @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @snowbellewells @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @jennjenn615 @kingofmyheart14 @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @branlovestowrite @ultraluckycatnd @flslp87 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @let-it-raines @shireness-says​ @kymbersmith-90​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @bethacaciakay​ @searchingwardrobes​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @teamhook​ @aprilqueen84​ @qualitycoffeethings​ @superchocovian​ @artistic-writer​ @donteattheappleshook​ @doodlelolly0910​ @seriouslyhooked​ @tiganasummertree​ @lfh1226-linda​ @nikkiemms​ @xsajx​ @klynn-stormz​

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

Under the cut unless tumblr ate it.

The young woman with long red hair and her blonde headed companion pushed a stroller through the front door of the Como Park Zoo and Conservatory. Rumplestiltskin stood on the green lawn outside as a malevolent smile took over his face. He pulled a phone from his pocket, dialed and hissed when the call connected, “Your sister is in danger. Come home. Come alone. Or she dies.”

~*~*~

Emma was frantically throwing clothes into a suitcase when Killian came into their bedroom concerned alarm coloring his features.

“What’s going on, Emma?”

“He’s got her,” she choked out, turning back to her closet again. “I don’t even know who he has. He just said ‘your sister.’ I don’t even know who he has!” she exclaimed, turning again and throwing herself into his arms, her sobs breaking through. “Oh god, what if he has both of them?”

“Shhh, shhhh,” he crooned, stroking her back, “You’re not making any sense, love. Who has who?”

“Rumplestiltskin!” she cried, looking up at him, tears streaking down her face. “He CALLED me! How did he have my number? How did he get to her? I knew his voice! He said my sister was in danger, to come home, alone, or she dies. How did he find her? How did he know who she is? Who does he have?” She dissolved into tears again as he held her close.

“Well, you are not going alone, my love,” he asserted, vehemently. “That is absolutely not happening. He’s trying to draw you out, separate us so that we can’t destroy him. Blue can transport us to your home so that we can take him by surprise. He can’t really expect that I’d willingly let you face him alone.” He pulled back from her and cradled her face in his hands. “I’ll be right there with you, Swan,” he affirmed, “and we will defeat him.”

She smiled through her tears, eyes so full of hope that he wanted to promise her the world and everything in it. He drew her back into his arms, murmuring assurances into the crown of her head before letting her go to make preparations to leave.

~*~*~

Emma entered her childhood home, hoping against hope that she’d find one or both of her sisters inside. The churning fear in her gut since she received Rumplestiltskin’s  summons had only dissipated when Killian held her in his arms. But he was now outside trying to gain some intelligence about his sire’s presence inside her home. The Blue Fairy had created a magical shield to keep his presence hidden from Rumplestiltskin until he showed himself to Emma.

Their conversation before they had left home continued to plague her mind.

“We’ll save her, Emma. Don’t worry. She’ll be safe.”

“How do you know?

“He wants you, darling,” he promised her. “He wants to inflict as much pain on you, and me by extension, as possible. Which means that whatever he plans to do to harm her, he’ll want to do it in your presence.”

“Anna? Elsa?” she called, “Anyone here?” She walked further into the quietness of her home until she came into the family room. What she found sent her heartbeat into overdrive.

Anna sat on the sofa, unnaturally still, eyes wide with terror, mouth open in a silent scream. Emma took a deep breath, knowing that she had to keep her head about her if they were all going to get out of here safely. She scanned over her sister for any evidence of injury beyond being frozen. Emma’s supernatural hearing could perceive Anna’s small amount of blood loss at the hands of the monster that sat reclined in the chair opposite his captive.

A rage the likes of which she had never felt before came over her before she could blink. She saw red and flew for the demon, hands outstretched and a scream like a banshee ripping out of her open mouth. Before she could reach him, however, Killian burst through the front door situated behind the chair.

Not expecting the attack on two fronts, Rumplestiltskin was momentarily startled giving Killian all the time he needed to grab the cane that he always carried when he was masquerading as a human. The creature howled with fury as he reached out for the crutch just as Emma launched herself at him and landed on his back. She grasped him around the shoulders and hauled herself up until she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips. Fangs exposed she drove them into his neck as screams poured out of her prey. She continued feasting as she watched Killian attack.

Killian meantime had taken the cane and broken it over his raised knee, dissolving the glamour spell that had disguised the dagger that the Blue Fairy had made over a millennium before.

Raising it in his hand, he plunged it into Rumplestiltskin’s chest, being careful to angle it so that it wouldn’t come out his back and stab Emma who was still holding on to him for dear life as he thrashed about under their dual assault. Withdrawing the deadly implement, a dark, viscous substance poured from the hole in the creature’s chest and was drawn toward the blade. Killian felt a drag, a pull stronger than he had ever known as the same substance pulled out of himself as well. He was dimly aware of Emma releasing her victim and falling to the floor as the Darkness exited his love. His own scream of pain completely drowned out the weakening screams of their adversary and the increasingly loud keening cries coming from Anna as the enchantment holding her captive weakened.

With the pain finally subsiding and his faculties returning to him, Killian became aware of several things all at once. The Darkness drawn from the three vampires hovered over the dagger. Once emptied of the foul substance, Rumplestiltskin collapsed face down to the ground in front of him. Anna rocked back and forth on the sofa holding herself tightly as she sobbed uncontrollably, and a deathly pale Emma lay lifeless on the floor behind his sire. Rumplestilskin’s blood stained her mouth and her eyes remained open and trained on the ceiling. She had not survived the uprooting of the vile stuff that made her, made them, vampires. Killian rushed to her side and gathered her in his arms.

“No, no, no, no, nooooo!” he cried. “Not again! Please! Emma,” he begged, “don’t leave me. Please,” he cried, trying to shake her awake. “I can’t live without you, Emma. Come back to me, please…” he trailed away, tear filled eyes meeting Anna’s who still sat on the sofa, in a stupor.

“You know what you have to do, Killian,” a soft voice intoned, behind him.

He turned frantic eyes upon the Blue Fairy, who stood on the threshold.

The Dark’s minion’s downfall is foretold

When True Love’s Kiss doth unfold

Between soulmates unbound by time

The blue eyed prince and his golden haired Swan

Their True Love will break the hold

And Dark magic will be no more.

The prophecy ran through his mind. True Love’s Kiss. True Love’s Kiss. True Love’s Kiss will destroy the Darkness! Killian looked down on his peaceful, so still Swan. Begging one last time, he whispered in her ear, “Come back to me, Swan.” His lips met hers in a cascade of rainbow light pulsing outward throughout the house. He pulled away to see the Darkness, the dagger, and even Rumplestiltskin himself dissolve in the presence of magic that was able to break any curse. The magic of True Love.

He looked down into the face of his beloved just as she began to stir. She blinked and looked up at him. “Killian!”

He couldn’t hold back his joyful grin if he tried. He hugged her tightly to himself, murmuring into her neck, “My Swan, my Swan. My darling, Swan...”

She pulled back from him before pulling him back down to capture his lips with her own in a passionate kiss that made him completely forget about their audience. Until the clearing of a throat behind him penetrated his lustful haze.

They pulled apart and looked over to where the Blue Fairy was sitting and holding Anna close, comforting her. Emma cried out and scrambled away from him to get to her sister who was starting to recover from her ordeal.

“What was THAT?!” she cried, gathering Emma in her arms. “Who… What… Uh… How?” she stammered, looking back and forth between Emma, himself, and the Blue Fairy.

After taking a few more moments to sufficiently recuperate from her shock, Anna launched herself into Killian’s arms. Her sobs renewed as her emotional pendulum swung from unbridled joy at being reunited with Killian to indignation at never knowing the truth about him. And Emma, for that matter.

Pulling back from where he finally set her down after spinning her in a bone crushing hug, she slapped his shoulder.

“How could you not tell me? Did Mom know?”

Killian chuckled with a smirk. “I think that’s a tale that’s better told over dinner and a lot of alcohol, my lamb.”

~*~*~

The Blue Fairy used her magic to resolve all the complications created by Anna’s disappearance before they reunited with the others at Elsa’s boyfriend’s restaurant.

If Anna and Killian’s reunion and the conference call they had enjoyed a month ago was thrilling, there was no measuring of the excitement when Killian and Elsa met again. He picked her up and spun her around before gathering her to him in a bear hug that was years in the making. Elsa hugged him back just as tightly.

Over the course of the evening, Killian revealed everything about the curse and how it came about, the prophecy, meeting Emma so many times over the years…

“But, wait a minute,” Anna asked, “You’ve lived three other lives, Emma? Do you remember any of them?”

Emma shrugged. “Can’t say as I do.”

They reminisced about their early years in Massachusetts before moving to Minnesota and learned about how he met Ingrid. Elsa hugged Emma close when they got to the end of the tale of destroying Rumplestiltskin and the Darkness that made them vampires.

“But how do you know,” Anna asked. “How do you know you’re no longer vampires?”

Emma and Killian turned and looked at each other. “It feels different, for one,” Emma said, still looking at Killian. “The fangs and bloodlust are gone, and my heart rate is back to normal.”

Killian continued, “That’s the biggest difference, for sure. We’d obviously gotten pretty good at controlling the thirst, in order to be around anyone else without it taking over, but the hearing and sight are also back to normal. It’s been so long for me, I could barely remember.”

“Wow,” Elsa breathed. She turned then to Killian, eyes brimming with tears before gathering him in for a hug.

“This is all fascinating and hard to believe, even with the evidence before me, but thank you for saving my family,” she whispered. “All of them.”

He pulled back from her with a bashful smile and scratched behind his ear. He was a little surprised that Anna and Elsa didn’t have nearly the problems believing him that he expected. They were very much Ingrid’s daughters.

From there, Emma and Killian returned home to Massachusetts, while Anna and her family and Elsa remained in Minnesota. Emma applied to and began law school at Harvard that fall, after a hastily put together, but still altogether beautiful wedding at their estate about a month after destroying Rumplestiltskin. Killian continued in his occupation of captaining the Jolly Roger throughout the spring and summer months for pleasure cruises along the New England coastline, pirate tours, and renting out his beloved vessel for special events. Elsa won election to the mayor's office in a landslide and was sporting a 1 ½ carat diamond on her left hand that Christmas. Anna and Kristoff continued living in domestic bliss raising their little boy, before finding out they were expecting again right after Thanksgiving. The future before all of them was bright and they walked into that future hand in hand with the ones they loved beside them.

And they all lived Happily Ever After.

The End

~*~*~

Thank you all so much for coming on this journey with me!! It means more than I can possibly say!!! I hope you enjoyed the ride!!!

[tuiccim]

Santi (Part 8)

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Words: 3103

Warnings: Angst, violence, language

Trigger warning: Violence

Summary: The Caruso Op continues. 

Santi Masterlist

Day 101

Everything was set. Vision was driving you and the cargo in the SUV to the meeting place. You pulled into the warehouse in Brooklyn you had previously scoped out and smoothly exited the car. Vincent was there waiting with his bodyguards and a few other people to take the cargo. 

“Vincent.” You smile. 

“Eve, is this everything?” VIncent asks.

“Your entire list, as promised. Did you doubt me?” You smirk.

“Of course not, darling.” Vincent says smoothly.

You spend the next 20 minutes going over the cargo and discussing future needs and shipments. When Vincent seems satisfied with everything he nods to the others. 

“I have a gift for you in the office here. Will you join me for a drink?”

“A gift?” You say suspiciously. 

“For our reunion.” Vincent smiles devilishly at you. 

You look to Vision who immediately joins you, but Vincent turns back. “Leave the shadow. I’ll leave the guards. Just the two of us.”

You can feel something is off. Everyone is tense, which is normal in a deal, but there’s something different about Vincent and you can’t quite pull the emotion out that is making things feel strange. Knowing you can handle Vincent alone you decide to take the chance and follow him. Vision is obviously unhappy with the decision but he lets you go. You walk into the dim office with an old metal desk and little else in the room. The door closes suddenly behind you and that’s when you feel the needle in your neck. 

You wake up what was only 20-30 minutes later. Your healing ability metabolizing the drug more quickly than average. You are in the backseat of Vincent’s SUV with hands cuffed behind your back. You moan as you are coming to and realize your surroundings. 

“Awake already?” Vincents snarks. 

“The fuck did you do, Vincent?” You try to sound forceful but it comes out slurred. The effects of the drugs still in your system. 

“I have some bad news. I’m afraid your shadow is no more. My guards are dispatching him as we speak. You did say one lover at a time so I felt the need to rid us of him.”

You chuckle, “I doubt your guards can handle, V. He’s more than he seems.”

“5 to 1. I like my odds.” Vincent looks at you. 

“Where are we going and why am I handcuffed?” You say.

“Someplace private. And it’s the first step in breaking you. I’m the one in control.” Vincent says.

“You think.” You know now that Vincents ‘never say never’ comment at the party had been a threat. His obsession had been rekindled and this time he had decided he would have you no matter what.

“I know. You are mine now, Eve. I’ll prove it to you.” He slides a hand to your thigh and rubs. “You’ll see, darling.” 

You jerk your leg away from him and he chuckles. Looking outside you stare at your surroundings and realize you are no longer in Brooklyn. You assumed you were headed to the loft in the meatpacking district when you see the car is going the opposite direction. Away from everything you had shown Vision and Sam. A little panic begins to form as you realize they have no idea where you are being taken. You reach out to feel Vincent’s emotions but the drug in your system is making it difficult. Your head is pounding so you decide to just lay your head against the window and watch. You hoped Vision was okay. The ride lasts nearly another hour before you arrive at a beautiful house with extensive grounds. The car door opens and you feel another sting in your neck. 

This time you wake up with a start. Something is being held under your nose. You shake your head to get away from the acrid smell. 

“That’s it. Wake up, Eve. It’s time to play.” Vincent's voice is delighted. 

You come awake but still feel sluggish. It takes you a second to realize you’re tied to a metal rack. Wrists are tied by your head and ankles tied to the bottom. Thankfully, you’re still fully dressed. The room is windowless and full of different weapons and equipment. This makes you more fully awake. “Enough, Vincent. Unchain me. This is not how it works.”

“So naive. You think all submissives actually start off wanting it?” Vincent says darkly. 

“If you touch me again, you will die today.” You say.

Vincent slaps you across the face. “Speak when told.”

You laugh at him knowing you can’t let him break you. The longer you hold out against him the better chance he wouldn’t… He needed you to be submissive and there was no way in hell you were gonna break. “That’s cute, Vinny. You think I’ll actually listen to you.”

“Don’t call me that. You will. I think you are wearing too many clothes.” Vincent picks a knife up. 

You simply stare at him with dead eyes. He takes the knife and slides it under the buttons of your blouse and pops them off. You never break eye contact with him. When the last button pops off he rips the blouse open. “Look at you. So pretty.” He slides the knife along your skin. 

“I’m going to mark you. I think I’ll carve my initials right next to your bullet wounds.” He looks down for the scar and your heart accelerates. You hadn’t bothered with the fake scar as trust had been reestablished. Vincent stares hard at your stomach where they had been before reaching for the waistband of your skirt to pull it down further. 

“Where are they?” He stares at you in disbelief. You just stare at him. Not saying anything. “Where are they?” he repeats more loudly and presses the knife into your skin where they should be. Your face twitches at the sting from the knife and he scrapes the blade across your skin raising a thin line that beads with drops of blood. You try to remain calm but the terror begins in the pit of your stomach. Vincent is about to realize what you are. You can already feel your skin knitting back together and his face is staring at the line as it is quickly disappearing. “What the fuck?” He says as he watches and then his eyes snap up to yours. There is pure glee in his face and you feel panic begin to rise in you. “You’re one of those! How far does your healing ability go, Eve? Secretive girl.”

You say nothing. 

“Let’s test it out.” He makes a deeper stripe across your stomach and you keep your poker face on as best you can. He watches as the line recedes again and then rips a piece of your shirt off to wipe away the blood revealing the smooth skin underneath. Then he plunges the knife into your stomach fully and you grunt at the pain. He pulls it out and watches again as your skin repairs itself. He repeats the action eliciting another grunt and smiles at you wickedly, “You still feel all the pain, don’t you? I can hurt you and hurt you and you’ll never have a mark on you. You really are the perfect woman.” He laughs sickly as he plunges the knife in again. 

“Where the fuck is she, Sam? Bucky is near out of his mind as the team scrambles to find you. 

“Redwing lost them in the trees covering the road. We’ll find her. There are only two ways they could have gone. I’ve got another asset that was following her but he hasn’t checked in.”

“I’m gonna kill this bastard.” Bucky fumes.

Sam’s cell phone starts ringing and he picks up. ”Nate, man, where the hell ya been? Do you have her?” Bucky is looming over Sam. 

The voice over the line is breaking up, “Sam, got shit reception out here. They’re in a huge house. No way to get in there without being noticed and he’s got several guards on the ground.”

“I’ve got his location.” Natasha says behind Sam. 

“Let’s go.” Bucky bellows at everyone Vision puts a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. The quinjet is already heading the right direction. 

You are panting from the pain. Vincent has stabbed you a dozen times and your skirt is drenched in blood. He was reveling in the pain it was causing you but was also angry because you wouldn’t scream. 

“Scream for me once, Eve. Then I’ll give you a break. Just one scream.” He plunges the knife in again. 

You hold in any sound. You can’t let him win. Once you catch your breath, you laugh. “Told ya, Vinny. I don’t break.”

“Bitch!” He screams and slaps you again. You just laugh maniacally hoping to unnerve him more. Between the drug still in your system and the pain, you can’t concentrate well enough to use your telepathy. 

Vincent is suddenly calmer and your stomach clenches. “Let’s test something out. You heal, but can you grow back appendages?”

Shit. This was going to hurt. You had lost a toe once before and it had grown back but you’d never cared to test the limitations of the ability. He grabs your hand and then you hear the shots firing. Vincent looks towards the door. 

“Ready to die?” You say. 

Vincent picks up his gun and points it at your head. “We die together, Eve. Don’t worry.” He grins malevolently. 

The door is kicked in and Steve and Bucky freeze seeing the gun pointed at your head. 

“The Avengers. How interesting. I should have guessed with your abilities, Eve.” Vincent says before addressing Steve and Bucky, “Can she survive a head shot?” He grins.

“Shoot him.” You enunciate clearly and Vincent brings the barrel of the gun closer to your head. 

“Lower the gun.” Steve says. 

“I don’t think so. I’ll take her with me.” Vincent turns back to look at you and you wrench your head as far away from the gun as you can but the bullet still hits the right side of your forehead. Vincent drops to the floor dead from Bucky’s shot. Bucky runs to you immediately. You’re slumped over and not moving.

“Doll, doll, wake up.” He picks your head up to see the bullet hole in your forehead. “NO! NO! SANTI! Wake up, baby. WAKE UP, WAKE UP!” Bucky drops to his knees and screams. His jeans become stained with your blood that covers the floor. The rest of the team stand in the doorway taking in the scene before them. 

Steve comes up behind Bucky and tries to pick him up. “Come on, Bucky. Come on, man. Let me get you out of here.”

Suddenly a small tink is heard and Bucky sees a bullet drop into the pool of blood. He looks up sharply and sees your head move slightly. 

“Owwwww…” You say as a massive headache reverberates through your head. 

“Santi!” Bucky is up in an instant and cradles your face.

“Vis?” You slur. Everything feels strange and you can’t seem to get your words out.

“He’s here. He’s okay. Help me get her out of this.” Bucky says. 

Within a few minutes Bucky is carrying you to the quinjet. Natasha and Steve are checking you over for injuries which you find slightly ludicrous. You are exhausted and just want to sleep. Bucky keeps you cradled in his arms in the quinjet whispering to you, “You’re okay, doll. I’ve got you. Never letting you go again.” 

“Bucky,” you curl your fingers into his shirt. 

“Shhh, you don't need to talk. I’m gonna take care of you, baby.” Bucky reassures. 

You can’t hold out any longer and pass out. 

Day 102

You wake in the medbay of the tower and slowly look around. A monitor next to you shows your vitals. You see Bucky talking to one of the doctors. He turns to look at you and you lock eyes. He rushes to your side, “Doll, you’re awake.”

"Bucky." You reach out for him and he takes you in his arms. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s fine. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. How long was I out for?”

“It’s been almost 14 hours.” Dr. Miles says as she walks in. 

“Hey Doc.” You say to your usual doctor. Despite your healing abilities you are still required to have regular check ups with the medical staff. 

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Miles asks. 

You look at Bucky’s face. His arms are still around you. “I’m fine. Nothing feels off. When can I get out of here?”

“All your labs are normal. I want to monitor your vitals and keep you for another hour or two.” 

You groan, “Really, Doc?”

“Let her do her job, Doll.” Bucky says kissing the top of your head. 

She performs a cognitive and neurological exam. 

“Can you tell me what exactly happened? I need to do a full report of your injuries.” Dr. Miles says. 

“Bucky, can you give us a minute?” You look at him. 

“Sorry, Doll. Not letting you go. I need to hear it, too.”

“No, I… Buck.” One look in his stern face told you he wasn’t going anywhere. “Okay. Two slices across my abdomen. Around 20 or so full seated stabs to the abdomen. Bullet to the head.” You get a far away look in your eye. “Bullet to the head. I survived it.” A hand flies to your forehead. 

“You did and without any lasting damage it would seem. We did a cat scan while you were out and everything looks the same as the one we did six months ago.” Dr. Miles gives you both a smile and walks out. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to hear that. I’m sorry you had to see it. Sorry you had to do that.” You whisper to Bucky, pulling him tighter against you. 

“I would do it all over again to keep you safe. You never have to worry about him again.” Bucky holds you tight. “I’m just so damn glad you’re safe. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Several hours later, you’ve been released from medbay, showered, spent some quality time with Bucky, and are now joining the team for dinner. When you walk into the room, your eyes immediately go to Vision. Letting go of Bucky’s hand, you rush to hug Vision. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay!” You say as he returns your embrace. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, too.” Vision says. You put your hands up to his face and look at him for a minute. 

“I’m glad to see you, Vision.” You smile at him in his normal form. You move to Wanda and hug her fiercely. “Thank you. Without him… Thank you.”

“We’re a team. We will always look out for each other.” Wanda says.

You make your way around the room hugging everyone. You hear the elevator and see Sam step off of it with another man. He was wearing a cap and his head was down, but when he looked up at you a minute later you recognized him immediately. 

“Nate?” you say in disbelief. 

“Nate’s an old buddy. Pulled him in since he’s not a recognizable face. You did good, man.” Sam smiles at him. 

“Hi, Agent Delarosa. Nathaniel Spencer, at your service.” He holds a hand out to you. 

You shake it, “I take it you were how they found me.”

“Yeah, I was following. Sam wanted an extra set of eyes on you just in case.” Nate smiles.

“Thank you, Nate.” You smile at him and unable to contain yourself you step forward and hug him. “Thank you.”

Nate laughs, “Yeah. So, you’re not as mean as I remember.”

A laugh bubbles up, “I hope not.” You turn to Sam and pull him into a hug. “Thank you, Sam.” 

“You got it, Santi.” Sam squeezes you.

“Okay, okay. Enough, Birdbrain.” Bucky says pulling you into his arms.

“I can’t help it if she’s grateful to me.” Sam smirks at Bucky. 

“I’m grateful to all of you. I’m just sorry we didn’t complete the mission and find out who was being supplied. I didn’t realize how obsessed…” you trail off. 

“You couldn’t know what he’d do, doll. You and Vision made it out alive. That’s all that matters.” Bucky says. 

“I, for one, am both glad and jealous that you can apparently survive a headshot.” Natasha says. 

Steve clears his throat, “I’m just glad we’re all back together. You need to take it easy for a bit though, Santi. Doctors orders. No mission for at least six weeks.”

“I know, Steve. Doc told me.” You smile at him. “Let’s eat. I’m starving!”

After dinner you asked to speak to Steve and Sam alone. Of course, that meant Bucky too. He hadn’t left your side since you woke up. 

“Fury?” You asked simply. 

“His only concern was getting you back. He knew Caruso was dangerous and unstable. No one could have predicted that he would do that.” Steve says.

“Figuring out who he was supplying for was the goal and now we’re back at square one.” You frown.

“Not exactly.” Sam says.

“What do you mean?” 

“That house was a treasure trove of intel. It wasn’t on anyone’s radar. SHIELD got several leads to follow from it.” Sam says.

“So, it wasn’t a total bust?” Relief floods through you. 

“No. SHIELD will be chasing everything down. Caruso had several links to HYDRA.” Steve says.

“It’s out of our hands now.” Bucky puts his arms around you. “You did more than enough.”

You lean into his touch. “Okay. We’re gonna call it an early night, guys.”

“Night.” Sam says. 

“Night, Santi. Night, Buck. Get some rest.”

You lay on your side facing Bucky, studying each beautiful feature of his face. He is doing the same. His eyes keep wandering to a certain spot on your forehead. Your heart broke a little every time they did. Knowing the agony he must have been put through. 

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper with tears in your eyes. A sentiment you had repeated several times since waking up in the medbay.

“We’ve been over this. Not your doing, doll.” Bucky cups your cheek. 

“I just…” You start sobbing again. It felt like the hundredth time you had that day. Everything replayed in your mind again and again. Bucky pulled you into his arms and held you. The mission was over but the effects had a hold on you. The damage Eve always left in her wake.

Part 9

[boycottyashahime]

okay this is gonna sound out of the blue because you mostly talk about sessrin and the sequel but I would really like to hear your opinion/analysis on other Inuyasha discourses too. like the kikyo/inukik debate or whatever else you want to talk about. you're always so perceptive it would be interesting to read your take on it. love this blog!

Oh wow! I'm stoked I didn't manage to pigeon-hole myself into only those two topics you mentioned; thank you so much for asking about my other Inuyasha-related opinions! I do actually have an awful lot of them, since I've been doing a more critical read of the series, and have come away with a lot of analysis regarding theming, characters, plot, etc. As I mentioned in an answer yesterday, I'm up to chapter 203 in this endeavor, so by this point I have plenty of material, lol!

On the subject of InuKik and Kikyou in general, it's a LOT more complex and layered than some give the dynamic credit for. I blame the anime hardcore, because Sunrise managed to portray this as your bog standard love triangle and demonized (if you'll pardon the irony there) Kikyou more than she ever needed to be.

I'll start out here with Kikyou herself - brought back from the dead in an imitation body and the parts of her soul that hated Inuyasha for his supposed betrayal. In life, she was dedicated to serving her community as a healer and priestess, but she also longed to live a normal human existence. It's clear there was a lot of expectation for her to be composed and capable at all times, and she was unable to show emotion or weakness for the possibility that it would be used against her. As she was an important line of defense against monsters and baddies, if she went down, soon the whole village would go down too, so she felt she always had to keep herself in check.

After she's resurrected, she speaks a lot of being free to express herself and her emotions where she wasn't in life. But her behavior tells a different story. She establishes herself as a healer and priestess in many communities, basically picking back up where she left off. She continues to be impassive and reserved, showing little, being cryptic and secretive at times. There's all the more incentive to repress herself and hide her true nature, because revealing her undead state has serious consequences for those around her. Not only does Kikyou still have to conform to her role of proper priestess and keep whatever emotions she has under the surface for the sake of others, she is COMPELLED now. There's no choice.

She's dead now, and it's been pointed out to her that she exists in a world apart from other humans - neither dead nor alive, stuck in that liminal space between the two. She no longer experiences time, so she'll never grow, never age, and never CHANGE. this is why, instead of breaking away from the priestess identity and fully embracing her new existence as a malevolent spirit, she keeps returning to communities that she can serve as she did in life. She's beyond being able to actually evolve anymore; static and unmoving in identity and mind.

This is also why she behaves toward Inuyasha in such a confused and mixed way. She's literally made up of the feelings of betrayal, scorn, sadness, and crushed affection that she had upon her death. She can't move past them because she's not a living being capable of change anymore. All she can really do is try to satisfy those feelings with revenge at first, and then minimize interaction with Inuyasha where she can later. It would explain why she doesn't actually care that Inuyasha wasn't to blame for her death in the beginning, and why she continued to be malicious even after she found out Naraku was their true enemy, AND why she gave Naraku Kagome's Shikon fragment. Her "plan" to let him complete the jewel and then purify him wouldn't work and she knew it. But she still couldn't help hating Inuyasha, because those feelings made up her whole being and there was no way for them to change. There's also love for him in there too, even though it's a shattered love, so she can continue to have affectionate moments with him too, claim with sincerity that she's glad he's alive when he's hurt due to her meddling, but it's always overshadowed by the unalterable hatred she can't get rid of.

InuKik was doomed to begin with, in my opinion. As characters, they were utterly incompatible, and the relationship began based entirely on Kikyou's projection of her own desire to be a regular person onto Inuyasha. She saw some similarity between her situation of bondage to duty and Inuyasha's "a foot in both worlds" existence, basically rejecting his youkai half the way she wanted to reject her community role, but her comparison was forced at best. Ironically, the only time she could have really and truly understood a hanyou's existence as belonging nowhere and being hated on both sides is when she was resurrected, no longer alive but not dead, and being constantly rejected for her half-life. The fact that she's incapable of evolution kind of excludes that as a real epiphany, though.

There you have it - an essay on Kikyou and her... complicated mess of a character. If you'd like elaboration on any of the points above, feel free to ask. You may absolutely request more of my opinions regarding other topics in Inuyasha as well, since I really DO have more to talk about than the criticisms I usually put here. I usually have all that other stuff on another blog, though.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Forgiveness - a Malevolent fic

Court was a drag (as always), but at least John felt the right to participate more.

He’d chosen a name for himself. Nobody knew it but him; that didn’t matter. He knew who he was.

Part of the Surrogate Series. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

--------

It was on their last day that they made a plan.

“Look,” Parker said softly, his words hidden by the wild, chanting musical about a Founding-Father politician. “We get outta here, he’s not all we got to deal with.”

“I know,” said Arthur softly.

“Whoever tried to get you two is gonna try again.” Parker looked grim. “You know that. Don’t you?”

Yes, John growled, low and dangerous. And I will tear out their fucking eyes when they do.

“I’m sure you will, buddy,” said Parker, still softly, “but we don’t know who they are, and that puts us at a real disadvantage. Don’t know whose eyes to get at, you feel me? They came at us from a weird angle last time.”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Using the seal of Hastur’s dead son.”

Sunny made one sad noise.

John snarled.

“Yeah,” said Parker. “So. Way I see it, our job ain’t done. We got some work to do.”

Arthur looked troubled. “I know Hastur’s people are working on it.”

“Yeah,” said Parker. “They missed a pretty big hole, didn’t they?”

“Anyone would have. Who could have known something like that?”

“Maybe not about the debt owed,” said Parker softly, “but we knew something was wrong. The head cook was off. He was condemning himself and trying to warn us. Everybody heard it. We just ignored it.”

Arthur sighed. “All right. What’s our game plan?”

“First, we gotta get ourselves in as good a shape and as good a position as possible,” said Parker. “That means you two in court, fucking behaving.”

John growled.

Parker ignored that. “And it means me and Sunny need to make more friends. A lot of friends. The kind of friends who’ll tell us if they think something’s wrong. The kind of friends who’d never say boo to someone like Hastur, because he’s scary, but we’re not. The kind of friends who’d hide us in a fuckin’ pinch.”

Arthur nodded. “Covering both ends. I get it.  We can watch the mucky-mucks, meanwhile, for behavioral clues.”

“Yeah.” Parker gripped his arm. “We can do this.”

“We can.” Arthur nodded, grim. “And we will.”

I am not throwing away my shot! declared the Keeper’s speakers, and leaning against Faroe, Tabby cheered.

#

They were really doing this. Arthur was really doing this—and he knew, against all instinct, what that had to mean for his next step.

You’re thoughtful, said John. Also, you’re veering left.

Arthur corrected and mentally added a few steps to his count to Court. “I know something I have to do, but I don’t want to do it.”

And he felt John flex in him, just a little, swelling, straining just for a second, pushing the air out of Arthur’s lungs. What? What now? More confrontation?

“Actually, you’re not far off,” said Arthur. “I’ve been putting it off because I don’t want to do it. I hate it. I hate it with all my heart, but I have to. If I don’t, John… then I’m a hypocrite. And there are many things in this world I’ll do—many pits I’ll fall into, many mistakes I’ll make—but I will not do that. ”

John was spooked now. What is it, for fuck’s sake?

“I have to talk to Larson.”

John made a gagging noise.

Arthur laughed lightly. “You’re completely correct, yes. But… I have to. If I don’t, John, all the work you and I are doing with the Keeper is going to stall. I have to do this.”

Do what?

“Just… please have my back. I can’t… if I try to say it out loud now, I’ll lose whatever courage I have for this.”

The fuck are you going to do, kiss him?

Arthur snorted. “No.”

Better not. John sounded relieved. I’d fucking kill him if you did.

The jealousy was a can unopened and buried in the back yard. “We can’t kill him,” Arthur pointed out.

I’ll make him wish I had killed him.

“Let’s just get this part over with,” said Arthur, and headed into the courtroom.

#

Court was a drag (as always), but at least John felt the right to participate more.

He’d chosen a name for himself. Nobody knew it but him; that didn’t matter. He knew who he was.

Especially after the mess of the last month. The… vulnerability of the last month.

No. He would not mull over it now. It did not matter. He was here now, and in charge, or close enough, because Hastur could not be. He’d shown his soft underside, and now that John had seen it, he could not unsee.

He would never be like that. So… weak. Never. Never!

John paid keen attention to every case before them, to every conversation nearby; he watched so hard that he kept forgetting to tell Arthur what he was seeing. At least, until Arthur said, “Tell me like a story, John. Spin me the tale of this crazy courtroom filled with gods.”

Oh, John could do that.  Before us seethes the vagrancy of the powerful, like poison smeared in place of paint. Those who have eyes pretend not to stare at each other, but they do, watching with the caution of old wounds and deadly plans. Arthur, it’s a glittering horse, beautiful and nightmarish; they are monsters, breaking minds at their very approach, and happy to do it. They are cruel, and greedy, and flaunt both their power and cosmically insane appearances.

“Thank you for being my eyes, John,” said Arthur, and took his hand.

Which was one hell of a reward. None of them seem to need Hastur’s specific attention today.

“Then we’ve got a chance to observe them as candidly as possible. See everything. I need you, John.”

Nothing he said could have spurred John on better. He memorized, calculated, analyzed. He fell silent for a while, focusing, trying.

Which was good, because Arthur needed that time to think.

#

Arthur didn’t want to do this. “Which way?”

Arthur, are you sure?

“Yes, John. Which way?”

Left. Librarian is left.

He really didn’t want to do this. “Let me know when we’re in sight. Please.”

Sure. Arthur…

He really, really didn’t want to do this. “ No , John. This is happening.” Because it was. Because it had to.

Because Arthur would not be a hypocrite. 

The smell of books and the sound of rustling pages told him where they were before John did, those two senses casting nets further afield than sight. They’re around the next corner, about six steps forward, then left. Arthur…

“I’m sure, damn it.”

I just… I’m trying to say I’m with you. 

Arthur took his hand, lifted it, just touched his lips to the back of John’s hand. “Thank you. With you at my back, I could conquer the world.”

John was roiling happy gold when they walked around the bend.

#

Larson and the Librarian sat among piles of books, staring at manuscripts and scribbled translations. Larson scowled; the Librarian’s pages ruffled.

“I know,” snapped Larson, who somehow put sharp edges into his drawl. “I just don’t know how the fuck to put this in a way a kid would get.”

The Librarian flipped some pages.

Larson sighed. “‘May he be unable to chain bears, may he lose with every bear, may he be unable to kill a bear on Wednesday, in any hour, now, now, quickly, quickly, make it happen.’ Look. That’s literal. Literal’s fine, but the job is to translate by thought, not word, so it’s relatable. What do we relate cursed bear training to in Carcosa, huh? What?”

And it was time. “Hi,” said Arthur.

The Librarian flipped pages.

It’s showing music notes all across both sides of its head, said John. I think it’s happy to see us.

Arthur smiled. “Nice to see you, too. Hello.” But then his smile faded. “Larson. We need to talk.”

They’re staring at you.

“I’ll bet they are,” Arthur murmured. “Larson, I mean it. It’s nothing bad. You can get back to work right afterward.”

He looks so confused, Arthur. Suspicious; his brow is knit, and his frown is tight. 

“Do you,” Larson said, having picked up that Hasturian habit of asking a confirmation that wasn’t actually asking, but denying.

“I do,” said Arthur. “Please come.”

Pages flipped.

The Librarian has presented us with an image of… high tea?

Arthur guessed at the meaning and smiled weakly. “Yes,” he said. “I promise it’s civil.”

The Librarian gestured. I think it means, go on. Uh. Thumbs up, so yes. 

Larson stood. “How serious is this talk, Arthur Lester?”

“It’ll only take a moment.”

There’s a balcony to our right.

“That’ll work. Follow me.” Arthur led the way.

#

The breeze was warm; it was beginning to get sticky out, as Arthur thought of it, not uncomfortably hot, but the kind of weather that let itself to gentle sweats and memorable sex, and wasn’t that a weird thought for him to have?

It was. Arthur didn’t think about sex at all, most days. But something about this particular level of heat and humidity brought the Woods back to mind, and—

Right. None of that . He shook it off, leaned on the balcony, and waited.

Larson came up behind him. Paused. Then leaned beside him, hesitant. Wary. On guard.

“I have something to say to you,” said Arthur carefully. “It’s more for me than for you. But if you follow it, sort of like a…  will-o'-the-wisp or something, it might really help you in the long run.”

“Not exactly making this sound desirable,” drawled Larson.

There was no graceful way to do this. No smooth segue, no easy entrance. Arthur stood straight and faced him. “I want you to know I forgive you.”

Larson laughed.

Arthur knew he would. He was prepared for it, braced, the same way Dis taught him to tense his abdominal muscles in case of a punch there. It still fucking aggravated.

“You what?” said Larson.

“I forgive you,” said Arthur. “It doesn’t mean what you did was in any way excusable, or in any way makes you anything but complete and utter scum. You don’t get a free pass. I’m saying I won’t hold you responsible anymore.”

Larson thought that was even funnier.

Arthur’s breath was short, through his nose, carefully controlled. He kept his hands open, choosing not to clench.

John was surprised.

John was flabbergasted.

John had Arthur’s back. You should be grateful for his consideration .

“Grateful!” Larson just kept laughing like the asshole he was. “For pittance, dribbled out by the likes of you? Ha! Ha! ”

Arthur took a slow breath. “It’s important, and here’s why. If you don’t let go of the past, you can’t steer to a new future.”

Oh, said John softly.

“Ha!” said Larson.

“So,” said Arthur. “So here’s the thing. You can forgive yourself—which is the first step on this journey, and I know it’s hard—or you can refuse to do that, and march bold-faced toward your destruction. It’s up to you, Wallace. Nobody can make that choice but you. Only you. It’s all fucking on you. ”

John held his metaphorical breath.

“You’re full of shit, Lester,” said Larson.

“Just think about it,” said Arthur. “And know that I’m offering this because I’m choosing that way , because people who care about you… get hurt when you just punish yourself.” His voice cracked. “It isn’t worth it, when you punish yourself. And it doesn’t fix it, anyway.”

“You think I’m punishing myself, do you?” Larson said, low. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”

“I think you think you’ll be absolved if you become a god,” said Arthur.

Larson went so still. So very still, as if he’d utterly given up breathing.

And Arthur was done. He left. Walked out. Turned away and the conversation, leaving Larson to his ha and his haughtiness, because he’d done what he came to do, and didn’t expect anything more.

Larson stared.

Larson stayed for a long moment, leaning on the balcony, teeth bared, breathing fast. He barely had it together when he returned to work, but translations would wait for no man. “Aw, nothing,” he said when the Librarian showed him a big question-mark on a page. “Just that idiot being self-righteous, is all.”

#

Arthur walked. He walked, letting John guide him away from walls and through doors, until they were finally in the garden, in open air, sweating slightly in the sun, and at last, he breathed evenly.

That was…

“Yes?” said Arthur, genuinely curious as to what John would say.

I don't know how to feel about that. It wasn’t what I expected.

“Well, like I said… I didn’t do it for him .”

Does this… John stopped, gulped. Do… does… will you… does this mean you’re choosing to live?

Arthur’s eyes filled, then spilled, and he wasn’t sure which of them was crying. “Yes. I don’t… I don’t feel it yet. But I know I will. I’m choosing a direction, and a… a thought pattern. I’ll feel it in time. I’m choosing. I’m… I’m steering my ship, John. Because I love you, and I hate… I hate that it’s hurt you, all this time.”

John’s arm rose and wrapped around Arthur’s chest, clutching, fisting Arthur’s shirt tightly, and said nothing.

For right now, it was enough to be , to walk together in the gardens, to step out of the thick and glutinous wake of this one-sided forgiveness, and breathe the air of a possible future.

And John would guard that future. Arthur had chosen to live , and that mattered more than anything else in the world.

--------

Notes:

The curse Larson mentions is real? Because history is amazing? Link one Link two

[carewyncromwell]

I don't know if you want to talk about this (and feel free to ignore this if you don't want to answer), but I wanted to ask which side of the Ethren mess you're on? I know in the beginning you were on his side, but I've seen so much hate and so many accusations and I don't know what to believe anymore, and I trust your judgement

I have to be honest -- when I first saw that a blog had been created with the specific purpose of “calling out” someone in the HPHM fandom...I blocked it.

I come to this fandom largely to escape from the real world. It’s been one of the few remaining sanctuaries I’ve had during this quarantine and from my own mental health problems. I’ve made a lot of friends in this community, and I feel very strongly about putting out more positive content than negative, as well as trying to digest more positive than negative. I don’t like the thought of a stranger posting stuff online about someone else who -- let’s be honest -- nobody truly knows unless they actually physically know them IRL. Unless one wants to go down an entire rabbit hole of getting to know a person uncomfortably well, there’s not much anyone can do to prove what’s true. And I know it sounds really immature and selfish of me, but...I was never that interested in learning much about this fandom’s members’ personal lives, excluding what the friends I’ve made have been willing to confide in me on a case by case basis. I have plenty of my own drama happening over here on my side, and I just want to have fun roleplaying with people’s characters and making content for both mine and theirs. It’s been one of the few things that helped me fight back my untreated and severe chronic depression after being furloughed from my job thanks to the COVID-19 shutdown. My job had been my escape, and without it, I was drowning -- one of my only life preservers was making content for this blog. So for my own mental health, I shut out the negativity, because I wasn’t emotionally or mentally able to deal with it. And admittedly, it felt to me as though this sort of thing really shouldn’t be handled online when -- again -- this sort of thing seems like it’d be better handled in the real world and the legal system, rather than in the court of mostly anonymous public opinion. And it also feels kind of nasty to reblog content from people online who simply liked the character Ethren Whitecross and made fan content for him, just to harangue them for it. It’s like attacking all Harry Potter fans for being transphobic just because they enjoyed something created by a trans-exclusionary radical feminist -- particularly when in the case of Ethren, the vast majority of us don’t know Ren personally. One could’ve related to Ethren’s story without knowing anything about his creator, and people did, often not because of any kind of malevolent reasons.

After receiving this message, though, I unblocked the blog in question and read some more of their posts. When I’d first blocked it, the only post of theirs I saw in the HPHM tag came across as rather hostile, and combined with Ren’s blog saying that an ex was stalking him, I don’t think it’s unsurprising that some people were initially warded off by it. But reading some of the other stuff written on that blog since...I must acknowledge there’s a lot of troubling stuff there. It made me very upset, and made me kind of regret that I’d initially jumped into making a stance without hearing both sides. But at the same time, considering that someone from outside the fandom had arrived specifically to target someone in the fandom, supposedly on behalf of someone else who also had no ties to the fandom, it looked a lot like cyberbullying to me at the time. Now it’s very clear there’s more to the story, and for that initial leap to judgment, I am sorry. I wasn’t in a place where I understood fully what the discussion was about before I took a side, and that’s something I should know better than to do.

But I think this comes down to, in the end, my answer to your question, regarding sides.

I don’t want to take a side -- because I didn’t come to the HPHM fandom to fight people. I came here to be happy.

I know someone could read this as cowardly and ignorant, but please, understand that I thought long and hard about this. This place has been a safe space for me, and I understand it has been for others as well -- a place where we can go to enjoy art and fanfiction for something we enjoy and roleplay as new, interesting characters with other people who have similar interests and creative leanings. I thoroughly understand that it can’t truly be a safe space if we allow people who would threaten other people’s safety into it, and I also thoroughly understand that people can include problematic aspects of themselves into their characters along with good things (just look at how J.K.’s apparent subliminal views on the LGBT+ community influenced how she’s handled Dumbledore). Both things are definitely things to be aware of, and it’ll be an ongoing struggle to try to propagate a truly welcoming and positive, and yet safe and supportive community. There will always be shadows and dark spots that aren’t easy to see, just like with all fandoms, and it’s good to now and again take the time to examine them.

But to quote a line from one of my favorite songs, “it’s hard to light a candle, easy to curse the dark instead.”  I cannot log onto my computer and into this fandom every day and think about openly attacking someone else, regardless of whether they deserve it or not. This feels like something that the victim should handle herself in the real world, and I truly hope that she finds peace in whatever path she takes. But that is her story to tell, to write, and to play out -- it’s not mine. Mine is a story I have written and am still writing, where I’ve tried to find a way to be happy and be a good person despite everything in my life that has made that so difficult. And so I truly feel the only way I can approach this situation is to not let the things that hurt and drain me have power over my life, and put my energy toward things that build me up instead. I try not to visit tags or places online that could be triggering, and simply enjoy the things I do like. I’ve stopped spending money on things Harry Potter-related because of Jo’s stance on transgender rights, but still engage in the HP fandom and celebrate what is good in the original material and especially what its fandom has made out of it. In this case, I will simply do the same, particularly since from the look of things, Ren’s blog is no longer around for anyone to interact with anyway, positively or not. I’ll engage with blogs whose work I can still enjoy and give me some light when I most need it, and try my best to keep creating more light of my own for others. I will light candles, and little by little, I’d like to think the room will be bright enough that the dark will be significantly smaller and less scary than it was.

I understand if any of you disagree with or are angry about anything I’ve said. I know “playing both sides” is not a great thing to do, and I truly don’t mean to. But I’m afraid I do have to take my own side here, for my own mental and emotional well-being. I responded to this Ask because I felt like saying nothing would’ve truly been the cowardly thing to do, by pretending the issue isn’t there at all. I’m not pretending it isn’t there -- but I do think it’s a battle I’m ill-equipped to engage in, not because of my personal morals, but because I don’t feel emotionally able to play the role of judge, jury, and executioner in this court of public opinion.

[chrysalispen]

xxxii. and larger shone that smile against the sun. (FINALE II)

there’s an epilogue coming, but otherwise this is it, friends! the final countdown chapter!

thank you all so much for sticking this 15 months out with me, it really does mean a lot. i’ll be spending the month working on some one-shot projects, outlining the next longfic in this set, and making some drafts, but otherwise i’m taking it easy. (no nano for me, i’m wiped)

anyway, this chapter is just under 13K words and it’s still not where i’d like it, but at some point it’s either release things or sit in editing purgatory for another month. so here you are. brief CW: in one scene a child is injured so i advise you take precautions if you find that upsetting.

AO3 Link HERE

===============================================

Once again someone was knocking on the Millers’ privy door.

Vahne’s fingers tightened about the larger hand that she held, but the returned squeeze from the woman in the bed didn’t bring her much in the way of comfort. Her sense of unease increased with each sound Goody Miller made, pained or not. It was so hard to sit still and wait. She kept hearing the sounds of her aunt’s screams in her ears.

And those sounds outside. Screaming. Running footsteps--

Her stomach twisted with alarm and guilt in equal measure. The sour and unpleasant taste rising in the back of her mouth was so sharp and overwhelming that for a moment she feared she might retch across the coverlet. They only came here because I did, she thought. The whole village is in danger because of me.

The lady of the house, her brow glowing with sweat, pushed herself upright and reached for her bedrobe. “By the Twelve,” she groaned, “what is happening out there? What’s all the bleeding racket-”

“I’ll go see who it is,” Vahne said quickly, standing up and reaching for the water pitcher. “Maybe they have news.”

“Chance’d be a fine thing.” Flushed and sweaty, discomfort carving lines of pain into her face, the weaver nonetheless gave her a kind smile and patted her hand. “Thank you, dear. You’re a good girl.”

The front room of the Millers’ cabin felt ominously quiet, made more so for the chaos that reigned without its walls. The wood stove made a low and steady ticking as it cooled just like her aunt’s, its final batch of pies delivered to the feasting tables a good half-bell past. She slipped past the tables of drying grass and the still-warm hearthstones towards the side entrance that opened between the stables and the privy.

What if it’s those soldiers? Her thoughts spun on an unstable axis. What if they’re just waiting for someone to let them in?

An old floorboard, loose and warped with age, creaked beneath her weight. Vahne froze in place, a tiny gasp escaping her lips, her tail lashing violently and her ears flattened against her head.

“Missus Miller? Is that you, ma’am?”

It was a boy’s voice, she realized, exhaling. There hadn’t been any boys with those soldiers. She crept closer to the wall that braced the privy entrance.

“Hello?” Another rap. “Anyone there?”

“She’s abed,” Vahne said as loud as she dared. “Who are you?”

“I’m Enguerrand Aubaints. Who are you?”

“I’m Miss Aurelia’s assistant,” she retorted, the lift of her chin defiant (although she knew the newcomer could not see it). “State your business.”

“Oh, for... listen, I’ve been trying to open the privy door to get in but it’s locked and I have children with me. Now will you please let us in?”

She half-fancied that it had all been a ruse and the moment she threw the bolt, the door would fly open as it had at her aunt’s cabin, and hard-faced soldiers would swarm the entrance like termites- but the voice on the other side of the door was only a boy after all: an Elezen somewhat close to her own age. Two young Hyuran boys hugged his legs, and Vahne recognized them as the children who had stared so curiously at her the first time she had come to Willowsbend.

Took you long enough,” the boy - Enguerrand - grumbled. One sweaty lock of brown hair tumbled into his eyes as he shut the door at their backs (and reset the latch, much to Vahne’s unspoken relief). “Is Mistress Laskaris here?”

“Miss Aurelia and the Sergeant both went outside right after all that noise started. What’s happening out there?”

“Garleans,” Enguerrand shook his head, a solemn cast to his dark eyes. “They came in the middle of the feast. I didn’t catch all of it but it sounds like they’re looking for someone.”

“Goody Miller needs a healer. I hope Miss Aurelia comes back soon.”

“From the sound of things I don’t think she’ll be back for some time,” he said. “You should fetch the Hearer. Or Master Trevantioux.”

“I would," Vahne retorted, "if I knew what either of them looked like. Why don’t you go?”

“Because someone’s got to watch these two, and besides, babies are girls’ wo-… um. I mean.” He faltered at the sight of her icy glare, and she could see clearly the wheels turning behind his eyes as he struggled to walk back his words. “...That is, I mean… I’m not… I’m not a conjurer b-but they could help, easy.”

She glanced first at the curtained window, then down the short hallway and the closed door at its end before she released a resigned sigh. “What do they look like?"

"Huh?"

"What do they look like," she repeated, her voice loud and slow. "Your conjurers."

"Oh. Um... the Hearer is old and Master Trevantioux isn't. They're both in long robes and big gray pointed hats. And they have walking sticks."

Vahne was no less worried or frightened than she had been before, but now she had come to a decision, and she felt all the better for sensing it to be the right one. She sat down on a nearby stool and began to wriggle her sore feet back into her weathered pattens.

“If Goody Miller asks after me, tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can. And make sure to lock the door behind me.”

“You're going out there now?”

“Well, when am I supposed to go?” she huffed, exasperated. “Do you think they’re going to put down their weapons and say ‘oh pardon us, we didn’t know your friend’s mum was having a baby, we’ll come back and burn down your village at a better time’?”

“What? I’m not saying don’t go, I’m just saying that it’s not-”

She reached for the latch, threw the bolt, and stepped across the threshold with a decisive crack of her soles against the floor.

“-safe,” Enguerrand finished, somewhat lamely.

“I’ve seen worse. Just keep an eye on them,” she ordered with a toss of her hair. “I’ll be back to help with the ‘girls’ work’ soon enough.”

She didn’t miss the rosy cast to the Elezen boy’s cheeks as the door shut behind her.

~*~

The fletching of yet another nocked arrow zipped through Keveh’to’s knuckles as it plunged into the fray below.

Although individually most of these soldiers were no more or less a threat than any other on the star, the danger of the imperial army lay in its discipline. Its personnel were extraordinarily well-drilled. The attackers had quickly regrouped in the confusion as the riot began in earnest, and in their efforts to suppress the furious villagers they had drifted towards the ceremonial dais in a singular large formation. It put the Keeper in mind of a malevolent cloud of summer wasps that had emerged from their jostled nest.

And it was working. The villagers were brave and morale was good, but farm tools and fists were no match for gunblades or even sword and shield forged in mass-production, and they were losing momentum quickly.

“We can’t keep this up, Lieutenant,” he shouted at the Wood Wailer a few fulms to his left. “Another half-bell and we’re done. We need reinforcements.”

“We’ve not the manpower to spare. Otherwise, I’d send for help from Quarrymill. Or even the Druthers.” Mariustel Aubaints raised his voice, shouting in the direction of two volunteers who had holed themselves up in a break in the wall: “Stay on them! Throw whatever you have!”

Keveh’to gathered his aether for a quick shot, and another spray of missiles peppered the enemy. Three of them stumbled back in haste and one folded in half like a puppet with cut strings- but it wasn’t enough to rout them. The ranks held firm and there was a cry from below as two more men from the village fell back.

It was only a matter of time, but if they could just hold out until-

“Sergeant!”

The young voice took his focus from the dais. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hugh Miller waving him down. “What is it, lad?”

“Cecilie’s out of spells!” Hugh shouted. “We have more back at our barracks, but I don’t know if we can get to them from here!”

The boy’s excited grin had long since faded, replaced with the over-bright shine of genuine fear. Keveh’to suspected that the novelty of taking part in a real skirmish with imperials - an actual fight with real and very deadly stakes, and not a product of a childish imagination - had worn off once Hugh had realized that he couldn’t simply call the game off when things started going badly for him.

“They’re about to fire at us again,” he shouted back. “Stay put with the others and for the Twelve’s sake, keep your heads do-”

The crack of a gunblade shot rang through the air.

Keveh’to could only watch with horrified eyes as Cecilie Aubaints stumbled backward with a cry of pain and collapsed to the ground. The slingshot in the girl’s hand went flying across the wooden planks, skittering somewhere out of sight in the darkness. She curled in on herself like a hurt animal, and the strangled sound she made was like a punch to the gut - along with Hugh’s cry of her name.

At his side, he watched all of the color drain from the Wood Wailer’s face. The Elezen made to stand but Keveh’to caught the man’s arm and forced him to remain in place.

“Let me go, Epocan.” Mariustel’s snarl was muffled beneath the confines of his mask, his hand shaking with rage as it tightened about its grip upon his longbow. “I’ll have the heart of every last one of them. Miserable whoresons-”

“You need to stay here with the others.” Keveh’to slung his bow over one shoulder. “The longer we keep the enemy occupied, the longer we can hold this position.”

“I should be the one to go.”

“No. You’re the leader. If that lot down there manages to get themselves out of that kettle, that’s all of us done for.”

“That’s my daughter they shot, damn it all! I can’t just sit here-”

“Aye, and if you get yourself killed and they overrun us, what do you think will become of her? The Garlean Empire isn’t known for its mercy.”

He wanted to argue, Keveh’to thought, and who could blame him? If it were his daughter who’d been injured, he knew he would have been no less insistent. But he also knew he was right, and he knew Mariustel knew it too.

The man gave a heavy sigh. “If I need to run for a healer-”

“Never you mind that. I’ll do the running.”

The short stretch he had to traverse to reach Hugh and his friends was treacherous. The Garleans couldn’t move but they were still able to concentrate their long-range efforts upon that section of the wall. Another gunblade shot narrowly missed Keveh’to’s face; its trajectory was so close that the current in its wake snagged at the collar of his overcoat like briar thorns. A third chipped at stone and mortar, ricocheting wide with a high-pitched whine.

Cursing under his breath, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the distance to the children. Hugh was in frantic tears, half-crouched over his friend’s body to protect her from any more incoming projectiles, and Keveh’to could hear dry whimpers echoing from the small form. The curtain of her hair spilled across the ground like discarded ribbons.

“The Garleans shot her,” the boy sobbed. “They shot her!”

“I see that, lad. Move aside.”

He was frozen in place with fear; Keveh’to had to shove him out of the way in order to take a closer look at her hurts. Cecilie was clutching at the meat of her left thigh. He found himself staring into eyes that were wide and terrified.

“Sergeant,” she gasped. He tucked a stray bit of her fringe behind one pointed ear. The small hands on her injured leg shook visibly.

“Cecilie, what happened?”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. I’m sorry.” Her voice held steady. All told, she was doing a sight better than her Hyur friend at maintaining her composure. “I only stood up for a moment-”

“All right. Lie still, lass.” Crimson spilled through her fingers and stained her leggings; it was quickly soaking through the fabric to patter onto the wood and seep into the grain. She looked clear-eyed enough, but even he could see she was losing an alarming amount of blood.

“I just wanted to check if we had any spells left. Just for a moment. I didn’t think-” Cecilie stammered, her chin wobbling, “I thought it would be all right but it wasn’t-”

Anger and self-recrimination left a dull ache in the depths of his chest. Hugh and Cecilie and the others were bright and brave, but for all their courage and wit, they were still children and had no place in a fight like this. He should have sent them straight home when he had the chance instead of encouraging them, he thought.

It was his fault the girl was hurt. But he kept his peace; it was far too late for regrets now.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, crying openly now. “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault-”

Keveh’to shunted his guilt aside to offer her a smile he hoped was reassuring. “It’s all right, Cecilie,” he said gently. “We’ll take care of this. You’re going to be just fine.”

“It hurts so much--”

“Aye, lass. I know.” He reached into his belt for a length of leather cord, casting about their immediate surrounds for something he could use as a fulcrum. “I’m going to do something that won’t feel very good, but it’ll slow the bleeding. It’s only until we can find the Hearer or Master Trevantioux and get them to make you good as new.”

She nodded blindly. “Or Miss Aurelia?”

“Or Miss Aurelia,” he agreed.

He reached for a nearby piece of debris and began to wrap the cord around Cecilie’s leg. One stray glance below, peeking between the newly made cracks in the mortar, showed a half dozen more soldiers in the main street shouting to the group near the dais and gesturing to the walls.

“All of you, listen up,” he said briskly. “Once I finish up here, we’re all going to have to move down the wall and find shelter on the ground. I’m going to need your help.”

Hugh struggled to his knees, pulling Amicia and Larkin up alongside as he went. The two younger children stared at him with eyes the size of dinner plates but by the expression the Miller boy wore, he seemed to have regained a certain degree of calm- or he had passed into a state of shock sufficiently profound that there was little difference to be had between the two.

“What do we need to do?” was all he said.

Keveh’to knotted the leather cord and began to twist it around the piece of elm plank he had found, watching the blood begin to slow in its course down her thigh and onto the walkway. Cecilie whimpered in discomfort and her fingers bunched in handfuls of his greatcoat, but otherwise, she let him work without complaint.

“We need to find a quick way down. A ladder, rope, anything. What I’m doing here is just a temporary measure. We have to get Cecilie to the conjurers as soon as we can manage it.”

The boy nodded, his face pale but still almost eerily composed. As he opened his mouth to reply, the sounds of shouting arose from the main gates.

~*~

Vahne had expected to see disarray of some sort once she moved beyond the relative safety of the Millers’ house, but what she saw was pandemonium. The villagers were crowding a group of soldiers, shouting angrily, the feast tables were overturned, and the food and festive decorations were mostly trampled into the dirt. Some few still crouched behind whatever shelter they could find, but most who had not chosen to fight the invaders appeared to be hiding in their homes.

Right. I have to find one of the conjurers. She cast her eyes to and fro, looking for the figures Enguerrand had described (Miss Aurelia was nowhere to be seen, as much as Vahne would have preferred to find her).

Her eyes scanned the small cabins and their darkened windows and she thought of her aunt’s house, of the expensive glass windows and the wraparound porch. It was a mistake; she felt the worry she’d managed to suppress begin to claw its way up her spine all over again.

Not now, she told herself. Not now. Concentrate on this problem first.  

The sound of a door slamming open from a nearby cabin interrupted her train of thought.

Vahne hastily took cover behind the closest large object she could find: a large barrel that had been overturned in the villagers’ flight. She was not a moment too soon, for only a few yalms away she saw a tall, pretty young Elezen woman in a soft blue dress fall into the dirt with a cry. At her heels was a big man in that scarlet-trimmed black. He dragged forward an old Elezen - scruffed like a kitten by the collar of his kurta in one hand - and carelessly tossed him across the threshold to tumble down the steps and into the road. In his other hand, their captor bore a long blade with a strange-looking hilt.

“Father!” the woman cried.

Seemingly heedless of her predicament, she crawled through the mud to reach the old man. Blood glistened upon his temple and cheek, dark enough that it appeared black in the dim light. She grasped his shoulders and pulled him away from the soldier, her smooth brow knitted in a defiant glare.

The soldier lifted the sword in his hand until it was pointed at Noline’s father.

“Those who aid and abet fugitive criminals are accessories to their crimes,” he purred. “Without exception. There is but one punishment for treason by imperial law.”

Noline raised her chin to look him in the eye.

The flower wreath she wore on her head was in a pitiful state, half-wilted, its petals torn and its leaves shredded and the hair it sat upon a wild and filthy cloud matted with dirt and debris. Even in such a disheveled state, she looked like a proud young queen as she faced down the invader without flinching.

“If you know what’s good for you,” she said with a toss of her long hair over one shoulder, “you’ll take your friends and be gone from this place.”

The soldier’s laugh was harsh and brittle, cutting through the background noise like the steel in his hand.

”Make as many idle threats as you wish, savage,” he sneered. “You chose the wrong allies.”

“And you’ve trifled with the wrong village,” Noline shot back. The grin that split her bloodied lips was one of barely controlled rage, a triumphant and half-wild rictus. “You’ll be sorry soon enough that you dared lay a hand to me or my father or any of the others. I swear it.”

From her hiding place, Vahne stared at Noline and her ailing father and the Garlean soldier with his blade pointed at them both, hardly daring to breathe.

A massive burst of earth aether cracked the space between them. The soldier staggered back with a startled curse and his weapon spun out of his hand to fly into the darkness and parts unknown. Pressing the advantage, a tall thin figure lunged toward the soldier as if the forest had sensed danger and somehow summoned a rescue.

She caught a glimpse of pointed ears and angular cheekbones and that was all: the Elezen barely paused to take a breath as he sprinted past, flower crown flying from his head and one hand still outstretched from the spell he had cast. Brandishing a heavy-ended staff, the Elezen man gave it a mighty swing, bellowing like a Limsan marauder. The blow struck true, with enough force behind it to dent the man’s pot helm.

The soldier collapsed into the mud with a strangled groan and lay still.

“Trevantioux,” Noline said weakly.

The man dropped to his knees and threw his arms around her shoulders. “Noline,” he wheezed. “Thank the Twelve. I thought he was going to shoot.”

With a trembling laugh, she replied, “So did I.”

“You’re bleeding, are you-”

“ ‘Tis only a split lip. I’m fine. Better than Father, he’s hit his head.”

“I’m fine,” the old man grouched. “He didn’t do half the damage he thought he did.”

Shaking with reaction herself, Vahne stood on wobbling legs from her hiding place to make her approach. Noline’s father caught sight of her and nudged the younger man with one elbow, a jabbing gesture of his index finger, and a slightly louder-than-necessary clearing of his throat. Frowning, the conjurer followed the pointing finger to see the Miqo’te girl fidgeting in the middle of the muddy road.

Vahne bit her lip.

“Are you Conjurer Trevantioux?”

“Yes, that’s me.” The man squinted at her. “...Do I know you?”

She shifted from foot to foot and forced herself not to stare at the ground.

“Well, no. My name’s Vahne Wolndara. I’m- I’m a friend of the Millers’.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close enough. “Miss Aurelia left to look for my aunt and told me to wait for her until she came back, but Goody Miller is having pains and they’re getting worse and I don’t-”

A great shout swelled at their backs.

“What in the hells,” the old man began, but trailed off mid-sentence as they watched the undefended gate swing open. Half a dozen archers in dark green leathers, their faces concealed by red cloth, spilled into the street with bows at the ready.

“Wasps!” a man’s voice roared out of the din, “Attack! No quarter to the imperials!”

Vahne, Trevantioux, and the old man stared at each other in collective confusion as the bandits rushed the dais, but Noline--

Noline was smiling. The hem of her skirt fluttered in the evening breeze, whipping around her legs, and her slim hands braced upon her hips as her narrowed eyes left father and fiance entirely in favor of the archers and their prey. Unlike her companions, the Elezen woman didn’t appear a whit surprised by the presence of the masked men.  

Trevantioux stared at the woman he was to marry as if he had never seen her before.

“...You knew,” he said slowly. “How did you know?”

It wasn’t a question. But if he had expected denials or self-defense, he would be disappointed. She turned back to look at him, chin tilted in a birdlike way, and patted his cheek with a fond smile as if he were a child. A smile that never reached those hard eyes.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Oh, darling,” she said, voice as placid and serene as a pond in summer, “don't ask so many questions. It's tedious. All you need to know is that everything is going to be fine. Now run along and go tend to Goody Miller.”

Exasperated by the delay, too young still to understand what had passed between the two adults, Vahne grabbed his wrist and pulled.

“Come on,” she said impatiently. “You can talk to her about it later. We need your help now.”

Trevantioux let himself be dragged along the thoroughfare towards the Millers’ yard and their privy entrance, but he looked over his shoulder as they went. His eyes lingered upon Noline’s slim, proud form until it was no longer visible.

==

“Who in the seven hells invited them,” Mariustel Aubaints growled.

Keveh’to wasn’t normally one to criticize a sudden influx of good fortune in such a dire situation, but the timing of it was serendipitous enough to make one wonder.

“I don’t know, but you can be sure I’ll find out once I’ve got Cecilie to the conjurers.”

“If you come across aught of significance, let me know.” The Wailer sighed and dragged one hand down his cheek. “I’d best gather the others. The Wasps will only shoot at the Garleans until there’s none left to shoot, and after that-” After that, Mariustel didn’t say, who knows?

“Papa,” Cecilie whimpered. “Papa, I’m scared.”

Distracted from the bandits and their suspiciously timely arrival by his daughter’s distress- at least for the moment, Mariustel smoothed back some of the sweat-damp hair stuck to her brow.

“I know, love,” he said, “but Sergeant Epocan’s going to take you to the healers and they’ll see to your hurts. Be brave for me, all right?”

She nodded slowly, as if the act required a heroic effort, and slumped back down in Keveh’to’s arms once her father was out of sight. Her face was pale and cold sweat beaded her brow - whether from pain or shock, he wasn’t skilled enough in field medicine to tell. Aurelia would know, of course, but gods knew where she was right now.

At his back, Hugh piped up, “Sergeant, I have an idea!”

Keveh’to turned around to regard the boy. He had apparently taken a second wind, and by the conspiratorial looks on his friends’ faces, the trio had been mired in some sort of discussion.

“And what idea is that?”

“You can use the stairs to get Cecilie down,” he said, and Larkin and Amicia nodded in affirmation alongside. “It’ll be much faster than the ladder.”

“Easier said than done, lad. They’re not done building them yet.”

“No, not those stairs. The ones that lead down to that little side door-- the one that comes in the watchtower from the forest. Da and the others were using it to haul up rocks when they were fixing the wall--”

“Wait. Do you mean that scaffold?”

“Yes! That!”

“Hugh, it’s dangerous.”

“Usually there’s guards but they’re probably gone now. We can unlock the door from our side and let you and Cecilie in,” Hugh continued as if Keveh’to hadn’t spoken. “Why didn’t I think of it sooner? Lark, Amy, come on!”

“Wait-”

His warning had gone entirely unheeded; the trio was already halfway down the ladder. Keveh’to sighed.

The watchtower was as empty as he had expected. He nudged the back door open with one foot to the rickety wooden cage that sat along the wall and quickly saw the reason why the watch hadn’t bothered to remove the stair: it was clearly fallen into disuse. Large holes were visible where the planking had rotted out from the bad weather earlier in the year. It should have been removed and dismantled months ago as much for the hazard it posed as the security risk, Keveh’to thought.

Here’s hoping this godsdamned thing doesn’t collapse under us.

Fortune was with them both, however; the steps, while noisy and dangerously flexible under his feet, held their weight long enough for him to descend the wall without incident. He jumped over the last two steps, which were rotted and splintered, and landed on his feet in a soft crunch of leaves to begin his slow walk of the perimeter.

For all his careful investigation Keveh’to nearly missed the door, set as it was into a less visible section of the wall. He kicked at it with one foot - and was met with the sound of a loud crash, a pained groan, then silence.

“Hugh?” he called. “Hugh, is aught-”

The grunt he heard from the other side of the door was not the sound a boy of twelve summers would make, but he heard the series of clicks as the door unlocked. It swung open on rusted hinges to reveal Hugh and Larkin and Amicia, huddled behind a hunched figure in conjurer’s greys. At the old man’s feet lay two unconscious Garleans.

“Not much of a plan, Sergeant,” Hearer Ewain observed, tucking the staff back into the strap on his shoulder. “You’re fortunate they didn’t have troops waiting outside.”

Keveh’to was far too relieved at the sight of the man to be irritated at his criticism. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“Happenstance,” he grunted, shoving one of the limp figures away from the door with one kick of his pattened foot.

“Happenstance?”

“I’d no intention of cowering behind a barricade, so I went in search of wounded. Their commander had sent part of his squad to start dragging people out of their homes door to door. I heard the children shouting, saw two over here, and-- Twelve preserve, is that Lieutenant Aubaints’ girl?”

“Yes. I did what I could to stop the bleeding, but-”

Ewain clucked his tongue and held out his arms. The Miqo’te handed her over and fought back the sigh of relief he felt, even as the old conjurer stared into the pale, sweat-slick face of his injured patient. “Stupid girl,” he chided, although his tone was gentle. “You and your friends should have gone home.”

Hugh gave the old man the fiercest scowl in his arsenal. “Cecilie isn’t stupid!”

“We’ll agree to disagree.”

“She’s brave and strong. Anyway, aren’t Wood Wailers supposed to defend the Twelveswood from Garleans?”

“She isn’t a Wailer, boy,” was the Hearer’s blunt retort, “and neither are you.”

The scowl wobbled for a moment.

“Will Cecilie… I mean, she isn’t going to...”

“Your friend will recover and be none the worse for her foolishness, or yours for that matter,” Ewain said. “Sergeant Epocan acted quickly enough, though I’ll need to remove this contraption as soon as I can manage it. Now. Your cousins are going to come back to my cottage with me and help out with some of the others who’ve been hurt, and you’re going to go on home and mind your mother, Hugh Miller.”

“But-”

"No buts, boy. I’m not in the mood to explain to any of your parents why they’ll need me to say rites over your coffins.”

“How are you going to get back with the fighting like this?”

“I’ve lived in this village longer than any of you have been alive. Do you think I don’t have more than one route back to my house?” Ewain harrumphed at them, but his stooped back had lost some of its slouch as he squinted at his newfound charges. “Come along, all of you.”

Keveh’to was silently grateful that the bossy old man had chosen to take the welfare of the children upon himself. All told, they were at least as safe with the old Hearer - who was, after all, a powerful conjurer - than they would be with him.

He turned to make his way back to Mariustel and the watch and paused mid-step.

A tall Duskwight man in Wasps’ leathers stood before him, blocking his path back into the village. The lower half of his face was hidden from sight, but the eyes that peeked over the hem of the scarf were as hard and unyielding as diamonds.

“Is it true?” the man asked.

“Is what true?”

“The rumors about that lady conjurer who’s been working in the village,” came the man’s cool response. “Some of the villagers are saying she’s a Garlean herself.”

Keveh’to scoffed.

“Don’t know who told you that, mate,” he said with as dismissive an air as he could muster. “But you should know better than to heed idle villagers’ gossip. The lady came with me from Gridania by order of the Conjurers’ Guild, if that answers your question.”

Something ugly and hostile moved behind those eyes for the briefest of moments before they were blank and placid once again.

“Two of my men saw their commander fleeing into the forest with some of his men. If he’s got a brain in his head, he’ll bring back enough friends to kill any who resist.”

“And if he doesn’t? If they stick it out until they get what they came for? Garleans are a treacherous lot. I’d wager their leader still has a nasty trick or two up his sleeve somewhere.”

“Having run afoul of the XIVth before? I’d wager you’re right.”

Beneath the scarf, the man’s lips shifted upwards. He was smiling, but there was something about it that Keveh’to didn’t like.

“Mind, the Wasps would be plenty willing to keep our eyes open on your behalf. A more permanent arrangement, like,” he continued. “If the town’s willing to pay for the privilege, of course - we don’t come cheap, and tangling with the Empire is risky. But this is a nice peaceful place. Be a real shame if they torched and salted it.”

“It’s not my place to make a decision on behalf of the village,” he said. “Mistress Laskaris and I represent the interests of the Grand Company and the Conjurers’ Guild, not the settlement’s nor the Wood Wailers’. I’ll do what needs must to protect my own, but I’m not interested in being your errand boy.”

“If that’s how it is, then that’s how it is. But it’s a formal offer from the Redbelly Wasps. One I’d give a bit of thought, were I you and yours.”

Though he kept his tone as cool and level as he could manage Keveh’to felt the fur on his tail bristle from base to tip.

“Is that a threat?”

"Just a friendly suggestion, Sergeant.”

“It didn’t sound very friendly.”

The Duskwight offered a laconic shrug. “The Black Wolf knows a chink in his enemy’s armor when he sees it,” he said. “And so do we.”

With that he brushed past, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he ran to join the fray, leaving Keveh’to alone to mull over his words.

Bandit or not, the man was right. But even if the Empire left them to their own devices, he also knew the opportunistic Wasps would be happy to move in on the settlement. Gifts like the boon they had provided tonight did not come without a price, he knew, and the village might be saved from imperial invasion, but it might also find itself saddled with a debt it could ill afford to accrue.

Worry nestled itself deep into the dark corners of his mind like worms tunneling through soft earth. And as he turned towards the opaque black border of the Shroud buttressing the far side of the creek like a fortress wall, just before the cries of alarm reached his ears, Keveh’to Epocan realized that he smelled smoke.

~*~

The first time Aurelia jen Laskaris had ever seen the Twelveswood, it had been through a tempered glass window.

The assortment of chirurgeons and engineers had been nestled in the belly of an Aurora-class transport vessel as it tracked its way towards the landing pad at Castrum Novum at day’s end. The sun was still visible only by the barest sliver of light and sinking fast behind the foothills of the western mountains, and all she could see was a vast and ominous sea of trees completely covering the ground for malms in any direction.

One of the decurions had offered a grim smile at the sight that lay below them through the portico. That there’s the Black Shroud, he had said. You’ll not be wanting to get any closer than this and if you’re lucky you never will. Got a right nasty reputation, that place.

Even the most obstinate antitheist knew better than to venture beneath the Shroud’s boughs (without well-armed company, in any case). Nearly every infantryman in the VIIth Legion had some sort of story to tell about former comrades who entered the forest on some mission or other only to be sent back to Garlemald in a coffin if they came back at all, from Frumentarium’s forward scouting squadrons to the conscripted legionnaires running castrum perimeter patrols. Worse things than angry Eorzeans lurked in its darkest depths, and it very much did not want the Empire’s presence anywhere near it.

Tonight, armed only with her aether and her wits, that healthy caution felt well-earned indeed. The settlement walls were ablaze with torchlight but they illuminated nothing past the embankment leading to the creek bed, and there was no moon by which to mark her path. It would be easy to trip over an exposed root or turn her ankle in a warren run, and so Aurelia moved as quickly as she dared. It worried her that Sewell was nowhere to be found, but she couldn’t let herself be distracted worrying about a former imperial army soldier who - even still recovering from his wounds - would be able to fend for himself at least for a time.

Should she find him she’d bid him run for the Druthers and fetch help if she could. Right now, Rhaya Wolndara was her first priority.

She stood with a soft grunt, bracing one hand against a nearby oak tree, and tried to get her bearings.

Now. If I were their commanding officer, where would I be holding her?

This cohort had ventured beyond the safety of its castrum for one purpose and one purpose only and that was capturing deserters by fair means or foul. That man - rem Canina - would not have been so foolish as to leave her behind to call for help but neither would he have brought her into the village if he planned to use her as a bargaining tool. It would have to be somewhere nearby, she thought. Close enough that Rhaya could be fetched at a moment’s notice to serve her purpose, but not so close that she could be easily rescued without attracting--

“Keep your filthy hands where I can see them.”

Sewell Blackthorne stood mere yalms away, brandishing a gladius in one hand; he must have pilfered it from the small armory in one of the wall watchtowers. He wore no armor and the ill-fitting linen undershirt he did wear stood in stark contrast to the darkness of the trees. Coupled with the wild sheen in his dark eyes, he looked like a malevolent forest spirit.

“I thought I might find their godsdamned leader out here,” he said. “Aye, in the forest, watching and waiting and biding your time while poor ‘savages’ like me do the dirty work for you.”

Cautiously Aurelia ventured closer to the three and now she could see two figures in cermet-plated armor kneeling before him, heads bowed and gauntleted hands raised in surrender. Neither of them wore their helms and disarmed and unmasked they seemed far less intimidating than they might be otherwise.

The Black Wolf’s hounds, she thought, brought to ground by their own quarry.

“Blackthorne-”

“They’ll have no choice but to withdraw. Isn’t that right?” His bared teeth flashed white in the darkness like levin arcs across a cloudbank, bright and brief. “You lot are naught but jackals: if I kill the leader, it scatters the pack.”

“Killing me will gain you nothing,” a man’s voice rasped, the heavy accent of the capitol one she recognised, and she put two and two together. It was Argas rem Canina, the Garlean officer whom she had injured at the Wolndara homestead. “Put down your weapon, Blackthorne.”

Sewell’s response was less a laugh than a bark. “I no longer have to take orders from your like.”

“If you would but let me speak-”

“I told you not to move. How many others are there?”

“It’s just us.”

“Like hells it is.”

A stray twig snapped beneath Aurelia’s foot and betrayed her position. She watched the muscles in his arms bunch and summoned a small sphere of wind aether to her fingertips- just enough light for Sewell to see her face and recognize it before he did anything he might regret.

“Master Blackthorne,” she said, in as low and soothing a voice as she could manage and still be heard. “Don’t.”

His expression remained unyielding and furious, but his lips pursed and she saw the tension flow out of his shoulders.

“I came out here to do this myself,” his eyes were as bleak as the night he had recounted his friend’s death to her, and she understood what was happening: the mere presence of the soldiers had put him back in the thick of his own tormented memory. "They’re your countrymen. I thought if-”

“I know what you thought,” Aurelia said. “You’re wrong.”

She took another step forward and he flinched. The small, controlled sphere ruffled her loose hair. Its erratic light flickered along the curve of her third eye, half-concealed as always beneath soft gold fringe. “I can only guess why he isn’t involved in the raid with the others. Injury alone wouldn’t preclude him from taking part unless he perhaps insisted on accompanying reinforcements.”

Sewell’s jaw twitched.

“Don’t tell me you believe him,” he said. “The Empire is all too happy to resort to deception whenever it suits them.”

“He’s telling the truth,” said a soft, fluted voice. It came from the Elezen woman kneeling at rem Canina’s side. Her angular features - thin mouth, high cheekbones, pointed ears - stood in stark relief under the glow of wind aether, and despite the clear disadvantage at which the pair of imperial defectors held her and her superior officer, she appeared quite calm. She was staring at Sewell with something like faint reproach rather than any sort of fear. “Now if you would, please sheathe your weapon. I am not armed and I have two patients under my care at the moment.”

Slowly, almost grudgingly, the Ala Mhigan lowered his sword.

Upon closer inspection, Aurelia realized that the pilus prior was clutching at one arm. There was a circular tear pockmarked into the carbonweave, and above and below she saw the neatly stripped winding of field bandages. Argas rem Canina’s expression was as composed as that of his medicus, though he looked pale and drawn.

Then the other must be...

A rattling groan and a stir of leaves drew her attention to the much smaller figure lying at the medicus’ other side. Aurelia caught a flash of auburn hair and the twitch of a set of familiar ears.

“Rhaya,” she gasped. There was crusted blood on the woman’s lips and chin, an ugly bruise along her cheekbone, and-  “What in the seven hells did you do to her?”

The medicus shook her head. “Lord Fabian--”

“Who?”

The hitch in the woman’s shoulders betrayed her hesitation. At her side, Argas rem Canina let out a weak, resigned sigh.

“Tell them, Salvitto,” he said. “It doesn’t make much difference if they plan to kill us.”

His note of command was unmistakable. The woman’s eyes shifted uneasily from the grim set of his mouth to Sewell Blackthorne’s unyielding and furious visage before she finally replied,

“The acting head of personnel retention. Lord Fabian rem Corbinus.”

Sewell’s derisive scoff made his opinion more than evident. “ ‘Personnel retention,’ “ he repeated. “You mean Frumentarium’s rat catchers. Deserter squads.”

“If you like.”

“Why are you hiding in the woods like a craven, anyroad? Shouldn’t you be down there with your men making sport of the village?”

“Phoebus pyr Cinna - my second, the man you likely encountered in that village - is their leader now.” The man struggled to sit up, pained breaths rasping from his lungs. “He was only supposed to act in my stead in the instance that I could not do so myself, but-”

The pain was upon her again, pain and a bright light to blind her vision---

*

The verdant fingers of the Black Shroud spread in all directions, deep and dark and alive with its own primeval sentience. He crashes blind through thick undergrowth with three subordinates at his heels. His mind roils with rage and a sense of urgency and something very akin to panic.

This was not his plan. Were it not for desperation he would never consider it, but extraordinary circumstance calls for extreme measures.

It's gone wrong. Somehow, it's gone wrong. He doesn't want to admit it to himself or to the cohort, and certainly not to Fabian rem Corbinus, patiently awaiting his success back in Castrum Oriens. Not after everything he promised. Not after he swore he would do what Argas rem Canina could not and bring them back flush with their victory.

Once again the mission stands in very real danger of failing. Not only has Sewell oen Blackthorne managed to somehow elude discovery once again, but his mysterious Garlean accomplice has prevailed once more, against all odds. The savages in this pathetic backwater should have been cowed beyond any hope of defiance, should have been too hostile and afraid of everything her true identity represented to do aught save leave her to her fate and let them take her captive.

Certainly, he had not expected her defiance to prove enough ammunition to spark a revolt.

But all hope isn't lost, he tells himself. Not yet. He saw the Garlean woman flee into the forest. Canina and the Miqo'te prisoner are still there where he left them, and he has no doubt that Blackthorne is skulking about somewhere nearby.

Phoebus pyr Cinna knows exactly what must be done.

"What are you doing?" he snaps at a nearby decurion. The man, an Ala Mhigan like their prey, is staring into the forest, his skin blanched pale. "Get over here before we're seen."

"My lord, I don't think this is a good idea. The forest- that is, it's not wise to-"

Seven hells below, must he do everything himself?  

He wraps his fist in a handful of the man's carbonweave doublet and hauls him forward, staring through the tempered glass of his helm's visor into terrified eyes. Satisfaction dulls the razor edge of his anger, if only for a moment.

"You aren't paid your coin to think," he snarls and shoves the hapless Hyur forward. "Take these others and gather as much kindling as you can."

Bewilderment knits the legionnaire's brow into a confused furrow, but after what happened in the village square he knows better than to question this man’s orders. He sketches out a hasty salute and scurries into the tree line with the others.

Phoebus reaches for one of the small ceruleum tanks on his belt and upends it over a stand of nearby underbrush, then picks up a fallen branch. There has been little rain as of late, and even the slightest spark will catch.

He remembers a dry autumn day from his own boyhood on his family's estate in Dalmasca, the cold beginning to creep back into the desert at night, his father ordering him to watch while the servants plugged meerkat burrows until there was only one run left open and setting each of the ceruleum-wrapped rags ablaze. Watching the colony burn alive, its survivors driven out to suffocate and die in the sand. Staring at his father's cold smile.

Phoebus snaps the small lighter open.

The sound of the flint wheel rasps in his ears as the small flame flickers to life. He only has to hold the tip of the branch against the lit wick for a moment before it catches and he can shut the lighter to tuck back into his belt. Light flickers from the fiery tip, curling it to black as the flame consumes more of the dry wood, limning steel in orange and red.

Fire will kill anything, Seleucus kir Cinna had said. Remember that, Phoebus. Fire will kill anything.

He remembers. Oh, he remembers. He is his father's boy, after all, and he has learned his lessons well.

He lowers the branch towards the fuel-soaked dry grass and deadfall without touching anything. Touch is not necessary, he knows; it is the fumes from ceruleum that ignite, not the substance itself.

Smoke billows into the night air as the leaves catch with a breathy thwump, and he laughs.

When she opened her eyes again the forest was once more shrouded in darkness and the unlovely chemical reek of ceruleum lingered still.

She grimaced, inhaled, and something acrid seared her throat and watered her eyes. The air surrounding them was no longer clear; a vague and ominous haze had settled over everything like a fine film. Twigs snapped and leaves rustling overhead as a flock of birds burst forth from their roosting place, wings buffeting the air and warning cries breaking the tranquil warmth of the summer evening.

So it was real, then.

Sewell Blackthorne had one arm wrapped about her waist to hold her upright - just as had happened in the camp infirmary all those months ago, Aurelia had all but collapsed when the light blinded her - and stared at her with blank and bewildered eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose and pushed him away with one hand. Her throat ached and her head throbbed, whether from the vision or the fire she wasn’t certain.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine. But we have to go.” Her voice sounded rough in her own ears. She glanced at the bewildered Sewell, then the Elezen woman, then at the grim-faced Garlean commandant. “Your underling is having his men set brushfires somewhere along the embankment. I think he’s trying to flush us out.”

A deep and curious frown knitted the man’s brow but before he could ask any questions Sewell exploded: “Is he mad? He’ll set the entire godsdamned forest on fire!”

“I doubt he cares. And the Shroud is large enough that without knowing exactly where he is, there’s no way of stopping him,” Aurelia said. “He’ll have this entire area ablaze before we have any idea where to even start looking.”

“Then what the hells are we going to do?”

Rather than answer him, she turned her attention to the Elezen woman sitting at the Garlean’s side. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“It’s Lavinia. Lavinia jen Salvitto.”

“Lavinia it is, then. You may call me Aurelia. Can you get your commander up and moving? I’ll take Mistress Wolndara.”

“Why are you helping us?” Argas rasped as he took Lavinia’s hand and struggled to his feet in his heavy armor. Sweat stood out in a cold band on his brow, misting about his third eye. “After all of this. After everything-”

“My lord,” Lavinia began, but he plowed on ahead.

“After everything we’ve done, after the orders I’ve given, you still choose to aid us. Why?”

Aurelia thought of her own desperation in the aftermath of Dalamud’s explosion, clawing through mud and dirty water with broken bones to escape a slow death beneath the press of cermet and reinforced steel. She thought of Sazha, most of his face a ruined mess, the rattle in his chest when he had passed, barely recognizable. Of wounded lying in vast lines within and without tents not equipped to hold them, of a close shoulder-to-shoulder press in a cold, wet gaol cell.

“I would be a poor example of my profession were I to leave any man to die, no matter his crimes against me or others.”

“Not a sentiment I would expect to hear from the likes of a deserter.”

“You needn’t pretend we’re friends, but I do ask you to try and trust me.” She coughed into the fabric of her sleeve. The silver locket beneath her robes now felt uncomfortably warm against her skin; sweat stuck the hemp to her shoulders and chest in damp patches. “With all due respect, pilus, we can discuss comparative morality when we aren’t in immediate danger.”

The Garlean inclined his chin; his expression was solemn and very focused, as though he was digesting her words. Aurelia slid her arms under Rhaya’s limp form, heedless of the woman’s cracked and semi-conscious moan, and slowly bore her weight aloft until she was on her feet with the Miqo’te in a bridal carry. There was one place she knew could provide them temporary shelter.

“I need someone up here to help clear a path,” she said.  

It was Argas rem Canina who stepped forward. The pilus prior held a mailed hand against one side but his gunblade was unsheathed, angled low in his grip.

One look into his eyes told her he knew as well as she did that this fire was meant to smoke them out. It was a common enough tactic, one often used in Ala Mhigo to flush out bandits and smaller Resistance cells in the mountains, and Aurelia had no doubt this cohort employed it now-- but better to take the risk and spring the trap on their own terms.

“My lord,” Lavinia protested, “you can barely stand.”

“A passing weakness and naught else. I have enough in me to swing a blade.”

Aurelia’s expression was as doubtful as her fellow chirurgeon’s; Argas didn’t look at all well, but there was no time to argue. The hiss and crackle of flames were audible now as they began to move, just at their backs and still in the periphery, but spreading with a disconcerting swiftness.

“Master Blackthorne can assist,” she said. “Let’s go.”

It was slow going; the underbrush was brittle from lack of rain and mostly overgrown brambles besides. The effects of aether imbalance from last summer’s disaster lingered in the forest still, and as Argas and Sewell chopped away at the offending plant life Aurelia fancied she could feel something heavy and ominous in the air. Cold invisible fingers trailed their way down the length of her back, like some eldritch lover beckoning her to its bed, and her stomach twisted in knots.

The forest, Aurelia realized, her heart pounding. That’s what this feeling is. The elementals.

She could sense an immense and ancient fury pulsing through her newfound connection to the land -- aether roiling just under the surface of the earth. And there was nothing she could do about it, save to forge on and hope the Shroud would not rise in indiscriminate fury against them before she had seen them all to some kind of safety. And the farther away they could lure the Empire’s hounds from the village, the better.

With a gentle touch, she shifted her grip upon the injured woman in her arms and followed the narrow clearance the two men had cut.

==

There was no angry treant to greet their arrival this time, and Aurelia couldn’t decide if it was an unexpected boon or an omen of the worst sort. The tumbled stones of Amdapor lay as she had left them a fortnight past: cold and still, ivy creepers and belladonna black against the white stone in the depths of the night’s shadow. Empty and broken remains of gracefully arched windows seemed to gaze down upon the eclectic party like malevolent eyes as they scurried down the sloped path and into the half-excavated city.

As she paused to get her bearings Argas rem Canina drew to a pause at her side and squinted into the darkness. The Garlean was breathing heavily, though whether from exertion or exacerbated injury was unclear. “I certainly hope you and Blackthorne were not expecting reinforcements to await you in a tomb such as this.”

“A tomb, mayhap, but hopefully not ours,” Aurelia replied curtly, eyes scanning the crumbling buildings. The oppressive weight of the Greenwrath hissed through her veins with each pulse as it sank into the aether around them, making it difficult to concentrate. “Do any of you have anything we can use for light? I need both my hands to carry her.”

Sewell was already moving to lift Rhaya from her arms. “I’ll take her. Do what you need to.”

“Your shoulder-”

“Is healed enough to carry weight for a little while. What are you looking for?”

“A partially excavated antechamber,” she said absently. “The Wailers had plans to convert part of the ruin for their use but the project was abandoned nigh on two summers ago. It should be sound enough to serve as a firebreak if it gets this far.”

“Seven hells. I’m almost afraid to ask, Mistress Laskaris,” his expression was decidedly pained now, “but why was the excavation only partial?”

She gave Sewell a wan smile over her shoulder. “The elementals wanted it undisturbed. So I’m told.”

“A haunted ruin,” he muttered. “Brilliant.”

“The theoretical existence of restless spirits is preferable to death by immolation, I think.” A few moments of perusal revealed the ingress she sought. She pointed to the door that stood ajar. “After you.”

Argas narrowed his eyes at the sight. “Are you certain this is wise?”

“Does it matter? We can’t outrun the fire. Certainly not with injured parties to tend, unless you’ve a better idea.”

“My lord,” Lavinia murmured, “we are not in a position to be choosy. The safehouses can’t be trusted now-”

“-and the nearest settlements are malms from here. If our luck holds, Phoebus will waste valuable time trying to find us.” Argas shook his head. “Unfortunately I suspect this is the first place he’ll look. We surveyed this ruin months ago and he has the maps and the intelligence-”

“We’ll worry about that when he arrives,” Sewell interrupted, grabbing his unhurt arm. “Do as the lady says.”

Glaring, Argas obeyed.

Other than a cool draft whispering from the crack in the door the space was blessedly unoccupied, save a few musty crates situated in front of a collapsed pillar. While Sewell struck flint to make torchlight, Aurelia dragged the remains of the heavy door shut as much as she could manage, even as her stomach roiled and her limbs trembled.

Full darkness fell upon them, so complete that nothing was visible. She could taste ceruleum and stagnant muddy water and damn it, no, she thought angrily. There wasn’t time for this. She would simply have to bear it.

She bit back her sigh of relief as the first torch flickered to life.

“Someone should stand watch at the door,” Argas grunted as he leaned against a pillar. “It’d be wise to make certain we won’t be ambushed.”

“Might as well be me.” Sewell removed the last unlit torch from its wall sconce and touched it to one of the others. The dry wood caught immediately. “Go on, Aurelia. Tend to Mistress Wolndara; I’ll let you know if I need you.”

With an effort she swallowed back rising bile and turned her focus upon Rhaya’s still form, lying next to a pile of rubble.

The woman’s pulse was a bit quick for her liking, but it was strong enough not to worry her overmuch. She stared at the bloodied, bruised hand in hers with its misshapen fingers and swollen forearm and let her anger flash through her for only a moment before she closed her extended palm and dismissed the sphere of wind she had held. Gently she placed her hand upon Rhaya’s forearm and taking pains to keep her actions slow and deliberate, poured aether into the fractured bones little by little just the way she’d been taught by Brother E-Sumi-Yan.

Aether trickled from her fingers in a slow and steady stream, like refilling an empty ewer. It wouldn’t be a panacea, but the curative spell would regenerate new bone more quickly. As long as the arm was properly set and Rhaya did nothing to aggravate her injury for at least a fortnight there would be no lasting ill effects.

A soft sigh escaped the Miqo’te’s lips, and the stark lines on her face began to smooth.

“Phoebus pyr Cinna questioned her personally. Looking for you and Blackthorne,” Lavinia said. She was wrapping Argas’ arm in field bandaging as she watched Aurelia work. “Lord Argas had nothing to do wi-”

“Let it be known I am supremely disinterested in any excuses on your superior’s behalf.” Aurelia didn’t bother to look at the other chirurgeon nor remove the contempt from her words. She carefully examined one of the ruined fingers on Rhaya’s hand; the woman’s whimper cracked into the darkness, wordless recrimination. “He could have put paid to his subordinate’s cruelty at any time and instead he chose to say and do nothing. And so did you.”

Lavinia bowed her head and did not answer. Aurelia was grateful for the brief silence while she set Rhaya’s fingers and reinforced the hasty field splints. She had nothing to say to either of the imperials that would be civil, let alone kind.

“What made you do it?”

Aurelia paused in the midst of securing the field tapes. “I assume you mean defect.”

“Yes. Surely you must have known-”

“I was not given a choice in the matter.” She let her aether spread over Rhaya, enfolding her like a warm blanket to ensure she would rest. “But I think even if I had the choice, I would have made it anyway. Garlemald does not-”

“Aurelia!” Sewell’s voice was fraught with tension. “I need you!”

Without pause, she pushed herself onto her feet. “I’ll be right back. Keep close watch over her,” she instructed Lavinia. “Let me know if her condition worsens for any reason.”

The Ala Mhigan peered through the cracked door, attention so wholly focused on the far side he didn’t even look up at her approach. In only a moment of listening, she caught the sound of voices: a number of them, shouting to and fro, growing closer. Beneath the shouts were footsteps crashing through the underbrush outside.

“They’re here,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t see as well as I’d like, but I’d know those pot helms anywhere.” His eyes were wide, flickering like frightened animals to and fro as he stared through the fissure. “A dozen at least.”

“Then we’d best do what we can to keep them away from here,” she said, grasping his arm in her hand. “Let’s go.”

~*~

The Twelveswood burned, a pyre to bear the remnants of Amdapori folly.

It looked like some ominous illustration from a book Aurelia had owned as a child, depicting one of the seven hells. All around was the hungry crackle of flames and the frantic cries of birds fleeing the destruction of their roosts, their wings stark against the night sky. Smoke billowed in great clouds into the air, which had taken on a hazy orange cast.

Upon this stage spilled scarlet and black carbonweave, a swarm of angry insects.

Aurelia covered her mouth with her sleeve as she took in narrow sips of air. Her temples pounded with her pulse and her breath rasped harshly against the back of her throat with each suppressed cough into her elbow; she grasped Ewain’s staff in her right hand, and in the left palm balanced a sphere of wind-aspected aether. At her side stood Sewell Blackthorne, crouched into a readied fighting stance with his weapon in position. His expression was bleak and cold and, she realized, resigned. He fully expected them to die here.

Watching the remains of the cohort press towards them in a wave, weapons held aloft, she could hardly begrudge him his fatalistic determination. Beneath her feet, the forest seemed to growl and strain against its fetters: a great and ancient beast stirring from its uneasy slumber.

The morass of red-trimmed black fanned outward in a semicircle before drawing to a halt mere fulms away from their position. The soldiers did not move to attack- there was no need to do so, not yet. Their maneuvering had cut off any avenue of escape for Aurelia and her allies that the fire did not cover.

“Aurelia, we can’t do this with just the two of us!” Sewell hissed. “The moment either of us drops, the other dies.”

“We have to defend this position.”

She had gone from a faceless member of the imperial army’s rank and file to raising her hand against them in a year’s time. Perhaps last summer, she could reasonably have argued that her defection was by circumstance rather than choice, as she had told Lavinia not a quarter-bell past. That was of a certainty no longer the case.

The crunch of sollerets against lichen-crusted stone echoed through the air, slow and steady, and the black and scarlet parted like a dark wave for its steel-and-magitek clad vanguard. The man wore the bronze-trimmed tabard of a low-ranking officer and his helm, protecting himself from the fires he had set. Although Aurelia could not see his face, she could sense the mocking leer that lay beneath his armor as he pointed his blade at the pair.

“Now I have you both,” he breathed. “You’ve nowhere left to run.”

Aurelia tensed, backing towards the antechamber door by ilms as the man drew short and unsheathed his gunblade.

“We will see to the rebels who aided you in due time, but first we must needs deal with you.” The sharpened edge pointed first at Sewell, then her. “All of Eorzea will see what comes of those who defy His Radiance’s supreme will. For your crimes-”

“That will be quite enough, Phoebus!” a voice at her back shouted. “Lower your weapons and stand down! All of you!”

Argas rem Canina staggered out from the door to stand between them, his gunblade at the ready. A shocked murmur rippled through the remaining soldiers.

“You stand with the very criminals you were tasked to hunt?” Phoebus pyr Cinna sputtered. “Lord Fabian will have your head for this, you old fool.”

“And the Black Wolf will have yours for mutiny once he hears what you’ve done.”

“Mutiny? This mission should have been mine from the start,” Phoebus raged. “Had I had been entrusted with the retrieval effort, we’d not have lost good men due to your blundering about. We had Blackthorne to rights in that miserable hovel a fortnight past but we lost him because you’re too bleeding soft!”

Argas lifted his blade with a pained grunt and thumbed back the hammer along the hilt.

“You were right about one thing,” he said. “I was a fool. A wise man would have had the sense to do something about you long ago.”

“As you’ve thrown in your lot with criminals, Canina, you can die like one. Velites! Forward!”

But the soldiers did not move. Uneasiness crossed several faces as their former pilus prior set his right foot forward in a battle stance, and it was clear that their erstwhile leader did not have as absolute a mandate as he had believed. Enraged now beyond any semblance of rational thought, Phoebus pyr Cinna screamed,

“Don’t just stand there, you godsdamned cowards! Kill him! Kill them all!”

*

||Hear||

A spark of intense pain flashed across her temples and into her third eye, but for the first time since it had awakened her from a dreamless unconsciousness in the Carteneau Flats, Aurelia did not collapse beneath the force of it.

Everything - her pain, her consciousness, even her very sense of self - dwindled to insignificance: replaced with the giddy sensation of feeling near overfull with aether. She didn’t know where the surge came from. Only that it seemed to well up from somewhere deep within: a bountiful, boundless fountain of power that blossomed from her very soul and into every last part of her, until even the very edges of her hair felt static and alive.

She had felt this only once before.

The day she had healed that boy.

She could

||Hear. Feel||

use the staff now. Easily. Her hands seemed to rise of their own accord into a fighting stance, in a space of time that must have been mere seconds but felt as eons.

Earth and air coalesced at her fingertips, winding and twining like vines about her arms. She knew where their strikes would land before they even had the chance to make them, and danced nimbly this way and that, stones and cyclones flying from her fingers to dispatch her opponents with absurd ease.

It felt far less like fighting people than making strikes against the inert training dummies nestled in the groves surrounding the Fane.

||Think||

Her chest seized. She coughed and floundered in a heartbeat’s space of panic before E-Sumi-Yan’s words came back to her, and along with it the training he had so patiently drilled into her during the cold months before her arrival in Willowsbend.

In that moment she bent her will to the land and drew from it. Aether rushed forth at her beck and call, and her strength began to replenish itself once more, and -- as Argas himself had once hoped to see -- she turned the land itself upon her enemies, confounding them with water and earth and air and the heaviness of sleep.

The imperials gave ground again and again before her magicks and her allies’ blades until at last only their commander remained standing and able to fight.

Panting audibly, it was now Phoebus’ turn to back away as Aurelia advanced. The wildness in his eyes had long since soured to hatred, but now held something of fear in them. He had expected defiance. He had not anticipated this, and she supposed she could not well blame him for that, as it was beyond anything a pureblooded Garlean should have been able to muster.

That supernatural fount of strength was like a brightly burning candle, however- it was not meant to last for long periods of time, and she sensed it was close to guttering.

He wouldn’t know that, though.

She took another step forward, staff at the ready, and the Garlean visibly flinched.

“Abomination,” he spat at her. “Anathema.”

The words stung, but she was careful to keep her expression neutral when she spoke. Her voice was rough from the smoke.

“You are outnumbered, centurion,” she said, “and the fire will soon summon the Wailers from the Quarrymill barracks if it has not done so already. Should you set foot outside this ruin, you must contend with them- and so long as you remain, you must contend with me.”

“This isn’t over.”

“It is, Cinna.” Argas’ voice was flat both with hostility and pain. The Garlean had fought his own men despite clinging to the edge of collapse; she could see the wavering tremor in his posture. “She’s right. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

“And what of it?” His chin snapped from one to the other- Aurelia, Argas, and Sewell. “What will you do? None of you have the strength to finish me.”

“It’s over,” Argas repeated. “Lord Fabian will not accept your failure any more than mine, and well you know it. Depending on what you promised him, mayhap even less.”

He lowered his gunblade.

For a moment, Phoebus pyr Cinna stood in stunned, tense silence. And then a deep, enraged cry welled up from the man’s chest, emerging through the helm as a mad shriek. His attention turned not upon Aurelia or Sewell but upon his former superior.

“You," he screamed, barreling towards Argas with terrifying speed.

Aurelia and Sewell moved at the same time to intercept him but she had less distance to close, and reached him first. She threw her arms around the pilus’ shoulders and pulled him out of their enemy’s path with all of her strength. Argas staggered and nearly fell from the lack of counterbalance, his gunblade clattering to the ground as he fell to the ground with her weight atop his. He uttered a muffled groan, but the crash she had heard was not from his fall. It had come from behind them, somewhere a few yalms away from the antechamber opening.

The choked gasps she heard at her back stopped her breath in her throat.

“Master Blackthorne?” she said, her voice low. There was no reply. Slowly she tilted her chin to her right, looking over her shoulder to the place where Sewell had stood.

The long, slender steel of a standard-issue imperial gunblade had impaled him through the chest, its edge stained crimson with his blood-- but the mortal blow had not been without cost to the blade's owner. The simple gladius Sewell had pilfered had found the chink between the base of the centurion’s helm and the seams of his carbonweave, and neatly punctured his throat.

Arterial blood crested over the hilt and spilled over his fingers like a waterfall. Sewell kept his grip and leaned forward, grimacing from the pain of his own wound but forcing himself to endure it. Phoebus lifted a hand to wrap around Sewell’s wrist, fingers plucking weakly in a feeble attempt to dislodge the sword that had struck the killing blow.

It was a futile effort; his once-formidable strength had left him.

“It means nothing,” Phoebus sputtered thickly. “In the end, Eorzea will fall.”

With open contempt, Sewell Blackthorne flung the offending hand aside with his own. “You lost," he spat in the man's face. “Have the grace to accept it.”

His only answer was a choked gurgle. Pinned to the ancient wall like a displayed insect, the dead man’s body sagged over the sword and his gunblade hand fell away from the weapon to dangle over the stones, dripping blood. Sewell released his grip and let gravity finish its work; his knees buckled as he fell. Phoebus pyr Cinna’s gunblade followed, its hilt striking the ground with a metallic rattle.

Aurelia clambered to her feet and closed the distance on trembling legs. She could hear Argas rem Canina follow suit, his footsteps dragging and faltering at her back, but barely paid it mind as she dropped to her knees at Sewell’s side.

The Ala Mhigan shoved her hands away before she could attempt to tend him. His blood, a deep, dark red, left a long crimson smear down the front of her robe.

“No sense in that, miss medicus. Wastin’ aether... on a dying man,” he croaked. His smile was a small and joyless thing. “...You were brilliant. Never... seen a healer fight before. Not like that.”

“Sewell,” she reached for him again, trying to pull his tunic aside to see to the damage. He caught her hands once more and his head lolled from side to side. "Please," Aurelia said. It was a plea. She knew the tears that burned her eyes were not sentiment for a man she barely knew. It was for the understanding between them: the frustration and futility that came of knowing she couldn't save him.

No sense wasting your aether, he'd said. Sewell knew as well as she that the wound was mortal, and as she'd done at so many other bedsides, all Aurelia could do was keep watch until he passed.

“Just… tell Rhaya I’m sorry. For all of it.” He grasped the hilt of the gunblade still buried in his chest as if savoring his victory. “Imanie an’ me… we’ll be watching you.”

The vigil was brief and quiet. Like a candle, the light in his eyes faded into emptiness. Slowly, more from ingrained training than aught else, Aurelia reached for his still face and closed them. She looked up at her unlikely ally and in silence the pair stared at each other with dulled eyes, both of them pale and exhausted and not quite able to believe the swift and brutal conclusion of the night’s affairs.

Shouts of a different and no less familiar sort echoed against the stone, followed by a sound that had become lately familiar: nocked arrows and multitudes of bowstrings, drawn in tandem.

“Wood Wailers!” a voice bellowed. “Put down your weapons!”

The last vestiges of the presence that had spoken to her during the battle withdrew itself entirely and all of the giddy energy that had kept her on her feet drained from her body like the running waters of the creek.

On its heels, the depletion of her aether hit body and mind like a dropping meteor. Aurelia crumpled forward as the world began to spin around her, feeling suddenly as if each of her limbs were tied to lodestones. She would have collapsed across Sewell’s body had Argas not caught her in his arms. The memento mori she wore seared her skin, metal heated by the surrounding aether. It burned, but her mind felt so many malms away that the pain seemed to be happening to someone else.

Footsteps shook the ground beneath her prone body. Heat on her cheeks, searing and intense. Beneath half-closed lids, she stared blankly at an orange sky.

The red moon, she thought. Dalamud keeps getting closer and closer. Any day now, it- or did that happen…?

She smelled ceruleum and blood and thought of cold water and the close tomb of a reaper, but she knew this wasn’t Carteneau. Still Eorzea, but it was somewhere different. A forest. Large and dark and watching-

“Sergeant!” another voice called. It felt malms away: oceans, entire continents. “It’s Mistress Laskaris! She’s alive!”

Her thoughts moved in a slow and confused jumble even as she caught a scent that she knew well. The familiar someone was lifting her out of Argas’ lap and into a carry, but she couldn’t open her eyes to see who it was.

“Two more, Sazha,” she muttered, unable to raise her voice. She was tired. She was so tired. “Look inside. The antechamber. Rhaya. Rhaya and-”

Her lips were too sluggish to form the words. Tell Rhaya I’m sorry. For all of it.

It was the last thing she remembered before the world faded-

-but the long night was ended at last.