#It's a false amicability. It's closing a door and telling yourself that at least the windows are unlocked.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Maybe we never had a chance.

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[tales-unique]

FAITH, LOST  III

I gave myself a small case of blue balls with this chapter, I apologize! It gets a little, ahem, spicy. ❤️

Edit: @chelseareferenced forgot to tag my boo! Sorry love!

Chapter 3

Lords grant you mercy you were going to kill him if he didn’t let you out. Heisenberg had, quite quickly, established a set of ground rules that you were to adhere to at all times when in the Factory, the most notable being that you weren’t to leave the upper floors without him under any circumstances. This, of course, left you alone for the majority of your time there since he never allowed you to aid him in his work.

You’ll just get in my way — he’d sneer at you, patting your head in a condescending manner. Not to mention the Lycans have a preference for young, supple devotees — he would tease you, wiggling his gloved fingers at you from inside in the elevator, chuckling to himself as he descended into the bowels of the factory to continue his projects. You had no idea what he was creating down there, but you knew that it often didn’t work out as planned from the way he’d fume when he returned. Once again you have been left to your own devices, only this time you have a way to alleviate at least some of your boredom. With a huff of effort you slide to the floor and crawl over to an old vent duct in the wall. It had caught your attention one night when the echoing of his voice through the shaft had woken you up, realizing that one of his work rooms below you was connected to yours via this duct. Though it provided you with minimal entertainment, it did give you insight to the type of work he did. Experiments; this was where he made the Lycans and the other twisted creatures that roamed his Factory. One night, against your better judgement, you had read an extract from an open journal on his desk when trying to make yourself useful. It mentioned something called Soldats and an army he was trying to create. You were lucky that you had moved away from it to straighten his sheets, otherwise he would have caught you red handed. Not that he was happy to have you in his space at all. “Fuck!” The loud cursing pulls you back to reality and you peer down the shaft expectantly, gripping the grate that covers it as you listen to Heisenberg rant about his latest creation being a failure. He had a tendency to speak out loud, likely recording his findings. The echo of his boots thudding against the metal floor betrays his movements and you follow it along the floor until you can’t hear it anymore. It means one of two things; either he’s leaving the Factory altogether or he’s coming back up. Quickly, you get to your feet and smooth down your clothes; a pair of simple trousers and a tunic top. You’d managed to scrounge up the modest outfit with the help of the ever amicable and charming Duke after a rather abrupt introduction from Heisenberg. Begrudgingly he allowed you to pick whatever you deemed necessary, and even a few luxuries like a fancy hand mirror, even though he complained that you were going to bankrupt him. It didn’t stop him lingering nearby, supervising the exchange through the puffs of cigar smoke. It was on your return to the upper levels, Heisenberg fancying the stairs instead of the elevator this time, that you’d properly come into contact with the Lycans. You weren’t sure what possessed him to give you a glimpse of inner workings of his Factory. Maybe it was another cheap shot at frightening you, or maybe it was pride that drove him to parade his creations before you. Needless to say, they did scare you. The lower reaches of the Factory was their domain and as you followed Heisenberg closely, his one clear instruction, you couldn’t help but feel their eyes watching you from afar. They snarled and growled and howled at your intrusion, sniffing the air curiously. It was rare for their Master to bring something new to their den and not let them tear it limb from limb. You were quick to beg him to take you back to the relative safety of the upper floors, which he did so with immense satisfaction and shit-eating grin on his face. The sound of the elevator dings and you come to stand in the doorway, watching him stalk out as soon as the gate opens, muttering heatedly to himself. In typical Heisenberg fashion he stalks right past you and into his office without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. Clearly someone was having a bad day. Steeling yourself, you pad gently to his office door and find that he’s left it open for once. A good sign. Usually if his mood is dangerously sour the door is slammed shut and you avoid him like the plague until he makes himself known, but that isn’t necessary this time. “Is everything alright?” You ask from the threshold, careful not to enter until you’re invited. Like the ever faithful woman you are you try to serve him as best you can, even if he does make it very difficult at times. Heisenberg sits in his metal chair, leaning back. His stance is exasperated, but the tight grip on the shot of liquor in his hand is angry. His hat and coat have been discarded on his bed, his glasses sit on the desk, and you see blood on his knuckles. Upon closer inspection you see the trails of splatter on his exposed forearms, his shirt sleeves having been rolled up while he was working no doubt. “Yeah,” he breathes, raising the glass in a mock toast, “I’m just dandy.” He is definitely not dandy. Toying with the prospect of overstepping the mark or remaining respectful to his status, you rock on the balls of your feet. On one hand he always seemed so annoyed when you’d remind him that you were there to serve him, as Mother Miranda had instructed, but on the other he often chastised you if you tried to take the initiative; frankly, the constant push and pull drove you mad. “Heisenberg,” you chide quietly, approaching him cautiously. He hated it when you called him my Lord, or even sir, heatedly telling you to just call him by his surname like everyone else did. You obeyed, accepting it as the happy medium. Vibrant green eyes watch you closely as you settle for leaning against the desk, careful not to disturb the organized chaos that was his research. It’s still a work in progress, the way you navigate around one another, but you’re slowly making progress. “You can talk to me, you know,” you remind him, trying to remain resolute under his intense stare. There’s no denying that his rugged appearance, scars and all, are attractive and his more wolfish qualities gave him a uniqueness that was equal parts exciting and intimidating. You swallow nervously at the notion that you may be growing a little too comfortable in your thoughts of Lord Heisenberg. “Is that right?” He hums, knocking back the shot in one. He sets the glass down slowly on the desk, lulling you into a false sense of security that you had no business having in that place. In an instant he’s up on his feet and towering over you, hands braced on either side of you. You stiffen at the sudden closeness, looking up at him with a startled expression; he always gets a kick out of scaring you. “And just what would we talk about?” Comes his veiled question, shrouded in feigned innocence, asked in a voice like sin. You can practically feel the static in the air, the room electrified. He’s trying to tempt you, to trip you up so you’ll fall into his trap and make a fool of yourself. It’s a game he likes to play. That little hummingbird caged within you is in full flight when he runs a clawed finger gently down your cheek, the threat of him slipping and slicing your flesh too real to ignore. Oh, how he finds your fear so tantalizing. Your lips part in a shaky exhale, chest tight with the onset of emotions you’d really not want to be unpacking right now. The metal edge of his desk digs into the back of your thighs, boxed in by his large frame. This close you can feel the heat that emanates from him, a consistent wave, that mingles with the scent of oil, leather, and something wholly him. It leaves you reeling, panicked by the unsettling notion that you like it. You’re losing the game so early on and he knows it, even though it was rigged from the start to be in his favour. Just at the point when you’re about to crumble, your body yearning for that delectable touch to trail just that little bit lower, Heisenberg cuts you off. It’s cold and efficient, with all the precision you’d expect from someone of his talents. With a low, downright sinful chuckle he takes a step back, leaving you a wide-eyed, wanton mess. He’s won and you just let him do it. Colour burns shamefully on your cheeks and you’re quick to scamper away to hide in your room, proverbial tail between your legs. You’re furious that you made things so easy for him to play you, and play you he did. Utter fool. Little did you know that the fourth, and most dangerous, Lord had played himself for a fool too.

[mimiplaysgames]

A Powerful Enough Dream (Ch. 10)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua (eventually) Rating: T Word Count: 6,286

Summary: It’s time to save Ven from Castle Oblivion

Read on AO3

A/N: Woooooow I really didn’t want to take this long to finish this, but you guys know what my mental health is like sometimes. I actually finished two other WIPs before this one, but I’m still not happy with those so I wrote this one out. Thank you all so much for your patience. I hope this was worth the wait. >.<

~*~*~*~*~

Oblivion, pt. 2

Ven, you let Aqua take you home.

No way. I wanna go with you guys.

You can’t. We have a dangerous task ahead of us. I don’t want you to get hurt.

--And what is this dangerous task, Terra? It doesn’t sound like what the Master told you to do. 

It might be a different route, but I’m fighting the darkness.

--I’m not so sure. I’ve been to the same worlds as you and I’ve seen what you’ve done. You shouldn’t put yourself so close to the darkness.

Listen to yourself, Aqua. Terra would never--

You mean you’ve been spying on me? Is that what he said to do? The Master’s orders?

--He was only…

I get it.

Terra!

Just stay put! I’m on my own now, all right?

--Terra, please! Listen! The Master has no reason to distrust you, really! He was just worried. 

You’re awful, Aqua.

~*~*~*~*~

She’s awful and she knows it. 

Terra stands there, his fingers curled into fists, hurt and bewilderment in the strict knit of his brows. Aqua used to tell herself that everything she’s done was for the greater good. Better for everyone, better for Terra, even if he didn’t know it. She knew he felt betrayed. Felt. Since there’s no time in the Realm of Darkness, Aqua hasn’t been able to count how many years it took her to realize that she’s actually betrayed her best friend, how long it took to tell the difference between the two.

“I was only trying to help,” he says.

This isn’t how it goes. Aqua swallows. “I know that-”

“Then why?”

This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen. “The Master was only looking out for you.” That’s true, at least. He’s always had good intentions. 

Terra’s lip snarls. “Was he?”

She doesn’t know anymore. “I was confused and unsure, Terra. I’m so sorry.”

Why is she apologizing now when she already has? When Terra forgave her? 

But did he? That happened in a dream.

Terra scoffs as he looks away, a false smile pulled on his face before he shakes his head. “Sorry. You accused me of leading myself to the darkness. Is that what you really think of me? An idiot?”

“No…” Did she?

“You’ve blamed me for everything.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t,” she whispers. Has she really? 

“You’re awful, Aqua,” Terra says. 

She knows it. Terra said it. And her heart wretches inside, vomiting an acid that burns her esophagus and is bubbling up, making her head light. 

“A curious memory,” a voice says. Xemnas stands behind her. He hums, his voice so deep it almost sounds like a growl. 

Terra is gone. 

She realizes where she is. Castle Oblivion. An image of Radiant Garden. “It’s false,” she spits.

“Are you certain?” He smiles and it comes slowly, like he takes care in easing into it. “The basic act of remembering is a basic act of storytelling. We take artistic license and smear it each and every time we take a nostalgic trip. You change the details depending on who you decide to recite it to.” He waves his arms open, dramatically drawing out his words. “Depending on your mood, or your motivation, or the meaning you want to take out of it, you alter things to fit a narrative in your head. Our memories are only ever reliable as the most recent story we told ourselves. Are you confident you’d be able to tell the difference?”

“I…” 

“Does this playact fit the story you want to tell about yourself?”

She blinks, trying to recall the exact words and in the order of how it happened. Ven was there that day. She’s sure of that. 

Right?

Xemnas sighs, eyeing the scene around him, bringing his gloved fingers to his lips. “I don’t have memory of this. But it was an interesting tale.”

Aqua inhales sharply and shakes herself out of her own damn stupor. “It doesn’t matter what you think.”

“I think whatever you saw is a reflection of yourself.” He strokes his hair out of his face. “Therefore, it’s true in its own way.”

“It isn’t!” She can’t believe so. She can’t think about it right now. Despite how much her wrist hurts, she charges at him, the Defender high and energized, loyal and at the ready.

He accepts her challenge with open arms and two swords of hot, red energy, barely floating out of her reach as though to coax her to follow him around. And she follows, because she’s an idiot. Master Aqua doesn’t know what she’s doing even when she thinks she does. Even when she believes in the words she says, or believes that attacking Xemnas is the right thing to do, because he is on Xehanort’s side and there’s no reason to stop flailing at him with the heaviest ice magic she can muster.

Aqua thrusts the Keyblade at him. Stupid move. She knows that. Then why is she making so many mistakes?

Xemnas catches it in between his blades, slicing them away to throw her off balance. She retaliates with a mutter under her breath. Waves of ice shards spew out in circles, stabbing in random patterns. Let’s see him block these.

He does a decent job dodging, but he’s distracted. That’s all she needs.

Aqua tracks the tip of the Defender against the floor. An ice path spits forward. She skates on them, picking up speed to ram directly into him, throwing him against the wall with a sickening thud. 

“How’s that for someone less than half your size?”

She inhales deeply, and with it comes magic and the excitement of dance. The anticipation to move and dazzle. She twirls and her Keyblade ignites, gathering energy with each turn she takes in place before it finally combusts in brilliant colors and spackles of white. 

Cutting through the beauty is a mess of black smog. “It was radiant,” Xemnas growls, pushing through with that sickness he calls a Nobody’s power, something that drains energy as if it were a black hole. 

The void sharpens up with electricity and collapses into millions of shards of its own light, fueled by a massive compression as if warping the air around it. Aqua backs off. It’s not a space she should breathe into. The false-light shoots outward with Xemnas’s command, stabbing in all directions. They’re hard to block. Hard to dodge. Hard to withstand a direct hit and Aqua takes them in the legs, the torso, the shoulders. Some stab her in the face. 

By the end, she’s the one splayed out on the floor, the Defender dissipating.

“A waste of my power when we could have had an amicable conversation,” Xemnas says, brushing off his sleeves. 

Aqua is sore all over. Her legs don’t want to pick her up.

Ragged breathing (hers) pounds in her ears, interrupted only by the echoes of his steps, tick-tacking up to her slowly, like he’s pretty sure she won’t get up. 

Aqua grunts while pressing her palms against the floor. Her good wrist shakes. Her bad one just won’t. 

“Back off!” 

Sora’s voice.

He’s coming for Xemnas from above, gripping his Keyblade with both hands high above his head as though he’s about to bat a ball and grovel it into the ground. When he makes contact with Xemnas’s back, slicing across, a white electric spark crackles outward, tossing him at a safe distance away from her body. 

All Aqua sees when Sora lands are the toes of giant yellow shoes. A warmth settles on her, ticklish and relaxing until it suddenly vanishes too soon. He really needs to work on his Cure spells. 

“Think you can handle him?” he asks her, already prepared to fight more. Xemnas picks himself up, brushing his hand on his face. “We can do it together.”

“It’s a waste of time,” she says. Xemnas and false memories and stupid speeches all at once. How many rooms did Sora go through to get here? How much has he lost already?

She sets her eyes on the exit: a gate that would have led to the alleys in the real Radiant Garden. They should go. Should they stay and finish this off?

(I can’t let Sora fight alone. I need to protect Ven from threats. Why am I not spending my time finding him?)

She ends it with, I have to shut myself up. “Can you distract him for me?”

“Sure?”

“Follow me as soon as I call for you,” she commands, marching straight to the door without a glance at the noise combusting behind her. Sora’s yelling with passion and excitement. Xemnas grunts with annoyance. Explosions rumble in between. 

She grips the handle and risks looking back. Sora is a good fighter, all improv and no hesitance, like a rocket with no homing device. He dodges attacks while tossing up mockery and teases (he might as well drop the Keyblade and stick his tongue out while gesturing with his fingers). Xemnas shows off fanciful and destructive magic that is both inefficient in aim and wide-reaching. So much of his hits are collateral damage.

Sora gets knocked onto his knees. She’s about to run to him when he bounces back, blocking another direct hit and redirecting it. 

He’s okay.

She should trust him.

“Focus, Aqua,” she chides herself. Regardless of how much fun Sora is having, he’s depending on her to move forward for everyone’s sakes. She thinks about nothing, she thinks about Ven. Sleeping in that throne all by himself. When she wakes him up, he’s going to pout and say, Did you forget about me or something? Aqua, you’re so mean.

You’re awful, Aqua.

She needs an empty, quiet room. The door responds, a little aha! moment that churns in her belly. She turns the knob. “Sora!”

He hesitates.

“Sora, come here!”

This time he follows, hustling to her side. “But-” He points at Xemnas charging at them, so fast that he’s floating, when she grabs Sora by the elbow and pulls him through with her. Like a vacuum, they get sucked inside. All remnants of destruction, crumbling brick, smokey air, and aftershocks are erased with the click of the doorknob into its latch. 

They land face first on cold tile in a simple white room.

Sora sighs, a little laugh escaping through his breath. She gets it, she’s relieved too.

“I will never look at Xemnas’s face the same way again,” he says, grunting when he hops onto his feet, shoulders rolling and neck stretching like he’s done a good workout. 

Aqua’s wrist still protests when she leans on it to get on her knees. She doesn’t let Sora see - she briskly stands like she’s still got pep to her step, her good hand gently clasped over it as she begins a Curaga to start the healing process. It prickles and kneads, sharp bubbles popping on the skin’s surface like slapping rubber to the skin.

“How did you find me?” Aqua asks. She has to. The castle is designed to disorient. It takes a tremendous bond to keep anyone inside together, and she figures Sora would rather stay close to Riku and the others. 

Sora blinks. “I’m not exactly sure. We got separated, picked off one by one. I took doors that my gut told me to choose.” He touches his chest and chuckles. “Or rather, my heart. I thought it’d lead me back to them.” Then he snorts. “You’re a lot easier to find than Riku, that’s for sure.”

That doesn’t make any much sense, and all Aqua says is, “You’re a good person, Sora.”

He lets his smile fall and cocks his head, a quiet Huh? slipping out. It takes him moments to respond. “You don’t think you are?”

“I don’t…” She’s about to say, deserve my Master’s rank. Something’s wrong. Her Light magic should have only taken a couple of seconds to heal, but it keeps going. When it’s finally complete, her wrist is still sore. Aqua presses her fingers to her temples to massage a headache that isn’t there. “I don’t sound like myself. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” His stretched smile shines again. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s normal.” 

“Normal?”

“I mean,” he shrugs a playful shoulder, “maybe a little weird, sure. If that’s what you want to hear.”

She scoffs, the tiniest grin wrestling its way onto her lips. “Maybe I am.”

“Did you know I once called Riku ‘stupid?’”

It’s her turn to snort. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’d let you say that to him.”

“You’d be surprised.”

The snorting turns into a small giggle, something warm and toasty as though this room has never been cold.

“See?” Sora says. “A little laughter says a lot about you.”

Aqua massages her wrist one last time. “In what way?”

“That you survive what you went through,” he says slowly, “and still laugh? You’re stronger than you think.”

Aqua swallows. She’s once thought the same thing, but she’s tired now. So tired of being strong. 

As if taking her silence as cue, Sora glances around the empty room, that one simple door waiting for them. “So, what now?” 

“We get Ven.”

He’s super excited and it’s very endearing, like he’s about to witness an inexplicable magic trick. “How are we going to do that?”

Aqua leads the way. Ven. Finally. “Again, I will be the one to unlock the door.” 

He keeps to her heels like a puppy. Right now, on the other side of that door, she figures there’s nothing, a canvas in need of paint. When the castle takes a peek inside a person’s head to mirror what they want to see, it takes so much more. 

“Do you just… picture Ven in your head and voila?” Sora asks.

“Kind of.”

“And what else? What’s the secret?”

Aqua hums, fingers twiddling with each other. “A lot of focus and dedication.”

“That can’t be it. There’s gotta be more.”

“And quiet.”

“Oh, sorry.”

It’s Ven’s movement. His voice. A tight hug given or a toothy grin, from any moment of her choosing, so long as the memory is striking. Xemnas.

Why is she thinking of Xemnas?

When he said that memories are only as real as the stories we tell ourselves. Is that the same for memories so powerful, there’s no way they can be anything but untrue? 

He’s wrong. A memory as warm as the laughter she shared with Sora would do the spell right. 

Just before she replays the scene in her head, tears slowly prick at her eyes. Even after spending years knowing that she’s going to lose this memory, that she’s literally giving it up as an offering, she’s still trembling. Why is she so scared? 

She has other memories, she tells herself, just as precious to make up for it.

~*~*~*~*~

Ven wasn’t able to speak much when he first woke up. He’d learn a few words here and there, and would repeat them. For a child without a grip on language, he was so eager to let everyone know everything he felt.

And he really liked stars. 

That night, a thunderstorm blotted the sky, and there weren’t any to see.

Good thing Ven wasn’t afraid of thunder, and good thing Aqua and Terra stashed a tent for nights like these. Draped over Ven’s bed, Terra brought in custom-made wooden lampshades, where he carved out shapes of stars. Third edition - the first time he tried, on cardboard, was a messy affair and some stars turned out to be globs. Stars dotted the entire tent, spreading all over the bed and loitering their bodies. In Ven’s bedroom, they sat in the very sky. 

“Ven won’t let me read to him anymore,” Aqua said, watching Ven snatch the picture book she brought him. 

“You’re welcome,” said Ven. 

Terra chuckled. “He won’t let me either. He just wants to know how it ends.”

“It’s a happy one, I promise,” was Aqua’s desperate plea. He used to be so cute with how attached he was to her and how much he nudged to hear her speak. She even read recipes to him - so long as she spoke, Ven was amused. 

“You’re welcome,” said Ven.

Terra propped himself on his elbow, opening a bag of nuts. “Hungry, Ven?”

Ven, forgetting there was a book on his lap, splayed out his palm. He gestured with a kingly expectation that he’d be graced.

“You need to say, ‘Please,’” Terra said.

“You’re welcome.”

Terra gave Aqua a knowing smirk, a tall boy in a lanky body who told her that morning that he needed to grow muscles. His new Keyblade was too heavy for him, his swings too sluggish. He was worried about his future when she thought he shouldn’t be. He gathered a few peanuts with his fingers and gently placed them in Ven’s hand, watchful for spills. “Now you say, ‘Thank you.’”

“You’re welcome.” Ven snarfed them all down, cheeks bubbling full before he swallowed them in one gulp. He licked his fingers and pointed to a pitcher for water (You’re welcome). Aqua thought she’d never forget it. 

~*~*~*~*~

“Are you okay?”

“Hm?”

Aqua blinks at a fussing Sora, who has his hand on her shoulder with this terrible concern knotting his face. “Are you hurt?”

“No, why are you asking?”

Sora lets her go, his hand still hovering close. “You seemed really sad.”

Tears are indeed flowing down her face and Aqua wipes them off. Why they’re there, she doesn’t understand. There’s nothing to be upset about. Ven is on the other side of this door. That thought alone - Ven! - burns a hearth through her entire body, like snuggling in a blanket by a fireplace. She’s done it. She’s done something truly outstanding. 

“I’m not,” she laughs. “Everything’s going to be okay. He’s on the other side.”

He’s on the other side. Aqua twists the knob as fast as possible, pushing her way into another white room. With a throne. And a boy with blond hair, tucked into a seat two times his size in peaceful sleep.

“Ven,” she gasps. There’s nothing else in her mind. Just Ven.

“Roxas?” 

It’s like being dunked in cold water. What came out of Sora’s mouth, she has no damn idea. “Ventus,” she corrects.

But Sora has a strange look on his face, his hand clutching his stomach. “Huh?”

She doesn’t listen. She runs up to the throne, reaching out to shake him. “Ven?”

Stars, he looks the same in her memories, maybe less pudgy in the cheeks. But the more she studies him, the more a pit in her stomach grows. He looks peaceful from far away, but this close, he looks like he’ll never wake up despite being warm to her touch.

“Is it because I took so long?” she asks softly, as if speaking too loud would startle him out of a nightmare. “Is it because there was something I was missing? Should I have found your heart first?” She takes his face in both of her hands and brings his forehead to hers. This time, she really does want to cry. “I’m so sorry.”

Sora walks carefully up to the throne, hesitant to disturb the moment. “Aqua, I don’t feel so good.”

She finds him staring at Ven, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Sora shakes his head. “It’s creepy.”

“Excuse me?”

A giant bang rattles the door behind them nearly out of its hinges. 

“What was that?” Sora whips around. It bangs again, dust spitting out. Spiney tendrils seep through the cracks. “Xemnas!”

Her first instinct is to stay. To fight anything that would threaten Ven’s body. Dammit. There’s still everyone else they have to find. And what if his body gets hurt in the chaos?

“We don’t have the time.” She swings Ven’s arms over her shoulders, hooking his legs over her arms as she takes on his entire weight onto her back. He’s heavy for someone who hasn’t eaten in years. 

“Do you need help?”

“If he breaks through-”

“Got it.”

This room is a dead end - the only way in is the only way out. The real treasure room of the castle, its finality a way of saying, You’ve made it! 

And so, Aqua has to make a new door. 

She struggles to pull out the Defender with Ven on her back, having to lift one shoulder up to keep him level so he doesn’t slack over.

The door bangs again, nearly rupturing apart.

With Sora on guard, Aqua glares at the wall as though to burn a hole through it. It should be less work than transforming the entire castle. The Master’s Defender, once called its Keeper, is a specific inheritance meant for the wielder to keep secrets - even ones he’s never heard of. The castle will deceive. The castle will do what it needs to protect. Aqua asks it to protect them with secrets it will never tell her. 

Thrusting the Keyblade forward, the outline of a keyhole sparkles on the surface of the wall, stretching into the shape of a door like all the others. Aqua makes sure to give this one a particular lock. 

“Sora!” 

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He leans into her as if to keep Ven upright for her. “Just open the door for me. Make sure to lock it firmly behind us.”

He does so, throwing it wide to a tiny room, stretched long but narrow like a walk-in closet. Aqua hustles inside.

The door bangs one more time. It tears near the handle. Xemnas heaves when he pushes it open as though it’s the heaviest in the castle. He’s angry, annoyed, the last in the race, an also-ran. He’s so composed, so poised though, like a puppet that wears a mask to pretend to be human. 

And Sora has their sanctuary propped open, gaping.

“What’s wrong?”

Sora shakes himself out of a stupor, shutting her new door. It wipes Xemnas out of existence, like hand brushing the surface of a table, throwing all the mess onto the floor for a new start. Sora then watches it latch, as though expecting it to rattle.

“Xemnas won’t get through,” she says. “I made sure of it.”

He scratches his head, that brand of Sora-smile brightening up like normal. “Where are we?”

“In a safe room.” She bends her knees and gently lets her grip of Ven’s wrists go, letting him hit the wall behind her. It’s so narrow that she’s unable to stretch her legs when she sits besides him. “It’s only meant for our friends.”

“They’ll find us?” 

“As easily as they want to, yes.” When she watches Sora slump onto the wall opposite hers, his feet resting up against the other side, she shivers. He’s still reading the walls as if they have words painted on them even though they’re blank. “Are you sure you’re okay?” A worse thought creeps up to her. “Did you see things?”

Sora glances at Ven. “I did actually.” He chuckles. “Like that night when Destiny Islands went under. Kairi yelled at me when I missed dinner like it was just another night. She always had something to nag about.” He blinks. “Or was that my mom?”

“I should apologize,” Aqua says, lowering her gaze. “This should have only been my burden to bear.”

“No regrets here.” Something passes over his face like a cloud hovering over, and Sora presses a fist to his temple as if to think really hard. “Stained glass windows.” 

“Huh?”

“Mountains.” Sora scrunches his eyes as if shampoo had gotten in them. “This place used to be really pretty, right?”

Aqua drops her jaw. She stares at him really hard, but he breathes deeply, lost in his thoughts like a mannequin coming alive. Memory of this place should only live inside a handful of people. He isn’t supposed to know, and the castle couldn’t have shown him any of that.

“How-”

Their door unlocks itself, swinging wide open. Kairi limps inside with heavy breath. Riku is slumped over her shoulders, unconscious.

Sora acts like he’s just woken up. “What happened?” He gets up, taking Riku’s other arm so they could set him down. Riku doesn’t come across as a particularly large boy but he takes up so much space. Aqua has to drag Ven to make room before shifting onto her knees to read Riku’s energy - he’s alive. 

Kairi sniffs. “He took a direct hit for me.”

Sora pats her shoulder. “He would’ve done the same for me.” Though he’s not so confident.

“Don’t worry. He’s going to be okay,” Aqua says.

Kairi grimaces somewhere in the middle of being comforted and not quite believing that. Aqua starts a Cure spell. It takes its time, but whether that’s her failure or because Riku is in terrible condition, she can’t tell. 

“Is that…?”

Aqua spares a glance at Kairi, who has her fingers wiping her tear-stained face. “It is. Ven.”

“Is he not okay?”

Aqua swallows.

The door rattles like there’s a desperate person begging for someone to open it. Lea and Donald bicker when they come in (something about Getting pistol heavy and Donald responds with a Bah!), Goofy trailing behind them. They pile on top of everyone else, Lea opting to stay standing because there’s simply no room for him. 

He takes one look at Riku. And he smirks. “Some people always have to play the dark and brooding hero.” That don’t-give-too-much-of-a-care touch to his voice loses its power, however, the moment he sets his eyes on Ven. 

Aqua never expected they knew each other. 

“Roxas?” He hurries over, hopping over legs and feet like stepping rocks. 

Why do they bring that name up?! Aqua keeps an eye over her shoulder. Something about their reactions to Ven doesn’t sit right with her. Something about Lea’s expression - the wide eyes, the dropped hands, the gasp, the deadset desperation - marks it as more intense than Sora’s, who felt nauseous. 

Lea settles on his knees to take a close look. Aqua couldn’t have misinterpreted it: disappointment flashes across his face, and Lea stops a sharp inhale before letting it out slowly. “No, you’re Ventus.” When they lock eyes, he gets serious. “Listen, there’s other Organization members in the castle.” It makes every conscious person in the room pay attention. 

“Ha, let them try and fit in here!” Donald says, sticking his beak up to the state of the room. Goofy has a long shoe stuck on top of one of his webbed feet, giving Donald a scowl to last two entire nights.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” Sora says with a smirk. Playful or careful, it’s hard to differentiate with him. He winks at Aqua. “He’s only that way because of the King.”

The King and Terra lost in the Realm of Darkness. And Aqua’s stuck in a closet with an angry bird and beat up, tired, anxious fighters.

“Do we go back out?” Kairi meekly asks. “Downstairs instead of up?”

Aqua didn’t have to climb stairs to get here. Damn it. 

“We’ll make sure to stay together this time-” she starts to say when Lea interrupts her with a sharp No.

He’s holding his head like he’s got a headache. He fidgets, lost in thought as his eyes search this room though he’s not going to find much help here. There’s someone he obviously doesn’t want to cut across. “We’ll take a shortcut.”

“Excuse me?”

He stands up, leaning over Sora to splay his palm against the wall. “Is Xemnas here?”

Aqua purses her lips before she answers. “Yes.”

“If he’s this close, he’ll find out I used it. He always does.” From his hand slithers out tendrils of black smoke. From that grows a doorway. From the doorway, a glow that opens up a portal to somewhere else. “Straight to the exit.”

Aqua shakes her head. “I’m not going in there.”

“That’s dangerous!” Donald barks. Aqua is grateful she’s not the only one opposed.

“I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to use a Dark Corridor,” Goofy says. He is game and he is cheerful, letting Sora help him sling Riku over one of his shoulders. “Do ya think we’ll need a night-light?” 

Sora snickers in response. “It’s only a little cold. Nothing much to worry about.”

Aqua doesn’t know where to start. They’re all wrong. “But-”

Lea takes Ven onto his back. He has a much easier time, as though carrying a backpack, bobbing Ven’s weight to make sure he has a better grip. “Let’s go.” Then he glances at Aqua with a stern, almost distasteful look that tells her he means business. No jokes. No sarcasm. In words, Get your shit together.

He leads the way, Ven poofing out of existence the moment he passes through, asleep, oblivious of the world, unsafe and safe all at once. And Aqua stood there staring. Goofy follows next, his large steps striding so widely that Riku’s arms sway side to side. 

Aqua can feel that familiar chill, and it churns her stomach to think that it’s so close to her again. She doesn’t move. Even when Donald struts his way in, throwing a Humph! for good measure.

Even when Sora coaxes Kairi into it, telling her that it’s really no big deal. Just follow the others. Even when he smiles at Aqua and tells her, Come on. It’s a short trip.

She only nudges forward the moment Sora takes one last visible step into the void. She’s alone. She gasps. Summons her armor before dashing after them, metal footsteps clunking through a long, dark tunnel. It slithers around her, but she keeps her eyes ahead, following Sora and Kairi as they run straight to the other side. Don’t look at anything else. Don’t even think about it. Just follow them.

It is indeed a short run to the other side, a round light swallowing her when she crosses the border, leading her back outside to the barren wasteland that is Castle Oblivion’s patio. Aqua’s heart hammers away like she’s drunk too many stimulants for years. Like she’s too old for this. She’s gasping into her helmet, but she won’t dispel it just yet. Not when the others are here. 

Lea doesn’t stop. He marches straight to the gummi ship, its hangar left open for them, followed by a diligent Goofy. They have a room inside where they could tend to Riku’s wounds and make sure Ven is comfortable. 

Sora looks back. “You’ll fly on your own right?”

Aqua weakly nods and the others board the ship. 

Lea made it so easy to exit. Traversing the castle seemed like a nightmare that kept you asleep just to see it end. The gummi ship starts its engines, revving up and blowing air that kicks the dirt up. Aqua listens for Lea’s corridor to dissipate. Maybe all this noise is playing tricks with her mind because that bubbling sound that should signal its disappearance is going on for too long. Aqua turns around. Lea’s is gone alright, but another takes shape at the front entrance.

Vanitas bursts out of it to witness the gummi ship take off. 

Xemnas casually steps out, too. “Stand your ground,” he orders.

Vanitas does obey, though he’s trembling with so much fever that it looks like he’s fighting off a spell that kept him frozen. Fists curled up tight, stance wide like he’s about to charge ahead if only given the permission to do so. Aqua would have expected him to glance back as if to say, Are you stupid?

But he doesn’t look back. She can only imagine him grinding his teeth, muttering curses to himself. Whether he’s staring at her or the sky through his helmet, it doesn’t matter.

Aqua has the Defender at the edge of her fingertips, only needing to summon it. Xemnas stands there with his hands crossed behind him, watching as the ship leaves. 

A roar thunders through the area, making the ground shake. 

What looks like a dragon snakes through the sky. Compartmentalized into chunks that link together a long chain for a body, its purple and green and bears the Heartless symbol on its chest, just below its giant snout and metal fangs. It looks like a machine, something that can drill into a planet until it gets to its core. And then eats.

The weight of it. It’s like carrying a mountain on your shoulders. This thing is a cluster. A Heart of some world that died who knows how long ago, living again as a monster big enough to swallow a ship. 

Xemnas readies his energy sabers but Aqua doesn’t take the bait. She turns on her heel and runs.

Vanitas conjures his Keyblade and follows her. She dodges one of his blasts that comes up behind her. Throws herself off the nearest cliff to thwart him off of her trail. He actually stops to gawk at how she summons Stormfall. She commands it to convert it into her glider so she has something solid to land on.

She takes flight, past the barrier that tries to pull her back to Castle Oblivion, but when she keeps momentum, it lets her go out into deep space. The gummi ship is traversing an area full of them, all of these destroyed worlds, all pieces of earth that Aqua can take a whole day exploring. The monster dragon is huge, weaving around abandoned rubble, its tail whipping into an asteroid and demolishing it into dust. 

Its nose follows the gummi ship closely, as though it’s sniffing. It bares teeth.

“Sora!”

How ridiculous of her - he can’t hear her from the ship. She dislodges the handles of her glider, turning them over so she’s holding a bow as tall as her. With it, she shoots shards of light against the dragon. 

The gummi ship bends into a tunnel inside a spinning asteroid - a wild, dangerous, stupid choice to make and she’ll have to lecture Sora about that later. It comes out of a different hole, now facing the dragon, joining the fight with torpedoes and laser beams. 

The attacks burst when it makes contact with its skin (more like an armor), but it doesn’t leave any scarring. It doesn’t slow it down. Its roar is mechanical, as though it’s coming out of a speaker, sleeking over a boulder so it could chomp the ship directly. 

Aqua grunts as she speeds up, coming up from underneath the dragon’s chin to knock its direction off-kilter. It misses the ship. Good, for now at least, since it swerves back so easily.

Whoever is maneuvering the ship (Aqua doesn’t know it’s Sora, but the way it jerks and gets cocky with taunting the dragon into following it reminds her so much of his fighting style) is making it tank around the perimeter, letting it get close to the dragon. If Sora wants to make a direct hit, he’s in a good position to do so. 

The dragon roars again. This time, a beam of energy bubbles in its throat, twice the size of the ship. Sora readies torpedoes and throws shots into its mouth. But it doesn’t faze the dragon either. 

They’re not going to survive this.

Sora understands. He dips below, the dragon tailing him with that beam still charging up for something catastrophic. Aqua tries zipping around its face, taking shots from her bow directly into its eyes, directly into its mouth in the hopes that it would combust its jaw open and stop the attack. Nothing happens. The dragon ignores her as though she’s just a fly bugging its face.

There’s one more option. Swooping high and higher, she swings over and looks down on the dragon. It opens its mouth wider as Sora barely pushes his speed. 

She charges down, the Master’s Defender in her hand while her other grips on her handlebars. This is an extreme choice to make, a silly little sword against a dragon the size of an entire world. But she’s never known Master Eraqus to ever fail her. To ever show weakness, even in that one night when he received a letter about someone who disappeared due to the darkness. He cried. He stood up. And told her this was why they did the work they did. Use the anger and desperation to drive her forward until the end. She’s desperate right now, and she yells into her helmet as she gathers speed. 

She cuts across the back of the dragon’s neck, where its definitive brain stem would have been. The dragon explodes - first from its mouth, light beams spurting out. Then in between each compartment that makes up the rest of its body, like volcanoes erupting, and tsunamis colliding, and earthquakes collapsing. 

Pieces of it fall through deep space, new asteroids joining the rest of the waste.

But that burst from its mouth hit the gummi ship, which is now smoking from its left wing. Aqua’s glider isn’t big enough to save them.

All she can do is follow the way it falls, to trail behind it when gravity makes it faster than she can possibly catch up to, and watch the way Sora wheels it around obstacles and debris as he tries to control it even though he can’t. 

Until it dives into a world that stands bright, a tall castle jutting out into a horizon. There’s a magic there that is protective. As though an invisible hand has grown out of its dirt, the gummi ship, with her friends inside, slows down, landing somewhere where the sunrise is just beginning.

[deathonyourtongue]

Winter Passing | Chapter 7

Summary: After car accident leaves him at the base of a mountain with no sign of civilization for miles, a breakup is the least of Henry’s problems. Just as death’s icy fingers begin to coil around him, salvation presents itself in the form of an old cabin in a clearing. Despite years of being told fairy tales and ghost stories that warn against such things, he uses his last of his strength to reach the cottage. When he wakes, he finds not a demon, but an angel, long removed from the insanity of the modern world. Pairing: AU!Henry Cavill x OFC Word Count: 3K Warnings: A microscopic amount of smut. And an apparition that’s a little gory. A/N : Who wants to guess which actress plays Tabitha?  Like what I do? Buy me a coffee (or a commission)!

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Over the next few days, Olivia and Henry fell into a pattern. She’d wake before him, usually to a report of the night’s happenings from Dyster, who’d taken to patrolling ever since Tiago had come and gone. By the time Henry woke, Olivia was making breakfast, and the two would share quiet conversation about everything and nothing. She learned he was an actor who’d had something of a big break, and--up until the accident--had been looking for the perfect follow-up script to keep his momentum going. Henry learned what Olivia was willing to share about her practice and her past, but overall, she remained something of a mystery to him. While that was usually a turn-off for him, with Olivia, it only added to the entrancing nature of her and the place she called home. 

Once Henry’s injuries healed completely, he began pulling his weight around the property. He became the early bird, always up and outside when Olivia woke to Dyster’s pecking at her window. She’d never asked, but without fail she’d find him either chopping wood, or taking care of the animals. Though she often wondered what his motivations were for being so helpful, it didn’t take long for Olivia to realize that he simply enjoyed being busy and useful, a quality that made a bigger impression on her than his smile or charm ever could have.

“Good morning, love,” Henry panted as he came in, stomping the snow off his boots and wiping them as best he could before trying to toe out of them with a stack of wood in his arms. 

“Here, let me take these,” Olivia smiled, not missing how rosy his cheeks got whenever he exerted himself outside in the nipping cold. If she were truthful with herself, Olivia would admit to having more than just a passing fancy for the man who’d been on death’s door not two weeks prior; she was truly starting to fall for the handsome Brit, and each day they spent in each other’s company, her heart opened just a little further. 

Taking the wood from Henry, she moved to the living room, placing the cut logs on the top of the already-neat pile of dried wood. Olivia couldn’t stop her smile as she watched Henry make a beeline for the kitchen, ruffling the top of Gunnar’s head absently as he peeked at everything that was cooking on the stove. 

“You outdo yourself every day, darling. I can’t wait!” Henry said with genuine awe and excitement, his blue eyes brighter than ever. His expression sent a rush through Olivia, her heart fluttering and her own cheeks ruddying as she moved to check on breakfast, gently nudging him out of her way and earning herself a chuckle in the process. 

“Won’t have to wait much longer. Food’s ready,” she smiled, Olivia laughing sweetly as she watched Henry bolt into action, grabbing plates, cups, and cutlery. By the time she reached the table with the skillet, Henry had already poured their tea and had her plate in hand, ready to serve her first. 

It was the little things--like always serving her first--that became endearing; things Olivia knew she’d miss once spring came and Henry was able to go back to his normal life. He was a thoughtful man without any need for validation, and while she figured that part of it was that she’d saved his life, Olivia liked to think that it was mostly just the product of being raised by someone just as thoughtful and caring. 

“Thank you,” she murmured softly, Olivia’s eyes closing as she felt Henry’s large hand smooth over her hair, her expression one she rarely wore. So rarely in fact, that even Gunnar noticed, the husky cocking his head to one side in confusion. For the first time in a long time, Olivia seemed content.

“Of course. Thank you for cooking,” Henry replied without hesitation, his smile warm as he served himself. 

They ate in amicable silence, bites occasionally interrupted by a glance up at one another, glances that quickly shifted back to their plates, their smiles ear-to-ear. Though neither could deny their attraction, neither was ready to make the first move, so they danced around it, taking what they could in secret smiles, little touches, and--in another quickly-formed routine--solo time spent thinking of the other while they worked out their desires in the most primal of ways.

Alone time had become just as much a part of their routine as anything else, and like clockwork, when breakfast was over, Olivia headed outside to forage, while Henry moved to bathe. Though it was an unspoken agreement, it wasn’t without its perils, and more than once Olivia had walked back inside either to the sounds of his moans, or to him, still wet, moving from the bath to his room to dress. It was frustrating, to say the least, but made for quick work on her part when Henry moved outside to finish whatever chore he’d started before breakfast.  

When they’d both had their fill, life would return to normal. With no TV or electricity, they spent the daylight hours reading, writing, and occasionally playing a board game. It was a peaceful existence, one which, aside from the company of Henry, went largely unchanged for Olivia. It was a pleasant surprise to not have to veer so far from her routine as to turn her world upside down. Even her daily practice went unchanged, as Henry seemed to have a preternatural ability to tell when she was ready to use her altar or crack open her book, and without fail he would head to his room to nap or read in bed, always with a warm smile and a gentle touch as he made his way. 

Nighttime was when the cottage came alive. It always began with dinner, Henry taking over cooking duties while Olivia handled the drinks. With her hand-crank record player providing a quiet soundtrack, the two danced, drank, and ate without a care. The more they drank, the more affectionate they became with one another, and more often than not, the two would end up on the couch, snuggling together as the snow fell outside. The combination of Henry’s charms and the alcohol flowing through her veins, brought Olivia’s walls down further and further. Each night, her carefully guarded history came out, chapter by chapter, a bedtime story for Henry, who always lay listening intently, as she played with his curls. Though more open, Olivia’s tales were always about her personal history, never about her life as it related to her craft, and Henry knew it would take more than a few drunken evenings for him to earn that part of her story.

“What’s something you believed when you were younger that you know to be false now?” Henry asked, his eyes closed in pure bliss as Olivia’s fingers traced lightly over his face, releasing muscles he didn’t even realize had been tense as he lay with his head in her lap. 

“Love magic. Like any other little girl, I believed in all the syrupy-sweet hag tales of frogs turning into princes, true love’s kiss, finding ‘the one’. All a load of crap when you grow up and realize people are cruel to one another and that no one truly cares about your heart if it gets in their way. Even the ‘spells’ I cast back then were silly and sappy.”

“Like what?” Henry asked, his smile ear-to-ear as he opened his eyes to gaze up at Olivia. With his expression so tender and sweet, Olivia found herself saying the words on autopilot, one hand placed over Henry’s heart while the other continued to outline his features.

“By the loving heart of Hecate, by fire, air, earth, and sea, please draw my love to me. Someone to love with all my soul, once we’re together we’ll both be whole. I’ll give my love freely, I’ll love him completely, please Hecate, bring my love to me. As I do say, so mote it be!” Each phrase matched a line traced over Henry’s face, and it wasn’t until she’d closed the spell that Olivia realized what she’d done. Waiting for a tell that the spell had worked, she felt relief when she couldn’t feel a change on the wind. A blush colored her face as Henry looked up at her once more, a gentility in his expression that she couldn’t get enough of. 

“Silly or not, that’s a lovely sentiment, darling. There’s nothing wrong in asking for the love you deserve.” Sitting up, Henry made Olivia feel light as a feather as he picked her up and set her in his lap with ease. His hand was warm as he cupped her face, his eyes searching hers. “It may not have worked when you were a child, but now that you’re a grown woman, I’d chance it to say things might go differently.”

Without another word, Henry leaned in and pressed his lips to Olivia’s. It felt as though the earth stood still, Olivia’s heart feeling too big for her chest as she returned the kiss with the utmost passion. Allowing the dam that held her feelings to crumble, she slung her arms around Henry’s neck, getting lost in the softness of his lips and the tickle of his beard.

Henry felt as though he were floating, the experience of kissing Olivia different from any other woman he’d been with. Her lips were nectar-sweet, and the scent of all the herbs she worked with enveloped him in a warmth unlike any other. He felt his heart skip a beat as she settled in his embrace, silently showing that she was just as much at peace with him, as he was with her. The words of the spell echoed in his mind, and Henry couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, knowing at least one passage had come to pass; it seemed as though, in the few weeks they’d known each other and traipsed around their affections for one another, their first kiss truly had made them whole. 

“Yes, hello officer. I’d like to report a missing person. Yes, my boyfriend, Henry. He’s been missing for...almost three weeks now? When did I last see him? Oh, well, the day he moved out. You see, we had a little…Spat and he thought it meant we were over, but that was hardly the case. Yes, I’m very worried. Describe him? Well, he’s quite handsome, in the Prince Charming kind of way. Dark hair that curls something awful if he doesn’t keep it trimmed. Blue eyes. Tall, at least six feet. Muscular, but not a body builder by any means. He’s British. I last saw him pulling away in his Escalade--well, not his to be truthful. It was mine and I sold it to him for a dollar when his old car broke down...Oh, right, of course. He said he’d found an apartment on the north side of town. Why he’d want to make the commute to New York that much harder for himself, I’ll never understand. Oh? Yes, he’s an actor, if you can call it that. I called it a vain pursuit, but that’s just me. No, no family here, I’m afraid. I’m his family. Yes, of course! My number is…”

Tabitha Norwood’s voice was sickly-sweet, her smile beaming as she spoke to the detective she’d been transferred to. Standing in her kitchen, she pressed the phone to her ear with her shoulder, her perfectly-manicured red nails an accent to her delicate fingers, which busied themselves with tightly closing the lid of a small jar. When finished, she placed the jar by her open window, and washed her hands, her sphynx, Fluffy, jumping onto her shoulder just as the detective hung up. 

“Don’t worry, boy. We’ll find him. He can’t have gone very far.” She smiled, tucking one side of her copper bob behind her ear, her smile never once faltering.

“Oh fuck, Henry! Yes, right there! Don’t stop!” Olivia’s back arched high off the mattress as Henry’s hips slammed hard into hers, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Her voice hoarse from the filthiest, most orgasmic foreplay she’d ever had, she was certain Henry would be her total undoing, tea leaves be damned. Every stroke of his length inside her was heavenly, and Olivia didn’t hesitate to plant Henry firmly at the top of her ‘Best I Ever Had’ list, mentally kicking Henry’s predecessor off the podium, unable to remember what her other lovers even looked like as her new love brought her to the mountaintop.

She came with his name on her lips, Henry following suit, his body trembling as visibly as hers was. They lay still connected for some time, indulging in afterglow kisses and feather-light touches, both Henry and Olivia thrilled by how the night had turned out. 

Were it not for Dyster’s sudden pecking at the window and Gunnar’s alarm-growl, everything would have been perfect. Henry and Olivia both jumped, but for very different reasons, Henry startled by the noise and Olivia on full alert, understanding her animals��� calls better than anyone. Pulling out of her as gently as he could, Henry scrambled to put his pants on while Olivia wrapped her robe around her body, moving to the window once she was covered. 

Though her first instinct was to open the window to speak with her raven, Dyster flew away just as her hand went for the sill and in doing so, allowed Olivia’s gaze to see what had caused all the ruckus.

Outside, by her altar, stood a woman in white. Despite a veil covering her face, Olivia recognized her immediately. A shiver ran through her and tears filled her eyes within seconds. Stuck in place, she watched as the woman held up a grotesque effigy of a child. Deformed in every possible way, the infant’s cries were terrifying and made it clear it was in pain. 

In her practice, Olivia asked for very little, preferring instead to give from her heart, and receive only that which the goddess and the lesser gods she worshipped deemed suitable for her to receive. This was a clear message that someone was displeased.

Olivia jumped when Henry’s hand wrapped around her shoulder, and without needing to think, she pushed him away and out of sight. “Stay there. Whatever you hear next, stay where you are.” 

There was no room for discourse as Olivia moved to action, yanking open her nightstand and pulling out a long test tube with a cork stopper. Stepping through her door, she opened the tube and let the contents spill into a neat line on the floor. Olivia hopped over it and did the same with the window sill both in her room and the attached bathroom. With one final line at the bathroom door, she changed out of her robe and into a dress, wiped her eyes, and headed downstairs.

Henry sat on the bed, eyes unblinking as he listened for every minute sound he could make out. At first, he heard only the child and the creaks of the house as Olivia moved around downstairs. Gunnar’s bark and Dyster’s cawing came next, both animals clearly agitated beyond reason. Finally, he heard Olivia’s voice, stronger and more firm than he’d ever heard it before. 

“GO BACK FROM WHENCE YOU CAME, EVIL SPIRIT! YOUR MASK FOOLS NO ONE! LEAVE THIS PLACE IN PEACE!” 

There was no stopping Henry from bolting to the window as an ear-piercing shriek cut through the clearing, and though he might have brushed things off as simply his overactive imagination before, there was no denying what he saw. As Olivia threw a bucket of salt in the direction of the woman, she began to dissolve, reminding Henry of cotton candy in water. Closing his eyes tightly, he pressed the heels of his palms over them, willing the image of the woman’s unhinged jaw and oozing mouth to leave his mind as quickly as it entered. 

After a few minutes, Olivia came back inside, and it took only a moment for Henry to realize she was sobbing. Quickly, he moved downstairs, his heart breaking for Olivia as he found her crumpled on the floor by the hearth. Hearing his footsteps, she looked up with a hitched inhale, quickly wiping her eyes in embarrassment. 

“Who was that, love?” Henry asked, stopping at the foot of the stairs, his face making it clear that his only concern was for her and her well-being. 

“That…” Olivia’s lower lip quivered and more tears slid down her cheeks as she fought to speak. “That was an apparition with my mother’s face.”

[mbti-notes]

How can I, an INFP, help an ENFP in a loop? He's been looping for months, it happened after his gf ended the relationship. He's very judgmental, hates humanity, has violent fantasies towards his ex. He often talks about winning/losing, dependence/domination in his relationships, projects his feelings of dependency and weakness into his friends and is sometimes very disrespectful to them. (1/3)

[con’t: (but he isn’t always like that. (!) He can be very friendly and respectful and then suddenly change w/o a visible cause). He says he never ever felt happy for another person, that he never feels pity, never is emotionally touched by something. When I talk to him, I’m sympathetic. He is in a lot of pain and can’t see a way out. But I also tell him when his behavior is childish or low or cruel. I try to give him advice and he genuinely listens to me (and he wants to talk to me about his pain)but can’t apply it (I know it’s very difficult for a looping person). He used to be a creative, charming, sweet and very amicable and optimistic person. He did feel happy for people and he did feel pity, I know this. But now he says he feels like he can’t change because his feelings of contempt and despair are his identity. How can I help him? (we’re all in our early 20s).]

When NFs turn their pain into their identity, there’s not much you can do to help them because all of your suggestions will sound to them like you are disrespecting their individuality and that “you don’t really understand” them (therefore, they shouldn’t listen to you). It’s a difficult situation to deal with. He still hears you out and is not so far gone as to dismiss you outright, which is good. It’s good that he’s known what it’s like to be healthy. Unhealthy NFs tend to suffer self-esteem problems and are extremely sensitive to criticism, so your words should carry a tone of positivity, encouragement, and hopeful possibility. You’ve already got the empathy, make sure it comes out in everything you do and say if you don’t want him to become defensive towards you.

The way he indulges his pain is a defense mechanism (tertiary loop). Anger and vindictiveness provide the illusion of strength and control. When a person is forced into a powerless and vulnerable position (as is often the case with romantic breakups), it is natural to want to stabilize oneself by grasping for any form of power and influence. Why do you think many divorces get so nasty? For enfps, this unfortunately takes the form of Te loop, which essentially means becoming an asshole, as you’ve witnessed firsthand. But this is just a flimsy way to hide from the pain of feeling helpless and the hurt of feeling discarded. Ideally, a person should embrace their vulnerability, take the hit and face the facts of the negative event, i.e., to exercise proper self-care and graceful acceptance. When they can’t, the negative emotions remain unresolved, just left to fester, escalate, and turn into something ugly. This can be particularly difficult for men who have been socialized to believe that they are entitled to what they want and that they should never have to feel helpless and vulnerable, so their low emotional intelligence leaves them with no healthy recourse to release their negative feelings, which unfortunately promotes anger and violence as last resorts.

Issue 1: He takes the breakup much too personally, which most people are prone to do; it is the rare person who can remain on good and amicable terms with all their exes. Relationships end for a variety of complicated factors and reasons, sometimes for good reason. It seems that he doesn’t understand the real reason why this relationship had to end, which means that he still holds on to the idea that it “shouldn’t” have ended. “End” doesn’t have to equal “bad”, especially when it opens up the possibility of finding a better relationship. Being dumped feels like someone stabbed you on purpose when, actually, the person is simply realizing that it’s not the path they should be on, which automatically means that it’s not the path you should be on, either. When FPs get vindictive, it is because they believe they’ve been “wronged” and they want to even the score. This is not the right way to look at the situation because it means you’re holding on to something that’s dead, you’re wasting time and energy on something that’s dead, you’re harming yourself terribly by filling your heart with hate and spite about something that’s dead. Oftentimes, forgiveness is not even about the other person and what they did/don’t/didn’t do, it’s really about exercising self-care and not wanting to be a hateful and spiteful person. 

Issue 2: He turns pain into his identity, which is easy to do when one’s identity is fluid or poorly defined as is usually the case with lack of proper auxiliary Fi development. One of the great things about being NF is that a person genuinely believes they can be whatever they imagine they can be. In the best case scenario, this means that they strive to achieve their true potential and they work towards becoming a better version of themselves. In the worst case scenario, this means that a person can get totally stuck when they can’t imagine that anything better is possible. In other words, in terms of their self-image, belief often becomes reality for NFs. With inferior Si, it is common for enfps to jump to the conclusion that “hope is false” when their ideals/dreams are proven wrong/empty by a painful setback or failure. When mired in Te loop, enfps don’t have to take responsibility for being their worst self because they are able to pin the blame on something/someone else for “making” them turn bad. But a person can only be “made” to turn bad when their moral foundation was weak to begin with (Fi). Anger feels good when you’ve convinced yourself that it’s “righteous”, and he’s thusly motivated to indulge and perpetuate it. I think he fails to accurately envision where this road really leads him and he seems willing to destroy himself to prove a moot point that only he knows and cares about, which speaks to weak Fi. By indulging the false and twisted power of cynical anger, he can convince himself that he is not bad but rather it is the world and other people who are bad and he’s “forced” to be a part of it, that he is somehow better than the gf. But the reality is that his negative behavior basically just proves that she was right to leave him, and if this ever dawns on him (though it probably won’t), it can create an even bigger blow to his self-esteem.

Whatever other people do or don’t do, if you’re truly a good person, you’ll at least always try to make good moral decisions no matter what problems and challenges you encounter in life. If you can only be a good person under certain, shifting, very conveniently defined conditions, then it’s not real, is it? This is what he doesn’t understand because of weak Fi. At the end of the day, you have the final say about what kind of person you choose to be. If you choose to be full of spite, then it is you who has chosen to close the door to everything good in yourself - it is self-sabotage. Choosing one path often means that you can’t choose another: choosing negativity means that you close the door on positivity, choosing to harp on the past means that you close the door to a better future, choosing anger means that you close the door on feeling love. He needs to understand this truth so that he can accept responsibility for his life, then he can practice self-care and move forward.

[blackrose-ffxiv]

Everyone Expects the Ishgardian Inquisition 06/05

It was shocking to say the least when an Inquisitor was brought to the apartments in a side wing shared by his branch of the Haillenartes. Anselme de Haillenarte had already been through a court martial, what more could they want from him. He had been told by a fairly solid source that it was pointless to resist when the Inquisition came. Name and rank counted for nothing if there was enough evidence. He went along willingly and without fuss, as not to upset the family he had been visiting, promising he’d be back in time for supper. The knight and two Inquisitors arrived in the Tribunal and he was brought to a sparse room with only a few chairs and a table. One of the infamous interrogation rooms, though this was at least above ground. That was a good sign. The Knight smiled good-naturedly, as best as he could given the circumstances, and settled into the indicated seat. “Any chance for a cup of tea to go along with all this?”

"As a matter of fact I could go for a spot of tea. Galdemps? If you would?" Inquisitor Danglars gestured to the tea pot near the door and the fine glasses that surrounded it. Once the gesture was complete, the hyuran Inquisitor reached forward and ticked on the heat lamp and adjusted its ray to face Anselme. His expression was entirely amicable throughout. "Now...where shall we begin. For the record, your name and rank if you would, Ser Knight. Lest we make a dreadful mistake and rake the wrong man over the holy coals." The Inquisitor flashed a humorous grin as if to suggest his words were merely jest.

Inquisitor Galdemps, as the less senior of the pair, is forced to stand, and thus takes up a spot behind Danglars’ chair--close enough to be helpful, but not enough to be a distraction. At least, not unless one was needed. He nods once to Danglars, then goes to fetch the tea--though his attention is only half on his task, for he's intently listening to the conversation going on at the table. There is a small smirk on his face as he returns with the tea; he found Danglars’ joke amusing--though perhaps--not quite for the right reasons. In any case, he sets out two cups, then goes back to where he was standing. Keeping quiet, for now.

Anselme blinked rapidly as the light was turned on and shone in his face. He winced slightly at the intensity and the warmth of the lamp, settling back slightly in his chair so it wouldn’t be quite so close to his face. He was saving tanning for his beach vacation, after all. “Of course, Ser. Anselme de Haillenarte. Formerly an officier subalterne, rank sous-lieutenant. Currently on extended leave.” He stated calmly enough, sliding the tea towards himself and letting it cool in front of him rather than drinking immediately. He straightened his shoulders into a more military posture, keeping his attention on the Inquisitor in front of him as he spoke. Anselme kept his expression carefully neutral. Either not getting the joke or not finding it very funny at the moment.

"And we thank you for your service, Ser Anselme de Haillenarte," the Inquisitor dipped his chin as he flipped through the files in front of him, eyes scanning the words rapdily as he did so. "What can you tell us about the events that lead to your intrusion into House Dzemael's Darkhold?"

Anselme inhaled slowly, then exhaled as well. “Can you specify which events you’re referring to, Ser. I was born quite a long time ago… that’s a lot of events to go through and I did promise my mother I would be home in time for supper.”

--

Anselme nodded firmly, flashing a cheerful grin at them both. “Very good, so I can expect you both to lend aid should she return? If you’ll give me your names I’ll arrange for messages to be sent once I’m reinstated. We shall be the first line…” He started to rise to his feet, trying to draw the conversation to a close. He bumped the table in that moment when Luca was mentioned, knocking his own teacup over in his clumsiness as he stood. “Oh noo.” He declared, grabbing a handful of parchment nearby to begin mopping up the mess. “My apologies, a bit hard to see where I’m going with the light.”

Danglars seemed nonplussed by the accident. "The boy, Anselme de Haillenarte. His name? Whereabouts?"

Galtemps steps forward at this, moving around the table towards Anselme. He didn't do anything, yet, besides seriously implying that the knight wouldn't be allowed to leave just yet.

Anselme stacked enough parchment on the spill to ensure it would be absorbed eventually but didn’t sit back down. “I don’t know, Ser. I suspect he was using a false name and I didn’t ask where he had come from. Mercenaries are rather dodgy that way.”

"Galtemps, if you would, please," said Danglars, gesturing towards Anselme.

"With pleasure," Galtemps remarks. The elezen moves surprisingly quickly; he would try to grab Anselme's shoulders and force him roughly back down into the chair. "Last chance," he growls. "Tell us what we want to know, and this will go so much easier for you."

Anselme inhaled deeply, bracing for what would come next. Yet thankfully it was nothing too much worse than being shoved to sit down once again. Nonetheless he winced at the growl. “There was a boy there.” He admitted slowly, looking up at Galtemps. “But there’s no reason to believe she had any interest in him more than any other.” He frowned as something didn’t add up, something big enough even for him to notice. “There was no one else there…��

"You are a respectable Knight from a respectable house, Anselme de Haillenarte--you wouldn't have hired just any *mercenaries* to assist you, let alone a child. You knew the boy. Meaning you know his name." Danglars slammed his hands down on the table and stood from his seat. "GIVE US HIS BLOODY NAME! Galtemps!" Danglars seemed to command the larger man with an unspoken order, gesturing towards Anselme again. 

Anselme pushed back suddenly from the table, knocking his chair over backwards in the process. There had been no one else there. Idristan and Luca wouldn’t talk to the Inquisition, if they had any sense they were laying low somewhere other than Ishgard in the first place. “The guards were all dead.” He said slowly, visibly shaken as his brows lifted and eyes widened. None had been there to see the witch mark Luca save for the three and the darkness. “I’d like to have my superior officer present for any further questioning.” He said quickly.

Galtemps gives Danglars that wolfish grin once more before he takes a step back from Anselme. One of his hands dives into the bag he was wearing at his side for a few seconds before reappearing holding a vial filled with an odd substance, as if someone had bottled up black smoke. Giving Anselme one last look, he actually laughs. "As if they would help you," he sneers, before stretching out an arm and breaking the vial onto it. The smoke starts to wrap around him, and where it touches, it transforms. Limbs lengthen, fingers curl into vicious claws, and a maw filled with jagged, sharp teeth roars as a voidsent comes into being where an elezen once stood.

"I think you'll find...." said Danglars, flashing a devilish grin, wider than should have been possible for a mortal mouth. "We have very effective ways of making you talk. Count yourself lucky that you were spared her wrath. Spared his wrath. We won't be so gentle. Praise Him." Danglars did the same, then, pulling back one of the sleeves of his robe revealing a bold black tattoo that seemed to be branded into the skin--a dragon wrapped in a figure 8 biting its own tail. He smashed his own vial over it, releasing the same black smoke around his limbs. His body snapped, twisted, grew, contorted and spasmed until Danglars, too, had been replaced by a grotesque voidsent.

Anselme was moving the moment the vial was brought out. The Knight grabbed the chair from where it had fallen and stood with the bottom of it pointed at the Inquisitor closest to him. Just in time to see the man morph into monster, complete with claws and massive teeth. “Halone’s frozen tits you can’t be serious…” He gasped as he backed slowly to the far side of the table where the light rested. At a very inopportune moment he was forced to wonder if perhaps a certain someone had a point about the current Tribunal going to the Hells, though he hadn’t expected it to be so literal.

@roses-and-grimoires and @luca-the-hunter playing the fantastic Galtemps and Danglars, RIP

((Lower 3 Screenshots courtesy of Luca, thank you for letting me use them!))

[musikat18]

Light of Valhalla, Fire of Hel: Chapter Four (Skurge x Reader)

Pairing: Skurge/Reader

Warnings: Some language, mentions of death/murder, mourning, jealousy, SLOW BURN

Summary: You’re the best friend of Thor and Sif, a high-born Asgardian lady with a penchant for running off into battle, enchanted halberd blazing. The battle of Vanaheim brings your secret close to being discovered, but when the goddess of death arrives in Asgard, you must examine how far you are willing to go to preserve both of your lives when her new assistant happens to be the one man outside the Royal Family who knows the truth about how you spend your time.

A/N: Y’all this one is LONG AS HEL(L). Also, some jealous!Reader, because it’s time to be PETTY and ADD CONFLICT.

Light of Valhalla, Fire of Hel

<Previous Next>

Chapter Four: In Hot Water

You were both numb and silent as you sat in the cell beneath the palace. Emotionally, physically...you couldn’t tell just how much you couldn’t feel.

Watching you folded in on yourself, elbows on your knees and head in your hands as you sat, stoic and bowed, on the bench, Skurge felt a pang in his chest. He couldn’t bear to see you like this.

“You could at least talk to me,” he said. Hela had let you and him be— she knew just how cowardly he was, just enough to ensure loyalty— so there was no reason not to comfort you. “At least you’re alive.”

“I’m alive?” your voice shook with intensity as you looked up at him, eyes rimmed red. “At least I’m alive?!” With one stride, you got as much in his face as the wall of transparent energy would allow; the veins in your arms were gilded with light and heat. “I would die a thousand deaths rather than stand for my father to be executed in such a heinous, honorless way!”

He didn’t even flinch.

“I’m doing all that I can to protect you,” he frowned. “I’m not asking for gratitude. I don’t even expect your forgiveness. We both know that’s never been your strong suit.”

“At least you’ve managed to grasp something about me,” you snarked back, the fire not leaving your blood.

“Y/N,” he said, as gentle and firm as he could muster in the face of your fury. “You’ve got to calm down.”

“Since when have you ever been one to-”

“You’re burning again. If Hela finds out…” he stopped. You stepped back. He was right. Even in your rage, you knew what the consequences of her discovery of your...unique gifts would do. It would be over for Asgard, over for the universe.

“...This doesn’t mean I don’t care that you didn’t even stop her,” you took a breath, but you couldn’t stop anything that was coming out of your mouth. “I can’t believe you didn’t stop her! My father was the damned head of the Defense Council! He would have known exactly what we’re up against and-”

“We’re?” he almost had a little half-smirk.

“Don’t.”

“So, you do want my help? Because I heard a hard ‘we’re’ just now.”

“I don’t need your bloody help!”

“Really? I mean, I’m on the outside of this cell, and you’re inside, so if we were actually on the same side of this-”

“Stop teasing me! We as in Asgard!” your cheeks were puffed in frustration, and you rolled your eyes as he chuckled at you.

“Don’t think I don’t miss the back-and-forth,” he said. “Although, you’re normally better at it.”

“...Don’t get sentimental on me, either,” you frowned and took a seat on your bench.

-

The feast was extravagant, that was for sure. There was no way it wouldn’t be. Your family’s solar crest hung on banners, gleaming in the beautifully-lit grand hall. Amora was the belle of the ball, as you expected, and you hardly minded. You were much happier with the company of Sif, Heimdall, and the Warriors.

“Any news from Thor?” you asked Heimdall, lifting your drink to your lips.

“Still travelling, I believe,” he responded. “He moves in and out of my sight as he travels through the universe...the more he moves, the harder it becomes to trace him. You both share a habit of restlessness.”

“Not that I’m surprised,” Sif said. “Probably off showing the Midgardian girl how wonderful the universe it.” She was still bitter, you could tell; you knew she’d harbored a quiet affection for the older Prince of Asgard, and when Jane had come to Asgard, you remained by her side.

“I might take up travel, myself,” Fandral suggested, grinning jokingly. “I mean, look at how it has made your cousin. She’s certainly less exaggerated.”

Your eyes, however, weren’t on your cousin. They had fallen to the warrior and his father speaking to the Einherjar guards at the door.

-

He didn’t respond to your almost bittersweet critique, simply heaving a sigh before he left you be.

You had no idea what Hela’s plan was, but you had a pretty good idea of what didn’t need to happen.

“Heimdall,” you whispered, clutching your necklace as the solar charm burned and buzzed in your closed fist. “If you can hear me, we need to talk.”

Orange overcame your eye color again, and you were suddenly standing before Sif in the woods; not having seen your friend in the better part of a year, you were relieved to see she was still the same and different, just as you were-- swathed in a red cloak, with her hair cut shorter, and still with that same fierce, protective gleam.

“I saw her,” Heimdall nodded from his position across from you. “Hela.”

“Who is she?” you breathed.

“A monster from before your time...before Thor...before Asgard knew peace. What is the status of the city?”

“Hela has killed all the guards and warriors,” you informed him, hesitating only a moment, “the Warriors Three, the palace royal guards, even….”

“Where are you now? Can you reach us?”

“Not without alerting her to your presence,” you shook your head. “She has me placed in the palace dungeons. Skurge...Skurge convinced her to spare me.”

“Well,” Sif quirked her lips bitterly, “at least he’s done you some good.”

“I fear she means to take the Nine Realms,” you quickly changed the subject. “She cannot open the Bifrost.”

“I have figured as such. Are there survivors?”

“Possibly,” you mused. “Most are likely headed your way.”

“Sif,” Heimdall said sternly, “wait here for any refugees. I will see what can be done about the Bifrost.”

“And me?” you asked.

“Stay where you are. Keep her distracted as much as possible. You make just as keen a speaker as a warrior,” Heimdall said. “When we can manage a plan to escape, I will contact you.”

Without another word, your old friends vanished, and you were back in the dungeon cell. With good timing to boot, because Skurge was leading Hela toward your holding chamber.

“Enjoying your accommodations, child?” Hela’s voice was condescending.

“Not really,” you admitted, hugging your arms in a move of false discomfort. “It’s...not as roomy as I’m used to.”

“Prove yourself loyal, and perhaps you can be moved up to the palace to advise your queen,” she smiled. “Skurge did mention what an eloquence you have.”

“When my temper stays in check,” you admitted.

-

“One moment,” you excused yourself. Sure enough, it was Skurge and Halvar at the door.

“Forgive us, Halvar,” one of the guards said, not noticing your approach. “But we must ask that your son not enter.”

“For what reason?” Halvar looked tired.

“He is of questionable character...given his history.”

“My son is a warrior of Asgard, just as you and the other soldiers are,” Halvar pressed.

“The vargdr-”

“Gentlemen,” you interrupted, catching the guards by surprise. “I don’t like to hear that language in my household.”

“Lady Y/N,” one bowed.

“You may stand,” you said. “The entire kingdom was invited to this feast. If they are seeking entrance, allow it.”

“With all due respect, my lady-”

“I am the lady of this household and I command that you allow them in,” you said with finality. The guards moved aside; Skurge didn’t meet your eyes as he and his father entered the grand hall.

“My thanks, Lady Y/N,” Halvar smiled. He took your hands in his calloused ones and bowed his head respectfully, “I would never seek to create a scene in your home.”

“You have done good work in this kingdom for many years, Halvar. They were in the wrong, not you,” you insisted. “You are no outlaw, and your son is no child of one.”

He looked as though he didn’t believe you, which stoked your curiosity. This wasn’t the place. You could not ask here, not where so many would judge.

Later, you decided. You would ask later. Instead, you waved Skurge aside, away from prying eyes that would question how a high-born lady knew the warrior son of a humble stonemason.

“I’m sorry about the lack of door hospitality,” you said. “Some people are just bull-headed and rude.”

“If I’m not mistaken,” he chuckled, the levity returning to his eyes, “that’s exactly what you said I was the last time I-”

“Ears are a thing, you know,” you quickly hushed him. He nodded, understanding.

“Sorry. So, all this hoopla is for your cousin?”

“Yes, over there,” you pointed at Amora, chatting amicably with King Odin over mulled mead. “She usually gets special treatment, anyway, though, since...Skurge?”

Your friend was still looking at your cousin, seeming surprised. You furrowed your brow, not prepared for his distraction.

“Skurge, are you listening?” you asked, and he turned his attention back to you.

“Sorry, I just...she’s not what I expected,” he said, his voice softening. Something unpleasant knotted in your stomach.

“That is the usual reaction,” you replied, voice developing an edge it didn’t usually. You called over a servant for drinks, but even as you tried to maintain conversation, Skurge’s eyes kept wandering over to Amora.

“What are you looking at?” you asked. His lack of attention almost stung-- what was going on?

“Why, cousin, I didn’t know you were courting someone,” Amora smiled, somehow having worked her way over to you and your companion.

You and Skurge stumbled over each other to explain her accusation away.

“Amora, no-”

“We aren’t-”

“This isn’t-

“I’m not-”

“Skurge is Halvar’s son,” you said quickly. “I was just asking him what he thought of the statue of Loki that just went up.”

“Overblown, in my opinion,” Amora sighed, “but very fitting for that tricky man. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Amora.”

“...Hello there,” Skurge floundered in the (likely unfamiliar) formal setting. Amora thrust her cup at you to take his hand.

“I didn’t know Halvar had such a strong son,” she said; the more you talked, the thinner your mouth got, and the more you wanted her to go away. “Your armor is remarkable, though I’m sure it doesn’t do you justice.”

“...Thank you,” he puffed himself up slightly. You tried to keep your boiling disbelief off your face. “I...do train regularly.” You almost couldn’t believe his immense hubris.

“Well, I hope to see you again as long as I’m here,” Amora dipped her head with a small smile. “It’s alright, Y/N, you don’t have to hold that for me.”

You didn’t notice the scalding orange-red in your veins as Amora took her cup back, and she suddenly yelped and dropped the cup to the ground.

“That burns!” she frowned. “How did that happen?”

“Someone probably charmed the mead to be funny,” Skurge offered, leading Amora off to tend to her hand; you were too busy staring at your own as the color in your veins faded.

When you looked up, your father already had a concerned frown turned in your direction.

-

“I like her already,” Hela smirked your way. “Bring her to the throne room, Skurge. The three of us have some redecorating to do.”

You released a soft breath as the energy wall came down, and you made yourself walk forward and behind the woman up the stairs and into the throne room. You turned your eyes up to the portraits of Asgard’s history...the art almost seemed bittersweet with Queen Frigga dead and Odin somewhere only the brothers of Asgard knew.

“Ugh, the lies sicken me,” she snarled. “Father wants to portray Asgard as a benevolent nation? Didn’t he remember how we made it as great as it stands today?”

Hela blasted several blades into the ceiling, cracking the art, and Skurge moved to shield you with his body as the mosaics came crashing to the floor...revealing a darker stone tapestry underneath. Hela, riding a wolf, at the side of Odin, the side of your father...slaughtering realms with Mjolnir.

Your father had worked with this monster of a woman holding your captive now. Your father had known how deadly she was, and he had faced her down, anyway.

When the proud tears sparkled in your eyes, you had no idea how much Skurge wanted to wipe them away.

“Now,” Hela settled herself on the throne, dissipating her headdress to reveal sleek black hair, “you, Skurge, tell me your story.”

“Well,” he began earnestly, “my dad was a stonemason, my mum was a-”

“No, no, no, spare me the bitter details. What’s your ambition?”

You almost felt sad for him as he heaved his shoulders, “I’m just trying to make a name for myself.”

Almost was the key word for you.

You knew where his quest had led him.

“I like it...interesting...you know, Skurge,” Hela leaned almost casually on the arm of the throne. “When I was younger, every great king had an executioner. Not just for executing people, but also to execute their vision...but, mostly people…. I was Odin’s executioner, you know. Perhaps you’d like to be mine.”

It wasn’t like he was in a position to decline, but you didn’t look at his as he nodded, and when Hela produced a powerful ax, he didn’t hesitate to take it.

“What about you, dear?” she turned her attention to you. “What is it about you that makes you so indispensable?”

Skurge tensed, wondering if you’d reveal the one thing he’d hoped Hela would never learn about you.

-

As the guests trickled out of the hall, you had taken refuge on a balcony to collect your thoughts. Had you made Amora’s drink so blindingly hot? How was that possible? Daybreaker was the only thing that gave you any power...this was impossible.

“Y/N,” your father said tersely, and you turned around to face him.

“Father.”

“I noticed that you seem to have...figured something out.”

“What do you mean?” you feigned innocence. Your father came to stand before you and took the hand you’d been scrutinizing, carefully tracing over the flesh with trembling fingers and a sad look in his eyes.

“Did I ever tell you how your mother died?”

“She died when I was a baby,” you recounted.

“Half the truth,” he said, sounding regretful. “Your mother was...ill in the final months of her pregnancy. Helsickness, we called it...your birth was such a labor for her in her weakened state that you did not cry nor move...Odin dipped you in the Eternal Flame itself in hopes that you would breathe.”

You felt your breath now stop. You were dead on arrival...and now you had fire in your veins.

“We expected that all would be well with the healing flame,” your father sighed, “but your mother’s Helsickness stoked flames in your veins. Y/N, you have no idea how dangerous this power is. You must not try to summon this power again.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Y/N,” your father’s voice was more stern than you’d ever heard before. “Promise me.”

You bowed your head and sighed.

“I promise.”

-

“I’m no one,” you insisted after a moment. “I have the trust of my father and the people of Asgard. Other than that...I’m nothing.”

Hela’s dark lips curled into a dangerous grin.

“Trust can be a dangerous weapon. I may have use for you, yet. There are fires to stoke within you. You’ll be a fine chess piece...we’ll call you...my Fire of Hel.”

You didn’t speak. Skurge looked at you with concern, but you made no acknowledgement of his betrayal of emotion. If Hela had read the silent exchanges between you two, you were doomed already.

You were not about to let your father’s killer make Skurge a weapon and you a pawn.

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