#Of course. I did not remember that there was a chasm near to the entrance at all | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter 3 is up!

Chapter 1 (tumblr // AO3) | Chapter 2 (tumblr // AO3)

Full text + content warnings under the cut.

CW: brief claustrophobia; some grief and loss stuff; a few more instances of casual misgendering (not malicious; just some wrong pronouns here and there due to the speaking-in-statements thing, but thought I'd mention it just in case); a single LORGE spider. Also, Jon gets to do one (1) swear, as a treat. SPOILERS through MAG 169.

Chapter 3: Rift

Jon doesn’t remember the hill being this steep.

Or maybe he’s just winded from the long trek through the wasteland. He’d had to pass through a long stretch of territory fought over by the Buried and the Vast. The ground there was practically a minefield, pockmarked with sinkholes. They would start out as quicksand traps and suffocating tunnel entrances, only to be hollowed out into yawning chasms and cenotes, then ultimately collapsed all over again by a retaliation-minded Choke. It was an endless cycle of petty rivalry and animosity, and passing so near their battlegrounds left Jon breathless with a discordant mix of claustrophobia and agoraphobia.

Worse was when the Dark managed to sneak its way into the mix. Whether it was Too Close I Cannot Breathe or the Vast’s abyss, the Dark could always find a way to exploit subterranean spaces – and it could never resist reaching out to needle at an Avatar of the Eye, no matter how inadvisable it was to cross the Archive these days.

As Jon drew closer to Hill Top Road, he left the warzone behind for a mostly featureless landscape punctuated with the occasional foxholes of the Slaughter and pockets of the Forsaken’s fog. Eventually those too gave way to a seemingly endless dust bowl of soot and ash – a sprawling domain claimed by the Lightless Flame.

The house at Hill Top Road is the only thing still standing in the midst of kilometres of Desolation-scorched earth. The charred terrain stops abruptly at the foot of the hill, a stark line demarcating the boundary between the Blackened Earth and the territory that Annabelle Cane has staked out as her own. Jon had half-expected an invisible barrier to stop him there as well – the last time he was here, Annabelle had forbidden him from returning – but there had been no resistance when he stepped over the border.

As he hikes up the incline now, he finds himself worrying over what that might mean. Is Annabelle expecting him, inviting him in? Is she simply tolerating his presence, curious to see what he’s up to? Could he be powerful enough now that even she cannot stop him? Or is he once again wrapped up in the Web’s machinations, doing exactly what the Mother of Puppets wants?

He shakes his head. No. He and Martin talked about this. There’s no point in obsessing over the Web’s motivations, letting the memory of Annabelle’s statement paralyze him with indecision. Better to just… keep moving forward.

And it’s not like he has anything left to lose.

Jon continues up the hill, increasingly winded, his bad leg throbbing angrily, and he thinks to himself again: he really, really doesn’t remember it being this steep.

Before long, he’s standing at the threshold of the house at Hill Top Road. The dread permeating the place is just as palpable as he remembered.

He waits for the Distortion’s inevitable appearance, determined not to let her startle him this time. As if on cue, a door creaks open on the ceiling above him.

“Interesting.” Without preamble, Helen lands noiselessly on her feet beside Jon and peers around curiously. “I wondered whether Annabelle would let me in.”

So did Jon. Maybe he should be concerned about – no. He shuts down that train of thought before it can pull out of the station.

“You still haven’t explained what exactly you plan on doing here.”

Honestly, that’s mostly because Jon hasn’t figured it out yet, either. He only Knows that this is where he needs to be.

The Eye wants things to change – as much as it can be said to want anything. Setting the question of its sentience or lack thereof aside, at the Panopticon he had been able to Know things that the Beholding had previously withheld from him. He might be stronger than the other Avatars and monsters lurking about the world, but he’s not arrogant enough to believe he could overpower any of the Fears themselves. If the Ceaseless Watcher gives him access to knowledge, it’s because his Knowing will facilitate – or at least not inhibit – its plans, which means that he must have the Eye’s… blessing, to be here? He shakes his head; he’s getting caught up on semantics again.

Point is: he Asked a question and – as usual – he was given a scrap of an answer and left to puzzle the rest out for himself. All he Knows for certain is what he wants to happen, and that this is where he needs to be in order to make it happen.

“Jonathan.” Helen says his name with a playful lilt and leans further into his personal space. “Are you going to share with the class?”

Without a word, he sidesteps around her and walks further into the house. In her statement, Anya Villette had mentioned a door under the stairs leading to the basement, but the last time Jon was here, it was nowhere to be seen. He hopes it’s there this time.

“What are you looking for?”

Jon drags one hand down his face and sighs. Having Helen tag along is like taking a road trip through hell with an easily bored and… well, deeply annoying child. Huh.

“I won’t be ignored, Jon –”

Jon bristles, redirects his gaze, and stares daggers at her with a few more eyes than strictly necessary. “Some magically appearing door.”

“You aren’t being very kind to me right now, you know.” She tries to sound wounded, but really she just sounds pleased to have gotten a reaction from him.

Jon gives an irritated huff and continues forward through the entrance hall. He treads softly, all too aware of every subtle creak of a floorboard. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering muffling his footsteps. It doesn’t matter how quiet he is; Annabelle will know – probably already knows – that he’s here regardless. Still, there’s just something about the house that demands a certain amount of fearful reverence. Disturbing the silence just feels like a bad idea.

Helen doesn’t appear to have the same concerns. In fact, it almost seems like she’s going out of her way to announce their presence. Of course.

Jon catches a glimpse of the staircase as he rounds the corner and – yes, there’s a door under the stairs. A plain, painted white door with a brass handle, otherwise unremarkable and entirely unassuming.

And yet…

As he tries to approach it, he finds himself rooted to the spot, overcome with a sense of trepidation. He feels his breath coming faster, shallower; feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Every one of the Archive’s eyes locks onto the doorknob and for a moment he swears he feels tiny, feather-light legs scurrying down his spine. He pulls his pack tight against him, using the physical weight of it to dampen the tactile hallucination.

“I hate it,” Helen says darkly. Jon jumps just slightly at the break in the silence, and a few of the Archive’s eyes suspend their rapt scrutiny of the door handle to glance in her direction. Her posture is tense where she stands, staring warily at the door as if it might lunge at them. Jon has never seen the Distortion look so… unsettled.

She’s right, though. The door is wrong. More than that, it’s the exact same flavor of wrongness that he felt the first time he saw A Guest for Mr. Spider, and again when he reached out to knock on the monster’s door.

Back then, he hadn’t known that the concept of wrongness could be broken down into so many distinct subtypes: the uncanny disquietude of the Stranger feels fundamentally different from the compulsion of the coffin, the sensation of worms tunneling through flesh, the Distortion’s nonsensical corridors, the Lonely’s suffocating fog.

The pull of the Web is in a class of its own, and the sight of the door in front of him drops him right back into the memory of the day he opened the book – the day he took the first step on the winding path that led him, inevitably, to this exact moment. It’s such a fitting parallel, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was orchestrated down to the finest detail. He knows the Web plays a long game, but precisely how much of what has happened was in perfect accordance with the Web’s plans? What even is the Web’s –

No. Stop fixating on the Spider, he reprimands himself for the umpteenth time this… day? Whatever; it’s not important. He forces his legs to move.

“You’re sticking your hand in a bear trap, I hope you know.”

“I knew opening the door was a stupid thing to do,” Jon says, nonchalant. “So I opened the door.”

Helen breathes a surprised laugh. “Was that a joke?”

“The idea that this is all some grand cosmic joke,” Jon rattles off drily, “thousands of us running around spread horror and sabotaging each other pointlessly while these impossible unknowing things just lurk out there, feeding off the misery we caused –”

“Terrible.” Helen groans and puts her head in her hands. “Here I was, ready to compliment you on finally finding a sense of humor, and you have to ruin the moment with – with existentialist brooding.”

Jon chuckles quietly to himself and takes another step forward.

“Wait.” Helen reaches one long-fingered hand in Jon’s direction, then falters and pulls back. For a moment, she seems to wrestle with whether or not to continue. “What’s behind the door?”

“A scar in reality –”

“Yes, I know about the rift. What do you expect to find in it? An answer? An escape? A means of suicide?”

“A metaphysical quirk of this new reality’s divorce from the traditional concept of time.”

Jon pauses, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks inward and browses through his catalog.

“It bends and twists and returns to what it was,” he settles on eventually.

“I told you not to use my words.” Helen gives him a warning look, but it’s fleeting, because a moment later his meaning sinks in and she huffs out a short laugh of disbelief. “Wait – wait, wait, wait. You think you can… what, turn back time?”

Jon grimaces and makes a noncommittal seesawing motion with one hand.

“…could emerge back into the world that she remembered.”

Helen starts laughing in earnest now. “You think you can time travel?”

Jon just shrugs, unashamed. He knows he should feel embarrassed – back when he first took the position as Head Archivist, he would have scoffed at anyone making such a suggestion – but at this point, is it any more or less unrealistic than anything else that’s happened?

“Alright,” Helen says, stifling another giggle, “I’ll grant you that there’s a rift in space and time. People have traveled through it before.”

Jon gives an enthusiastic nod. After her encounter with the crack in the house's foundation, Anya Villette had found herself temporally displaced. What would stop Jon from also –

“However,” Helen continues, “what makes you think you’ll just rewind your position on this timeline? It could just take you to a parallel world, leaving this one behind to suffer and decay. Would you abandon what remains of humanity like that?”

Seeing as Anya Villette appeared to have also been spatially displaced, Jon has already considered this possibility. Helen probably knows that, too – she’s well-acquainted with his tendency to overthink things. She’s just trying to tap into his chronic self-loathing, demoralize him, make him doubt his own perceptions. It’s a familiar pattern, one Jon used to submit to far too easily.

“…better than staying here with this strange woman.”

“Ouch.” Helen brings a hand to her chest in mock offense. “You’re being awfully cruel today.”

Jon flashes an entirely unapologetic smile.

“I was being serious, you know.” A knowing mischief creeps into Helen’s eyes. “You’ve always been selfish, but would you really run away from your mistakes, save yourself and damn the rest?”

Unfortunately for Helen, she’s arrived too late to this particular debate. Jon already spent the entire trip here berating himself and second-guessing his conclusions, and he’s just about gotten it out of his system for the time being. Self-recrimination as an inoculation against the Distortion’s manipulations – now there’s a concept, he thinks wryly.

“Do you honestly believe you deserve to escape an apocalypse that you brought about?”

God, she’s persistent.

“Now there’s only one thing I have left that I value,” he says simply. “That I love. And I cannot lose him.”

It’s the truth: the final deciding factor for him was, as it so often is, Martin.

“You would potentially forsake this entire world just to reverse your own loss?”

“There was nothing left to save.”

It never gets easier to admit it out loud, but that doesn’t change the truth of it. This world is already forsaken. Humanity is dying out, slowly but surely, and Jon harbors a guilty feeling of relief that their torment will not be eternal after all. As far as he can See, there’s no way for him to save the ones who remain. There never was.

His power was never meant to help anyone. For a long time, the only action within his grasp was to hurt – and so, he went after those who deserved to be hurt, because the only other option was doing nothing at all. But seeking revenge never saved anyone, never even made himself feel any better. If anything, it only made him feel emptier, more and more alienated from whatever human part of him still lingered – and that was a very dangerous place to be.

And when he and Martin decided together that he needed to slow down, to maintain some distance between himself and the Eye? Well… nothing substantial changed in the slightest. He didn’t get any worse, but he also didn’t get better. The world continued to suffer just as much as if he were to sit down and take no action at all. Nothing he did or did not do made any impact whatsoever.

He Knows intimately that he cannot banish the Entities from this world as long as one person remains to feel fear. Once that last person dies, there will be no one left to save. Hell, depending on how human he still is by that time, he may very well be that last person, and the Dread Powers will just have to ration him. And why shouldn’t they? They’ve all had a taste of him more than once. He’s an unfinished meal. They could just resume hacking away at him, demanding their respective pounds of flesh one after the other until nothing remains – until finally, mercifully, the Fears themselves would wither and die as well. He just doesn’t want to consider how long that could take – no. Best not to dwell on it.

The point is, there is no future for this world. There is nothing left for him to do here. His only hope is to prevent all of this from coming to pass in the first place, and this… this is the only lead he has. And besides, Martin –

“You do realize that you have a vanishingly small chance of seeing him again, don’t you?”

“I decided to take a risk and try it anyway.”

Helen looks put out at his easy dismissal, but she really ought to know better by now, Jon thinks. He might be chronically plagued by self-hate and a visceral fear of being controlled, but Martin is his anchor in more ways than one. Their relationship is proof of Jon’s own capacity for free will, and his decision to go after Martin in the Lonely remains one of the only things he’s done where he’s never once wondered whether he made the right choice. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more confident about anything than he is about their love for each other, even if he doesn’t always feel like he deserves it. Helen really couldn’t pick a worse seed with which to sow self-doubt.

When she sees that Jon isn’t taking the bait, she changes tack.

“And assuming this scheme somehow works as you hope it does, and doesn’t just get you shunted to some hellish pocket dimension – which it almost certainly will – you do realize that your little scene with Jonah Magnus will mean nothing, don’t you? This future will be erased, he will not suffer for eternity – he won’t even remember that it was ever a possibility.”

“For all her anger, there was no thirst for revenge in the Archivist, only an eagerness to expunge an infection that had gone unnoticed for too long.”

“Then why bother confronting him? I know it wasn’t for closure – if you were at all capable of letting go or moving on, you would never have been a candidate for the Beholding in the first place, and we wouldn’t be here now.” Jon just barely manages to not flinch at that. Luckily, Helen doesn’t seem to notice that she struck a nerve, instead staring up at the ceiling in contemplation, as if trying to decipher Jon’s motivations on her own. “So, why? All those messy emotions it dredged up and for what – the drama of it all?”

“I live for the monologue,” he deadpans.

“Jonathan!” Helen gapes at him in exaggerated shock. “Was that another joke?”

She could stand to tone down the condescension, Jon thinks. It isn’t his fault if people overlook his sense of humor just because they never think to listen for it.

“Are you certain about this, Archivist? You have a history of reaching these points of no return and choosing the worst imaginable path.”

Even at the very end, the Distortion just can’t resist one last chance at undermining his confidence. Despite the cockiness underlying her taunt, Helen has a hungry, almost pleading look in her eye – desperate, like everything else in this place that feeds on fear, for scraps in the midst of a famine that will never be remedied.

Jon reaches out and grips the doorknob with one hand.

“Even the end of the world can’t stop you throwing yourself on a grenade. Can’t say I’m surprised. I’m not following you in there, though.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose.”

“I am trying to have a heartfelt goodbye, Jonathan,” Helen says, not sounding sincere in the slightest. “I doubt this will go as you hope it will, but I’m fairly certain that no matter what happens, I won’t be seeing you again. I won’t wish you luck, but… well, it will be interesting to see whether one of your half-assed plans might pan out for once – not that they ever have gone according to plan.” When Jon’s resolve remains strong, Helen sighs – and this time, her disappointment does sound genuine. “Well, if you’re sure…” She trails off, giving him one last hopeful look – once last chance to fall apart under her skillful denigrations – before her shoulders slump in resignation.

Not content to leave it at that, though, she does offer one last parting shot: “Do say hello to the Spider for me, won’t you?”

An involuntary shudder courses down Jon’s spine as he remembers Anya Villette’s statement – the massive spider legs reaching up to pull her into the crack in the foundation – and compares it with his own memory of the book, the door, and the monster lurking within. Helen breathes a contented sigh at his ripple of unease – basically a snack for her, at Jon’s expense. Fine. She can have that last little morsel of fear from him, as a parting gift.

“Sometimes you just have to leave,” Jon says firmly, turning the handle. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”

And, oh, it does.

Miraculously, Helen allows him to have the last word. As he pushes open the door to the basement, he hears Helen’s door creak open in unison. By the time he’s staring down the stairs into the dark, her door has snapped shut and popped out of existence.

The staircase pitches down, down, down, stretching far deeper than it should. It’s too dark to see much of anything, and it takes a full minute of descent until he notices that there’s a slight curve to it. With every step, the air grows warmer and more stifling. The revolting sensation of walking through cobwebs becomes a constant, but any time he reaches up to brush away the web clinging to him, he feels nothing but his own bare skin.

A few minutes in, his bad leg starts twinging again, and he holds on to the wall to steady himself. Before long, his mind begins to wander to the horrifying possibility that the staircase is interminable, and he’s overcome by an image of a funnel web spider waiting patiently for unsuspecting prey. He tries to push the thought away. Just keep moving.

Between the lack of visibility and being lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice the sharp turn in the staircase until he plows right into the wall, a sharp pain erupting in his left shoulder from the collision. He throws one hand back to steady himself and only barely manages to stay on his feet, his bad leg protesting as he throws his weight into it. After briefly taking inventory of himself and experimentally putting weight on his leg again – painful, but not unbearable – he gropes blindly for the wall again and uses it to guide himself forward, more slowly this time. It isn’t long before the stone of the wall gives way to cool, damp earth, and he shivers with the memory of the Buried.

After several more sharp, nearly 90-degree twists and turns, a faint glow starts to permeate the darkness. A few minutes later, the staircase opens up into a large, dimly-lit space, garlanded with spider silk. The ceiling, walls, and floor are composed of tightly-packed dirt, and Jon has to fight back a rush of claustrophobic panic at the thought of being surrounded on all sides by the crushing earth. It’s short-lived, as it’s crowded out by a much deeper, more primal fear when he sees the fissure in the ground ahead.

It’s a repulsive, crooked thing, oozing with a pervasive, tangible feeling of wrongness. It should not be there. It cannot be there. And yet there it is, boldly existing where it has no right or reason to be, a gnawing, open, inflamed wound in the fabric of reality, pulling him toward it like a black hole. It’s a compulsion stronger than the coffin, an abomination more uncanny than the Stranger, a malice deeper than any Dark, an inevitability on par with Terminus itself.

Jon hates it. At his first glimpse of it, every one of the Archive’s eyes fly open, greedily drinking in the oppressive presence of something so unfamiliar and anomalous, leeching off of Jon’s terror as he beholds it. The scrutiny is fleeting, though, as the sight of it turns corrosive and blistering; all at once, the eyes shrink away and retreat, like a school of fish spotting a bird of prey swooping down for a meal. It takes some of the edge off, having fewer eyes with which to see the thing, but it still weighs him down with dread and revulsion.

Jon doesn’t know how long he’s stood there, staring unblinkingly at the fault line, before he senses a presence – something colossal and hungry and wrong, malevolence and foreboding given physical form – climbing inexorably toward him. He hears a faint rustling, the whisper of tiny avalanches of dirt scraped loose and sent sliding down the walls of the crevice. He knows exactly what to expect, and still he isn’t prepared when the first of the spider’s legs peeks up over the lip of the fissure.

How is it that after a lifetime to process a childhood trauma, it still throttles his heart and squeezes the air from his lungs at the mere thought of it? How is it that, despite being the most formidable thing in this world outside of Fear itself, he feels as small and helpless now as he did on the day he met his first of many monsters? Why is he just standing here, letting those hairy, spindly limbs hover and curl around him like an enormous clawed hand, waiting for a fate that is as unknowable as it is inevitable?

Focus, Jon thinks to himself. Listen to the quiet.

He slowly reaches into his jacket and breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers close around the notebook safeguarded there. It’s Martin’s, full of poems and sketches and stream-of-consciousness journal entries. Jon has had it with him for a long time now, but he’s never been able to bring himself to look inside it. Martin would occasionally share its contents with him – mostly completed poems, and only occasionally works in progress, as he was always self-conscious about his creative process – but Jon doesn’t want to accidentally see something that Martin would have preferred to keep to himself. Martin might not be beside him right now, but he still deserves to have his privacy respected.

Still, for Jon, just having it with him is a physical reminder of his anchor, and running his thumb over the cover grounds him in the present. He closes his eyes and looks inward.

The Archive gropes blindly for something solid amidst the noise, some elemental truth to serve as a starting point in the chaotic tangle choking this place. The edges of his mind brush against thread after thread and none of them are what he’s looking for. They stick to him, filling his head with cotton, making him sluggish and confused, obfuscating his sight. The Spider watches as he flails, becoming more and more snarled in the web.

“I closed my eyes and remembered in as much detail and with as much love as I could muster in my despair,” he whispers to himself, anchoring himself in the truth of the statement. He swallows a terrified whimper as something coarse and fuzzy brushes against his face, and he weaves a command into his next words: “Eventually, I opened my eyes again –”

The Archive obeys, hundreds of eyes materializing on his skin and blinking open in the space around him, grotesque satellites of varying sizes all seizing on single question, and suddenly he can See –

There.

A single thread, out of place among the rest, pulled taut and leading down into the deep gloom of the chasm. He spares a brief thought as to its origin point – Is its anchor here, now, or do its roots begin on the other side? – before silencing it. It’s not a question that needs answering right now. The Beholding objects; Jon reflexively shuts it down and takes an aggravated swipe at the nearest cluster of eyes he can reach, like swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes. He doesn’t think it actually does anything concrete, but when they disperse it brings him a small measure of satisfaction all the same.

He gives an experimental tug on the thread and – it feels right. That’s good, right? Well, he supposes it could be the Web trying to trick him into –

God, he’s like a dog with a bone. He could be trapped in a burning building and find part of his mind wandering off to idly ponder the melting point of steel –

…around 1370 °C for carbon steel; between 1400 and 1530°C for stainless steel, depending on the specific alloy and grade…

– which, yes, he has done. It’s a good way to dissociate from a crisis. Unfortunately, it’s also a good way to get killed, and the giant spider is still there, Jonathan, focus.

He holds fast to the thread – make a path for yourself, tune it to the frequency you need –

“Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me,” he tells himself, louder this time, “it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already.”

– and he follows it, stepping carefully around and between the spider’s legs. He has no idea why it isn’t attacking him – what if this is exactly what Annabelle – no. He shakes his head as if it will jostle the thought loose. Just be thankful for it and keep moving before the damn thing changes its mind.

Moments or hours or perhaps days later, he’s standing at the precipice of the fissure and looking down. Several eyes are riveted on the massive hairy form poised above him, but most are staring into the unknowable darkness with a gnawing, longing fascination. He stands frozen in place, torn between an overwhelming urge to flee and an overpowering need to Know what’s down there: something new, something fresh, something different – any reprieve at all from the excruciating monotony of this nightmare world.

The spider shifts above him. It’s now or never. He has nothing to lose, and if there’s any chance at all of changing this doomed future – of seeing Martin again…

“Sometimes you just have to leave,” he reminds himself, shutting his human eyes tight, one hand clutching the notebook and the other clenching into a fist until the fingernails cut into the palm. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”

He takes one last deep breath, thinks of Martin – safe hands, warm eyes, gentle touch – and he takes a leap of faith.

Jon can’t see anything. He can’t See, either. There is an incessant, high-pitched whine screaming in his ears and drowning out his thoughts. When he moves to put his hands over his ears, he realizes all at once that he can’t feel his body. He has no sense of up or down, no fingers to flex, no breath to hold, and – and he can’t See.

It’s… terrifying. It’s liberating. It hurts, but in the same way that his first gulp of fresh air hurt after three days asphyxiating in the Buried.

He doesn’t know how long he floats there in that near-senseless limbo, but between one moment and the next a blanket of fog drops over him and the shrill static is muffled. Through the haze, he can just barely make out a voice, coming from so far away – like he’s drowning, and someone is speaking to him from above the water’s surface. He drifts and listens in a daze as the voice cuts in and out.

“– just – thought I’d – by. Check in – how you’re –”

It’s a nice voice.

“– really need you –”

A safe voice.

“– Jon.”

Wait.

“– bad. I – how much longer we can –”

Wait, it’s – that’s Martin’s voice.

“We – I need you.”

It’s Martin. Martin!

Martin is here, he’s here – Jon doesn’t know where here is, but it doesn’t matter, because Martin is here, and – and Jon is so overwhelmed with euphoria that he isn’t actually processing what’s being said. Calm down, focus – focus on the words –

“And I – I know that you’re not –”

Oh.

“I know there’s no way to –”

Oh, no.

“But we need you, Jon.”

All at once, Jon knows where – when he is.

“Jon, please, just – please.”

No. No, no, no, no –

“If – if there’s anything left in you that can still see us, or –”

Martin, I’m here!

“– or some power that you’ve still got, or –”

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here –

“– or, or something, anything, please! Please.”

Martin’s voice breaks, and Jon’s heart fractures with it.

“I – I can’t –”

Jon can just barely make out the buzz of a phone and – oh.

“I’m – I’m actually with him now.”

Martin!

“You were right.” A pause, and a heavy sigh. “I – will they be safe?”

Peter Lukas. It’s Peter Lukas. Peter Lukas is still alive, Peter Lukas is hunting Martin, Peter Lukas wants to feed him to the Lonely, Peter Lukas is –

“Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

Martin, don’t –

“Yeah. Sure thing.”

Martin!

“I’m sorry.”

Jon tries to scream, to reach out, to do anything at all, but he doesn’t have a body and he doesn’t have a voice and he can’t See –

“Goodbye, Jon.”

Martin, look at me! Hear me, please - see me!

He tries to thread a command through the words, but the compulsion doesn't come through, and -

Jon hears the rustle of clothing as Martin stands to leave, followed by the soft click of the door as it closes behind him.

Fuck.

End Notes:

me: i could go into some long-winded exposition about the space-time continuum also me: OR, alternatively, i can handwave it and say It's The Power Of Love, Don't Even Worry About It

anyway, my gay little heart knows what it's about.

- Jon’s dialogue is taken from the statements in the following episodes: MAG 146; 054; 151; 139; 168; 101; 134; 010; 037; 008; 019; 167; 108; 103; 146; 048; 013; 146.

- Jon gets some original verbal dialogue starting next chapter. Thought I'd mention it just in case anyone is getting tired of the Archive-speak (though there will still be some of that). :P

- Psst, if you want to read a detour about Jon and Martin's talk about Annabelle and free will and Not Obsessing Over The Web, I wrote that here. (I'm linking it here because it actually originally started as part of this fic but I decided to make it its own thing because my ADHD brain ran with it and it was waaaaay too much of a tangent sdsdhshgh)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonmartin #long post #spoilers through MAG 169 #tma spoilers

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kawaiiprincesssadhime · 4 years ago

Photo

It was very beautiful outside. The robins and warblers sang in the trees of an ancient woodland while bees and butterflies fluttered through a field of bluebells. Among the bushes and scrubs, a thrashing and rustling could be heard as a white object hurried through ferns towards the edge of the forest. A young girl and a little red kitten sat in the flower fields.

The fields and rivers near Alice's home were familiar ground to her, although she was discouraged from wandering off into them alone; it was no place to be unsupervised, and Alice's parents would be very cross with her if she neglected her lessons to go get her dresses dirty outside.

This has rarely stopped Alice when she felt like going off on her own, and no amount of warning about getting her foot caught in a rabbit-hole and hurting herself would ever make Alice forget one particular rabbit-hole she'd fallen down once; a rabbit hole, and the land within, that had always imbued a place with certain sense of otherworldly wonder.

It had been quiet ever since then, of course. Even to the most vigilant child, there had been no repeat appearance by a late white rabbit for some time.

Still, on this quiet, still day, one might hear a quick pitter-patter of feet moving in a great hurry if one listened closely.

One might see a little flash of white for an instant if one watched closely.

And one might get the feeling that following these little hints might lead to something much bigger...if one knew where to look.

Alice was playing in the flowers with Dinah, when suddenly the cat's ears perked up and she issued a curious "meow?"

"What is it, Dinah?" Alice asked, picking up the small fluffy cat in her arms and looking closely in the same direction Dinah was. In the distance, somewhere in the fields, there was a faint but distinct pitter-patter sound. "Let's go see," said Alice.

Dinah mewed again in sadness and worry. "Oh, don't worry," Alice replied, sensing her friend's concern. "We'll just go and have a look. We won't chase anything down a rabbit hole this time, I promise."

Quickly and quietly, Alice and Dinah made their way across the field in the direction of the sound…

As Alice curiously made her way across the field, the little black and white flickers finally revealed themselves as the runner burst into open view for a moment as he dashed past Alice.

It was a bird!

At a quick glance, one could comfortably assume her to be roughly a long necked bird with long legs. A white bird with a long black neck. He had a long beak in a nervous frown and golden eyes. He has his wings out in position, trying to catch something.

He’s dressed in loose blue trousers with a purple sash wrapped around his waist in the style of a Shaolin wrap. He also wears rings around his ankles and toes: Five ankle rings on each of his legs, and a single toe ring on each of his toes.

he cut an extremely bizarre figure, running through the long grass.

"Oh no, oh no… come back!” The bird said in a worried voice

Alice had seen many, many weird things, but she was dumbfounded by what she saw scampering across the field... a funny looking bird in clothing!

"I can't believe this, Dinah!" she said softly. "I know I shouldn't chase him.” But unlike the white rabbit who had led Alice into Wonderland not so long ago, this bird - whoever or whatever he was - looked genuinely distressed.

"Maybe he needs help," Alice continued, and Dinah mewed softly, almost sadly, as if she agreed with Alice for once. "Let's see where he goes," Alice concluded. "We'll keep our distance, but if he does need help we'll be right behind him."

Alice broke into a run, with Dinah loping alongside her. She found she could keep pace with the strange bird, but she did not call out, following at a safe distance toward the far edge of the fields... all the while wondering in the back of her mind if she was making a terrible mistake.

The bird continued to scurry through the fields in some haste, apparently unaware of Alice following him. If he was simply too caught up in whatever was worrying him to care much about Alice at the moment.

The hurried pace meant that there was quite a gap between the two,but it was closed quickly when the object the bird is after went into a rabbit hole of an ancient, gnarled tree.

“Oh no, my hat!” the bird gasped as he saw it went into the hole.

"Oh dear!" Alice said, wincing at she slowed her pace. Her eyes widened as she saw the bird squirm right into the hole. Alice glanced inquisitively about the clearing for the bird, before hearing a muffled sound coming from the hole.

“My, What a peculiar place to chase a hat!” alice said as she examined the hole, hearing the sound of ruffled feathers. Dianah mewed in a worried tone as alice crouched and gazed into the hole, but all she could see was darkness. She felt slightly silly doing all this, but this bird almost seemed to be leading her somewhere. She had just been wishing for a new adventure to occupy her time and now here was one, practically in her own backyard! On impulse, she began to crawl on her hands and knees into the hole.

“You know dinah,” Alice said as she struggled through the entrance, “we really…uuhh! Shouldn’t…uuhh! Be doing this!”

The hole was a tight squeeze and near pitch-dark, but alice could just make out the knotty ends of tree roots. Smooth pebbles and gravel covered the floor like cobblestone.

“After all, we haven’t been…uuhh! Invited in! And curiosity always leads to troub-oh-Oh-Oh!-OH!-OH!!!”

Alice exclaimed as the ground suddenly dropped away in front of her. The steepening path had led to a small ledge, which hung precariously over a deep vertical pit, like a well. Alice could do nothing as she somersaulted headfirst into the chasm below.

Dianah started to slide down after her owner. She managed to grab ahold of the ledge as she fell, but was unable to do anything but watch helplessly as alice disappeared from sight.

“Goodbye, Dinah! Goodbye! ”

———————————————

Alice somersaulted faster and faster through the blackness, her blonde hair blowing behind her head as the faint light from the entrance above faded away.

Alice plunges into the inky darkness below, she didn’t notice the bird drifting downwards to find his hat, not noticing his stalker. Alice looks like she’s tumbling, further and faster towards the unsuspecting bird, but as she began another somersault, something curious happened.

All at once, alice felt a sudden jolt, causing her body to practically bounce in midair. Accompanying the jolt was a loud, fabric-like “KaPOOF!” like the sound of fluffing a pillow. alice looked around at her surroundings in bewilderment, and saw she was no longer falling but floating through the air, slowly downwards towards the bottom of the hole. She peered down in the dim light and saw that the skirt of her blue dress, thanks to a swift updraft from below, had blown open and inflated around her waist. It now extended around her hips to just below her backside, stretched taut into the shape of a shallow dome.

“WhaOhh!!”The bird startled when he heard the “KaPOOF“ sound and looked up to see her bloomers revealed from the skirt and petticoats.

“OoHoo!!” Alice exclaimed upon realizing her predicament.She blush as she crossed her knees and gently pulled her dress down over her legs, remembering to retain her modesty but appear ladylike while doing so, as she would if she was on a crowded street. Unfortunately, the result was a sudden “FuFuFWIP!” as her dress fluttered and collapsed and her float instantly snapped back into a fall, plunging her onto the back of the startled bird. Her legs are between his neck and her dress is covering the bird’s eyes. The bird is flapping frantically, as they both fall down the rabbit hole with the combination of weight.

“Release Your Dress! Release Your Dress!” the bird called out

In a panic, alice released her hands from her dress and held them up. Looking down she saw as her skirt and petticoat rapidly filled with air and ballooned out like an unfurling parasol, jolting her upright with another loud “KaPOOF!” before once again returning her to a slower descent.

For a moment, it was deja vu for Alice, falling down a rabbit hole, her skirt puffed out to slow her just enough to prevent a dead-fall as she rocked back and forth for a few seconds like a spinning top.

“Well!” Alice sighed with relief, her voice echoing, floating slowly by the long necked bird.

“Boy, that was a close one.” the bird sighed turning to his unexpected dropper.he was marveled by the little blonde girl’s dress. the bird looked at her dress, like she has her own wings, floating down gracefully as he.

"Are... are you all right?" Alice said softly to the bird.

"I-I'm all right..." the bird said “B-But I didn’t know your dress could fly”

“Oh...” alice looked down at the skirt of her dress “well, my dress is not itself since i fell down”

"every time I’ve fallen before my dresses have never acted so peculiar.” alice quickly smoothed out her blue dress as it fluttered.the best she managed was to swivel in midair, twirling like a ballerina towards the bird

There was a long pause, before the bird suddenly blinked, as if he hadn't realized she'd addressed all that to Alice, and his head whipped back around as if he hadn't really noticed Alice was there before.

"Wh-who are you ?” the bird asked

"My name is Alice" She answered, curtseying in response in midair, looking curiously at the bird as well. "I saw you running across the field," Alice explained, "and I thought you might need help, so I followed you."

“Oh…” the bird blushed a little for having a girl following him. If he couldn't imagine telling that to his friends. “I-I’m crane.” the bird suddenly respond “but I lost my hat” crane looked sadly down at the hole below.

“Mind if i help you find your hat?” alice asked to crane. Crane seemed to brighten a little as alice asks him the question.

"Oh, Miss Alice, that would mean so much to me!”

"Of course I'll help you, Mr. Crane," she said. "It's very nice to meet you."

The hole grew increasingly dark until the two couldn't even see dirt walls as they drifted past them. alice was a bit frightened, but at least she wasn’t tumbling head over heels towards the bottom any longer. But now that she actually thought about it, how far away was the bottom?

“I wonder if i’m going back...” the girl said

“Back to where?” crane asked with curiosity

Alice did her best to explain how she had chased the frantic white rabbit down the hole into Wonderland, embarking on her strange adventure, and how it almost became her worst mistake when the Queen of Hearts attempted to remove her head, and finally how she narrowly escaped and found herself napping under a tree in these very fields.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" Alice asked at last, with a sigh. "Nevermind then.”

"Wonderland?" crane tilted his head curiously. "No, I can't say I know of it..." The bird seemed to droop a little, seeming worried his ignorance was letting Alice down in some way. "B-But it is a strange name...was it a nice place?" crane looked down for a moment, then seemed to get an idea.

"Wonderland was certainly strange," Alice explained to her new friend, "but I wouldn't say it was a very nice place. The... people there were, well, they were crazy. And the Queen was the worst. She... she wanted to remove my head!" Alice went on for a little while, explaining more to Crane about Wonderland and all its bizarre denizens, and her adventure, or perhaps misadventure there.

alice gently tilted forward to peer over the inflated hem of her skirt, but besides her black Mary Janes and white stockings, it was too dark to see anything beneath her. She sighed as she righted herself again, only to have her apron flip up over her chest. She pushed it back down again and tucked her hair behind her ear as she glanced around wide-eyed, the darkness growing until she couldn’t even see the tip of her nose.

Suddenly, a low orange light appeared behind them, slowly approaching her from below. The girl and the bird turned as they neared it, and saw the glow came from what looked like a gas lamp on a table, floating in midair. Of course, after seeing something defying the basic laws of gravity, the two would be normally frazzled, but after her experiences in the last time, alice would’ve believed anything. She reached for the wick and turned it up as she floated down past it.

Instantly, walls of the hole erupted into life, as the dirt and soil was replaced with spotless floral wallpapers. Alice and crane's jaw dropped as they gazed around at the walls to see knick-knacks and adornments of all kinds. Books, gilded paintings, colorful pictures and even furniture seemed frozen in the air, in defiance of all normal logic and laws of nature. She stared in wonder at an old armchair with a matching ottoman, trailing them with their eyes as they drifted past them and disappeared. She passed a desk with a pen, inkwell and paper, with the pen writing by itself across the paper.

As alice and crane continued their fall, they floated by a full body-length mirror, which hung motionless in front of the wall. What was even stranger about the mirror was it reflected the image before it upside down. Alice realized this when she looked down and saw in the mirror she had a perfect view up her inflated skirt. Everything underneath her dress was exposed; her frilled white petticoat, her long legs and stockings and her bloomers. She giggled at the thought of flashing herself to crane as she went past the mirror.

"Goodness!!” alice exclaimed in amused embarrassment, covering her mouth as she regained her composure. Crane blushed at the moment “I certainly hope there’s no one down there who decides to look up! It would be beyond scandalous for someone to see you like this...” crane chuckled, looking upon her bloomers

alice watched as their reflection floated up and away from them, the last of her blonde hair disappearing from the mirror as she tilted forward to fix the bow atop her head. Her attention was then diverted to her right, as a small nightstand with a few books drifted close by.

alice shimmied her hips back and forth to move towards the table, but it was a futile effort; the best she managed was to swivel in midair, twirling like a ballerina towards her intended goal. As alice met the nightstand, she picked up a book, but was distracted slightly when a flock of brightly glowing moths flew up around her from another bookshelf. She sighed as the insects continued to spiral upwards and turned back towards her bookhoping to find a clue of what would happen to her. The pages that weren’t blank were filled with gibberish writing, which left Alice in a quandary.

When crane looks at the pages, they remind him of the poetry he read that is in chinese writing. “This might be some peculiar language, not like the poems i’ve read”

The walls changed from floral patterning to regal purple fleur-de-lis wallpaper as alice and crane’s reading was interrupted by the chiming of a clock. alice tilted forward slightly and looked down, and was awestruck to see a tall clock drifting upwards toward her. From the face, it looked to be 12 in the afternoon exactly, but she swore that it was only 10 in the morning when she first saw crane that led her here.

“Have we really been falling for two whole hours without noticing?” Alice said to crane, “i don’t know.” crane answered. “I’ve jumped and fallen from plenty of heights before, and I’ve never fallen this slowly! Then again..." alice paused and eyed her outfit sheepishly, "every time I’ve fallen before my dresses have never acted so peculiar-OOH!”

Alice yelped as she felt something smooth on her bottom. She was too busy thinking about her dress while looking at crane to notice a large rocking chair drift upward beneath her, catching her like a glove as they met in midair.

“Well! At least you’re not floating in midair any longer!” crane chuckled as his claws perch onto the rocker. Alice leaned back, crossing her legs. Though, looking up as various furnishings and adornments drifted upwards, she felt that shouldn't really be complaining.Although she felt slightly embarrassed by her situation, the strangeness of this rabbit hole piqued her curiosity even further. she was with crane, someone with to talk to or express her thoughts to, and that often lead to boredom. alice leaned further back, kicking up her legs and sighing with relaxation. Crane yawned and stretched his wings as he is ready to fall asleep. He then tucks his head into his wing. The feeling of floating on air was almost dreamlike to the two drifters as their eyelids grew heavy, blue and golden eyes trailing the passing walls as they gradually shifted from wallpaper to brick…

Alice noticed that although the hole was still brightly lit, there was no longer any light coming from the surface. She began to feel slightly anxious about what would happen to her and crane when they reached the bottom. Just how deep could a rabbit hole go? Alice looked over the side of the chair, but all she could see past the walls covered in kitchen supplies was more darkness. As she leaned over to see further down, she rocked the chair a bit more.back to relax again, passing a fireplace embedded in the wall, the young girl failed to notice the chair listing to one side. Only when alice and crane felt their bodies gently sliding off did they panic and try to hold on. Alice as her legs entered the open air, as crane flapped his wings to avoid the chair

“OoOH!!” Alice cried as she slipped off the rocking chair and fell several feet past the fireplace. Thinking quickly, alice pushed on the front of her skirt as she fell, and her dress regained its parasol shape and poofed out, slowing her fall once again.

“Phew!!” alice sighed worriedly as she regained her balance in midair, “We really must be more careful!” Out of danger for the moment, her eyes turned down again, peering over the ballooned hem of her dress to see if she would have better luck seeing the bottom, now that she was falling by herself again. Still, there was no sign of solid ground beneath her. She sighed with a twinge of annoyance in her voice and crossed her arms. Crane wonders How could his hat have made it to the bottom safely, but so quickly?

they didn’t notice in the middle of their thoughts that the bricks of the walls were starting to close in around them as the hole narrowed, like the neck of a bottle or a chimney. Worse still, the width of the approaching section was less than that of alice’s inflated hem. Crane continued to muse to her, oblivious to the approaching danger.

“What if we should keep falling right through the center of the earaaAAHH!!!” Alice exclaimed as she and crane reached the bottleneck. Crane embraced her as they went down. Alice’s skirt suddenly deflated and she and crane fell feet-first through the chimney, her dress blowing up around her waist up to her and crane’s chest with alice’s hair billowing above her head.they plummeted through the bottleneck at breakneck speed, alice’s bloomers and stockings fully exposed. Fortunately, as the walls of the hole began to widen, her skirt rapidly filled up with air again and broke their fall with another “KaPOOF!” so quickly that Alice and crane nearly bumped their heads on the bottom of the chimney.

“OoH!!” Alice exclaimed, “…and come out the other side where people walk upside down!?” She tucked her hair back into place as she passed a floating map of the world. “Oh but that’s silly!!” crane laughed at her own thought, “nobody walks that way! ...But...What if We have? I’ve certainly never heard of a rabbit hole a thousand feet deep!”

But was the hole a thousand feet? Or was it a thousand miles? It seemed like hours ago that alice and crane had crawled through the entrance, and they had no idea how long it took for objects, let alone people, to fall from a great distance.

alice sighed and rocked gently to and fro and crane glides with his wings as their surroundings changed from brick to impossibly large, midnight purple fireplace curtains, so long their edges disappeared into the darkness below. alice tilted forward, just enough to see the tips of her black mary janes. Although she was still enjoying the feeling of floating, as her fall continued she became more aware of her undergarments on display, and could feel herself blushing, even though she was completely alone. “She must have gotten quite a few queer looks while on the surface,” crane thought, “perhaps didn’t know she could used her dress as a parasol to fall!”

Alice and crane experimentally poked the center of alice’s dress with their forefingers. The fabric gave way to their force and alice wobbled slightly in midair, but as quickly as they released it, the dress popped back up like a balloon. Alice and crane giggled slightly and they tried the experiment again, this time with several fingers and feathers. Right when they released it, the dress bounced up again with a soft “puff” noise, sending alice rocking rapidly back and forth with crane . “I certainly hope there aren’t any boys around down there to see me like this!!” she blushed as she and crane pushed down gently with both hands, “Falling with my dress poofing out like a parachuoOOH!!!”

They’ve had been so busy playing with alice’s skirt she had failed to notice that her rocking to and fro had become more violent every time she released her skirt. When alice and crane lifted both their hands and alice’s dress puffed up again, they wobbled too far to the right and plunged headfirst into a nosedive. Alice and crane screamed and waved their arms in the air, trying to right themselves as alice’s hair blew around her face, blocking her view. Just as alice managed to get her hair under control, she and crane heard the familiar noise: “KaPOOF!” their fall immediately slowed back to a leisurely float, leaving them slightly winded.

“Phew!! Thank goodness!!” Alice sighed to herself. She moved her fingers through her hair and straightened her black bow, but noticed that hair wasn’t blowing slightly around her shoulders like before, but hung above her head, as if gravity had no effect on it. The breeze around her legs, thighs and backside was also stronger than before, giving her chills. It wasn’t until Alice looked up and saw the edges of the curtains drift passed her that she realized what had happened:

Her dress had inflated inside out!

“OOO!!” Alice exclaimed, covering her mouth with shock and blushing she realized her predicament. Her Bloomers were now revealed for all to see as she dangled in midair, upside down. Falling with her dress flared out was one thing, but any young woman would feel mortified with their undergarments on display like this!

Suddenly Alice’s fall slowed to a halt, and the entire hole reverberated as if someone had caught her. She yelped as she felt a cold, metallic touch on the undersides of her knees. Alice glanced around at the walls of the hole and noticed they seemed to be lit by a faint light, almost like a skylight. She looked above – or below – her, but couldn’t see past her blonde hair. With a great deal of effort, Alice managed to push her skirt and petticoats out of the way, and saw that she was now hanging by her knees from a long metal bar, which held the curtains in place.

“How curious! Well…Perhaps more convenient than curious!” Crane said chuckling at her as alice swung slightly forwards and backwards.

Alice’s left knee slipped off the bar, leaving her flailing in the air. “Oh No, Alice!!” crane cried as her other knee slowly gave out, dropping her back into the dim light below. She held her arms out with outturned palms to right herself as she tumbled faster and faster, her feet kicking the air lightly. She couldn’t tell how fast she was falling, but it seemed that the dim lights of the hole were growing gradually brighter.

Suddenly, as she began another cartwheel, Alice heard the sound of a tight grip on her waist so loud she could hear the sound echo off the walls around her. She looks up and sees crane with his talons grabbing her. Her hair-raising tumble quickly reverted to a leisurely and relaxed float it as Alice sighed with relief.

“OOO!!” alice exclaimed, covering her mouth with shock and blushing she realized her predicament.“Thank Goodness!!” crane exclaimed as she reassessed his surroundings, and realized he and alice are floating into a small archway with a marble floor.

They had finally reached the bottom!

Their in a massive, circular hall, lit by glass lamps, with beautiful fleur de lis wallpaper. There were no windows, so alice and crane guessed their was still underground, or at least inside a very large building. crane gazed at the hall in wonder, hopefully his hat might be down there.

Directly below the two sat a throw pillow the size of a master bed. crane smiled and leaned alice, waiting for her feet to touch the ground, but instead of landing, her fall seemed to slow to a stop. She glanced around her and found she was floating in midair, as if she was levitating. Her dress was still puffed up like a parasol, indicating a cushion of air still held her aloft. Crane flew down to the cushion and felt the velvety pillow in between his toes. alice’s eyes widened as she wondered to herself how long she could hang in the air above the ground.

She didn’t have to wonder very long.

As soon as the thought popped into her head, Alice’s dress fluttered up past her waist with a sound like a flag blowing in the wind crossed with a deflating balloon. She rapidly dropped the last few hundred feet before landing on the pillow. Her landing send crane bouncing off the velveteen pillow, landing unceremoniously with his rear end and tail feathers sticking in the air.

“Oo!!” crane exclaimed as he righted himself. Seeing from the cushion, Alice rolled her eyes and smiled thinking how silly he must’ve looked. She giggled at the thought of crane being a silly looking bird as her new friend.

At the nearest part of the floor crane could make out a round yellowish brown figure. His Hat!

“Oh, there you are!” crane exclaimed. he had finally cornered his hat! He picked it up and placed the rice hat delicately on his head. Alice went up to him excitedly, “oh, you look lovely”

“Oh, of course,” replied the bird reassuringly, tipped his hat. He then look up at the skylight of that the hole left out.

“We should probably go back up” crane spoke.

"I think you're right... I'd be delighted to come back with you..." She added, before leaning in close to his soft feathers.

Right!" crane declared, flapping his wings upward and his long legs grabbed alice’s arms. alice exclaimed in surprise as she felt crane’s claws gripping her shoulders and a sudden cold breeze swirl up underneath her dress from below. An updraft rose rapidly from the speed of the flight, lifting her skirt and petticoat and exposing her bloomers

“O-hoo!!” Alice giggled slightly as she pulled her dress down over her legs, stopping it before it could rise any higher. She adjusted her grip on her skirt and tucked her hair behind her ear with one hand as she blushed, glancing side to side as if expecting to see someone staring at her. The folds of her skirt and petticoat billowed across her backside, the fabric softly flapping like a flag blowing in the wind.

“You’d Better Hang On Tight” crane said looking down at alice as they flew up the hole

Crane soared into of the darkness of the hole upward, in search of the sunlight peeking from the surface. Alice was blinded by the flashing colorful lights as the sped up. Alice was feeling a little dizzy as the colors swirled around and got brighter. Just then a beam of white light grows over the darkness. That must be the way out of the rabbit hole. As crane carried Alice by the shoulders, everything fades into white as the bright light brightens the rabbit hole.

———————————————

Alice is so exhausted that her being unconscious lasted for nearly a while. At some point, she surfaced briefly and realized that she was lying down on a tree,but this knowledge had barely dawned on her when she was out again.

The tree she slept under is magnificent. A tree with pink cherry blossoms blooming over Alice. As Alice slept peacefully a shadow looms over the girl.

“Ah, there’s my hat” crane smiled. His hat is tucked into Alice’s arms

“Or like someone found it for me” crane added as he bent down for his hat. As he picked up his hat he found something else crane hasn’t expect: Dinah curled up into Alice’s lap.

Crane scooped up the little red kitten with his wing and held her close. He thought up a way to make Alice wake up. He bent down into Alice’s sides and gently rubbed her sides with his long beak. She twitched a bit under the touch. It was calming, but it tickled. Alice slowly opened her eye as Dinah mewed to her. “Oh Dinah,” Alice yawned, blinking drowsily “it’s just a bird in trousers…... and a hat!” Alice squeaked, looking at crane.

“Uhh… I beg your pardon, miss...uhh”

“My name is Alice” she said getting up on her feet and brushed the dust off of her dress. “ and I see you’ve met Dinah, my cat” Alice said scooping Dinah into her arms.

“Well, I’m crane and I see you’ve found my hat” crane smiled. “Oh goodness sir, it wasn’t me who found your hat, you’ve found it in the rabbit hole” Alice replied.

“Rabbit hole?” crane tilted his head curiously. ” before I woke up, I had a strange dream about a rabbit hole and someone is with me“. ”and she told me about a place she’s been to with strange and crazy people” crane continued

Alice pondered some more about crane’s dream. “such a curious dream” she thought. “I’ve had a dream peculiar like that”. “I was down a rabbit hole with somebody else too, as we search for a hat”.

alice and crane pondered about the dreams they’ve had until they looked at each other and Stared blankly. Was it all a dream or did it really just happened?

Alice couldn’t help but smile

Alice lets out a little giggle at the bird and places Dinah on his back. Alice hugged crane as she rubbed under his chin, which felt quite nice.

“Oh mr. Crane, we’ll be such jolly good friends”

The End

#master crane #Crane #alice

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made-me-deep-blue · 5 years ago

Text

the rising of a bloodkeeper vampire.

In celebration of Bloodbound’s Book 3 releasing this weekend! Enjoy x

Amy found herself in a room.

The ceilings and walls were nothing more than a mere mass of darkness swirling, poised to attack, but the floors looked like they were lit under good lighting.

“You’re weak, Amy.”

The amber-haired girl flinched and immediately swivelled her head around to search her surroundings for that voice.

“If you don’t do something, you might as well just rot inside the casket they placed you in. You can’t keep on staying here and die as a human,” the voice mocked. “Look at me, you’re so unfriendly.”

Amy felt a presence reaching towards her back, but she was too terrified to smack that hand away.

“You know you need me,” the sounds of chains clinking came closer from her back, but Amy could do nothing to stop it. “Look at me, you’re so unfriendly.”

A weight then lunged itself at Amy’s back, and cold hand pressed against her shoulder, the hot breath against the nape of her neck. It was no hallucination or an illusion because she was hearing her own self speaking next to her ear, chanting like a prayer.

“Do it, accept me. Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on, come on…”

Amy clenched her fist and blurted out a question instead. “Why?”

“Why…?”

“Why should I accept you?”

The voice cackled and purred into her ear. “Why, you ask?” A pair of hands spun Amy around. The weight behind her was a woman slightly taller than her, with tresses of brown ombre hair. The way she dressed and with the familiar golden jewellery immediately sparked a memory in Amy’s mind.

“...Rheya?” The name rolled off her tongue effortlessly as if she spoke of it a million times. Of course not, instead, it haunted Amy in her sleep when her eyes were closed.

The woman gave out a hearty laugh, before shaking her head with a crooked grin. “Oh well, I can’t blame you for that, we both do look alike in the end. I’m Rashida, Rheya’s sister.”

“You were the one Rheya mentioned when she was confronted by Xenocrates.”

“So you do know,” Rashida clicked her tongue. “As expected of someone from my lineage.”

The Bloodkeepers.

Jameson had revealed it to Amy when she was kidnapped by him and Gaius. Humans who have every single memory of every vampire who walked the earth. However, the scholar didn’t mention whether it was from a single line of women or they were simply scattered across the earth. The answer was right in front of her. Her ancestor.

Then, their location changed immediately. Now, they were sitting on top of a radio tower looking over New York City. From where they were, Amy could see Kamilah pointedly staring out of her office window, looking down at the nightlife below her, absentmindedly swirling her red wine in hand.

The queen was drained of emotions and despite her nocturnal nature, dark circles were evident underneath those dull, hazel brown eyes. Kamilah’s cheekbones seemed more evident, and that jawline was sharper. More lethal, Amy would say.

“You could enjoy a new life together with your beloved,” Rashida said. “If you embrace your new abilities and your identity as a Bloodkeeper. As much as you are the very first Bloodkeeper in our line to turn into a vampire, it is a waste if you disregard that chance to live again.”

To live. What it meant to be alive.

Kamilah had explained it to her even, at that vineyard in Greece near Elias’ villa. How much she had wasted being alive under Gaius’ control, under his whims and touch. How much she yearned to just let it all go and meet her family behind the doors of the afterlife.

But then, Amy Ashryver and Kamilah Sayeed had found each other, amidst all of the chaos happening in not hers, but their world. Where they had lived on the same earth, breathed the same air, and crossed paths on that fateful day at Amy’s first board meeting as Adrian Raines’ executive assistant.

Live.

“I never would’ve thought,” Amy scoffed, kicking her legs slightly in the chilly air. “I have the chance to be awakened at my own deathbed.”

Rashida chuckled with amusement, the glow of her spirit projection pulsed along with the shimmering sound carried into the sleepless night of the bustling city. “You, my child, are gifted with a gift that humans do not have. You’re special, Amy Ashryver, and I want you to remember that.”

Their surroundings changed again. Amy found herself in darkness, and the yawning chasm between herself and Rashida was evident. She could feel it.

“So,” Rashida stepped closer. “Will you embrace the blood, or fight it?”

There was no need for hesitation. The answer was clear in her mind.

“I will embrace the blood.”

“Good answer, my child,” Rashida then pulled Amy into her embrace and placed a kiss onto her forehead. That felt warm, and that sensation continued spreading throughout her body, could feel it through every single vein, artery and capillary to ever exist in her old body that was about to be reborn.

When Rashida released Amy, she didn’t panic and fly out her hands to hold onto the spirit’s arms, she just fell deeper into the darkness that now welcomed her with open arms.

“Sleep well, Amy Ashryver.”

________________________________________________________________

Amy felt like she was slowly regaining consciousness in her physical body, but she felt claustrophobic.

As her body started to function, something else flickered inside of her. A new power that now flowed through her veins. She could feel the transformation moulding her body into someone new. The birth of a vampire.

After the heat started to simmer, Amy subconsciously reached out and slid open the cover of the sarcophagus where her body was being kept it, slowly stepping out of it to make the minimum or no noise at all. No one paid attention to the clicking of her heels that echoed throughout the corridor as she made her way out of the underground passage with familiarity.

This was her boss’ company building, of course, she knew every single place, crook and cranny.

“...hey, did you hear that?” Amy heard a distinctive male voice from further down the hallway.

“Yeah, I sure did,” another male voice replied. “But it’s probably because the place is haunted, like what the big boss said.” They must be the guards who were appointed to look after Amy’s sarcophagus.

Without even moving a muscle, Amy managed to extinguish all of the flaming torches that were supposed to light up the dark, stone passageway, only leaving two alit where the doors awaited her grand entrance.

“Who’s there?” The guards snapped, whipping their weapons towards the sound of the heels were coming from.

“Awaken, Amy Ashryver.”

There was only a seductive, yet sinister laughter which answered them at the end of the passageway, and a pair of crimson red glowing eyes turning predatory with delight, at the sight of the two vulnerable men.

#playchoices #choices #choices: bloodbound #bloodbound #kamilah sayeed #kamilah sayeed x mc #kamilah sayeed fanfiction #lily spencer #adrian raines #bb3 #a little angst #awakening #rebirth #vampire

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years ago

Text

I Like Him

They might have gotten off to a rocky start, but near the end of 'Flashpoint' Thomas Wayne comes to think highly of Barry Allen. Enough so that he comes around to the idea that the speedster is in love with his son. He never so much as said it, but it was obvious to someone like him - the best detective in his reality.

So when somehow he comes back - with his son in tow - Thomas needs to let Bruce know how much he approves of their relationship.

Only Bruce doesn't have feelings for Barry Allen... right?

(ao3 link)

Bruce knows he should say something, his stare unnerving in most circumstances, but any attempt stalls in his throat as if stopped by some immovable barrier. Still, Thomas doesn’t say anything to turn him away. In fact he seems calm, like they weren’t standing guard at the lip of the Cave’s entrance waiting for their coming attackers.

“You know,” Thomas starts, “When Barry told me about you… about who you were and what should have been… I thought he was crazy. During the entire time we worked together every rational part of me screamed that it wasn’t going to work. That we were going to die. But a tiny piece… it had hope.”

He nods. “Barry does a great job of making a little bit of hope go a long way.”

Thomas agrees, glancing between him and the aforementioned speedster.“He’s a great man… I think he’s good for you.”

Bruce startles, thrown for a moment. “What are you…”

“I like him,” Thomas says, facing Bruce. He smiles like he knows a secret that Bruce is privy to as well. “And knowing you have Barry in your life… well, it gave me some comfort while the world ended all around me. To protect you when I couldn’t… to make you happy.”

Taken aback, Bruce breaks away from his father’s gaze. Unfortunately his eyes settle over to the other side where Barry’s blur zips around the Cosmic Treadmill. Bruce imagines what he must look like trying to put it together. Brows furrowed over blue eyes steely in their focus, and his jaw set - tongue peeking out as he’s seen countless times when Barry fully devotes himself to a task.

“I don’t,” Bruce fumbles, “We’re not -” A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, cutting him off.

“Son,” his father says, “believe me, the fact that he’s a guy is the last thing I’m worried about.”

“But -”

A crash sounds from far off, forcing their conversation to stall on an unfinished road. “They’re coming,” Thomas says, “You ready?” He pulls two guns out from holsters on his side, Bruce aware enough to notice the motion.

“No killing,” Bruce tells his father.

“It’s not like they won’t have it coming -”

He doesn’t waver. “No.”

They’re chopping away at the grandfather clock, seconds away from breaching the first line. While Bruce might not have enough ability to navigate the murky waters of relationships, there are a few things he can still strongly hold onto. And his unwillingness to kill is one of them.

Thomas flicks the safety off. “Fine, but you can’t stop me from maiming them.”

Soldiers leap down the steps, closing the distance between them and the Waynes. A tall, dark-skinned woman tackles Thomas, letting two of her friends circle Bruce. He pulls out his bat-a-rangs, body twinging from Thawne’s earlier abuse. Bruce stamps down the pain, however, and allows adrenaline to lead him through the choreography.

He drops down onto his back, kicking the first woman who charges him into the one waiting behind. Then, flipping back onto his feet, he launches the barrage of bat-a-rangs watching them explode in front of the waiting legion. Their shields can’t protect them from the concussive blowback, and one of their numbers falls into the deep chasm.

Bruce gives them no room to breathe, rolling a few pellets onto the ground before blocking an uppercut. The strike hid an even fiercer knee kick that rips a few of his stitches open. He staggers back a few feet, a hand pressed to his side. The group regains their bearings and readies their attacks. Luckily the pellets hiss and blast open, a growing foam washing over them.

The woman in front of him curses, her long red hair swaying as she stalks towards him. Her axe raised, Bruce readies a dodge for when she swings. She never does; the woman who attacked his father slams into her and sends them both crumbling to the floor.

Bruce looks at his father, a few cuts across his chest being the only injury. “Are you okay?” he asks him, hands relaxing from rock-like fists. Bruce tries to tell him ‘yes’, only the pain in his side rears back and has him biting back a gasp. He collapses into his father’s ready arms.

“Guys! Guys, I think I’m done!”

They turn to see Barry waving for them, a rebuilt treadmill to his side.

“Like I said,” Thomas whispers, carrying Bruce over, “he’s a real good one.”

Bruce blames the overwhelming hurt on his inability to give a response. The growls and shouts from the Amazons fade into the background as Thomas leads them both over to where Barry waits. He hands him over to Barry, Bruce straining to stay with his father.

“That was a scouting party,” Thomas says, “There’ll be more coming without a doubt. You two need to leave now.”

“No,” Bruce gasps, “You… what about -”

A loud rumble shakes the earth beneath them, cracking fissures in the cave walls and knocking stalactites into free falls. One shatters a few feet away, and Barry’s grip on Bruce tightens. “Bruce,” Barry shouts, “This place… it’s starting to tear itself apart!”

“But what about -”

“Bruce,” Thomas speaks over him, voice firm and face set with grim determination, “Bruce, please… this place was never meant to exist. I… I wasn’t supposed to live. But you can. With your family, your son, and…” He pauses, gaze briefly flitting over to Barry. “Stop letting the bat control your life… choose to be happy.”

Amongst the noises of the world ending Bruce hears the Amazons from before ripping themselves from their entrapment, alongside the echoes of even more flooding in. Barry pulls him towards the treadmill, one foot on it. He continues to fight, calling for his father.

“Barry,” Thomas addresses the other man, “Please look after him. Keep him safe.” The words weigh heavily on Bruce’s heart, he and Thomas the only two aware of what exactly his father asks.

“Of course,” Barry says, both him and Bruce on the treadmill. He runs, the electricity flying off the machine with each step. Bruce feels the lightning coursing through him, sparks flying every which way. Thomas watches them with a calm acceptance, shoulders set back and chin held high.

The scene fades from view the faster Barry runs. Thomas, the Amazons, and the Flashpoint reality disappears, and yet Bruce cannot calling for his father. He returns to that little boy in the alley, forced to sit in a dirty puddle while his trembled cries go unanswered. So distraught he barely notices the other speeding blur that passes them until Barry shouts his name.

“Thawne!”

Up ahead he sees the yellow-clad speedster chasing an unseen force, button in hand. Barry pounds into the treadmill with reckless abandon, Bruce’s hold on him tightening so he doesn’t fall off.

They chase for what feels like years but could possibly be seconds, never coming close enough to catch Thawne. Barry tries his hardest, reaching out and straining to snag the tiniest scraps of fabric. Before he could Zoom bursts forward with the aid of a second wind, tearing into some other facet of reality. The tremors of his speed causes the already shaky treadmill to come apart under them. Unable to travel further, he and Barry become spectators as Thawne confronts some so-called ‘god’. Stare in terrific awe because the villain disintegrates before their eyes, an unseen shadow proving his might. All that remains of their foe is a haunting scream.

“Bruce,” Barry says, now focused on the predicament at hand, “Bruce I need you to hold on. If you let go, we’re going to be lost -” The treadmill shatters, and they’re thrown more into the strange energy around them. Bruce, numb and exhausted, can only sense Barry fly away because the warmth at his side disappears and a rush of cold replaces it.

His last thought before the shock overtakes him is how he never appreciated how nice Barry’s presence made him feel.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce cannot sleep. In these instances he would usually slip into his costume and swing from the rooftops or sit at his computer and pull pieces from a crime scene and assemble the puzzle. With his injuries from Thawne and the wreckage of his equipment, all he’s left with is his mind and the window of his study.

There’s a lot stirring inside his head that he shouldn’t be bored - the figure that killed Thawne, the button, the mysterious man who saved him and Barry. But they all pale in comparison to his reunion with Thomas Wayne.

He has much to unpack about what they spoke about. Sitting in the very spot where the idea for Batman was born, Bruce considers following his father’s advice. Hanging up the cowl and stepping out of the shadows.

“Happy,” he mumbles to himself, “Can I really be…”

A montage of a life without Batman flashes, where he turns Bruce Wayne into the hero he was meant to be instead of the misdirection he uses to keep up appearances. Imagines what it might have been if he never took to the cowl in the first place.

But then he remembers what his father said, about his family. Bruce would never have had them without help from the Batman. He might embody the night but Batman was responsible for hanging each star in his sky.

“I’d have no sons…” Bruce says, “No friends - real friends. I never would have met -”

His father’s approval comes to mind, and Bruce shakes his head. He wills the blush away from his face, dragging a hand down his cheeks to stem the flow of blood.

He thinks about Barry, considers him the way his father did. It’s true that he and the other man had always had a special bond - one of mutual respect, both master detectives who can only discuss their skills with the other. True equals. But there was never anything more to it.

Sure Bruce may smile more in his presence, but Barry can crack even the most petrified faces. Sometimes he would overstep boundaries others have that sent Bruce spiraling into a bad mood in the pace; however it only conjured up some fond exasperation when Barry did it. And seeing him in danger did grip at his heart in the cruelest of ways, driving him to keeping the speedster safe.

But that didn’t mean he liked Barry in that way.

Shaking his head, he casts those thoughts to the side. “You’re tired Bruce,” he says to himself, “Overthinking… he has Iris and you…” Chuckling darkly, Bruce lets the words drop off.

As the sun crests over the hills Bruce decides to follow his father’s advice. He will be happy. There is someone he can be happy with.

He thinks his father would have liked her… even if she wasn’t Barry.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Epilogue:

Thomas considers Bane’s offer, weighing the options in his mind. While it was a cruel and sadistic plot against his son, there were enough loose ends that he could leverage to give his son the family and happy ending he deserved. But he needs to play his cards close to his chest.

“I want to see Batman die as much as anyone,” he starts, “But I may need some time to think it over. I’m still getting used to this reality… it’s only been days since you found me.”

Bane nods. “I understand. I hope you know, though, that I won’t stop my plans for you either. Everything needs to happen at the right moment, and we’re working on a very tight schedule.” He smirks, “Why in a few days I’ll be ruining your son’s wedding.”

He frowns, “He’s getting married?”

“Yes, it would have been a lovely affair - a truly happy moment. But unfortunately I can’t have a happy Batman.”

Thomas sighs, thinking of Bruce standing at an altar in a black tuxedo. Imagines him waiting for someone who would never come. Pictures Bruce believing that the love of his life had run out on him. As much as he wanted for his son to be happy, now that he’s here Thomas can take over.

“I won’t stop you,” he tells Bane, “I do ask though that whatever you do to Flash, it’s no serious harm.”

Confusion settles clearly across Bane’s face at Thomas’s request. “What?”

“The Flash? To stop the wedding - I don’t know what you have planned but I’d hate to see the poor boy killed -”

“Why do you think I would hurt the Flash?”

“...Because that’s who my son’s in a relationship… isn’t he?”

Bane laughs, a cruel bellowing sound that grates on Thomas’s nerves. “Well that would be a complete shock to everyone!”

Thomas scowls at him, leaning forward. “What is it you’re trying to say.”

“I hate to break it to you old man, but your boy isn’t marrying the speedster,” Bane says, “He’s planning to tie the knot with a thief named Selina Kyle - otherwise known as Catwoman .”

Settling back into his seat, Thomas takes in this new information. Somehow adjusting to the idea he was no longer in a world that was crumbling all around him seemed easier than accepting that his son wasn’t dating Barry Allen. Immediately his loose plans for the future adjust, roping Barry into them. If they weren’t together, Thomas would at least like to know why .

Bane, ignoring Thomas’s silence, continues on, “Flash though? I didn’t consider adding him… but if there is something there for you to see I might just have to expand my operation out to Central City… and I know the Gotham Girl for the job.”

#Batman #Flash #Bruce Wayne #Barry Allen #Thomas Wayne #Batflash #Batflash fic

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pengychan · 6 years ago

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 9

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: Do you know what the sub drop is? No? Neither does Ernesto.

***

“I still have no idea why you insist on going by train.”

I still have no idea why you insist on going at all, is what Ernesto is really thinking. Héctor can tell. There is something gutting about the chasm between them, how the town they grew up in can hold so many fond memories for one of them and only bitterness for the other.

It is true that Héctor doesn’t need to go - he can honor his parents’ memory from here, too - but being there, and visiting their grave… it is different. Plus, there are faces he likes seeing again, from time to time. Unlike Ernesto, he did not cut all ties.

“It’s quicker,” he finally says, answering to the question Ernesto actually voiced. He puts another pair of trousers in the suitcase, and closes it before one of the chihuahuas can jump in. The little dog looks very displeased, and Héctor gives it an apologetic grin before turning back to Ernesto. “Besides, Imelda’s brothers will pick us up at the station.”

“The Bobos?”

“The Bobos.”

“In a car.”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound safe.”

“It probably isn’t,” Héctor concedes. “I think they have one license between the two of them.”

“And not an ounce of common sense. If you die in that hole, I won’t come to your funeral,” Ernesto mutters, but then he hesitates, and looks away. “... Tell your parents I said hi,” he adds, causing Héctor to smile a little. Ernesto was fond on them; their door had always been open to their son’s best friend, a home away from home when his own place got rowdy.

He remembers, distantly, a few times Ernesto actually referred to his mother as Tía Emilia. The memory causes something to grip his throat, tightly.

“I’ll make sure to tell them you’d come, too, if being anywhere near Santa Cecilia didn’t make you break out in hives,” he says in the end, and raises an eyebrow. Ernesto is standing by the door, leaning against the wall and right by an empty chair. “... Not sitting down?” he asks. Ernesto rolls his eyes, and throws him the closest thing he can grab - namely, a shirt he’d left on the chair. Héctor laughs, the lump in his throat gone. “Hah! But it was worth it. Admit it.”

“Never,” Ernesto says, but his lips are curled in a smile as well. With his clothes on, there is no telling what happened the previous night - and the marks it left on him. But they are there, and the fact Ernesto bears them gladly is… a nice thought, he has to admit.

“Of course it was worth it,” Imelda’s voice comes from the next room over, sounding just a touch smug. She pops her head through the door, her purse in one hand and the train tickets in the other. Her suitcase is already at the entrance. “I’m calling the cab,” she tells Héctor before turning to Ernesto. “I think one of your dogs got stuck in the bathtub. No clue how it got in,” she adds, and reaches up to brush back his hair, which isn’t quite as tidy as usual.

It is a casual gesture, and Ernesto doesn’t seem to think anything of it - no whining about his hair, no surprise. Héctor allows himself a secret grin before smoothing his expression.

“I’m almost done here. Go rescue your dog, we’ll be off soon.”

As Ernesto leaves quickly - they can hear a dog yapping from the bathroom, like it’s actually in some sort of danger - Héctor and Imelda exchange a glance. “He looks fine,” he says.

“I do like him better without his hair all gelled up,” she concedes, and Héctor snorts a laugh.

“Hah! No, I mean-- he seems all right,” he says. To his amusement Imelda rears back, clearly embarrassed by the lapse, before regaining composure.

“Of course he’s all right. We made sure of that,” she says tightly, closing her purse. “We’re good to go,” she adds.

Neither of them can imagine how wrong they are.

***

“... And so he said, ‘please never return’, signed, and we got our driving licence!”

“Well, one of us got a licence.”

“Not telling who.”

“We’re not even sure.”

“Works for both, though.”

“Hey, Imelda, why is Héctor green?”

To be absolutely fair, Imelda thinks, Héctor is not quite green. Green-ish, maybe, by the time Óscar slams the brakes and brings the call to a stop - well, a stall, since he didn’t bother to put down the clutch - in front of their house. They jerk forward before being brought back on their seats by the belts. Clutching his suitcase to his chest for dear life, Héctor lets out a long sigh of relief before he smiles.

“That was-- fun,” he croaks, fake as a three pesos coin.

“You are not driving us back,” Imelda says, throwing the door open, and for a moment before she regains her balance she almost stumbles back. God, it feels like she went through a round or two in a washing machine. Héctor needs to lean on the car a little, but it looks like he won’t, after all, hurl his guts. Which is good, really: last thing she needs now is having to deal with her parents after her husband greets them by throwing up on their doorstep.

“Imelda!” As though summoned at the door by the screech of slamming brakes - Imelda thinks she can smell something burning - her mother is suddenly there, throwing her arms around her. “It’s good to see you, mija. How was the journey?”

“It was fine,” she says, deciding to bring up her concerns over her brothers driving anything at all, be it a car or a bike, later. “Where’s papá?”

“He went to the parish to make sure everything is ready for Emila and Ricardo’s function,” she says. “It will be tomorrow at ten.”

Of course, the function in their memory is what they’re there for; tomorrow will be the tenth anniversary of their death. Imelda glances back - Héctor has recovered enough to open the booth and pull out her luggage, too - before speaking quietly.

“Thanks for organising it. I brought some money, as an offering,” she says. It is not mandatory to give the parish money for the memorial service, but of course it’s expected.

As a response, her mother shakes her head. “No need. Your father will take care of it.”

Imelda frowns, and lifts her chin. “We can afford--” she begins, a defensive note to her voice, but her mother holds up a hand.

“We know you can. It’s just… a gift from our part. Emilia and Ricardo were our friends, too.”

Oh, Imelda thinks. Right. She is so used to expect seeing her choices and achievements dismissed or played down, maybe she gets defensive too quickly. To be fair, her parents did get better. Maybe it is time she starts to accept something from them without feeling like it means having to swallow her pride. “... Of course,” she says, and smiles. “Gracias.”

“De nada. Oh, Héctor! Here you are! You’re looking good, considering that Felipe drove.”

“I think it was Óscar,” Héctor laugs, and gives her a hug. “You look good, Milagros.”

“Oh, flatterer,” she mutters, giving his cheek a light smack before pulling back. She looks at them both. “You two are much too thin. Come in, I have only three days to get you to eat…”

Imelda bites back a retort - I cook plenty, too - and just follows her inside. Annoyance fades quickly at the familiar sights and smells; at Héctor’s obvious joy to be there and her mother’s pride when he samples her cooking and declares it to be ‘delicious as always, mamá Milagros’. It doesn’t take long for her to smile along, too.

It’s good to be home.

***

Ernesto is fine.

All right, so he can’t sit down. He can definitely feel the welts on his ass and lower back and the back of his thighs, he can feel the bruises and the soreness in his back, but… he is fine. Better than fine.

Before falling asleep the previous night - so sore and sated, so exhausted and satisfied, wrapped in a towel and resting between two warm bodies - Ernesto thought briefly that morning would bring a price to pay. Embarrassment, for sure, maybe some sort of mockery.

He was wrong. Embarrassment failed to make an appearance, and so did mockery. He awakened to the smell of coffee, alone on the bed, to be treated to breakfast on a tray less than a minute later. His stomach grumbling, he ate quickly and even enjoyed the small talk about the weather and the trip ahead; even the thought of Santa Cecilia failed to sour his mood.

All right, so there was a tug of something in his chest as Héctor and Imelda prepared to leave-- without me --for their hometown, but it was easily dismissed.

They will be back soon, and he is fine.

***

“Hola, mamá. Papá. I, uh, brought flowers. I sat on them, sorry about that, but they’re still good - just need some water. We’re holding the function tomorrow, but I figured I’d… come say hi first.”

There is no answer, of course, but… well, it would be pretty worrying if there were any. As he fills up the vase, Héctor glances around. There are a few other visitors to the Santa Cecilia cemetery, but most are well away, and no one can hear him talking to the grave. Even if they could, he he doubts anyone would mind. A lot of people do that.

“Bet this place isn’t going to be so empty next time I visit,” Héctor says, placing down the vase and putting the flowers in. Every year, on Día de los Muertos, the whole place is brimming with people, flowers, candles and offerings. “I’ll get you the usual - oh, and I learned how to make Pan Dulce! Without help. Well, minimal help. It’s good, honest. I’ll get you some so you can try it out.”

The flowers sorted, he sits cross-legged in front of the grave and picks at some weeds that had the audacity to try growing right below the marble headstone. He glances at the single picture on it - his parents, in each other’s arms and smiling at the camera.

It was taken only a few weeks after his mother had found out she was pregnant, or so he recalls being told. They always wanted a big family, but that hadn’t happened: it had taken years of trying for Héctor to be born, and then there had were no others.

“It’s all right, mamá,” Héctor remembers saying once, when he’d realized his excited talk about a classmate’s baby sister saddened her. “I don’t need want one, anyway.”

“He’s already got me, Señora,” Ernesto, then ten years old, had declared. I made her mother laugh, and ruffle both of their hair. Héctor often huffed when she did, but he never really minded. He would give anything now for her to be able to do that again.

He runs his hand through his hair, trying to pretend it’s her touch, and glances at his papá's smiling face. “Looking good, both of you,” he finally tells the photo. It is one of the very few ones that escaped the complete destruction of their home, when a leaking gas pipe and a spark destroyed everything within seconds.

“It must have been quick,” someone - old Prospero, maybe? - told him, in a clumsy but well-meaning attempt to make him feel better. “They were gone before they knew it.”

It is a vague memory; looking back that entire week was shrouded in fog. He recalls being in the next town over with Ernesto for a gig when his phone had rung, only minutes before stepping on stage.

“You need to come back now. There has been an… an accident.”

From that moment on, there are only flashes. His phone hitting the ground, the way the room spun around him, Ernesto grasping his shoulders and asking what was wrong; the drive back to Santa Cecilia, with Ernesto pushing his father’s old car to the limit; the smoke in the distance where his house used to stand; the crowd of people in the street when the car came to a screeching halt, several hands reaching out for him, to hold him back, keep him away.

He doesn’t remember screaming but he must have, because his throat was sore for days; he could still hardly speak on the day of the funeral, as he stood before the black caskets, Ernesto’s arm around his shoulders. He remebers, vaguely, Imelda's hand squeezing his own - but they weren't that close, then. It was Ernesto to organize everything; Héctor had been so lost, so numb, entirely useless. If not for him… who knows where he’d even be now, a decade on.

Still wandering in that thick fog, maybe, hardly remembering how to breathe.

“Ernesto says hi,” Héctor says, and smiles. “He couldn’t come - you know how things are with his family - but I know he still misses you. He still has that moño charro you gifted him, papá, he wears it on the great occasions. Speaking of which, we’re probably going to get a record deal, you know? We’ve come so far, I bet you’d be--” proud “--Amazed. A lot of things happened since my last visit, and...er…”

All right. Maybe let’s… not tell them all of it.

“... Well, things are going well,” he finishes with a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, and Imelda’s business has really picked up! I wish you had time to know her. I mean, you knew her, but-- really know her. She’s amazing and I am so lucky-- I wish you were there when--” his voice breaks and ay, maybe it wasn’t a good idea, insisting to visit them alone. With a sniffle, goes to wipe his eyes… only that he can’t. Something is holding his arm back, like he got his sleeve caught in something. “Wha--”

“Ruff!”

“... Huh. And how long have you been here?”

The hairless dog - a Xolo, not just a mangy stray - seems to grin at him through the mouthful of his sleeve, furiously wagging its tail. It makes Héctor laugh.

“Sorry, but I’ve got no snacks to share,” he says, pulling back his arm. The dog lets go of his sleeve and looks at him, tongue hanging almost to the ground, before shaking itself - causing droplets of drool to fly through the air, and that impossibly long tongue to wrap itself halfway around its muzzle.

“Hah! Come on, boy - go back home,” Héctor chuckles, knowing he’s probably looking at a stray, and picks up a stick from the ground. He throws it and the dog nearly flies after it, catching it in mid-air and starting to enthusiastically chew it up before even hitting the ground.

Héctor laughs again, feeling a little lighter, the urge to weep gone. He turns back to the grave to fill in his parents on what he’s been up to in the past few months - well, most of it - with a smile back on his face. When he finishes and stands, turning to leave the cemetery and head back, he doesn’t realize the dog is still there, staring at him from among the graves.

***

Maybe he’s… not as fine as he thought he was.

It is a thought Ernesto has been trying to chase away for a good few hours - trying to ignore the tightness in his chest, the shortness of breath despite just being out to walk his dogs at a leisure pace, a knot in his stomach that seems to be getting tighter and tighter... and, most of all, a growing sense of dread that is all the more frightening as it is senseless.

This is stupid. He’s fine. There is no reason to feel like this, none whatsoever.

“I must be coming down with something,” he mutters to no one in particular, reaching up to rub his forehead as he walks through the entrance and towards his apartment, the dogs yapping and pulling. Yes, that must be it. He’ll get in bed and sleep it off, and then--

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, did you know that?”

Oh, no. Not the old guy. With a snarl, Ernesto tears his hand off his forehead to glare. Old Chicharrón, who seems to like Héctor for some reason and dislike him intensely for some other reason Ernesto cannot begin to imagine, is standing on the stairs, glaring at him and at his dogs. He’s always been a grumpy pain in the ass, but he’s become even worse since Ernesto has taken in the chihuahuas, complaining endlessly about their yapping and clearly not realizing his grumbling is a lot more annoying than any noise a dog could make.

“Mind your own business,” he says… or at least, he tries to. The moment he tries to speak his voice is suddenly stuck in his throat, his chest is tight and-- why-- why is he glaring at him like that, like he did something wrong?

Because you did. You did everything wrong. Look at you, look what you let them do to you, and where are they now? They’re probably laughing at you, you know that?

“I--” Ernesto croaks, but he cannot force words out and oh, Christ, his eyes are burning.

Maybe he knows. He heard you, or they told him - told everyone. Half of Santa Cecilia is having a laugh at your expenses right now. Just wait until your parents get word of it. They won’t even be surprised, your old man was right about you. You’re a stain. Worthless. Did you really think a passable voice would make any difference? Change anyone’s minds?

“What, cat got your tongue?” the old man scoffs, and he seems about to add something, then he pauses and blinks. “Huh. You’re... not looking good. Drank too much again?”

No, no, no. What’s happening to me?

The dread gripping his throat turns into something close to panic because he can tell he’s about to cry and that is not, under any circumstances, happening in front of this cabrón. So Ernesto does the only thing he can do: he scoffs, lowers his head - he can’t look him in the eye, he will break if he does, like he could read what he let them do to him on his face and he’s never felt so ashamed before - and marches past the old man like an angry bull, almost knocking him over.

There are yells, but he hardly hears a word. He throws his door open, storms in, yanks his dogs’ leads to get them inside as well, slams the door shut… and then he freezes as the chihuahuas yelp. He looks down to see they’re huddled together, whining, cowering. They are so tiny, just how hard did he yank them?

“No,” he chokes out. “Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t-- didn’t mean--” he babbles, and that’s it. His voice breaks, his knees fail, and he sinks on the ground with his back to the door, crying his eyes out for no reason whatsoever. It’s infuriating and humiliating and confusing, and he cannot stop. He sits back, and the sting of the welts and bruises makes him weep harder, no matter how dulled it is. He hates it. He hates himself for allowing it.

“Lo siento,” he manages, and the dogs are all over him in moment, whining and pawing and trying to lick his face. He holds them close, breath itching, and slowly quiets down - telling himself that he’s fine, once he stops weeping he’ll be all better.

But he isn’t.

***

It takes Héctor a very conscious effort not to bawl before, during, and after the function.

Not so much because of the function itself - although Padre Edmundo said several unexpected heartfelt things, a welcomed break from the usual droning - but because of the sheer amount of people who showed up: old childhood friends, friends of his parents, people they just used to buy their groceries from. They're ten years dead, without relatives other than him, and the church is packed for them.

By the time he��s done shaking hands and giving his thanks to everyone as the church empties, Héctor is feeling a little light-headed; the steadiness of Imelda’s hand on his back is all that keeps him grounded.

“They sure are missed, huh?” he murmurs as they walk down the steps, finally alone.

Imelda smiles, and takes his hand. “Very much,” she says softly. “Do you want to visit--”

“... Héctor?”

The voice is one Héctor hasn’t heard in years, but he immediately recognizes it and can feel the the faint smile freezing on his lips. Barely aware of Imelda’s perplexed gaze, he makes an effort to smooth his expression before turning.

Ernesto’s mother looks… older than last time he’s seen her, and by more a few years; it’s as though a decade or more was dropped on her shoulders. No only because there is more gray in her hair, deeper wrinkles around her eyes: there is something else, too, something hollow and desperate on her face as she stares at him.

“Señora de la Cruz,” he finds himself saying, his mouth dry. He hadn't seen her during the function. “This is a, er… you look good.”

What crosses her features is not a smile, but a rather brave attempt at one. “It’s good to see you. You too, Imelda,” she adds. Imelda, who doesn’t know Adela as well as Héctor does - who knows next to nothing of her past the fact Ernesto has cut her out of his life - makes an effort to smile back, but pity is painfully obvious in her gaze… even more so when Adela speaks again.

“How… How’s Ernesto?” Her voice shakes a little, and there is so much desperate love in the way she speaks his name alone that it makes Héctor’s heart ache.

“He-- he’s fine,” he finds himself saying, hoping for the ground to swallow him up, praying that she won’t ask him to tell her where he is, how to reach him. He promised Ernesto he would never tell either of his parents, if he met them, and he will keep that promise but ay, it would hurt. “We’ve had a few concerts, and… more are planned. Possibly a contract with a record company. It’s going well.”

For just a moment, her smile seems real; it makes the desperation when she speaks again all the more painful. “That’s… that’s good. It’s what he always wanted,” she manages. “Can you tell him that we’re-- if, if he’d listen...”

“Señora de la Cruz--” Héctor begins, only to trail off when she pauses and reaches up to press a hand on her mouth, struggling to maintain composure. He is vaguely aware of Imelda’s fixed gaze, of the thin line of her mouth; he knows this has to look really, really bad in her eyes. She doesn’t know why Ernesto has cut his parents off, and he… he cannot tell her. He promised his best friend he wouldn’t tell.

“My apologies,” Adela finally says, and draws in a deep breath before reaching into her purse and pulling something out - a sealed envelope. “I know he doesn’t want to speak to us. But if you could give him this, I-- we’d be so grateful.”

We. Her husband, too? It’s hard, to imagine that man anywhere near grateful, but it is not the moment to argue. Héctor swallows a lump in his throat. “Of course,” he says, and he really wants to add something reassuring, but he doesn’t know what to say. So in the end he just nods awkwardly, and takes the letter. “I’ll give it to him as soon as we go back.”

“Thank you,” she chokes out, and nods. “God bless you,” she adds before walking away quickly, before she can cry - so that if she does cry, it will be in private. Héctor watches her leave, his heart like lead in his chest, and glances at Imelda. Her gaze is hard as stone.

“I know this looks bad, but--”

“You don’t need to make excuses for him, and I don’t need to hear them,” she cuts him off, and that is all; she doesn’t bring the encounter up again, doesn’t ask any more questions. It is a relief, because he wouldn’t be able to answer… but at the same time he hates seeing that harshness in her eyes, even though it’s not for him.

For the rest of the stay, the letter stays in his coat’s pocket, and it seems to burn.

***

This is bad. This makes no sense. And, Jesus Christ, it hurts - something’s been hurting for two days and he has no idea why. He hates it. He hates himself.

Burrowed under the blankets, he feels as though he’s drowning in fog. With his TV going in the background and four dogs curled up against him, Ernesto squeezes his eyes shut and refuses, refuses to weep. He’s holding his cell phone in one hand, and part of him really wants to use it to call Héctor and Imelda, tell them something is wrong - something is horribly wrong, he needs them to get back, he needs them there, why have they left him alone?

But he doesn’t. He hurts but he’s also so, so ashamed. The mere idea of mockery-- of course they’ll mock me after what happened, after what I let them do --makes him feel even worse, like he could shatter if he just hears their voices. In the end he throws the phone away, and curls up tighter. He just needs to sleep it off, he tells himself. He feels so empty and drained, surely sleep will come quickly if he just waits long enough.

But it doesn’t. He lays awake for what feels like a very long time, until his dogs are whining so loudly, so hungry, and he forces himself to sit upright on the couch to get up.

And, suddenly, the doorbell rings.

***

It’s fair to say Héctor has seen Ernesto looking a complete mess several times. It usually involves alcohol aside from the one occasion they never talk about, when he showed at his door sullen and bruised to ask if he could stay for the night.

Héctor thought that was the worst he’d ever see him; then he thought his near-breakdown at the vet's was it. Now, as the door opens to reveal a pale wreck of a man where his friend should be, he knows he was wrong.

“E-Ernesto?” he croaks, otherwise speechless. He doesn’t really want to say it out loud because he knows Ernesto would take it the wrong way, but he does look… pretty awful, really. It’s as though he hasn’t slept a minute since Friday, his skin an unhealthy ashen color, cheeks covered in stubble and hair unkempt. But his gaze is the worst thing, glassy and distant and haunted.

“What do you want?” Ernesto asks, and even the voice sounds wrong, so horribly hollow.

“I, uh… is. Is everything all right?” Héctor dares, gaining himself another sullen look.

“Yes,” he drones, avoiding his gaze. It’s as though he’s staring at something above Héctor’s right shoulder. “What do you want?”

“I… we, uh, were in Santa Cecilia--”

“I know,” Ernesto says coldly, and suddenly his eyes are on him, and he looks… angry is a strong word, but not pleased, either. When he speaks again, there is an accusing note to his voice. “Went off for the weekend and left me here.”

All right, so something is very wrong. Ernesto will occasional pout whenever he feels he’s being ignored, but this? This is too much. “Ernesto, what happened? You look--”

“I’m fine. Tell me what you want.”

Héctor hesitates a moment before he takes the sealed envelope from his pocket and hands it over to him. “We, uhm. We met your mother. She asked me to give you this,” he adds.

For several moments, Ernesto says nothing. He stares at the envelope in Héctor’s hands as though he’s handing him a live snake, and it is then that Héctor notices something else: his friend’s hands are shaking. “Madre de Dios, Ernesto, what--”

“Is this a joke?” His voice is like the crack of a whip, and it causes Héctor to trail off, wincing. Ernesto is staring at him with sudden fury, and his shaky hands clench into fists. “You know I never wanted to have anything to do with either of them!”

“I know, but she pleaded--”

“I don't care what she said! You promised me, Héctor!”

“I didn’t tell her anything! Not where you live, not your number. I only took the letter for you, but if you don’t want to open it, that’s fine - we'll just throw it away and--”

“You don’t give a damn, do you? You never gave a damn,” Ernesto snaps, and he takes an unsteady step forward, causing Héctor to back off. The door slams shut over the dogs’ frantic barking.

Something’s wrong. This isn’t right. He’s not well.

“Ernesto? Amigo, you’re not…” Héctor manages, taking another step back, and suddenly his back is against the wall, and there is nowhere he can go. Confusion begins to give way to fear - for the very first time, he is afraid of his best friend. “You need to--”

“I needed you, all right?” Ernesto cuts him off, and his features twist in a pained expression. “You and that… and her, and… you left me here, you never--”

“Enough.” Imelda’s voice causes him to trail off. She took the elevator to get home with the luggages as he went to Ernesto's door, but she must have heard the commotion and suddenly she’s between them. One shove and Ernesto is stumbling back, her hand is gripping Héctor’s own, and she’s getting him out of the corner Ernesto had driven him to, to the stairs leading up to their apartment.

No, wait. Something’s wrong with Ernesto. We can’t leave him like this, Héctor thinks.

He almost says as much, but Imelda speaks first. “Look at you, you’re a mess,” she snaps, her voice cold. “Sort yourself out, for God’s sake. Pretend you’re an adult.”

For a moment, Ernesto looks hurt before he scowls again. “You left--”

“For three days, yes,” Imelda cuts him off. “We had a lovely time and we’re not going to let your stupid drama sour it. Whatever your problem is, and whatever reason you think you have not to speak to that poor soul unfortunate enough to be your mother--”

“Imelda…”

“You know nothing, you--”

“-- It’s none of our business,” Imelda snaps, ignoring both of them. Her grip on Héctor’s hand is warm, tight, protective. She turns to leave. “Grow up.”

It’s far from the worst thing Imelda has said to him, but somehow it seems to hit him harder than anything ever has. Under Héctor’s stunned gaze Ernesto takes a staggering step back, his shoulders hunch as though a weight was suddenly dropped on him, features twisting.

“Wait,” he chokes out. Suddenly there are tears in his voice, and Imelda stops in her tracks, letting go of Héctor’s hand in her surprise. With both of their gazes on him, Ernesto seems to crumble: his back hits the wall, his knees give in, and then he’s on the ground. He burrows his face in his hands, lets out a keening noise. “Por favor.”

Héctor doesn’t remember moving, but the next moment he’s kneeling next to him, passing an arm over his shoulders. Ernesto is shaking and cold, he presses his face against his shirt and Héctor’s never seen him like this. It terrifies him, but he tries not to let it show.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. We’re going nowhere,” he says, and looks up at Imelda.

She’s staring at Ernesto, and her expression has gone from stunned to attentive, and then - just as Ernesto mumbles that something hurts, it really hurts, what’s happening to me - Héctor sees realization dawning in. Whatever is wrong with him, she seems to have an idea of what it is. “... Ernesto,” she calls out, crouching down as well, and puts a hand on his arm. Suddenly her voice is gentle, and her touch is light. “Come home with us. It will be fine.”

There is a sharp intake of breath, a shake of his head. “No. It won’t.”

“It isn’t going to last.”

“I’m going loco.”

“Nonsense. You just need to ride it out. It won’t-- Ernesto, look at me,” Imelda says, and grabs his chin to make him do just that. Her voice is firmer. “It won’t last. It’s just the drop.”

That causes Héctor to blink in confusion. Drop? What dro-- oh. Oh. Realization hits him suddenly, and he feels very, very stupid… and very guilty as well. They’ve given Ernesto aftercare on Friday, and he seemed fine, but he should have known this could happen. They hadn’t thought for a moment it would, not to Ernesto of all people… and they left him alone to deal with it.

“You need a bath,” Imelda is speaking again, practical as always. They help Ernesto on his feet and while it’s him he leans on he’s hanging to Imelda’s words, eyes wide. Héctor has never seen him this vulnerable, not even as kids. “And to eat, when was last time you ate?”

He blinks. “I… yesterday. I think.”

“Well, that won’t do at all. Come. Mind the steps, last thing you need is a literal drop…”

In the end, the letter from Ernesto’s mother goes back in Héctor’s pocket, and doesn’t come out for the rest of the evening. They get him into a hot bath and Héctor helps by washing his back and hair before he lends him his bathrobe. They give him a hot meal Imelda somehow put together in less than fifteen minutes, and Héctor manages to get him to have half a bar of dark chocolate too, as well as glass after glass of water.

Ernesto goes through the motions with hardly a word and without looking at them, so meek and quiet it’s more than slightly unsettling, but at least now Héctor knows what’s causing this and he knows that Imelda is right - it won’t last. He just needs a bit of help as he recovers, that is all, until the adrenaline and endorphin go back to normal levels again.

Imelda explains him as much, tells him all about the drop, what causes it, how it’s not going to last. “You’ll be fine. Give it another day or two. You’ll stay with us meanwhile,” she says.

Ernesto listens, nods and says nothing, but he seems calmer and eventually settles down on their couch, a blanket around him, glancing listlessly at the TV. The dogs - Héctor brought them upstairs after a quick toilet break - are curled up on his lap, and it seems to help.

Héctor and Imelda settle down as well, at either side of him. Héctor passes an arm over his shoulders, and Imelda lets Ernesto lean on her - and takes his hand hand when he reaches out. She rubs her thumb over his palm in slow circular motions while Héctor runs his hand through damp hair and talks about a song he’s thinking of writing, about how much he needs a new guitar case, about their next performance in a couple of weeks, about the weather, about anything that crosses his mind. And finally, he can feel Ernesto beginning to relax.

He sighs and leans on him, his hand still in Imelda’s own. “Héctor, what I said--”

“It’s all right, amigo. Just rest.”

“I didn’t mean--”

“Sleep,” Imelda chides him, reaching to brush some hair out of his eyes with her free hand. There is another sigh, and Ernesto finally closes his eyes. Héctor and Imelda exchange a glance over him, and Imelda smiles a bit. He’ll be fine, she mouths, and Héctor smiles back.

Yes. He’ll be fine, and they will stay right there to make sure of it.

***

[Back to Part 8]

[On to Part 10]

#pixar coco #hector rivera #imelda rivera #ernesto de la cruz #coco #mind the gap

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turningpagebooks · 6 years ago

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BLOG TOUR | EXCERPT: “White Stag” by Kara Barbieri

I don't know about you, but I love books about goblins. They're intense, dark, lush. When I started reading White Stag, I was immediately drawn into the story.

I was so excited to be part of the blog tour. Thanks, Wednesday Books!

ABOUT THE BOOK

PUBLICATION DATE: January 8th, 2019

In an exciting collaboration with Wattpad, an online community for readers and writers to publish and enjoy each other’s work, Wednesday Books will be publishing White Stag by Kara Barbieri.

Based in a dark and violent world, Janneke’s journey in the Permafrost is addictive and immersive. This expansive fantasy already has a strong online following. Thousands of fans immediately jumped on board when Barbieri first posted her story to Wattpad. Using their own Story DNA, Wattpad was able to see that readers were spending more time reading WHITE STAG than any of their other top fantasy works. Today, the story has over one million reads with Wednesday Books publishing a revised and expanded version in print.

White Stag, the first book in a brutally stunning series by Kara Barbieri, involves a young girl who finds herself becoming more monster than human and must uncover dangerous truths about who she is and the place that has become her home.

As the last child in a family of daughters, seventeen-year-old Janneke was raised to be the male heir. While her sisters were becoming wives and mothers, she was taught to hunt, track, and fight. On the day her village is burned to the ground, Janneke—as the only survivor—is taken captive by the malicious goblin Lydian and eventually sent to work for his nephew Soren.

Janneke’s survival in the court of merciless monsters has come at the cost of her connection to the human world. And when the Goblin King’s death ignites an ancient hunt for the next king, Soren senses an opportunity for her to finally fully accept the ways of the brutal Permafrost. But every action he takes to bring her deeper into his world only shows him that a little humanity isn’t bad—especially when it comes to those you care about.

Through every battle they survive, Janneke’s loyalty to Soren deepens even as she tries to fight her growing attraction to him. After dangerous truths are revealed, Janneke must choose between holding on or letting go of her last connections to a world she no longer belongs to. She must make the right choice to save the only thing keeping both worlds from crumbling.

Add it on Goodreads

Buy it on: Amazon CA | Chapters Indigo | Barnes & Noble | Amazon US

EXCERPT

MASQUERADE

THE FIRST THING I learned as a hunter was how to hide. There was a skill in disappearing in the trees like the wind and merging into the river like stones; masquerading yourself as something you weren’t was what kept you alive in the end. Most humans didn’t think the masquerade was as important as the kill, and most humans ended up paying for it with their lifeblood.

Here, as the only mortal in a hall of monsters, I was very glad that I was not most humans.

I kept my steps silent and my back straight as I passed beneath the white marble pillars. My eyes flickered around me every so often, counting hallways, retracing my steps, so I could escape at a moment’s notice. The Erlking’s palace was treacherous, full of twists and turns, stairways that led into nowhere, and places where the hallways dropped to gaping chasms. According to Soren, there were also hollow spaces in the walls where you could slink around unnoticed to the mundane and the monstrous eye, but you could hear and see all that went on in the open world. The lair of a king, I thought bitterly. I dared not say it out loud in case someone was near. But beside me, Soren sensed my disgust and made a sound deep in his throat. It could’ve been agreement.

Soren examined his king’s palace with the usual contempt; his cold, calculating eyes took in everything and betrayed nothing. His lips turned down in a frown that was almost etched permanently into his face. Sometimes I forgot he was capable of other expressions. He didn’t even smile when he was killing things; as far as goblins went, that was a symptom of chronic depression. He lifted his bored gaze at the gurgling, choking sound coming from his right, and it took all my willpower not to follow his line of sight. When I felt the subtle whoosh of power transfer from one body to the next, my fingers twitched to where I’d slung my bow, only to remember too late that it had been left at the entrance of the keep in accordance with ancient tradition.

A scream echoed off the cavernous passageways as we made our way to the great hall where everyone gathered. It sent chills down my spine with its shrillness before it was abruptly cut off. Somehow, that made me shiver even more. Ancient tradition and custom aside, nothing could stop a goblin from killing you if that was what they desired. My hand reached for my nonexistent bow again, only to be captured by cold, pale fingers.

Soren’s upper lip curled, but his voice was low and steady. “The next time you reach for a weapon that isn’t there might be the last time you have hands to reach with,” he warned. “A move like that will invite conflict.”

I yanked myself away from his grip and suppressed the urge to wipe my hand on my tunic like a child wiping away cooties. “Force of habit.”

Soren shook his head slightly before continuing on, his frown deepening with each step he took.

“Don’t look so excited. Someone might get the wrong idea.”

He raised a fine white eyebrow at me. “I don’t look excited. I’m scowling.”

I bit back a sigh. “It’s sarcasm.”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t understand it,” he said.

“None of goblinkind understands sarcasm,” I said. “In another hundred years I’m going to lose my understanding completely.”

Another hundred years. It hadn’t hit me yet, not until I said it out loud. Another hundred years. It had been a hundred years since my village was slaughtered, a hundred years as a thrall in Soren’s service. Well, ninety-nine years and eight months, anyway, but who’s counting? Despite the century passing by, I still looked the same as I had when I was forcefully brought into this cursed land. Or, at least, mostly; the scars on my chest hadn’t been there a hundred years ago, and the now-hollow spot where my right breast should have been burned. The four months when I’d belonged to another were not something I liked to think about. I still woke up screaming from nightmares about it. My throat went dry and I swallowed. Soren isn’t Lydian.

“You look tense,” Soren said, breaking me out of my thoughts. I’d crossed my arms over my chest. Not good. A movement like that was a sign of weakness. It was obvious to everyone that I was the weakest being here, but showing it would do me no good.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just don’t like this place.”

“Hmm,” Soren said, eyes flickering around the hall. “It does lack a certain touch.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

“The entire design of the palace is trite and overdone.”

I blinked. “Okay, then.”

By now we’d entered the great hall where the reception was held. Every hundred years, the goblins were required to visit the Erlking and swear their fealty. Of course, their loyalty only extended to him as long as he was the most powerful—goblins weren’t the type of creature to follow someone weaker than themselves.

The palace, for what it was worth, was much grander than most other parts of the goblin domain. Soren’s manor was all wood, stone, and ice, permanently freezing. Nothing grew—I knew because I had tried multiple times to start a garden—but the roots never took to the Permafrost. Here, it was warm, though not warm enough that I couldn’t feel the aching chill deep in my bones. The walls were made of pure white marble with intricate designs far above what a goblin was capable of creating, and streaked with yellow and red gold like open veins. It was obviously made by humans. Goblinkind were incredible predators and hunters, gifted by the Permafrost itself, but like all creatures, they had their flaws. The inability to create anything that wasn’t used for destruction was one of the main reasons humankind were often stolen from their lands on raids and put to work in the Permafrost.

Soren’s scowl deepened as we passed under a canopy of ice wrought to look like vines and flowers. “I feel like I need to vomit,” he said.

I stopped in my tracks. “Really?” I swore, if I ended up having to clean up Soren’s vomit...

He glanced at me, a playful light in his lilac eyes. “Sarcasm? Did I do it right?”

“No.” I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “Sarcasm would be when you use irony to show your contempt.”

“Irony?” He shook his head, his long white hair falling into his face.

“Saying one thing when you mean the other, dramatically.”

“This is beneath me,” he muttered. Then, even quieter, he said, “This place is in dire need of a redecoration.”

“I’m not even entirely sure what to say to that.” With those words, he flashed me a wicked grin that said little and suggested much. I turned away, actually rolling my eyes this time. For a powerful goblin lord, Soren definitely had the ability to act utterly childish. It could be almost endearing at times. This, however, was not one of those times.

In the hall, the gazes on the back of my neck were sharp as knives. I kept my head straight, trying my hardest not to pay attention to the wolfish faces of the other attendees.

From a distance they could almost be mistaken for human. They varied in size and shape and the color of their skin, hair, and eyes much like humans did. But even so, there was a sharpness to their features, a wildness, that could never be mistaken for human. The figures dressed in hunting leathers, long and lean, would only seek to torment me if I paid them any attention. As the only human in the hall, I was a curiosity. After all, what self-respecting goblin would bring a thrall to an event as important as this? That could very easily get me killed, and I wasn’t planning on dying anytime soon. My hand almost twitched again, but I stopped it just in time, heeding Soren’s warning.

We finally crossed the floor to where the Erlking sat. Like Soren’s, the Goblin King’s hair was long. But unlike Soren, whose hair was whiter than the snow, the Erlking’s hair was brown. Not my brown, the color of fallen leaves, underbrush, and dark cherry wood, but murky, muddy brown. It was the color of bog mud that sucks down both humans and animals alike and it somehow managed to make his yellow-toned skin even sallower. He was the strongest of all goblins, and I hated him for it. I also feared him—I was smart enough for that—but the fear was drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears as I locked eyes with Soren’s king.

Soren turned to me. “Stay here.” His eyes turned hard, the glimmer of light leaving them. Whatever softness he had before drained away until what was left was the hard, cold killer he was known to be, and with it went the last shreds of warmth in his voice. “Until I tell you otherwise.” Subtly, he jerked his pointer finger at the ground in a wordless warning.

I bowed my head. “Don’t take too long.”

“I don’t plan to,” he said, more to himself than to me, before approaching the Erlking’s throne. He went to one knee. “My king.”

I eyed Soren from underneath the curtain of my hair. His hands were clenched in fists at his sides. He must’ve sensed something from the Erlking, from the other goblins, something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Cautiously, I directed my gaze to the Goblin King himself, aware that if I looked at him the wrong way, I might be inviting my own death. While the behavior and treatment of thralls varied widely among goblins, I had a feeling submissiveness was required for any human in the Erlking’s path.

This close, the Erlking’s eyes were dark in his shriveled husk of skin and there was a tinge of sickness in the air as he breathed his raspy breaths. His eyes flickered up to meet mine and I bowed my head again. Don’t attract attention.

Soren spat out the vows required of him in the old tongue of his kind, the words gravelly and thick. He paused every so often, like he was waiting for when he would be free to drive his hand through his king’s chest, continuing on with disappointment every time.

The tension around the room grew heavier, pressing down on those gathered. Somehow, like dogs sniffing out blood, they all knew the king was weak. Beautiful she-goblins and terrifying goblin brutes were all standing there waiting until it was legal to kill him.

Beside the weakened king’s throne, a white stag rested on a pile of rushes. Its eyes were closed, its breath slow. Its skin and antlers shone with youth, but the ancient power it leaked pressed heavy against my shoulders. That power was older than anything else in the world—maybe older than the world itself.

Goblins were, before all things, hunters. Born to reap and not to sow. Cursed with pain upon doing any action that did not in some way fit into the power the Permafrost gave them, the goblins fittingly had the submission of the stag as the symbol of their king’s ultimate power. Until it runs.

I didn’t want to think about what happened after that.

Soren continued to say his vows. The guttural language was like ice shards to my ears, and I shuddered. Catching myself about to fidget, I dug my fingers into my thigh. Control yourself, Janneke, I thought. If they can do it, you can.

A soft voice whispered in my ear, “Is that you, Janneka?” His breath tickled the back of my neck, and every muscle in my body immediately locked. Icy dread trickled down my spine, rooting me in place.

Don’t pay attention to him. He’ll go away.

“I know you can hear me, sweetling.”

Yes, I could hear him, and the sound of his voice made me want to vomit. My mouth went dry.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kara Barbieri is a writer living in the tiny town of Hayward, Wisconsin. An avid fantasy fan, she began writing White Stag at eighteen and posting it to Wattpad soon after under the name of ‘Pandean’. When she’s not writing, you can find her marathoning Buffy the Vampire Slayer, reviving gothic fashion, and jamming to synthpop.

Check out her Twitter

#turningpagebooks #blog tour #excerpt #white stag #kara barbieri #wednesdaybooks #wednesday books #goblins #ya fantasy #books #book #novels #novel #reading #read #personal #st martins press

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dumbledearme · 6 years ago

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chapter fourteen—not just anybody

read Child of Land and Sea here

Act II — Heart Of The Ocean

Part VI — Help! I need somebody! Not just anybody! You know I need someone!

In the meadow, at the base of the ravine, several dozen huge sheep were milling around. Just past them was a path that led up into the hills. At the top of the path, near the edge of the canyon, was a massive oak tree with something gold glittering in its branches.

A deer emerged and trotted into the meadow. It happened so fast Andy thought she had imagined. The deer was lost in a sea of sheep. A second later, the sheep moved away and where the deer had been was a pile of clean white bones.

Andy and Anthony exchanged a glance. With no way to pass the sheep, they went to the edge of the rocks and made their way up the cliff. Climbing seemed possible and they decided it was the best idea. They started off slowly. Anthony went first because he was better at it. When they reached the top, their muscles were shaking from exhaustion and they collapsed on the floor.

“You’re a feisty one,” a deep voice bellowed from bellow them.

“Challenge me!” Clarisse’s voice was clear. “Give me back my sword and I’ll fight you!”

The monsters roared with laughter. Anthony and Andy exchanged another look and crept to the edge of the cliff. They were right above the entrance of the Cyclops cave. Below them stood Polyphemus and Grover wearing a wedding dress, gods knew why. Clarisse was tied up, hanging upside down over a pot of boiling water.

Polyphemus pondered, “Eat loudmouth girl now or wait for wedding feast? What does my bride think?” He turned to Grover.

Andy almost choked at that.

“I’m not hungry right now, dear,” Grover told him.

“Oh, please!” mocked Clarisse. “He’s a satyr!”

Grover yelped. “The poor thing’s brain is boiling from that hot water. Pull her down, dear.”

“What satyr?” Polyphemus narrowed his eye. “Satyrs are good eating. You bring me a satyr?”

“You already have one, you idiot!” Clarisse said. “The one in the wedding dress.”

Anthony cursed and put his Yankees cap on, disappearing. Polyphemus turned and inspected Grover. “I don’t see very well,” he said. “Not since many years ago when the other hero stabbed me in the eye. But YOU’RE NO LADY CYCLOPS!” Grover yelped and ducked as the monster swiped over his head.

“Stop!” he pleaded. “Don’t eat me raw. I-I have a good recipe!”

Polyphemus hesitated. “Recipe?”

“Oh, y-yes! You don’t want to eat me raw. You’ll get botulism and all sorts of horrible diseases. I’ll taste much better grilled over a slow fire. With mango chutney! You can go get mangoes, I’ll wait right here.”

The monster pondered, “Grilled satyr with mango chutney.” He looked back at Clarisse. “You a satyr, too?”

“No, you overgrown pile of shit!” she yelled. “I’m the daughter of Ares! Now untie me so I can rip your arms off!”

“Rip my arms off,” he repeated.

“And stuff them down your throat!”

“You got spunk.”

“LET ME DOWN!”

Polyphemus snatched up Grover as if he were a wayward puppy. “Have to graze sheep now. Wedding postponed until tonight. Then we’ll eat satyr for the main course.”

“You’re still getting married?” asked Grover, a little offended. “To whom?”

Polyphemus looked toward the boiling pot. Clarisse made a strangled sound. “Oh, no! No, no, no! Don’t even think about it, nerd!”

Polyphemus plucked her off the rope and tossed her and Grover inside the cave. “Make yourself comfortable! I come back at sundown for big event.”

“Better not come back at all,” Clarisse’s voice came from within the cave. “Or I’ll rip your-” The Cyclops whistled and a flock of goats and sheep flooded out of the cave. He was about to roll a boulder to seal the cave when Anthony yelled from somewhere, “Hey, ugly.”

Polyphemus stiffened. “Who said that?”

“Nobody,” Anthony answered. Polyphemus’s reaction was priceless. His face turned red with rage.

“Nobody!” The Cyclops yelled. “I remember you!”

“You’re too stupid to remember anybody,” Anthony taunted, “much less Nobody.”

Polyphemus roared and started throwing rocks at where he thought Anthony was. Andy held her breath hoping he was very wrong.

Anthony laughed, “You haven’t learned to thrown any better, either!”

Polyphemus howled. “Come here, let me kill you, Nobody!”

“You can’t kill Nobody, you stupid oaf!”

Polyphemus barreled down the hill toward his voice. Andy hoped he’d be okay. She went down the hill as fast as she could without dying and pushed through the crowd of sheep toward the back of the cave. Grover was huddled in the corner, trying to cut Clarisse’s bonds with a pair of safety scissors.

“It’s no good,” she said. “This rope is like iron.” Then she saw Andy. “YOU! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE BLOWN UP!”

“Good to see you, too.”

“Andy!” Grover bleated her name and tackled her with a goat-hug. “You heard me! You came!”

“Of course I came!”

“Where’s Anthony?”

“Outside,” Andy said. “No time. Clarisse, hold still.” Andy uncapped Riptide and sliced off the ropes. Clarisse stood stiffly, rubbing her wrists. She glared at Andy and mumbled, “Thanks, Jackson.”

“You’re welcome, La Rue. Did anyone else survived the Birmingham?”

Clarisse shook her head. “Just me. I didn’t even know you guys had made it out.”

Then an explosion echoed through the cave, followed by a Anthony’s shout – “ANDY!”

“I got Nobody!” Polyphemus gloated. He shook his first and a baseball cap fluttered to the ground revealing Anthony hanging upside down by her leg. Anthony struggled, but he looked dazed. There was a nasty cut on his forehead that was dripping blood on the ground.

Clarisse armed herself with a ram’s horn spear from the Cyclops’ cave. Grover had a sheep’s thigh bone. “Let’s get him together,” Clarisse said. “Attack plan Macedonia.” Andy had had the same training as Clarisse and immediately understood what she meant. She hefted Riptide and shouted, “Yo, ugly!”

The giant whirled toward her. “Another one? Who are you?”

“Put Wonder Boy down,” said Andy. “I’m the one who insulted you, really.”

“You are Nobody?”

“That’s right, you smelly ugly monster! I’m Nobody and I’m proud of it! Now, put him down and get over here. I’ll stab your eye again. Only this time, I’ll make sure you’ll never see the sky again.”

“RAAAR!” He bellowed. Polyphemus dropped Anthony and Andy realized the mistake she had made. Anthony felt head first onto the rocks and didn’t move again. Then Polyphemus barreled toward Andy.

Clarisse ran in from the left and set her spear against the ground just in time for the Cyclops to step on it. He wailed in pain, and Clarisse dove out of the way to avoid getting trampled. But the Cyclops kept advancing. He made a grab for Andy who rolled aside and stabbed him in the thigh.

Grover rushed to Anthony’s side. Clarisse charged the Cyclops again and again. He pounded the ground, stomped at her, grabbed at her, but she was too quick. Andy followed her attacks, stabbing the monsters wherever she could. Grover was dragging Anthony across a rope bridge to the man-eating sheep side of the island. Clarisse and Andy followed, Polyphemus right behind them.

“A thousand curses on Nobody!” The Cyclops promised.

They tore down the hill. Grover made it to the other side. “Cut it down!” Andy shouted at Grover. He took Anthony’s knife and started cutting. Polyphemus bounded after them, making the bridge sway wildly. Clarisse and Andy dove for solid ground. Then Andy stood and with a wild slash with her sword she cut the remaining ropes.

The bridge fell into the chasm and the Cyclops howled with delight because he was standing right beside them. “Failed!” He yelled. “Nobody failed!” Clarisse and Grover tried to charge him, but he swatted them aside like flies.

That’s when Andy snapped. Her friends were hurt. Tyson was dead. Chiron had been banished. Thalia’s pine tree had been poisoned. It just wasn’t fair. They had come this far and, gods be her witness, she was going to beat this beast. Strength coursed through her body. She raised her sword and attacked. She smashed and kicked and bashed until Polyphemus was sprawled on his back, dazed and groaning. Andy stood above him, her sword hovering over his eye.

“Uhhhhhh,” the Cyclops moaned.

“Andy!” Grover gasped. “How did you-”

“Please, no!” Polyphemus cried. His nose was bleeding. He started to sob. “M-m-my sheep need me!”

“Kill him!” Clarisse urged. “What are you waiting for, Jackson?”

But the Cyclops sounded so heartbroken. He sounded like… Tyson.

“He’s a Cyclops!” Grover warned. “Do not trust him, Andy!”

Andy knew Grover was right. She knew Anthony would’ve said the same. But Tyson had been a Cyclops too and he’d died trying to save them. She’d have trusted him with her life. And Polyphemus was, after all, a son of Poseidon too. Like Tyson. Like Andy. How could she kill him? She felt her own eyes filling with tears for the brother she’d lost. There hadn’t been time to miss him just yet. But here it was, taking her breath away, making her sword hand tremble.

“We just want the Fleece,” she told him. “Let us take it. And I’ll let you live.”

“No!” shouted Clarisse. “Kill him right now, Andy Jackson!”

The monster sniffed. “My beautiful Fleece. Prize of my collection. Take it, cruel human. Take it and go in peace.” With her hands shaking, Andy stepped back and as fast as a snake, Polyphemus smacked her down to the edge of the cliff. “Foolish mortal! Take my Fleece? I eat you first!”

He opened his enormous mouth but something went whoosh over Andy’s head and sailed into Polyphemus’s throat. The Cyclops choked, trying to swallow. He staggered backward, but there was no place to stagger. His heel slipped and the great Polyphemus tumbled into the chasm.

Andy turned. Halfway down the path to the beach, standing completely unharmed in the midst of a flock of killer sheep was Tyson.

He gave them the short version of the whole thing: a hippocampus, who had been following them, found Tyson sinking beneath the wreckage of the CSS Birmingham and pulled him to safety. He and Tyson had been searching the Sea of Monsters ever since, trying to find Andy and Anthony.

Andy hugged him tightly. “Oh, Tyson, thank the gods!” Then she remembered. “Anthony is hurt.”

“You thank the gods he is hurt?”

“No, you silly Cyclops!” Andy rushed to where Anthony was lying. The gash on his forehead was really bad and was bleeding a lot. His skin was pale and clammy. Andy fought back the tears. “Tyson, go get the Fleece,” she asked.

“Which one?” Tyson asked watching the sheep.

“The golden one. In the tree. Bring it to me!” Tyson did as he was told. The thing weighted a ton, but Andy had no choice. She spread it over Anthony, covering everything but his handsome face. Then she closed her sea-green eyes and prayed to whoever was listening. When Andy opened her eyes the color had returned to his face. His cut began to close. Andy gasped and let the tears stream. Anthony’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Grover’s not m-married?” he asked.

Grover grinned. “My friends talked me out of it.”

Anthony tried to sit up and Andy, unable to contain herself, crushed him in a embrace that made him moan, “Ouch!”

“Oh. I’m sorry!”

Clarisse approached and dropped next to Anthony and felt his chest. “Rips broken, but healing,” she declared. “Come on. I’ll help you, you geek, or Jackson might brake something else.” And she helped Anthony to his feet.

The five of them headed to the beach to where the Queen Anne’s Revengewas. And they almost made it too. But then Polyphemus was roaring, splashing toward them with a giant boulder in his hand.

They entered the water and swam. Anthony was in pain and the Fleece was weighting him down. But Polyphemus’s attention was on Tyson.

“You,” he called. “Traitor to our kind!”

Tyson froze.

“Don’t listen to him,” Andy said. “Just keep swimming!”

But Tyson turned around. “I am no traitor.”

“You serve mortals!” Polyphemus mocked. “Thieving humans!”

“You are not my kind,” Tyson told him.

“Jackson!” Clarisse called. Andy looked; they had reached the ship.

“Go,” Tyson told her. “I’ll distract the monster.”

“No,” Andy refused. “We’ll do it together.”

Tyson hesitated for a moment. “Together,” he then agreed.

Polyphemus threw some boulders that Tyson deflected. Andy willed the sea to rise. She rode a wave toward the Cyclops and kicked him in the eye. “Die!” Polyphemus shouted. “Fleece stealer!”

“You’re the one who stole it! The Fleece should be used to heal! It belongs to the children of the gods!”

“I am a child of the gods!” Polyphemus said, as if just remembering that fact. “Father Poseidon, curse this thief!” He was blinking hard now, like he could barely see.

“Poseidon won’t curse me,” Andy told him. “I am his child, too.”

Polyphemus roared. “Young one! Where are you? Help me! You weren’t raised right. Poor orphaned brother! Help me!”

No one moved. Then Tyson stepped forward, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t fight, Cyclops brother. Put down the-”

Polyphemus spun toward his voice and threw the rock that hit Tyson with such force he flew backward. Polyphemus charged after him, but Andy lunged between them and stabbed the monster on the leg. Polyphemus bleated and hit Andy with his giant hand.

She was bleeding and bruised and exhausted. And now she was also mad as hell. Polyphemus grabbed a tree and swung at her. She grabbed a branch as it passed, ignoring the pain in her hands as she jerked skyward, and let the Cyclops lift her into the air. At the top of the arc, she let go and fell straight against the giant’s face – landing with her sword right into his eye.

The monster yowled in pain. Tyson tackled him, pulling him down. Andy landed next to them. They glanced at each other, realizing they couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t right. “Let him go,” she told Tyson over the Cyclops screams. Tyson agreed and, together, they headed to the ship. Polyphemus got up and trashed everything around him, stumbling blindly, yelling curses.

Andy and Tyson were very close to the ship when Clarisse decided to shout, “In your face, Cyclops.” That was all he needed. Polyphemus grabbed another boulder and threw it at them. He missed. “You throw like a wimp!” Clarisse taunted. “Teach you to try marrying me, you idiot!”

Polyphemus tried again and this time he hit the spot. The boulder crashed through the hull of the Queen Anne’s Revenge and the ship sank faster than you could say ‘shut the hell up, Clarisse.’

Everyone was having trouble swimming. The ship was pulling them down like a sinkhole. Andy swam toward them, and made a grab for Anthony who was sinking faster than the others because of the weight of the Fleece.

Tyson started calling for help. A bunch of dolphins appeared to save them. They broke the surface of the water and raced away from that horrible place. Behind them, they could hear the Cyclops go, “I did it! I finally sank Nobody!”

Andy asked the gods that he never find out he was wrong.

#andromeda #andy jackson #child of land and sea #genderbend #fanfic #dfcrosas #heart of the ocean #andony

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bluebellwriting · 4 years ago

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Love Me Tender - Part 2

“He’s so in love with ya,” Angel smirks, lying on your bed in your hotel room, surrounded by your folded laundry and knocking over said piles of laundry. You roll your eyes and continue hanging up your newly cleaned dresses and blouses.

“What are you going on about?”

“The fact that Strawberry Pimp has been following ya around like a love-sick puppy for the last year.”

You throw a sock at Angel and shoot him a glare. Although, your mind can’t help but wander to the last year following Alastor’s insertion into your lives. He has been spending quite a bit of time with you... which is completely understandable! You both enjoy the same type of music, although he was quite affronted when he learned that you don’t really dance and insisted that he teach you. Now he pulls you into a dance whenever there is a good song playing.

And he loves to cook just like you, even though you are partial to baking. He often joins you in the kitchen around meal times to assist in prep or even to make a dish when you’re overwhelmed. On slow days, you find yourself thinking about the time Charlie had you all celebrate Thanksgiving. Charlie had insisted you all celebrate the holiday in even though nobody, save you and Alastor, could cook to save their lives. You were honestly dreading all the sides and desserts and proteins you would have to prepare for everyone, and Charlie had only added to the stress when she came prancing into the kitchen and revealed that her mother had agreed to eat with you all. Somehow sensing your stress, Alastor was there in an instant and allowed you to put him to work. He was a dream in the kitchen, so helpful and chivalrous, and he even made a curated playlist of all your favorite songs to put you in better spirits. It was one of your fonder moments in the normally stressful work environment, particularly when you had cut yourself chopping sweet potatoes and Alastor had rushed to tend to you. Really, it was just a little nick. It didn’t even draw blood but it did sting a bit causing you to hiss quietly. Alastor heard that sound as if it were as loud as a siren and was by your side, bending down to analyze your hand, behaving as though you had just chopped off your entire hand.

“You really must be more careful, dearest,” he murmured and frowned at the cut, willing it to disappear.

You think about Thanksgiving and the way he held your injured finger more than you’re proud to admit.

---

You shake yourself out of your reverie. No. No, no, no. Nope! You were not about to indulge in some small school-girl crush. That would only cause it to fester into something bigger in your heart, something dangerous. And you were certainly not about to buy into your brother’s teasing and tendency to romanticize things. Angel was smart, observant, but was also incredibly naive when it came to affection, or rather, sinisterness disguised by affection. And you were no stranger when it came to love and its effects on perception. You made that mistake once and it got you down here, you were not about to let that happen again...

Even if it was at the hands of that darling deer.

“Come on.” You hang up your last blouse and motion for Angel to follow you to the lobby. You both were late for your weekly family dinner and your father would not be pleased.

“I’m just saying, when was the last time ya got laid?” Angel asks as you make your way down the hall towards the lobby.

“Angel!”

“What? Please tell me you’ve at least gotten some since--”

You’re too short to smack his head, so you resort to kicking him in the shin.

“If you say his name in front of me I will maim you,” you scold.

“Got it, got it. Okay but in all seriousness, are ya ever gonna move on?”

“Nope, and even if I did, he’d have to be very special and very serious. I’m not going to waste my time pining.” You cross your arms, quieting your voice as you draw nearer to the warm glow of the lobby.

“But Alastor seems more than eager.”

“Of course he does,” you say sarcastically.

“Sis, I’m serious! He follows ya--”

“--Around like a lovesick puppy, yes so you keep saying.” You stop suddenly and shift your arms so that they’re wrapped around your torso. You avoid Angel’s confused and worried eyes, finding the carpet far easier to face than your brother’s concern. You are supposed to take care of him, you don’t need his pity. You don’t need anyone.

“Angel,” you sigh. “He’s like that with everyone. I’m not special to him, he just likes me because we enjoy some of the same things and I fit his idea of ‘polite company.’ But I’m not special. And... And even if I did feel that way about him it wouldn’t matter because I’m not anything to him. He’s made it perfectly clear that he has no use for close friends. So why would I be an exception?”

You turn and start taking brisk steps towards the door before you allow Angel to hear your sniffs and see your red-rimmed eyes. You bid a quick goodbye to Husk even though he’s passed out at his desk and make your way to your car. You don’t see Alastor, who was leaning against the wall near the mouth of the hallway where you had just pored your heart out to your brother. You don’t see the way his smile falters just a little or the way his eyes widen in alarm. You don’t see the plate of cookies in his hands, ones he had made just for you as a surprise.

But Angel does.

“Ya okay there, smiles?” Angel reaches for one of the double chocolate chip cookies but his hand is smacked away by Alastor.

“These are not for you,” he snaps but his voice lacks conviction and his eyes continue to stare off longingly at the door you’ve just walked through. Angel takes in the Radio Demon’s furrowed brows and follows his gaze.

“They’re for (Y/N),” Angel smirks and elbows Alastor’s arm teasingly.

“I knew ya had the hots for her! Jeez, could ya have been any more obvious?” Angel cackles.

“Apparently not obvious enough,” Alastor mutters.

“You heard some of that, huh?”

“All of it, actually.” Alastor looks down dejectedly at the plate of cookies. “I... I thought I was--”

“Oh, believe me, if you were being any more obvious with anyone else, you would’ve had your answer months ago. But (Y/N) she’s... she’s not everyone else. She’s very closed off, honestly you’re lucky she even sees you as a friend.”

Alastor barely nods his head in acknowledgement because all his mental energies are directed towards you. You and your bouncy, beautiful hair. You and your enchanting curves and the smooth sound of your voice when you think he isn’t around to hear you. You and your tenderness towards the very few who have earned it, and your willingness to utterly destroy anyone who tries to hurt those few. You and the time he came home with a few scratches after an altercation with Vox and you fussed over him in the genuine way his mother once did. You and your gentle hands that kneed pie crusts and crack eggs, hands that he delights in holding and finds any reason to do so.

He really never believed he could feel this way about anyone. This captivated, this dedicated, this entranced and enchanted. But here you are, captivating and enchanting him beyond all reason. At first it was infuriating, the nights he would lie awake thinking of whatever adorable thing you had done that day. Or the way his body wanted, needed to be near you even when his mind screamed at him that you were a weakness. Someone he couldn’t afford to love lest it make him vulnerable, puny, at risk of losing everything that he had built in Hell.

Until about four months into knowing each other. Some brute had come to stay in the hotel. He didn’t really bother to remember the creature’s name, just that he was rude and inconsiderate and didn’t know how to respect a lady. Alastor had wandered into the kitchen to help you with lunch, per the subconscious ritual he had fallen into, when he heard a loud smack. He opened the door to see said brute trying to force himself upon you and... the next thing he knew the entire kitchen, himself, and you were drenched in the blood of this horrid man. The kind of carnage Alastor only found himself achieving when in an intense fit of rage. You had stood there, frozen, and Alastor was briefly afraid that he had terrified you beyond the point of repair. But after you had gotten over the shock of the man’s attempted assault, you had sprinted to him and buried yourself into his chest before you could remind yourself about his aversion to touch. But he had always seemed to make an exception for you. And he always would.

After that day Alastor realized two things: that you were not a weakness, rather a new source of strength for him, and that he would literally do anything to get you to run into his arms like that again. Alastor didn’t need anymore convincing of the love he had for you. But apparently, you were in an entirely different boat.

“So what do I do?”

“What?” Angel asks, pulling away a hand that was trying again to steal another cookie.

“You’re incredibly close. She tells you everything. What more can I do to show her I’m serious?” Alastor hates how desperate he sounds but that’s what he is. Desperate for you.

“Well that depends, how serious are ya?”

“Deathly.”

Angel’s eyes glance down and back up at the cookies. Alastor relents and tosses him a cookie so he can continue.

“She’s... she’s so incredibly dear to me. She drives me mad and yet I can’t bring myself to stay away. I need her, I feel like there’s a deep, gaping chasm when I’m without her. I--”

“God, okay, you’ve convinced me. I give ya my blessing, sheesh.” Angel finishes the cookie.

“Angel,” you call, marching back into the lobby. Alastor almost drops the plate at your sudden appearance.

“Angel we’re going to be late!”

“Good evening, dearest,” Alastor lurches from the wall, smile wide and beaming, trying to convey all the love he holds for you. He tries to lower his tone on the word ‘dearest,’ tries to make it apparent that you are his dearest everything.

“Good evening, Alastor.” You grace him with a sweet smile but your eyes are sad, probably from what he overheard earlier. “Who are those for, Al?”

“Oh, for you, dearie!” He thrusts the plate in front of you, shoulders hunched in an effort to seem more humble, less intimidating for you. You really are quite small and so precious.

“F-For me?” Your face flushes the prettiest shade of red.

“You mentioned double-chocolate chip is your favorite, yes?”

“It is. T-Thank you, Al, that really is so sweet.” You take one cookie off the plate and indulge yourself in the dark chocolate. Oh, he really outdid himself.

Alastor revels in the joy in your eyes and the fact that he put it there.

“It was my absolute pleasure, darling. I was more than happy to do it. You’ve just been working so hard lately, I thought you deserved something sweet.”

Your smile widens, bathing him in warmth until it falters at the sight of Angel.

“Angel, we have to go or dad and Niss are going to have a fit.”

“Oh,” Alastor interjects. “Where are you both off to?”

You smooth down your fancier-than-normal (f/c) skirt.

“Just family dinner, but it’s important apparently. Dad has an announcement. We would have had more time to chat if Angel didn’t distract me this evening,” you say pointedly at your brother.

“Alright, alright, I’ll be out in a minute. I just have to go bother Husky for a moment.”

You roll your eyes.

“Fine. Alastor,” you turn back to him. Alastor perks up immediately at your attention. “Thank you so much for this. You really didn’t--”

“I won’t hear it, love. Now go enjoy your dinner, I’ll make sure these are waiting when you get back.” He gives you a genuine grin, something reserved only for you. “And might I add that you look ravishing in that skirt, dear. Is it new?”

“Oh,” your blush increases and glows. “Thank you, Alastor. Um... have a pleasant evening.”

Once you’re out of the lobby, Angel turns to Alastor, noticing the way he deflates in your absence.

“Look, I gotta go. Now I can talk more when we get back but this,” he points at the plate of cookies. “Is a great start! Personal, sweet, something you wouldn’t do for anyone else. She needs to know that you think she’s special, that you make exceptions for her, that you want to spend time with her outside of “coincidentally” being in the kitchen with her. And for Pete’s sake, ya gotta ask her out soon cause God knows she ain’t gonna take the chance and ask you.”

Angel strolls out of the lobby, leaving Alastor to brainstorm the many ways he’ll make just that happen.

#alastor x reader #alastor x chubby!reader #hazbin hotel #they say write the stories you want to see

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silver-ninja-of-the-tides · 7 years ago

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Silver and Gold

Chapter 19--Eastward Bound

(AO3 ver.)

(Prologue Tumblr ver.; AO3 ver.)

[And here are the chapters! Finally! :D]

Cole’s POV

It was high noon, and Misako was on the Ultra Dragon with Nya, who had been stung by this huge iron wasp that I am so glad are not back on Ninjago. Luckily there was an antidote that could be made with one of the very few plants that could be picked—zinc poppies. Garmadon and Misako said it would take a couple of hours for it to kick in. I just hope the antidote works before the poison does . . . Suddenly Zane stopped in his tracks.

“Zane?” I asked.

“The falcon has spotted the others!”

“Really? How far are they?”

“Not far. This way!” Eagerly, he led the way to the rest of the team. “Jay! Kai! It’s me, Cole!”

In reply, Jay, Kai, and Lloyd yelled in surprise. “A WASP!? Wasps aren’t supposed to be that big!” Jay screamed. Oh great—another one. “It's too fast!” Kai protested. “Someone get that thing!”

“Lloyd! It's me!” Garmadon called. “Dad? We’re over here!” Lloyd replied. “Don’t let it touch you!” Sensei warned.

“Wait I got—” Kai started. “. . . Did she just . . . eat that thing?”

“Well at least it’s gone,” Jay said.

Who’s “she”?

“Hey it’s Cole!”

“Sensei!” Zane and I yelled. “Guys!” the rest of the boys said as we met in the middle.

Lloyd glanced over his dad’s shoulder as he was hugging him. “Where’s Nya?”

“Over here,” Misako called.

The boys came over to the dragon to see Nya unconscious. “What happened to my sister?!” Kai demanded. “Nya will be fine,” Garmadon answered calmly. “But right now she needs her rest. That antidote needs to do its work.”

The fire head nudged Kai in reassurance, and he pet the dragon head’s snout with an unreadable expression.

“And who is this?” Misako asked.

I followed her line of sight to a gold cheetah with black diamonds for spots. Maybe that’s the creature that was supposed to be in the Eastern Temple. And somehow it must’ve escaped. Well, I guess that’s that, then. “A friend that helped us in our time of need,” Sensei replied, and the cheetah puffed out its chest in pride.

Almost a second later, it took a more serious position as its ears twitched, its tail flicking back and forth. Facing east, it sniffed the air, and its ears flattened against its skull as it lowly growled. Suddenly it let out a roar, and a few moments past before a desperate howl replied.

“What's she doing?” Lloyd asked.

“Calling to her friend.”

The cheetah and the creature in the east then sounded together.

“Perhaps the prisoner in the Eastern Temple is her friend,” Zane suggested. I stand corrected.

“Then what are we waiting for?” I asked. “Let's go get ‘em!”

Zane's POV

The cheetah waited for Lloyd and Sensei to mount her before the rest of us mounted the dragon. Strictly galloping east, she led the way with the dragon close behind.

“I’ve tried to distinguish her friend’s call, but there are too many possibilities as to which animal it belongs to,” I reported. “Uhh quick question,” Cole started. “What exactly does this Eastern Guardian look like?"

“I don’t think anyone’s ever laid eyes on it, but some say it’s very aggressive and fierce,” Misako explained. “We need to be cautious if we’re to encounter it.”

“Aggressive and fierce,” Jay repeated. “Huh. Sounds like Kai.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Kai said, everyone laughing. Despite this, his mood quickly changed to one of heavy concern as he glanced over to Nya. “Don’t worry, sis. You’re gonna be just fine.”

All of a sudden the cheetah lurched to a stop, making the Ultra Dragon skid to a stop as well.

“What’s the holdup?” Jay asked. He stood up and peered over the dragon heads, and I followed his gaze to a hissing chasm. “Snakes? Seriously?”

“Bronze snakes,” Sensei corrected.

“And a lot of them, too,” Lloyd added.

And surely enough, I could spot nearly hundreds of slim snakes snapping and slithering all over each other. One even leapt up in an attempt to snap at the feline. “Snakes . . . I hate snakes,” Cole muttered.

The ice head looked to the cheetah with a hum, and she drew her head back in skepticism. The earth head roared softly in encouragement, and with an annoyed grunt she reluctantly faced forward with taut muscles.

Just as the dragon was about to take off, a snake tried to nip at the fire head. Within the next instant he melted the snakes into a pool of bronze, the lightning head rolling his eyes at the notion.

Seemingly satisfied, the dragon rose from the ground and hovered over the cat, and he gently picked her up before flying across the chasm. After setting her down, he landed next to her and allowed us to dismount, Misako choosing to stay. And before us stood the Eastern Temple.

It was entirely built from bronze and decorated with silver linings. If one looked closely, they would be able to pick out the intricate silver patterns of wind and ocean currents. Two giant pillars stood by the entrance, each supporting the angled roof. Emerald vines and ivy curled along the entire structure, and from deep inside were the sounds of annoyed growling and barking as well as something heavy scraping against metal.

“This place is amazing . . .” Cole breathed.

“Whoever built this temple must have quite the eye for design,” I said.

Just then Nya began to stir from on the dragon.

“Ugh . . . What . . . happened?” Nya groaned. “Nya!” Kai exclaimed, and he was followed by Jay and the others. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“Hey guys. Um, when did we get together again?”

“A while ago, actually,” I replied.

Misako helped her dismount before doing so herself.

“Well, it’s good to see everyone again,” Nya said. “Let’s just hope I remember to bring bug spray next time.”

The cheetah stood in front of the enormous doors, and, as if sensing her presence, the doors opened inwardly.

“Stay here, boy,” Lloyd said. “We might need a quick getaway if anything gets out of hand.”

All four heads nudged him as the falcon went to perch on the ice head, and we all followed the cheetah inside.

The hall was dimly lit with torches of bronze fire, and the vines and ivy provided for an eerie decoration. Once we were all inside, the doors groaned to a close, making Jay hop and leaving us in near darkness.

“Great. Now we’re stuck here with no way out!” he said.

“That is our way out,” I said.

“Oh that’s great, Zane! Just great.”

“You have been in tighter situations before, Jay,” Nya reminded.

“Hey, I call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

Our footsteps were the only noise in the temple aside from the growling. The sound of metal scraping against itself travelled throughout the building, the flickering of the torches always making their presence known in the daunting atmosphere.

At the edge of the fire’s light, long objects curved in several different directions could be seen on the ground, and I was beginning to have a “sinking feeling” about what those objects were.

“I dunno about you guys, but I’m not liking the looks of this place,” Nya said, her shoulders tense.

CRACK!

I glanced down to spot a dry, brittle-looking rib under my foot, and a shudder coursed through me. Littering the floor were the bones of small animals and medium-sized ones, some appearing recent, others seeming to have been here for years. Whichever one of the residents that consumed these creatures unnerved me. Perhaps it was both of them.

“I hope this guy doesn’t eat people,” Kai said, unease in his voice.

The scraping and growling suddenly stopped, making all of us halt in our place. Next to me were well-concealed doors, but it seemed as though the only room available was a lit room up ahead.

“The creature must know we’re here,” Garmadon replied.

“Zane? Anything?” Nya asked.

“A-according to my readings, if we continue on this path our chances of survival will only decrease,” I nervously stated.

“We’ve come this far,” Sensei said. “We can’t turn back now.”

“Hey, I think I can see something in that room,” Cole said.

The cheetah trotted toward the room, and our footsteps became thunderous against the bronze floor.

My eyes quickly adjusted to the even dimmer lighting of the room, and I could make out more vines and ivy clinging to the walls. In the center of the room was a figure on a raised stone platform. With lowered head and hackles raised, was a silver wolf.

(First chapter) (Next chapter) (Previous chapter)

#Ninjago #Kai #Cole #Jay #Zane #Nya #Lloyd #Sensei Wu #Garmadon #Misako #the gold cheetah #Ultra Dragon #Zane's falcon #Dr. Julien #Island of Forbidden Riches #The Eastern Temple #fan fiction #Ninjago--Silver and Gold

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alloftimeandspacetosee · 3 years ago

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Adventure in Time, Part4

In which Arlette takes matters into her own hands and ends things with her usual dramatic flare

[1] [2] [3]

[Adventure in Space]

Arlette groaned and sat back against the tree, her armour in a pile beside her. Harpy whined and laid his head in her lap, looking up at her.

“I need my sister, Harpy,” she said quietly. “I want to go back.” She trailed off, closing her eyes.

She was back in the clearing Arden had shown her, alone but for her pokémon.

“Why did we have to make it complicated?”

Harpy looked up and stretched himself out, licking her cheek and pressing his warmth to her. Arlette wrapped her arms around him and curled in on herself. Harpy leant his head on her shoulder and waited patiently.

Then he tensed and lifted his head, looking around. Arlette didn’t notice his change in demeanour right away. Harpy growled softly and barked, alerting Abela, who lay in the grass nearby.

Arlette raised her head at that, looking around. “What’s wrong?”

Harpy licked her cheek again and slipped out of her grip, looking around. Arlette reached for the spear by her armour – and froze. A sword was at her neck, so suddenly that even she didn’t see it coming. Harpy snarled, flames flaring up, and Abela crackled with electricity.

“Tell those two not to attack, or you’re dead.”

Arlette drew in a breath. “Harpy, Abela – don’t. It’s fine.”

Harpy whined, but his flames dimmed.

The man laughed. “Good girl. Now… hand away from the spear.”

Arlette drew her hand back to her chest, trying to see who it was.

“No you don’t.” The sword brushed against her skin, pushing slightly. “You’re coming with us.”

Her spear was kicked away, followed by the armour. Arlette winced as it rustled and grated scale against scale. Harpy growled, and Arlette raised a hand to stop him as she stood up.

“Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter right now. Put this on.” A roughly woven sack was shoved into view, held in a hand wearing a black glove.

Arlette frowned and took the sack in one hand, holding the other against her chest. Flicking down her fingers. Harpy caught the movement and tensed, still growling.

Her fingers made a fist and Harpy leapt towards her head. Arlette stopped time and ducked, spinning away towards her spear. Time started again. Harpy hit her assailant in the chest and they crashed into the bushes.

A bisharp stood in front of her and raised its arms. Abela electrocuted it, but it ignored the attack and kicked her weapon further away.

Arlette narrowed her eyes and stopped time again, darting around the bisharp to pick up her spear. It spun as soon as she started time again, slamming a bladed arm through the haft of her spear. It shattered. Arlette cursed and ducked away.

An explosion of fire. She chanced a glance towards Harpy, and saw fire taking hold of the bushes and trees, and a pair of legs that were struggling frantically. The bisharp caught her arm and she yelled in pain, and then in crowing glory as fire erupted from her mouth. At that, the bisharp did stumble back, and Arlette hit all fours as the changes wracked her body, hitting her now well-known form of scaled body, lightly feathered wings, lashing tail and proudly horned head. She roared and cuffed the bisharp into the pool, charging down the man as he managed to get to his feet, throwing Harpy – now much bigger – to the side.

He saw her coming and his eyes widened as he started to run in a lopsided, limping way. Arlette caught him in one jump, landing with her front claws on his back. She snarled and leant down, jaws bared near his ears.

“Who are you?” she growled, and fire licked the air with every word.

He didn’t answer – he went limp in her grasp, and Harpy launched himself at the bisharp behind her, taking it to the ground in a ball of flames.

Arlette snarled, unfurling wide, white wings and grasping the man in her claws. “Abela – put out the fire.”

And then she pushed into the air as easy as thinking, and turned towards the camp.

They saw her coming, of course. They tried to clear a space for her to land, tried to keep calm as the dragon landed with a thump outside the command tent. The set of soldiers in white red-washed armour stepped forward at once to catch the man and then her as they dropped, white feathers and blue scales fluttering in the air around her as her form faded.

“The Lady Truth Blessed!”

“What has happened?”

“Someone call Lady Apphia!”

Arlette swayed and caught herself on a guy rope.

“Arlette? Arlette, speak to me. What happened?” That was Apphia, running into view.

The reuniclus hummed, placing its hands on Arlette’s head.

“I was attacked,” Arlette said, forcing her voice to steady. “He might need some attention before he can talk.”

Apphia’s voice turned fierce as she looked down at the man. “Where were you?”

Her reuniclus moved to restrain him, running its hands up and down his body.

“By the pool.” Arlette closed her eyes. “Harpy and Abela are still there. Controlling the fire.”

“Eldred, take a group up to the pool,” Apphia snapped. “She was attacked there, and we need to know how close they are. Arlette? How many were there?”

“Just… him.” She pointed a hand towards the man lying nearby. “And a bisharp. I think. They were the only two we saw.”

“Come with me.” Apphia guided her into the tent as Eldred left.

When Eldred returned, she was sitting with a mug of beer in her hands, though she hadn’t drunk much of it. Harpy came in first, a lot bigger than she remembered.

“You’ve evolved,” she said softly, reaching out to stroke the typhlosion.

He nuzzled into her hand and whined, closing his eyes. Arlette smiled, rubbing his head.

“Eldred. What news?”

“No one left there now. The fire was all but gone when we arrived. No signs anywhere.”

“Sorry.” Arlette smirked. “I wasn’t thinking to preserve much.” She stood up, putting the mug down. “What’s the plan now?”

“You need to rest,” Apphia said. “I’m amazed you are still standing after all that.”

“Has he talked at all?” Eldred asked.

“Nothing coherent.”

“Let me see him,” Arlette asked, not for the first time. “I could probably–”

“No.” Apphia shook her head. “You are to stay away from him.”

“Then I need something to do.” Arlette started to pace, Harpy at her side. “How far from reclaiming the chasm are we?”

“Not far.”

“Good.” Arlette stalked over to examine the board, but Eldred stepped in her way.

“This isn’t yours to command, Lady Truth-Blessed.”

“Arlette,” she growled. “I’m not looking to command, just to get things done.”

“Go out to the training fields and practice with your spear. Your dragon form will not always serve you.”

Arlette glared at him, but he didn’t move. “Fine,” she spat eventually. “Harpy, Abela – with me.”

Harpy picked up the stunfisk carefully and hurried after Arlette as she stalked from the tent.

Arden found her attacking a mannequin with nothing more than her fists, having already broken a practice spear on them. Shards of wood and sawdust littered the area around her, and she still fought on.

He watched her for a while, waiting for her to stop. When she didn’t, he called across to her, “I think that training mannequin is dead.”

Arlette spun and delivered a kick square to its chest, silver armour flickering around her leg. The wood snapped and the mannequin fell. “Now it is.”

“You’re not even out of breath…” He shook his head. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting.” Arlette laughed. “I need to get back to the Chasm, but it’s taking too long.”

“Eldred takes a long time to decide. He’s cautious.”

“Slow. I need to get home.”

“To your sister.”

Arlette stiffened her jaw.

Arden nodded. “Come on, then.” He turned and walked away.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a squad together.”

Arlette hurried after him, Harpy and Abela following. “To…?”

“How do you feel about a few sneak attacks?”

Arlette smiled thinly. “That might just help to pass the time.”

They lay on top of a hill, sawsbuck tethered in the forest behind them. The lights of campfires were scattered below them, and a few outlying torches denoted lookouts.

Arlette clenched a hand around her spear, Abela humming at her side.

“Ready?” Arden asked.

“I’ll get that guard,” Arlette said, and pushed herself up.

“Don’t be seen.”

“He won’t know I’m coming.” Arlette smiled, teeth glinting slightly.

Tick.

She padded along behind the guard, holding her spear carefully in one hand. Something broke beneath her foot. The guard spun. She lunged.

Tick.

She lay on the hill beside Arden. “He’s down.”

“That was quick.” He blinked, staring at her.

“They’ll notice he’s not there soon enough. Let’s go.”

The whole company made a muted noise of agreement, and they pushed into a crouch, hurrying down the hill. Abela moved ahead of them, rippling the ground to give them holds and an easier way.

The camp was taken by surprise. They were lounging, asleep or at least resting by the fires. An advance guard for the actual army.

Arden’s squad attacked in silent control, precise in their movements and silent in their deadliness. Arlette, while not using any of Reshiram’s blessing, made full use of Dialga’s, mercilessly playing time to her advantage.

The camp was routed, no one left alive to report back. Arlette watched as Abela doused the last fire, staring towards the chasm. They would get there.

“Lady Time Blessed.” Apphia watched as she woke, late in the day. “Care to explain the activities that are keeping you in bed so long?”

“No.” Arlette got to her feet, stroking Harpy. “My time is my own.”

Apphia pursed her lips.

“How is the fight towards the Chasm going?”

“Eldred has taken a command forward to secure a new camping ground nearer the site.”

“Excellent.” Arlette smiled and pulled on a new skirt and shirt. “We’re getting closer.”

“Getting closer to what, I have to wonder.”

“The Chasm. What else?” Arlette swept past her.

Arlette blinked awake into dimly lit darkness, and Apphia at the entrance to her tent. “They have gone to launch the attack on the Chasm.”

“They’ve already gone?” Arlette struggled upright, pushing the reuniclus away as it tried to stop her. “Why didn’t they wake me?”

“Because what with these other nightly escapades of yours, they thought it best if you sleep properly this once.” Apphia tried to stop her, but Harpy growled and forced her back, flaring his fire.

“This is one thing I am not sleeping through.” Arlette struggled into her armour, lacing it up as quickly as she could. “Is there a spear nearby?”

Apphia folded her arms, mouth a thin line.

Arlette looked up at her, tying on her greaves. The reuniclus hummed, and Arlette’s spear floated towards her. Arlette took it, standing up.

“Is this it?” Apphia asked. “Are you going to leave us now?”

Arlette looked away. “Once I’ve done what I have to.”

“We haven’t won yet.”

Arlette winced. “I’ve done what I can.”

“You’re our Truth Blessed.”

Arlette paused, frowning. “There will be peace,” she said eventually. “But neither side will win.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” Arlette started towards the edge of the camp, Abela and Harpy following her.

It was a long way to the Chasm, but Arlette stole a sawsbuck and rode into the night, with Abela balanced behind her and Harpy running alongside. They passed by battle sites, and Arlette gripped her spear ever tighter as she urged the sawsbuck onwards.

Eventually they saw the dim light of fires, and the sawsbuck pawed uneasily at the ground. Arlette turned the sawsbuck to the north and headed along the ridge and into the trees. There she dismounted and looped the reigns around a branch before creeping towards the Chasm.

It was ablaze with fire, and she could see knots of fighting, hear it even better. There were flyers above, raining flaming arrows down, and every so often there was the dull whump of catapults. Arlette fixed her grip on the spear and climbed down along the cliff front, finding a thin track to follow.

“Harpy, Abela – this way.” She pulled the vial of liquid ice fire from her pocket and shook it, checking the contents.

They descended until they found a thick ledge, and Arlette turned her back on the fighting. Harpy looked around and growled, keeping watch.

“Abela, I want you to carve a message here for me.” She pulled the cork from the vial. “Can you do that?”

The stunfisk raised itself up and crackled a little.

“Alright then.” Arlette nodded and whispered the phrase to Abela.

Above them, on the cliff face, rocks groaned and crumbled as they were moved. Abela sank to the ground as she concentrated, and Arlette put her spear down to climb up, pouring a little of the ice fire into the letters as they formed.

“Set them quickly,” she called back down, eyeing the vial.

With the words set and the vial empty, Arlette dropped back down and dusted her hands off. Harpy nudged his head into hers, and she reached up to rub his chin.

“I think we can go back now,” she whispered, glancing towards the battle.

She saw the prince, alone and surrounded by enemies. The nearest soldiers were occupied and hadn’t noticed. Arlette hissed. She hissed fire and grabbed up her spear and leapt from the cliff with a roar as the transformation took her in midair, arms into white feathered wings, blue gauntlets moulding along her hands and wrists as the wings split away from her arms, setting themselves on her back between blue and silver armour. Red feathers flared around her wrists and ankles as the rest of her armour changed to match, and she landed in the midst of the group with a blast of fire and an outstretched spear.

She wasn’t a dragon yet, just a winged and armoured human with ice in her eyes.

“Truth Blessed!” the prince gasped, as Harpy and Abela scrambled down the cliff to join them. “What are you doing?”

“Saving your skin,” Arlette snarled, breathing fire and slamming her spear into the attacking soldiers’ midriffs. “Get back to your army, Prince.”

“What about you?”

“I go where I belong.”

The enemy were breaking, retreating before her. She roared, wings becoming less feathered, form becoming more quadruped.

“Go!”

The prince scrambled backwards, but she didn’t see him go. She lunged forward, laughing as they ran before her.

Arrows shattered against her armour and she roared, flaring her wings. Harpy barked again, running to her side and sending fire racing across the ground. Thunder crackled above them as Abela joined the fight, forcing the army back.

Then there was no one in front of her and she spread her arms, laughing maniacally. “You cannot stand against me! I am Arlette NightGale, Truth Blessed and Guardian of Time! And I say this war is finished.” With the tip of her spear, she opened a portal. “No more, fuckers.”

#pokemon #oc #unova #the two princes #Arlette Nightgale #mainverse #2nd gen #writing #Legend Blessed

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lesbian-madge-undersee · 5 years ago

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Chapter 15

: we react when necessarySummary:

necessity holds a different meaning, between societies

Notes:

Part Two

Chapter Text

14 Settembre, 1362

Outskirts of the Palace City

Northern Domacca

The Sunlands

Adelina Amouteru

"The Young Elites!"

The assembled crowd is quick, but not wrong, to assume the reason the sky is turning black.

Black storm clouds roll into the sky from over the horizon, covering the annoyingly bright blue that had stretched forever in every direction a moment before, and blotting out the sun. The previously warm air chills to freezing in what seems like a moment.

Screams ring out from all around, many people trying to run. They will not get far.

The ground underneath them begins to shake, causing many to fall down, all to at least stop in their tracks, swaying, trying to keep balance.

The darkness wanes in one place, just near the spectacle the crowds had been watching a moment before. Reality shifts, and an unignorable white light comes to life before the crowd. More screams, some mistaking this for a lightning strike. But the light holds in place, fading just slightly as the seconds tick by, until it is soft enough to look directly at.

At it's core is the image of a young Tamouran woman, her hair glowing white in the light, equally white, elegantly tied silks shaping her figure. The only part of the image that is not white is her skin, a medium brown, with the red tint of scar tissue in the place where her left eye used to be.

The ground is still shaking, but the young woman does not fall. She- I- stand perfectly still, my posture straight, my head raised regally, looking out over the crowd with a straight face.

"You!"

A man wearing the green sun emblem of the Domaccan royal guard draws his sword, and tries to stagger toward me.

I barely spare a glance at him. "You will fall on your own sword," I say derisively.

The man closes his eyes and straightens, taking a deep breath. Then he takes a surer step toward me.

"You are the White Ro-," he says, his voice faltering on the oh as he nearly falls, "Rose. You create only illusions. Lies. This is not real. It is a trick."

I raise an eyebrow at him. Otherwise I do not react, but I feel my illusion weakening around him as he realizes what is happening.

"Perhaps our Rose is a worker of illusions," a voice says, casually, from just behind him. Reality shifts open again, a golden rift tearing apart the air behind the guard.

Theatrics, I think to myself, more fond than annoyed. My entrance, I suppose, was no subtler.

Through it steps a boy who looks much less out of place hear than I, clearly of Domaccan blood, with his dark brown skin and many small braids falling around his shoulders. He is dressed in gold, white, and blue, with an ornate diamond pin adorning his collar. "But you did not think she was alone here, did you?"

The rift vanishes, and Magiano tilts his head at the guard, his bright gold eyes nearly glowing in the unnatural darkness we've made of the desert.

The guard stumbles in surprise, and does finally fall, though not in way that causes his own sword to run him through.

I feel the guard's uncertainty re-solidifying my illusion around him. Magiano's reputation proceeds him, as does mine- no one is sure what his power is, (many assume it is simply 'all of the above'), and he has been known to move the earth itself before. Just a few months ago, far south of here, in the foothills of the mountains that form Domacca's Tamouran border, he had opened a chasm in the ground between us and approaching assailants, courtesy of a ten year old girl living there on a sheep farm. The girl had clapped and waved at us as we got away, and she might have paid for that, if the soldiers trailing us then had not made the mistake of assuming the chasm was another of my illusions. They'd walked straight forward over the edge, assuming the ground was simply hidden and would continue to hold them.

Violetta could not blame me for that one.

I make the crowd feel the earth shake more violently, the entire plain beginning to tilt, everyone falling over as the plain of the earth goes briefly vertical.

Everyone, of course, except for Magiano and I.

I right the world again very quickly, and finally let the earth go still. More than a few people get sick on themselves, or on the desert sand.

"You thought you could get away with this?" I ask, my voice doubling and tripling over itself, seeming to come from six different places throughout the crowd.

I continue to stare over the assembly, mostly common folk, with a few royal guards. None of them try to stand, or run again.

"You thought you could run away from your actions, and that would absolve you of punishment?" I ask again.

"Have mercy on us!" Is the only answer I get, from somewhere near the back of the crowd. I am satisfied with the fact there are no shouts of insults, no calls of Demon! or Malfetto!. The crowd thrums with the intoxicating energy of fear, but not that of hate.

"The gods have no mercy on those who would bring harm to their children," I say, and I almost think I hear a sob coming from somewhere in the crowd.

"Luckily," Magiano cuts in, stepping over the slumped figure of the guard, "We ourselves hold some modicum of it."

He steps closer to me, until we are shoulder to shoulder. "Do you think they've suffered enough, my love?"

He says it loud enough for anyone to hear. It is a genuine question. He will not stop me if I choose to continue tormenting these unmarked until they are all vomiting or unconscious. He would help me, even.

But I can tell he does not really want to. He's never had a taste for revenge.

"I suppose," I say. We wait a moment. The crowd does not move.

Magiano copies my power, and the desert sand begins to heat up again, getting hotter than it was before. The sound of thunder crashes over us, so loudly you would have thought lightning struck right in the middle of the square we'd all gathered in. The crowd jumps.

"Run," he calls out, and the people do not hesitate to listen. In a few moments, the square is empty.

Once they are out of sight, Magiano turns around. He tosses a key he'd lifted off of the guard to an unassuming, unmarked Tamouran girl, no older than fifteen, who stands at the edge of a tall pile of kindling. She is guarded by a Kenettran man, the oldest of us, though still young, with the beginnings of a large grey mark showing on his chest over his low-collared shirt, and an ornate sword strapped at his waist.

My sister catches the key easily, and takes a few steps up the pile until she is face to face with a young Domaccan girl, just her age, if not a bit younger, with jagged green lines cutting through her dark skin, from the corner of her lip the the tips of the fingers on her right hand.

Violetta reaches around the tall black post the girl is tied to, gently lifting the shackles holding her. The locks click open, and the girl falls to her knees, burying her face in the skirts of Violetta's dress and sobbing.

Violetta, ever-gently, tries to nudge the girl off of her skirt. The girl jerks back, away, realizing she must have offended Violetta or embarrassed herself or both, but Violetta simply kneels down to her level, putting her hands on her shoulders, leaning in so that their faces are close. She whispers something soothing that I cannot make out from where I am standing, and the girl buries her face instead in the crook of Violetta's neck, her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. My sister hugs her back.

The rest of us, Sergio, Magiano, and I, stay where we are, watching.

I remember a time, a time that seems so long ago, when my father would drag me out of the house to watch malfettos burned in Dalia's main square. Innocent children, children just like me, killed horribly, as I was powerless to stop it. I would lock myself in my room, crying, for hours afterword.

I remember a time that doesn't seem nearly as far off, though it has been a little over a year, when I was scheduled to burn myself, when Magiano and I had saved each other.

I remember just a few moments ago, when I had made an entire crowd run screaming from me.

I will never be powerless again. None of us will. Now it is the unmarked who will live in fear.

Now it is the unmarked who will beg for mercy.

Magiano is the first to walk toward my sister and the Domaccan girl, and I trail slowly after him. I stop just at the edge of the pile of kindling, while he climbs a few steps to crouch beside them.

The girl sniffs. Her breathing is still ragged, but otherwise she has calmed her crying. She and Violetta are still locked in an embrace, but she lifts her head to meet Magiano's eyes.

"The Roses," she says quietly, shock and awe spilling from her words. He nods.

"Magiano?" she asks him, and he nods again. He wears the odd, solemn expression I only see on him when we are saving marked children.

"The Puppet Master," he sets his hand on Violetta's shoulder, and the girl turns back at her, blinking. I am not sure how my sister got the reputation of being something fearsome- the daunting sound of her Elite name, perhaps- but this is not the first time someone has been surprised to see who she really is.

"The White Rose," Magiano nods to me, and the girl looks up. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I see that while hers are brown, they are flecked with the same electric green that marks her skin.

"And the Rainmaker," Magiano nods to Sergio, still standing over the three of them, watching the horizon to make sure no one takes advantage of the moment to try and surprise us. His hand rests on the Night King's sword, his typical weapon now. It serves as a reminder of what we are capable of, that no one who crosses us is safe, no matter who they think they are.

Also it is, of course, a very nice sword.

"Thank you," the girl says. She starts to choke up again, and Violetta strokes her hair.

"Can you tell me your name?" Magiano asks her, and I could swear his voice thinned on the last word.

"Kamaria," the girl says.

"Do you have a family to go back to?" he asks.

The girl, Kamaria, starts to answer, then stops. She blinks fast, trying to stop her tears from coming back, and does not speak.

"Did they submit you to this?" Violetta asks, this time, and I think the girl nods before she falls back onto Violetta's shoulder. Her crying is much less violent now, much quieter, the despair of betrayal instead of the panic of near-death.

I wonder if Kamaria's family had been a part of the crowd. I wonder if I should have kept them here a while longer after all.

While Kamaria cries quietly, Magiano explains to her the way to one of Domacca's rivers, to a port city where she can gain passage to the Ember Isles, the city-state that is the crossroads between the Sunlands and the Skylands. The Skyland influence has made the Isles a much kinder place to the marked, perhaps the safest place for us to be outside of the Skylands themselves. Other than Kenettra, with it's Young Elite king.

It would be a feat to gain passage from Domacca to Kenettra though, at least directly- unable to reach an agreement with the Domaccan government about the treatment of the marked, King Enzo has placed a full embargo between the two nations.

I am not sure if Kamaria is listening to everything Magiano says, but it does not really matter. We will spare one of our men to escort her to safety.

Sergio steps around the pile of kindling to stand at my side. I can tell he is still honed in on our surroundings, even as he addresses me.

"The King will know we're in the area, now," he says, "We won't have the element of surprise on our hands when we hit the Palace."

"Good," I say, "Perhaps they will pose a challenge to us for once."

We have been all over Domacca in the last ten months, and even with the Night King sending what is left of his forces after us and the King of Domacca declaring us outlaws, we have taken everything we have set out to take, done everything we have set out to do. We keep our men in decent coin, and we keep ourselves in decent luxury, being sure to do business with those who support the marked, and who support the Elites, who revere us as we should be revered.

It has been fun- I must admit it has been fun. But we have done every thing that there is to do in this country, and soon it will be time to move on.

Or, I should say, we have done every thing there is to do in this country, but one.

Violetta pulls Kamaria to her feet, and Magiano stands with them. They descend from the pile of kindling, coming down toward us.

Kamaria will stay with us for the next few hours, perhaps the next couple of days, until we can make the arrangements to get her out of the country, as has been the situation with every marked person we have pulled from the brush of Moritas's fingertips. We could never afford to keep so many people with us forever- it would have accumulated to dozens, perhaps even hundreds, by now- but we do what we can.

"We should probably turn in for the day," Magiano says, standing at my side again.

I nod. Our accommodations are in the next city over, and we should get moving if we want to be out of here before someone from the crowd gets their nerve back up. We have horses tied up around a corner.

"Adelina?" Violetta says as we reach them, and I climb up onto mount.

I frown just slightly at her use of my real name in front of Kamaria, and raise an eyebrow at her. "Yes?"

"The sky?" she says, gesturing to the black abyss that still stretches above us in every direction.

I blink. "Right," I say. The illusion unravels, for a moment seeming a translucent gray, from this distance, and then disappears all together, leaving the undaunted blue of the sky.

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Chapter 16

: a wonderful messSummary:

a little fun

Chapter Text

16 Vembier, 1362

The Palace City

Northern Domacca

The Sunlands

Magiano

"This is too easy, my love."

He does not make himself sound upset about it, but Adelina still raises an eyebrow at him. "If the stakes are not high enough for you, Violetta could always take our powers for a little while." Her lips are pressed together, trying to suppress a playful smile. "That would be sure to make things interesting."

"I am not taking anyone's powers while we are in the heart of a palace filled with thousands of guards and soldiers," Violetta says, chastising, from where she stands, near the exit. Her hands are folded in front of her, her lips are pursed, and she looks entirely too serious for the fact that she is the youngest there.

Adelina's expression turns to a small frown at her sister's comment. "I was kidding."

"We're going to be fine, Violetta," Sergio says, from where he stands, near the other side of the treasury from them, examining a golden orb embedded with kunzites.

What do monarchs do with the chainless orbs they keep lying around with the rest of their crown jewels, Magiano wonders? Just hold them up? He might think they were for decoration, if they weren't kept locked up and out of sight all the time.

"It is probably for the best we keep our powers to ourselves here, though," Magiano says, spinning the ornate golden crown he holds in his hand, "We wouldn't want His Majesty to figure out that he's wearing a wreath of branches just yet."

Adelina turns from frowning at her sister to watch the crown's diamonds, sapphires and cuts of praise quartz catch the torchlight of the palace treasury.

They had planned their strike on the palace for two months after arriving in the city, which Magiano and Adelina had both found to be a little excessive. But Sergio had insisted, with Violetta's support, for the sake of precaution. Even so, Magiano cannot think of a better way they might have said a final farewell to his home country.

The people would be talking about this for years; he is already famous for stealing the Kenettran queen's jewels (which he did not actually do, admittedly, but no matter,) and of course they all kicked off their infamy by robbing the Night King. As far as anyone knows, he will have stolen directly from three different monarchs, the people who are supposed to hold more god-ordained power than anyone else in the world, and gotten away without consequences. With the opposite of consequences, really. Fame, fortune, praise, reverence... he could go on. He is really doing very well for himself. And to think, not far from there, surely in walking distance, is the temple where he grew up nothing. To think, closer than they'd been in more than five years, were the people who'd raised him to be sacrificed on the altar, who'd ritually sacrificed countless other children before him and after him and in his place.

He could have gone back there. He still could, he could tell Adelina everything, she'd already brought up countless times how she'd burn the whole place down for what they'd done to him and she only knows about his scar, she doesn't know the rest, she doesn't know about- about the girl. (He wishes he had some other name to call her, to remember her as, how he wishes, but she had never chosen one.) But he does not want to risk Adelina really burning them alive- not because they wouldn't deserve it, but because he doesn't want to be the reason for Adelina to kill anyone. He does not want to risk her relationship with her sister, and he definitely does not want to risk her mental health.

And, if he is being honest with himself, he is scared. He doesn't want to see that place again. He just wants to put it behind him.

"Caught up?"

He blinks, and Adelina is no longer looking at the crown, but at him. He supposes he had zoned out, staring at the crown so long.

She is smiling again, and that pulls him out of his deep thoughts. Her hair is a medium gray, almost bronze, in the treasury's dim torchlight.

"I used to want one of these," she continues, reaching out to the crown and almost touching it, before stopping. She shakes her head at herself. "It is a fantasy I have not entertained since I was a child."

She says 'since I was a child' as if she was not, technically, a child, only a few months before. She is seventeen now; they both are. Of age, in the eyes of the gods, but still very young.

Though he knows she means not just wearing a crown, but being a ruler, he still lifts the crown onto her head.

It is big on her, sliding nearly down her nose. He laughs a little, and she raises a hand to push it back up, glaring halfheartedly.

The glare does not last, and neither does his laughing. He leans toward her and whispers, "We will be greater than that."

She lifts the crown off, and hands it back to him.

"We already are," she says, as he takes it.

They look at each other for a moment, in an unsure pause that one of them could easily fill by leaning into the other, and he almost does. But then Adelina just nods, almost imperceptibly, and turns back down the rows of jewels.

He turns to Adelina's sister, still standing by the door. She is the only one of them who had not been in full support of their plan to rob the palace and then flee the country-

Why do we always have to flee the country? she'd said, Can we not just leave the country eloquently? For once?

She had been outvoted, three-to-one.

"There must be something here that catches your eye," he says, taking her arm and pulling her gently through the rows of precious metals and gemstones.

Violetta does not resist being lead around, but she does frown at him. "I just want to be-" she cuts off.

He follows her gaze to a bracelet, a solid silver band embedded with star sapphires and opals. It would go very nicely with the necklace he bought her last year, that she still wears now, he thinks.

"Take what you want," he says, letting go of her arm, "We've already carted out enough gold to keep our men in coin for the next year, and then some." He spins the crown in his hands again. "I'm sure a few trinkets will be the last thing on their minds."

He does not stand there watching her, instead drifting away to peruse the isles of gold himself, but he hears the small clink of metal brushing metal, and smiles.

***

"Do you consider this fine?"

"Very, yes," Adelina answers her sister loudly so that she can be heard over the wind.

They had gotten up and out of the treasury just fine; they surely could have slipped all the way to safety without being seen as well, but where would the fun have been in that?

So they stand, now, atop the outer wall of the palace, far out of range of the crossbows of the leagues of men who have come to surround them. The ever-blue sky is now a dark gray, caused by Sergio, this time, not Adelina. The poor lighting gives them cover, and Sergio having the option to call his power gives them an edge.

The clouds are very thick. Magiano thinks if the sky were to open and the rain to pour down on the city- which it surely will, eventually, whether Sergio tells it to or not, they will not be sticking around long enough for him to dispel the storm- it would do an awful number on the desert city. Weather like this doesn't happen naturally out here. Countless roads and buildings will be flooded. People will almost definitely get hurt.

Magiano shakes his head. This is the not the time for pity. He reminds himself of the atrocities these people tolerate, that a little flood damage is the least of the consequences they might deserve.

"His Majesty does not want to come and retrieve this himself?" Adelina calls down at the soldiers, reaching across him to take the crown.

He lets go of it so she can hold it up, and she does, but she does not pull back after she has it. She stands with her side pressed into his, and the arm she is using to hold up the crown draped across his back, and almost without thinking he wraps an arm around her waist.

Her eye flits to him for a moment, before they both look back down at the soldiers to try and focus on their wind-garbled response. It is hard to make out the words, but their body language would suggest a basic "Surrender now!", "Halt!", or something of the like.

This probably means the soldiers cannot hear what they are saying, either, which is a shame. Half the fun of showing themselves is the gloating, the flaunting their own total lack of fear or respect for whoever's after them.

Adelina seems to have the same realization, as she lets a breath out, leaning further into his side. She looks up at the crown for a moment, before placing it on his head.

It fits him better than in fit her, sliding only a little ways down his forehead. He raises an eyebrow at her.

"They can still see us," she says, and she's right- a few of the soldiers stir in outrage at a boy without royal blood wearing the king's crown. But Magiano is presently more focused on the angle at which Adelina has turned to say this to him. How they are now facing each other, and how his arm is still wrapped around her, holding her pressed up against him, and how her hair is the same dark gray as the clouds in this light, and he kisses her, closing the remaining space between them.

She is still for a moment, and he almost stops before she moves a hand to the back of his neck, and then she is kissing him back, in earnest.

He doesn't think they've ever kissed in public before, though they do it often enough- definitely not in front of crowds of people who'd happily see them dead, not even in front of Sergio or Violetta, that he can particularly recall. Magiano can hardly care at the moment.

This goes on for about thirty seconds before they are startled by a thunderous crash that shakes the very wall they are on top of. They pull back and look around to see that it had in fact been thunder, that lightning had just struck the tall stairway tower that lead up to the top of the wall, not ten feet away from where they are standing.

Said stairway tower is now split nearly down the middle and burning, falling apart.

"They were almost upon us," Sergio explains.

"Of course," Adelina says, after a breath, with her usual Rose composure, but her cheeks are pink, and it is really cute.

Magiano spares a glance at the others. Violetta does not look surprised, and in fact her air of reluctance to the situation seems to have diminished, though she does look grimly at the broken stairway. This was surely unavoidable- they would have been slaughtered if the soldiers were allowed to reach them- but between the lightning and the fall from the broken tower, there isn't a chance anyone on it had survived.

Sergio for his part just looks a little amused, if anything, tapping his fingers against his sword's hilt before jerking his head towards the staircase tower on the other side of the wall, their way down.

Looking toward the ground, this stairway is clear of Domaccan soldiers, but not of men entirely- their men, surely the reason the area is clear of others.

"I don't think we're going to pull off a more spectacular finale than that. We should be on our way," Sergio says.

"Right," Magiano agrees.

Adelina straightens, and then her power envelopes the four of them, making it seem to all as if they've disappeared into the harsh wind.

They can still see each other, and he still has his arm around her. Magiano and Adelina look at each other for a moment, before walking together down the stairway.

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Chapter 17

: because we are born to ruleSummary:

a queen has multiple reasons for celebration

Chapter Text

16 Maggio, 1363

City of Hadenbury

Northern Beldain

The Skylands

Maeve Jacqueline Kelly Corrigan

"I would have thought you'd name her Jacqueline."

Maeve's oldest brother is looking fondly down at her. He smiles and shakes his head. "There's only one Little Jac."

Augustine reaches to ruffle her neatly braided black and gold hair, and Maeve dodges, a smile forming on her lips as well.

She is sure not to jostle the baby girl sleeping in her arms, as she skirts out of the way.

Augustine's wife, Catriona, gave birth just that morning. She is well, but she is resting, asleep in bed not five feet away from Maeve and Augustine.

Catriona is of Fortuna's Chosen - she has a large pale blue patch over her left collarbone. The baby holds no such marking, nor any marking at all, which is only a bit disappointing.

The baby's eyes are closed, asleep as soundly as her mother. She is perfectly healthy, born just when she was expected, without any complications to the birth or the pregnancy.

Kelly, they had decided to name her, taking the least elegant of Maeve's three names. Kelly Imogen Aisling Corrigan.

Soon to be Crown Princess Kelly Imogen Aisling Corrigan, Maeve thinks, excitement welling up in her.

Maeve is happy, ecstatic, that her brother and his wife, two of the kindest, most deserving people she knows, have been blessed with a child. But she is giddy for another reason.

Her brother has a daughter. Maeve is no longer under pressure to produce an heir, to marry a man. She already has a successor.

Tomorrow, she will announce her choice. She can imagine what her mother's reaction might have been, were she there- Maeve going out to address the people, announcing her niece as the heir apparent. A denouncable breach of tradition, she would have called it.

But Kelly is the legitimate firstborn daughter of Beldain's eldest prince, thus there is no one in the world who could challenge her claim to the throne. Unless Maeve were to have a child. And that will never happen.

Just then, a woman enters the room through the ajar door. Maeve lights up even more at her curling copper hair and the swirling black lines marking her arms.

"How is the baby doing?" Lucent asks. She and many other nobles had been present for the birth, as is typical with royalty, but only family had been allowed to stay afterword, in order to give the mother and child space.

Maeve smiles. "She is wonderful, Lucent. Beautiful and healthy. She has Catriona's eyes."

Lucent smiles too. "That's great," she turns to Augustine, "Congratulations."

Maeve takes in Lucent's silhouette, trying to keep from bouncing up and down on her heels. She had invited Lucent to Beldain a few months into Catriona's pregnancy, as a close personal friend of the crown. It has been a beautiful few months having Lucent there with her, alone together more often than they had been since the years before Lucent’s banishment.

"Augustine," Maeve says, asking without using the words for her brother to take the baby.

Once Kelly is settled safely into Augustine's arms, Maeve turns on her heels and takes both of the other woman's hands in her own. "Lucent."

Lucent blinks, and straightens her posture a bit, clearly startled. After a second she lets out a breathy laugh, not used to seeing Maeve so eager. "Yes?"

"Marry me."

Lucent is silent for a moment.

"Really?"

"Yes, really!" Maeve squeezes Lucent's hands.

Lucent glances to the baby in Augustine's arms, then back at Maeve. Not long after they were reunited, Maeve and Lucent had been confronted with the reality that Maeve was bound by her birthright to produce an heir. These last few months, the air of excitement and joy that comes with the promise of a new life has been accompanied by an unspoken, different joy between them. A hope.

Lucent gives a slow nod, which becomes surer and more enthusiastic with time. "Yes."

Maeve pulls Lucent into a kiss, not registering or caring that her brother is standing there with them. (Augustine's always known, really, hasn't he?)

Maeve's excitement does not wind down, as she thinks gleefully that she will have two announcements to make tomorrow.

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Chapter 18

: he spoke very fondly of youSummary:

a king receives counsel

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

15 Juno, 1363

City of Estenzia

Northern Kenettra

The Sealands

Enzo Valenciano

"Congratulations, Your Majesty."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Queen Maeve replies.

Enzo and Maeve are walking through the entry hallway of his palace. They were both left outside to exchange the pleasantries rulers must, upon Maeve's arrival, and so are a few steps behind the others.

"I hope you have not tired of festivity. I will have to throw a grand celebration in honor of one of my Daggers being married to my greatest ally," he says.

A small smile plays at the corners of Queen Maeve's lips. "The two-week sail here was reprise enough, thank you."

Two grand doors are opened for them, and they enter the main atrium.

"You know we regret missing the ceremony itself," he says.

Maeve tilts her head. "It was no fault of yours. It takes so long to reach the Skylands from here. We really didn't want to wait."

Enzo nods. "We appreciate you making the trip here so soon afterword."

Maeve nods in turn, but her gaze now seems caught on the other side of the room. Enzo turns in that direction.

Lucent and Raffaele stand there, engaged in conversation like the old friends that they are.

Maeve's eyes flick back to Enzo. "I suppose we cannot be expecting any similar news from you, Your Majesty?"

Enzo turns back to her in mild surprise. Her gaze is empathetic, now.

Enzo sighs.

He looks back at Raffaele, still talking to Lucent.

He can't talk to most people about this, but he knows Maeve understands. She's been in his place.

Maeve takes his long pause as an answer. "There isn't anyone? Cousins, aunts, uncles?"

Enzo shakes his head. He's looked into this. "My father and grandfather were both only children. I had one sister, who I assassinated. There's really no one."

Maeve hums lowly.

Enzo and Maeve have been confiding less-than-political matters in each other since before Enzo claimed the throne. It had started with Maeve asking him more and more about Lucent's current state, having not seen her in all her years of banishment, leading up to an explanation of their true relationship, and had escalated from there. Maeve had known Enzo was in love with Raffaele before he did.

And she had been helping him try and evade the same obligation she'd just thwarted nearly as long. Enzo is the last in an otherwise dead bloodline- he will not have an heir if he does not create one.

"I could always take the responsibility from you," Maeve says.

Maeve's tone is casual, and Enzo looks at her sideways for a moment. He's never sure if she is joking when she makes comments like this. He would hope she is joking. Though, annexing his country is not something to joke about.

"There must be a better way than that," he replies, still unsure of her seriousness. He is willing to consider a good few things, but he will not be giving up his throne. He has worked too hard for this; they all have. He will be the King of Kenettra until the day he dies.

Maeve tilts her head, looking thoughtful for a moment.

"Have you heard of Queen Lediana? Of Amadera?" she asks.

Enzo thinks for a moment, then shakes his head.

"She was her father the King's only child, and suitors came to her from all over the world to seek her hand, but she loved none of them. The most persistent and most notable of these suitors was a young Amaderan archduke, from a greatly respected noble family. So, can you guess what she did?"

Enzo shakes his head again.

Maeve pauses, perhaps for effect. "She legally adopted him."

Enzo raises an eyebrow, and suppresses a laugh. "What?"

"She adopted him. She shifted the line of inheritance to his family," Maeve says.

"And that worked?" Enzo says, somewhat skeptically.

"Well, her father was very displeased. He sent her to Beldain to stay in solitude for a few years, to try and straighten her out. But not long afterwords he died, and she was welcomed home as the rightful queen." Maeve looks at him. "And you have no father to pass judgement on you in the first place."

Enzo considers this. He has heard of monarchies shifting bloodlines before, mainly during times of crisis or revolution. It might seem an overreactive decision. The people could probably get over that, though. They got over his violent overthrow of his sister's regime, after all. And this is the only legitimate option he's heard so far.

Though, he does not like the idea of leaving his country's future in the hands of some strange noblewoman. He has been approached by a good few suitors since rising to the throne, and none of them have been exactly pleasant. He would have to turn to someone he knew. Find someone he trusted.

"It is something to think about, at least," she continues, when Enzo does not answer.

Enzo nods. "It is."

"If there is anything I can do to help, I will. I am rooting for you," she says.

Enzo gives a small smile. "I know. Thank you, Maeve."

They stand in comfortable silence for a moment, eyes wandering the room. They have been followed by their respective parties, Maeve's brothers, Enzo's Daggers. Enzo's gaze lingers on Maeve's youngest brother, standing not too far from them.

Tristan lurks in the doorway, a clean silver mask obscuring his face. He shouldn't be surprised by this; Maeve and Tristan are never too far from each other, but it is the slightest bit unnerving to see him standing silently, seeming to watch them even though his face cannot be seen.

Enzo is fully aware of Maeve's Elite ability, how she'd pulled her brother from the Underworld and made it seem to all he'd never died in the first place. Maeve's is an interesting power to have, in theory, but Enzo has seen enough of Beldain's youngest prince to keep from asking use of it. Raffaele has told him of the deeply unsettling nature of Tristan's energy, how he feels more like a dead thing than a living person. Enzo can think of one person he might ever have been interested in bringing back, and he would not wish that on her. It has been a long time; he will let her rest. Besides, even looking past his energy, the fact that Maeve has Tristan wear a mask so as to avoid disturbing anyone he might otherwise make eye contact with should tell one enough about the side effects of being brought back.

"Speaking of them, have you heard the latest news out of Amadera?"

Enzo blinks, and looks back to Maeve. "No, I don't think I have."

"The Rose Society has just robbed their palace."

Enzo raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?" He laughs. "Even the Skyland nations are not spared, then?"

"Yes," Maeve almost frowns. "It would seem they are just as interested in proving their own power as they are in protecting the interests of Fortuna's Chosen."

"Merroutas, Domacca, now Amadera. Do you think they will be coming for either of us, next?" he asks.

Maeve raises an eyebrow. "You do not sound very bothered by the possibility. Do you think you could take them on?"

Enzo tilts his head. "I'm sure they would be formidable adversaries. But I might like the chance to meet them."

"You're looking to recruit them?" Maeve asks.

"Oh, if I could, absolutely," he says. "Though there are some potential obstacles to the idea."

"Hm," Maeve knows about the Rainmaker, as she knows about most things, so she does not comment.

"Maeve!"

It is Lucent's voice; she and Raffaele seem to have finally noticed their presence. (To be fair, Enzo and Maeve have been caught up in their own conversation as well.)

Enzo meets Raffaele's eyes from across the room, and is reminded of Maeve's story.

"We should not keep them waiting," he says.

Notes:

As soon as I read this text post I knew I had to make gay royals club a reality. SO shout out to that anon, and @incorrect-legendyoungelites.

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Chapter 19

: how quickly life finds a place for itselfSummary:

a girl experiences a realization

Chapter Text

17 Dicembre, 1363

City-State of The Ember Isles

The Sealands

Adelina Amouteru

"Look what I've found."

A smile crosses my face at the voice.

Magiano drops into the apartment the four of us have shared for the last few months, returning from browsing the late evening markets. He is holding a wooden plaque, and I straighten at the sight of it.

"Is that-?" I ask, holding out my hand.

He smiles and passes it over to me.

My breath catches at the plaque's front face. Intricately carved letters spell out The White Rose, with the o stylized into a rose and painted a shimmering silver-white.

"It's beautiful," I say, half to him and half to myself. I have been looking for one of these. I used to see them sold on the black markets in Dalia, dedicated to Elites like The Reaper and The Alchemist. But this is a carving dedicated to me, by someone who reveres me and what I stand for, who wants to show support for me and what I do.

"Thank you," I say. I put my free hand on his shoulder, and lean up to lightly kiss him.

The kiss is brief, but still sends a pulse of warmth through me.

"Of course, mi Adelinetta," he says as he pulls back, still smiling, and a part of me thrills at the affectionate version of my name.

"Did you have to visit the black market?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "It was right out in the open. Being sold by a young girl with the nicest shade of green marking her arm," he says, tilting his head as he recalls.

I start to smile again as he recounts the rest of his trip, pulling different things out of his bag. As I listen, I place my plaque above the other three on the wall.

As important the things we've done in countries like Domacca and Merroutas are, it has been nice to spend so much time in a place where we don't need to hide. The Ember Isles are, in essence, one enormous trading port, inhabited mostly by travelers from the Sunlands or Skylands, with few permanent residents. It does not have much in the way of a formal government- most of the people here just follow the laws of the countries they hail from. There is no Inquisition, or guard- the perfect place for internationally regarded criminals to have a nice long rest, Magiano has commented.

My sister and Sergio walk into the room as we idle, and Magiano begins to show them the things he's bought as well- mostly jewels and other trinkets. My sister turns to admire my plaque, and I note that the craftsmanship on the both of ours looks similar; the two lowercase ts in The Puppet Master are stylized into marionette handles, with jewel-toned strings hanging off of them.

After a while of sitting around, comfortably, together, Magiano turns to me.

He seems to hesitate for a moment. "I have an idea," he says.

I nod, acknowledging him and signaling for him to go on. I could swear he seems nervous.

"How would you feel about the two of us going somewhere together?"

I blink. "Alone?"

"Only me and you, yes," he says, and I notice him trying to feign nonchalance.

"And why can we not come?" Violetta asks, an eyebrow raised.

Magiano shrugs, and the movement of his shoulders is a little off from normal. "It's just Dumor. It is a smaller country with a weak government, we can handle it ourselves. You won't be missing much."

"It is a rich country," Sergio says, tilting his head at Magiano.

Magiano rolls his eyes, the corners of his lips tilting up more. "Yes, they are up to their necks in sapphire mines. We'll be sure to bring back enough to share. But it should be a quicker mission; we'll spend less time there than we spent in Amadera, and it's a shorter trip. There's no need to uproot everybody, risk losing our footholds here."

I shudder briefly at the thought of Amadera- we'd intended to stay there longer, but left early because of the biting cold weather- then raise an eyebrow at him. Yes, it is nice to have a place to go home to, but I can tell he has a hidden reason for this request.

The others seem to pick up on this too, and Violetta almost comments on it, but Sergio gets there first.

"You'd need to have a few of our mercenaries escorting you, the prices on our heads are too high for any of us to be taking excursions alone. But otherwise, I don't see why not."

My sister purses her lips and looks at Magiano for a moment, before nodding her assent.

Magiano looks back at me, a hopeful glint in his gold eyes. I stare back for a moment.

"Of course," I say. I cannot tell what he is hiding, but I trust him, with my entire being.

He smiles bigger and kisses me again. I melt into him, and a spark of excitement runs through me at the idea of the two of us spending so much time alone. I love my sister, and Sergio is my best platonic friend, but I-

I almost start at that natural train of thought. About Magiano.

I am in love with him.

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Chapter 20

: we have to trust one anotherSummary:

a boy reflects

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

31 Dicembre, 1363

City-State of The Ember Isles

The Sealands

Sergio

"The Night King has been assassinated."

Violetta starts as he enters the room and tosses a folded sheet of paper onto the table.

It is mid-day, but Violetta is the only other person in their shared sitting room. The others are still out of town, after nearly two weeks.

Violetta takes a moment to collect herself. Then her posture droops, and she frowns at him. "By whom?"

He rolls his eyes, and taps the paper.

Violetta's no killing rule is a nice idea, but he cannot say he follows it as diligently as the others. You cannot head an army of mercenaries if you're not going to let them kill anything.

"We had nothing to do with it," he says, though in the long run, they probably did, "A group of his mercenaries who'd stayed loyal to him - or at least seemed to - staged a coup and seized control." He shakes his head, and almost laughs. "I've told you, no one wants to stay loyal to an already unpleasant man who gets shown up by a group of teenagers."

He wonders briefly if he has a right to criticize, as he had been a grown man more or less taking orders from the same teenagers, at the time. He thinks he does. They had been paying him, after all.

Violetta picks up the paper and begins to read it through. It is a simple news pamphlet, detailing the names of Merroutas's new leaders and the few things they've already done. Sergio remembers them - along with him, they'd made up the five heads of the Night King's army of mercenaries. It does not seem they've cut in whoever ended up replacing him; they number only four, now.

Sergio only cares about this news because it means, in all likelihood, he will no longer have to ward off attackers sent at them from Merroutas. The others had spoken occasionally about the possibility of taking control, but Sergio has never been interested in ruling a nation.

His eyes wander from Violetta, and he wonders briefly what the other two of those teenagers are up to.

Magiano and Adelina have been gone for nearly too weeks, now, and though he's heard news of their usual chaos coming out of Dumor- a boy with golden eyes and a girl with silver hair, Magiano and The White Rose, stealing gold and jewels and wreaking havoc- as well as updates from the mercenaries he has there guarding them, he's heard nothing from them personally.

He knows they can handle themselves. Magiano had been handling himself on his own since before he was twelve years old, and he and Adelina are two of the most powerful Elites he knows. Still, it feels off, not having them around. Knowing he couldn't get to them, if he needed to. If they needed him too, though that is unlikely.

He shouldn't be worried like this. He just has to trust that they will be back. He has only known Magiano for three years, and Adelina even fewer, but he knows he would lose everything if he lost them.

He still remembers the day he met Magiano; he had been hunting him for the Night King, and when he was nearly upon him, the skies that had gradually been darkening began pouring down. Magiano had flaunted the fact that he could use the power that Sergio had, even though he himself could not, and offered to make him a deal. Sergio, enticed by the possibility of finally unlocking what even the Daggers could not, had agreed to keep him safe from the Night King's other men in exchange for help with his power.

Years later, he has mastered his power to a science, and he still spends his time trying to keep Magiano and the others safe. It is not even about money, anymore. He hasn't been on the payroll for a while. They are all equals, here, none of them are employees of the others.

No, in the grand scheme of things, he has just grown fond of these kids. Two of them aren't technically kids anymore, and even Violetta will turn seventeen this spring, but he will always, he thinks, be as protective of them as he was when they were.

The fame and fortune is certainly a bonus, of course, and so is the possibility of revenge. They have not hit Kenettra, yet, but he knows they will eventually, and he eagerly awaits it.

Or perhaps eager is not the right word. The roiling mess of emotions that come with thoughts of the Daggers, of Enzo, try to wash over him. He also remembers the day he'd met him- how he'd been off put by Raffaele's laughable talk of magic powers, at first, and terrified when Enzo'd shown up as The Reaper and proven them to be true. He had insisted to them, repeatedly, that he had no power of his own to offer, but they were persistent. So, eventually, he'd allowed them to drag him away from his former life. And when they finally decided to accept what he'd tried to tell them in the first place, they'd wanted to have him killed. As if he was expendable. As if he meant nothing to them. They'd acted as if they were his friends, before, but he knows now it'd been a lie. An act.

He had grown to like them, over time, really like them. Especially the prince. Sergio had more than liked the prince, and he thinks he'd known that, too. He wonders sometimes whether or not that was a reason Enzo let him live, in the end.

Probably not.

It doesn't matter.

He has been waiting six years to show them they were wrong about him, one way or another, and he will.

"Do you have any idea of what they're doing?" Violetta asks, drawing him from his thoughts. Her tone is purely curious, conversational. "Adelina and Magiano? Why do you think they really wanted to go alone?"

"Who could say," he says.

He trusts them. He does. Though he hopes, whatever they are doing, they come home soon.

Notes:

I've never liked Sergio/Violetta as a ship simply because in canon she's 14 and he's 20, which makes for a bad relationship, so in TWR they're not going to get together, and also they're both gay, because I want them to be. Sergio was into Enzo back in his Dagger days, (sort of like Adelina's thing with Enzo in the books, since that never happened in this universe) and that's referenced here. (Not Magiano, though, to be clear, he thinks of him like a younger brother.) The action for this arc really gets going next chapter, I'm very excited for it!

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Chapter 21

: as if he understands me better than anyone in the worldSummary:

a thief doesn't have to steal what he wants, this time

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

02 Gennaio, 1364

City of Tarannen

Dumor

The Sealands

Adelina Amouteru

"I do have something specific in mind."

I raise an eyebrow at Magiano, from across the room we have rented out the last couple of weeks. He is lying on a pile of saftons- Dumorian coins made of gold embedded with sapphire- the size of a bale of hay.

We have made a mess of this small country, in our time here. Perhaps for lack of the levelheadedness and caution usually provided by either my sister or Sergio, we have left no proverbial stone unturned- every wealthy estate or bank we have come across, we have cleared out. Since we arrived we have been coiling around the countries outskirts, but we have finally made it to the capital, and now it is time for us to hit the palace. I am almost disappointed our excursion is going to come to an end.

Though, I have begun to miss my sister, in all this time, and it will be something of a relief to see her again. Magiano has picked out an exquisite sapphire hair clip for her from one of the first estates we hit, and a few other things, as well.

"And what of the Dumorian royals', specifically, has caught your eye?" I ask him, a teasing lilt to my voice.

He glances up to me, and the nervousness that has been semi-present in him for the last couple of weeks can briefly be noticed. Then it is gone, quickly as it came.

"It is for you, actually," he says, and I feel myself blush, "And it is in possession of the king's sister."

My heart beats just a tad faster. Does this have something to do with why he brought me alone to Dumor? What exactly does he want to give me so badly he took me all the way here?

"Are we going to have to take it off of her?" I ask, instead of voicing any of my mental concerns.

He stands, and makes his way towards me. "No, they are not currently in use, just held in her estate on the palace grounds," he says.

"They?" I ask, "Are we talking about a set?"

That nervous hesitation, for just a moment, and then a smile. "We will see."

"You are not going to tell me?" I ask, tilting my head up at him.

"No," he shakes his head a few times, his lips still curved up.

I tilt my head down and raise an eyebrow. "Do you even know exactly what it is?"

"Of course," he says, then kisses me, briefly, quelling any further sarcastic remarks I might have had. "You will see when we get there."

I simply lean into his side, as he pulls out a scroll of paper, then opens it. Inside is a map of Dumor's palace grounds. "Now, how much damage do you want to do on the way in?"

***

A lot. I wanted to do a lot of damage.

The Dumorian palace is a grand series of blue- tinted buildings, with the largest, housing the King, in the center. It is surrounded on all sides by the palace city, Tarannen; a maze of streets and pathways lined with buildings and crowded with citizens. Many of those citizens now crowd at the gates and gawk, because as far as they can see, the palace is being reduced to rubble by thick, enormous rose vines, with equally large gold and silver flowers. The plants wind around the buildings and squeeze, making huge cracks in the walls, crushing them. The people inside do in fact feel the sensation of the building around them collapsing, feel the walls trembling and ready to fall away at any moment.

Keeping an illusion this large and complex going is already starting to tire me- I feel just the slightest bit lightheaded. My sister, if she were here, would have advised me to take things easier.

I brush off this thought. I am fine. I know my limits, and this is well within them.

Magiano, with his iteration of my power, has kept us invisible long enough to get into opportune placement. He is also hiding our mercenaries as they watch our backs, and as a choice few of them raid the main treasury for us.

"The Roses!" A voice from just beyond the gate squeals, excitedly, as Magiano reveals us.

Or, seems to. We are not actually in the place he has projected us to appear- the top of a fountain in the center of the courtyard, hovering slightly, not getting wet- that would leave us vulnerable to crossbow fire. We are in reality standing in the courtyard's northeast corner, on the path to the king's middle sister's estate, but the illusions mimic our real movements exactly.

"Two of us, yes," The illusion of Magiano says in perfect time with the real one.

I squint over at the girl who has spoken, through the gate- she is young, with bright scarlet hair too red to be natural. She is marked.

I notice most of the collected people are marked, in fact. They gravitate toward us, sticking their arms through the gate to reach even though we are much too far away, and my ambition glows, feeding my energy, making my illusion stronger. We are their champions; their voice in this world that hates them. Their protectors. Their Young Elites.

"My fellow children of the gods," I address them, "We have arrived to make our mark here on those who persecute us for our blessings. The Dumorian crown's vast wealth has made them arrogant; they believe they can get by tormenting us without consequence. This is untrue. The consequence of their actions arrives today."

The background of this claim: Dumor has always been a wealthy country, with it's vast stores of rich natural resources. They have survived well enough through the embargo the Kenettran king enforced upon them, when they refused to give fair treatment to their marked. After all we have taken from their nobles and outlying city governments, hitting the palace will be the final nail in Dumor's coffin. The King will take advantage of Dumor's weakened state, and they will be forced to take his deal.

I do not like King Enzo, as a person, judging by everything I have heard of him from my friends. But we work well together, in this backwards, unplanned way. I am glad for the things he has done, and continues to do, to save our fellow marked. I suppose we all fulfill our duties to the gods, and to each other, to our best ability, no matter what kind of people we are.

Magiano smiles and waves as he calls a goodbye, and our followers cheer. They are not attacked, as they might otherwise be, for acting in open support of us; some of our mercenaries are already taking care of Dumor's comparatively pitiful palace guard. Sergio was right- we have needed a lot of mercenaries for this mission.

The illusions of us fall away into showers of gold and silver sparks, and Magiano and I, still invisible, turn and run towards the King's sister's estate.

The guards who would usually flank the door are gone, either having been scared off by the crumbling architecture or neutralized by our mercenaries, so we are able to walk right in. Both of us are able to see through my illusion, so we are not troubled as we enter the building.

My breath catches as we enter a hallway, walls lined with beautiful gilded instruments, everything from the musical variety to candelabras to swords and other weapons. Most all of them are also decorated with sapphire, or the occasional diamond.

"Take what you want from here," Magiano says, noticing my reaction, "But what we came for will be in the room at the end of the hall."

I start down the hall, observing the sights around us, but not physically taking anything. I am not as easily tempted by simple gold and jewels as Magiano or my sister, and I am too curious about what we are here for to care much about the rest of these things.

Though, I do pause to look at a gold-and-sapphire string instrument, and tap Magiano on the shoulder, pointing it out to him.

"Oh," he says softly, taking it down from the wall.

"Even nicer than the one you have back home," I say. It is a lute, of course.

He smiles at me, plays a few bars of a song, and this is all it takes to have me caught up.

I walk over and lean into him. As I do this his eyes move to me, and the song picks up, ethereal and lulling, joyous and hopeful. I have never heard this song before, and I do not know if he is making it up on the spot or if he has composed it in advance, but I know he has written it. It is so beautiful, and it touches me to the core. I feel like light.

A short silence follows the song's end. I look around at the blue gemstones surrounding us.

"We met," I say, "Because you were arrested for stealing a shipment of Dumorian sapphires."

He raises an eyebrow at me, and I feel him stiffen just a tad- that odd nervousness, back in him for just a second. Then he smiles, and gives me a small laugh. "Yes, we did."

And, I do not say out loud, Because I was arrested for killing my father.

It seems so long ago, but I still remember the night clearly- my first summoning of my powers, the demonic silhouettes I summoned scaring my father so much he was reduced to a terrified mess on the ground. The same silhouettes scaring his horse so much it ran, trampling his chest in the process. That odd, odd whispering I haven't heard since.

I belong to no one. On this night, I swear to you that I will rise above everything you’ve ever taught me. I will become a force that this world has never known. I will come into such power that none will dare hurt me again.

Suddenly, I feel cold. The world takes on a yellowish tint. I can still feel Magiano's body against me, to some extent, but he seems very far away.

For a split second, I am back there, staring at my father's corpse on the ground, his chest caved in and bloody.

Then I am back in the present, clutching Magiano's arm tighter than I probably should.

"Adelina?" he asks, turning so we are facing each other, placing a hand on each of my arms. "Adelina? What is wrong?"

I blink, leaning into his touch, and hanging on his words, letting his concern ground me to the present. I try to cast the short moment from my mind, but I am shaken.

That is not supposed to happen anymore.

Have I been slipping on my herb supplements? No, I don't think so. Maybe I need more? Medical needs are said to change, as one gets older. The ingredients used for them are plentiful here in Dumor; we have picked up a good few of them in our time here. I will be sure to find some more on the way out.

"It is nothing," I say, but the shake in my voice tells him I am lying. He tilts his head at me, looking serious, and I notice the well-lit room making his gold irises glint.

"I must have forgotten to take my herbs this morning," I say quietly, and his expression immediately shifts to understanding.

"Do we need to leave?" he whispers, his voice devoid of disappointment, and full of concern for my well being.

"No," I answer, "It only lasted a second. I am fine."

"Maybe you should let go of the illusion outside?" he suggests, "I think we have this pretty handled."

I almost object, but now that he brings it up, I become cognoscente of the immense strain that illusion is putting on my energy. Could it have caused my slip up?

"Alright," I say.

This will leave any lingering guards able to come find us in here, but like he said, we are almost finished, and we have mercenaries watching us. I close my eye, and slowly release the threads of energy creating my rose plants and my destroyed palace. Instantly, I feel a weight lifted off my chest.

I nod a few times, opening my eye again. "Better."

He does not look fully convinced. I move so that I am holding his hand, and pull him towards the door. "Come on," I say, letting slip a small smile, "I want to see what you brought me here for."

He finally smiles at that, and the expression warms me, even if I detect a trace of that nervousness in it. "Okay."

We push open the gilded doors, and enter into a kind of exhibit room.

Glass cases line the walls, and each contains some manner of jewel. I see crowns, orbs, staffs, and even jeweled swords, just on my first glance.

"The King's sister is something of a historian," Magiano begins, "She likes to keep personal artifacts that belonged to Dumor's greatest rulers."

"And, which of these are we after?" I ask, raising an eyebrow and tilting my head at him.

I feel his hand tighten around mine, his thumb rub against the back of my fingers. He scans the cases, then points to one directly across the room from us.

"There," he says, and begins leading me toward it. Whatever is inside is small; I cannot make out what it is from this distance.

"They belonged to the King and Queen of Dumor almost four hundred years ago," Magiano says. "This King and Queen were said to have the most prosperous rule of any in the country's history.

"The sapphires on them are said to have formed when they hosted Laetes himself, cast down in his human form, and he kissed their hands in greeting," he continues, and I smile. He has picked for me something that is touched by the gods, just like us. He really knows me, better than perhaps anyone else. The realization I had weeks ago flashes across my mind, and I try and fail to keep from blushing.

“The royal-?” A squint at the contents of the case. Two very small, gold bands, embedded with Dumor’s famed sapphires.

My thoughts begin to slow down.

“These are…" I trail off, looking to him, "These are wedding rings.”

He nods, a few more times then he probably needed to.

“I didn’t want the others to be here, because I did not want you to feel pressured. I realize now this is still sort of a big production but please, don’t feel pressured.”

My mind feels like it’s shut off. “Pressured into what?”

He takes my other hand, pulls me closer to him, and takes a deep breath. “Adelina, I do not know exactly how you feel, about me. About us. But, I know how I feel.” He squeezes my hands, and the strange nervousness I have come to detect in his demeanor comes to a height.

“I love you. I am in love with you, Adelina, and I want to marry you.”

I am squeezing his hands back, tightly. I hear footsteps coming, distantly.

I am transported, in an illusion only I can see, back to our first proper conversation, when he gave me the choice to follow him out of Kenettra or go off alone, when we mistook my sister’s footsteps in the distance for that of Inquisitors.

Hurry, love. Yes or no.

I look back up at the real, present Magiano. He does not look impatient and scared like his past self, only anticipatory and hopeful.

How much has changed, since then, since that day? My whole life?

So much has happened, and he is still here with me. He has taken us miles away from our home just to avoid pressuring me; no matter what I say here, he would not leave me behind. My mind finally begins to process what he has just said, and my throat begins to close with emotion. But I am able to get out one word.

“Yes.”

Notes:

'The White Rose Part 2', aka: 'Marriage'

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Chapter 22

: i do wish you a happy lifeSummary:

a return home

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

09 Gennaio, 1364

City-State of The Ember Isles

The Sealands

Violetta Amouteru

"They're back!"

Violetta jumps out of her seat and rushes to the window.

Sergio looks up from his book, seeming startled. "What?"

Violetta stares out the window and squints at the horizon. Her range for sensing powers is wide, and at the very edge of it, she feels the tell-tale signature of her sister's Elite energy. Her breath catches as she spots a ship, the size of a speck of dust at this distance, at the edge of the water. "There! They are here!"

Sergio stands and looks with her. After a few minutes, when the ship has come closer to them across the water, he nods in confirmation. "That is one of ours."

"Should we meet them at the docks?" Violetta asks. She knows she could go by herself if she wanted to, but she values Sergio's input. She knows it is important they stay out of sight of potential assailants, and to have protection in case they are recognized by someone they should not be.

Sergio tilts his head at the ship, drawing closer by the minute. He nods, "I don't see why not."

Violetta puts on a coat, and then glides down the stairs out of their apartment and down the cobbled street towards one of the Ember Isles' many docks, which seems to be the one the ship they've spotted is heading for. Sergio is close behind her.

By the time they reach the docks, the ship is nearly in. It is small, but elegant, clearly for small-scale personal use.

At this point, Violetta can sense Magiano's less potent Elite energy as well. Both Adelina's and Magiano's energies feel warm and bright- their respective alignments to Amare and Laetes glowing stronger than the others, for the time being.

"I think they had a good trip," Violetta says offhand to Sergio. It is interesting to be able to read people's emotions without being able to see them- she can even do this with non-elites, if the emotion is strong enough to briefly evoke the energy of one of the gods. She wishes, as she often does, she could garner the input of the one other person she knows to have this power. In the last two and a half years, she has studied and recorded all she has been able to about the energies of the Elites she can feel around her, be it her fellow Roses or the Elites who prefer to remain nameless, who lend their powers to Magiano as their group passes through. She would love to compare notes, seek out similarities between their energies, but alas, according to all of the others, she and the Daggers are meant to be enemies.

She does not believe this; she knows the Dagger Society has done some bad things to a certain person in the past, and she knows said person has a right to be angry. But at the core, their goals are the same: the freedom of the world's malfettos from oppression. With all the things the Daggers have done to save the marked from torment since taking her home country, they cannot possibly be so bad.

"There they are," Sergio says, and when Violetta looks up she can indeed see her sister and their friend descending a long, velvet-carpeted gangplank, flanked by mercenaries.

"It is okay to use our real names in public, right?" Violetta asks, glancing at Sergio.

He seems to consider this, glancing around at the other people on the docks. The extravagance of Adelina and Magiano's entrance seems to have turned some heads, and she can see a few whispers at the notice of her sister's hair, white as the moon in this bright midday sun, paired with her lack of one eye. These are, accurately, the defining features in most descriptions of The White Rose. Some seem to be trying to get a closer look at Magiano, to see if he too may be one of the famed Roses. This is fine- they can only suspect, and the Isles are inhabited mostly by supporters of the marked, anyway. However, it would not be difficult for certain word to travel to those who may pose a threat to them.

Violetta has worked this out for herself before Sergio says, "It's probably best not to shout it across the docks, if that's what you're thinking."

That was what she had been thinking, and she purses her lips trying to think of another way to catch the attention of her sister- Oh!

"Sister!" she calls, her voice carrying across the crowd towards Adelina.

Adelina sees her, and gestures to her mercenaries, who make quick work of parting the crowd for them.

Violetta rushes up to her sister and embraces her. Adelina's arms wrap around her in turn.

"Welcome back," Violetta whispers.

They separate, and Violetta takes both of Adelina's hands. "Did you have fun?"

Adelina glances down at her hands as Violetta touches them, and when she looks back up, she is wearing an expression Violetta would not expect to see on her sister.

"Yes, I did."

Violetta tilts her head in mild puzzlement, then feels something cold and hard on Adelina's left hand. She moves her hand out of the way until she is holding Adelina's by the wrist, and then moves it closer to her face.

Violetta's heart jumps in her chest.

She rubs her finger over two exquisitely carved golden bands, dotted with large, raw blue sapphires that sparkle in the sunlight.

"You..." She looks over at Magiano, who is looking back at her, a wide smile on his face and his hand on the small of her sister's back. "Did you?"

Magiano just keeps smiling and looks to Adelina, who glances down at her rings again. There is the smallest glint of her old spite in her eye, which lets Violetta know this is indeed her sister.

"Who could have ever guessed I would be the first of the two of us to marry."

Violetta chills for just a moment at the hidden history behind this statement- the sick gazes and hateful words of the suitors their father would show them to, always directed at Adelina; Father's constant insistence the no one would ever love her because of her markings.

Then the rest of her meaning sinks in. Violetta squeals, and throws her arms around them both. "You're getting married!"

She pulls back quickly, a hand on each of their shoulders, and gives them a serious look. "You are getting married, yes? Tell me you did not already get married because if you did that without us-"

Magiano laughs. "No, no need to worry."

"Good," Violetta says, pulling them into another hug.

Sergio does not join in the embrace, though he is smiling at them. He gestures to a few men- simple dockworkers, not mercenaries- who begin discreetly unloading many plain-looking chests Violetta knows to be filled to the brim with money and jewels.

"Congratulations," he says, still smiling at them, a warm note to his voice.

"Thank you," Magiano smiles, "Oh!"

He glances back at Violetta, then reaches into his bag and pulls out an elegantly crafted hairpin, set with sapphires and shaped to look like a swan. He holds it out to her.

"Oh!" Violetta says softly, echoing him. She takes it, and turns it over in her hands.

"It is beautiful!" she says, "I love swans."

"You are supposed to gift something to the bride's family upon engagement," he notes, and Adelina turns to raise an eyebrow at him. He laughs a little, and after a moment of fake-glaring she is smiling as well.

Violetta studies the swan more carefully in her hands. She can see the dark blue threads from her's and Magiano's energies gravitating toward it, threading through the blue gemstones.

She is her sister's only family. She is still indebted to her sister and to the gods for freeing them from their father, and their mother died when Violetta was so young, she barely remembers her face. Violetta will have to play the role of any family member in the wedding, and she smiles at this thought.

***

"I want to go to Tamoura," Adelina says, as she and Violetta sit together in her bedroom, where they have come to have a private chat.

"For the wedding?" Violetta asks, just to confirm.

"Yes," Adelina pauses, "Our mother grew up there. I think she would have liked my having a Tamouran ceremony. Magiano and I have talked about it a little, he's for it."

Violetta nods. Tamoura is one of the few places they are still not wanted criminals; it should be easier to set something up there.

"He has connections in the Sunlands, too, a lot of them. There will be people to help us get everything together," Adelina says, but she is not looking at Violetta; she is fiddling with her rings.

According to Sealand tradition, a woman will wear two rings on her finger the first month after being proposed to, after which the second ring will be worn by her husband. Adelina has twenty-four days left before this time, and it is traditional to be married before then.

There is something of a flat note to Adelina's voice. She seems a measure distant, like she is only half-listening to what she herself is saying. Violetta reaches over and places a hand on her sister's. "Adelina? Is something wrong?"

Adelina pauses for a moment, now looking at Violetta's hand on top of her own.

"I never thought I'd be married," she says, still quiet and distant.

Violetta frowns a little, and squeezes her hand. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Something in Adelina's breath catches, and Violetta realizes it is a short laugh. She nods, and nods again. "Yes. Yes, I am sure."

She swallows, and when she speaks, her voice is still quiet, but more present. "I love him. I love him, and-" her voice cracks a little- "and he said he loves me. I just- I never imagined something like that, for so long, I considered it impossible. And now that it's happening I feel- like I'm in shock? I've felt a little in shock all week- and I-"

The glisten in her sister's eye begins to spill over, and Violetta pulls her into a hug.

"Mi Adelinetta," Violetta whispers, "Mi Adelinetta, you deserve to be loved. You deserve to be happy. I am so sorry anyone ever made you feel otherwise."

I am so sorry I ever let anyone make you feel otherwise.

Adelina does not reply, just hugs her fiercely, her face buried in her shoulder. Violetta lets her get her emotions out, holding her and stroking her hair until she pulls away and wipes her eye.

"Thank you," she whispers, and Violetta smiles.

"I will always be here for you, sister."

Notes:

It is mentioned in The Midnight Star that Adelina is able to tell that a girl has been married recently because she still wears two rings on her finger, so I didn't make that up. Wedding, next chapter!!!

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Chapter 23

: i get to be at your sideSummary:

a girl tries overcoming her nerves

Notes:

Marie Lu has stated Tamoura is inspired by the real-life ancient nation of Persia (modern-day Iran), a lot of the wedding ceremony is based on real-life Persian traditions!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

24 Gennaio, 1364

City of Alamour

Northern Tamoura

The Sunlands

Adelina Amouteru

Weddings are not small or private occasions, in the Tamouran tradition.

At least, so-said infamous Sunland Young Elite The Alchemist- not to be confused with the Daggers' The Architect- when we met up with her in Tamoura's palace city, Alamour. She is old for an Elite- she must have been just young enough to survive the blood fever, when it hit. She helped Magiano learn the ropes of his powers, when he was younger, which is how they know each other- she spends a lot of her time helping marked children who are scared and alone.

She is the connection he spoke of having in Tamoura, and she was more than happy to help us, when we got in contact with her. When it was brought up we did not really have much in the realm of family or friends, outside of the four of us, she is the one who brought up that while we may not know very many people, very many people know us.

And really, we could all use a good celebration.

Thus, we ended up inviting a good majority of Alamour's marked- those who The Alchemist has helped find their way, and taken under her wing, at any point. I stand now just outside what I know to be a cavernous room, filled with very many people, most of whom I do not know.

A seldom few of whom I know very well.

"Are you feeling ready?"

These words are whispered, and come from a woman wearing the white robes of a devotee of Fortuna, the goddess of Prosperity.

The temple we are in is jointly dedicated to Fortuna, Amare and Aevietes- three of the higher gods, and the three most associated with marriage. Weddings take place here often, as far as I can tell.

The woman looks at me with a certain reverence. To her I am an untouchable icon- The White Rose, a Young Elite, blessed with power by her goddess. I usually revel in this treatment, but right now it only makes me more nervous. She is young, and her darker skin is marked with stark white patches. In her hands is a bowl of burning incense.

My heart is pounding in my chest, and I have a hard time answering her question. Everyone in the room I am about to enter thinks highly of me, for various reasons; I know logically that this is true. This does not stop my mind from reeling at the concept of being so vulnerable in front of so many.

I am not physically vulnerable, even- we anticipated that putting word out, even to the underground, of where the four of us would be at a certain time could draw some unwanted attention. Our mercenaries are here, disguised and interspersed throughout the audience or guarding the perimeter.

I might even feel better if I was, in fact. I have had no problem publicly displaying emotion on our many heists, surrounded by people who already want me dead. I have nothing to lose, to them.

But here....

I take a deep breath. It is harder to be rational when I am out here, alone except for a stranger. I stare ahead at the the door in front of me, and focus on the reason I am here.

I want to see him. No more waiting.

I nod resolutely. "Yes."

The woman nods in turn, smiling a little, and opens the door.

My vision is blurred, a little, a veil over my face, but I make out the general shape of what I know to be about four hundred people, all of them marked, standing crowded into a very large room. I notice Sergio near the front of the audience. There are intakes of breath, and a few scattered and quickly quieted applause, as I enter, the woman with her incense walking in front of me.

At the end of the aisle down which we are walking is a bench, with a spring green canopy held above it by a tall woman in a very large hat, and a young Tamouran girl who is the only one in this room that does not seem to be marked.

The Alchemist and Violetta, of course- this canopy is meant to be held by all of a married party's female family members, but as between the two of us we have only one, The Alchemist stepped in as Magiano's mentor to hold the other side of it. Violetta gives me a reassuring smile as she sees me.

And below the canopy, sitting on the bench-

We reach the end of the aisle, and the woman places her incense on a long, low table, placed just in front of the bench, before going to stand with two other people at the side of the canopy- one of them wearing the bright pink-red robes of the god of Love, one wearing the lavender robes of the god of Time.

I can make out a blurry figure on the bench, and before I see anything more, I sit down next to him.

Directly in front of us, on the table, is a large, silver mirror, encrusted with kunzites and roseites and diamonds, with a lit candlestick on either side of it. After I am sat down, I finally lift my veil over my head, and I see myself.

My long, silvery hair, my scarred out eye. For a moment, there is that uncomfortable cold feeling, that yellow tint to my vision- a memory of my smashing a hand mirror out of hatred for my marked appearance, when I was young.

Then I see him, and it is gone.

We are both looking at each other in the mirror, and he smiles at me. I see my reflection smile back.

Magiano is wearing silks of gold and white, against my pink and silver. As the three acolytes begin to read passages from The Requiem of the Gods about love and joy and eternal companionship, he quietly takes my hand.

I stare ahead at the image of the two of us, framed extravagantly by the mirror. We both sit relatively still, and I could almost think this was a framed portrait. No one else's reflections are caught in the silver; only us. For a moment, I can imagine we are alone together, and my heart rate begins to slow.

Then, the acolytes finish reading. They turn their attention to us, and my heart starts beating even faster.

"Adelina Amouteru," the acolyte of Prosperity says, and it does not even register with me that nearly four hundred strangers now know my true name, "Under the witness of the gods, do you consent to be married to this man?"

My hand tightens around Magiano's. My face feels hot, and I know I am blushing, in front of all these people.

Magiano squeezes my hand back, and looking only at him, I try to forget they are even here.

"Yes," I say, in the least shaky voice I can muster.

"Magiano," the acolyte of Time says, because Magiano does not have and has never had a last name, "Under the witness of the gods, do you consent to be married to this woman?"

"Yes," he says, without hesitation and with such conviction it makes me blush even more.

"Then," the acolyte of Love says, "With the power entrusted to me by Holy Amare, I pronounce the two of you wed."

As he says this, we turn to look at each other directly, not through the mirror, for the first time.

I stare at him for a moment. He is smiling brighter than I have ever seen him, and I know I am smiling too, even as the uncomfortable warmth in my eye threatens to let tears fall.

Finally, we kiss each other, and everything else in the world disappears. The room breaks out into cheers and applause, but all that I notice is the feel of his smile up against mine.

Notes:

My main source for Persian wedding ceremony traditions was this site, so shoutout! I've wanted to do a Magelina wedding scene ever since before I even started this fic, I hope I did it justice! Also, you might notice this is the only chapter I'm posting today- I do have a sizable portion of the next chapter written, but it is very long and I decided I wanted to go ahead and put this one out since it's been a while. The next chapter pairs better with the chapter after it than the chapter before it(this one) anyway, I think! Thank you for reading, we should be back to pair updates next time!

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Chapter 24

: there is always another doorSummary:

a long-anticipated meeting

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

05 Marzien, 1364

City of Estenzia

Northern Kenettra

The Sealands

Raffaele Laurent Bessette

"Master Bessette?"

Raffaele pauses in the hall and turns around at the sound of his name. A young page stands a few paces down the hall, an energy of confusion around him.

"Yes?" Raffaele acknowledges the boy, who glances behind himself as if expecting to see someone there.

The boy stares at him for another moment, then frowns and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, sir. My mistake, sir."

Raffaele frowns as he watches the boy turn and walk quickly the other way down the hall.

Raffaele wonders if this strange encounter could have something to do with the odd energy he has sensed around the city, lately. It has been growing stronger over the last few days, but this morning it disappeared, suddenly and completely. As if someone had thrown a sheet over it. As if it were hiding from him.

As if someone were suppressing his ability to find it.

The Rose Society has not been seen or heard of in over a month, since their extravagant (even for them) hit on the Tamouran palace. There are rumors of various other things they had been doing in that area at the time, but there is no solid story.

If they are here, he knows they are probably not going to be friendly. The timing of this strange encounter makes him want to go after the boy and ask him what he knows, but as he is about to, he feels a different energy approaching from the other end of the hallway, warm and bright red.

"Your Majesty," Raffaele says, as he turns again, back the way he had been facing in the first place.

Enzo strides leisurely down the hall until they are standing right in front of each other. The king wears an easy expression, his eyes round and dark.

"Messenger," he says in return, and closes the rest of the space between them.

"I've missed you this morning," Enzo says, when they part.

"Apologies, Your Majesty. I thought I sensed something strange, and sought to find it, but it has disappeared," Raffaele says. "I was on my way back to throne room, now, if you wanted to go together?"

Enzo shakes his head, looking briefly disappointed. "I have to check in with the new head of the palace guard. I will meet you there soon?"

Raffaele nods. "There is no hurry."

Enzo kisses him again, before they start in different directions down the hall.

They recently had to instate a new head of the palace guard, as the past one was arrested for treason and conspiracy against the crown. It is unsettling to think that someone like that was allowed so close to them, and the man's replacement is under close watch.

It is not long at all until Raffaele reaches the throne room, tall golden pillars lining a velvet walkway, mid-morning sun shining in through the large, high windows.

He expects the room to be empty, save a few guards.

It is not.

"Enzo?" He asks, uncertainty clouding his voice. Two figures stand shoulder to shoulder just behind and to the left of the throne, observing the glass case where they keep the crown jewels, and even from this distance the king's face is unmistakable.

His mind swims in confusion- this makes no sense. He just saw Enzo moments ago- he can still feel his energy, not too far away, and in the opposite direction from this figure.

These figures do not give off an energy at all. Raffaele approaches them, slowly, but stops in his tracks when the other figure looks his way.

This other figure is wearing his face.

He can hear the sound of armor shifting as the guards lining the walls see him enter. The false- for this is surely a false image- Enzo looks his way, too, and when he meets their eyes, it is as if the floodgate of that strange energy he has been feeling for days opens. It is orange, and white, and unsettling, and cold, and all of a sudden he can see the individual threads making up the details of these disguises, and he notices an empty space in the jewel cabinet these figures are standing in front of.

"Arrest them," he says, not peeling his eyes away from these figures. He, like all of the Daggers, has a level of authority among all of Kenettra's forces, so he expects, without thinking, to be listened to. Long seconds go by, and nothing happens.

He spares a glance at the guards, only to see them looking back and forth between him and the pair, seeming perplexed.

"...Your Majesty?" A guard asks, looking to the false Enzo for instruction.

"That is not the real king," Raffaele says quickly, before the fake can get in a word, "As that is not the real me."

The guards continue glancing between them, unconvinced.

The false Enzo, too, seems unfazed by his words, and eyes Raffaele over from across the room.

"Bold accusation," they say, tilting their head and cocking an eyebrow in a way Enzo has never done in his life.

He gestures to the guards. "Seize him."

The guards hesitate.

“It is the White Rose,” he says, his tone slipping into impatience, “What else could explain two spontaneously existing copies of a person?”

“Clearly, it is the White Rose,” says the copied version of himself, “And she’s given herself away. Has anyone here ever known me to speak in such a manner?”

He glares at the copy. He can see the individual threads making up the disguise, and just glimpse the silhouette of a boy much younger than himself behind them, as he can see the beginnings of a girl’s figure behind the disguise of the King.

“Guards,” says the false Enzo, and only Raffaele can hear the reverb of a female voice under the words, “Arrest her.”

The guards begin to approach him. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sharp breath before calling behind him, “Enzo!”

The guards continue to approach him, and he stares unwaveringly back at them. They seem unsure of themselves still, not coming at him as fiercely as they would if he seemed to be a common criminal.

Just as they arrive on his side of the room and reach out to grab him, there is a flash in between them, and Raffaele takes a step back.

It is the flash of flames igniting in the air, and they make a point to wrap around the hands of the guard who had almost touched him, burning them for a moment before dissipating. The man groans, and stumbles back, along with his companions.

“What is going on here?”

Enzo - the real Enzo, The Reaper, the King - strides over to him, his eyes locked on the guards. His voice and expression are a mask hiding cold fury behind the ruse of no emotion at all. Raffaele has not seen him like this since before they had risen to the throne.

“Your Majesty,” Raffaele says, lightly touching Enzo’s arm. The King’s expression immediately softens, turning to him. Raffaele gestures to the false image of them, standing across the room.

The copies stare back at them, with the first hint of doubt in their eyes. Then the false Raffaele straightens, and a wall of flames erupts once again before the guards, who had begun to approach them, taking the display of Enzo’s power as proof of his legitimacy.

The flames do not seem to be an illusion. They singe the carpet and radiate a heat that can be felt all the way across the room. Enzo’s expression falls into that of disbelief.

“That must be Magiano,” the false Enzo says, “Drawing on my power.”

The guards are dumbfounded again, and Raffaele narrows his eyes at the doubles. It is indeed Magiano, posing as himself, not as Enzo.

He turns to the King and says, his voice calculating, “Make a fire close to yourself. Around your body.”

Enzo does not question him. Flames ignite less than an inch above his hand, wrapping around his arms like second gloves, hovering just enough not to burn.

The false Enzo looks to the false Raffaele, who frowns deeply at the flames. He glances briefly at his partner’s hands, before looking back up at their face. “I told you I should have been The Reaper.”

The false Reaper grimaces, then lets out a long sigh. As they exhale, the disguises unravel, and finally fall away. “It seemed the better idea at the time.”

Where a moment ago he and Enzo stood, there are now two new faces. A boy with golden eyes, and a girl with silver hair. In her hands is the Kenettran Queen’s crown, and around her neck is a strand of blue veritium that Raffaele recognizes as the Tamouran coronation necklace.

“The White Rose and Magiano,” Enzo says, staring evenly at them.

The two Elites stand close to each other. The boy, Magiano, glances quickly from Raffaele to Enzo to the guards. “Yes…”

He glances briefly to The Rose, and she continues, “This has been fun, but,”

“We aught to be on our way,” Magiano finishes.

Raffaele can feel the heat emanating off of Enzo, threatening flames. He steps coolly towards them, and just as he calls his power Magiano raises his hand.

The wall of fire from a moment before rushes towards them, and this stops Enzo in his tracks just long enough for The White Rose to throw a sheet of invisibility over them both, as they dart toward a side exit.

Enzo freezes the flames in the air just before they would have been hit, and subsequently snuffs them out. By the time he does this, the room is empty save for themselves and the guards.

Enzo looks back at Raffaele, with a faint worry in his eyes, but Raffaele only takes his hand and pulls him forward. “Come, I can still sense them.”

Before they leave, Enzo directs his attention to the guards.

"Your Majesty-" the one who had spoken before starts.

"Forget," Enzo says, "About keeping your jobs. If you want to keep your lives, find me The Architect, now."

The guards scurry off, while Raffaele and Enzo head in the direction of the Roses' energy.

***

"Hold fire!"

Enzo and Raffaele rush out onto the streets of Estenzia, where Dante and a few other Inquisitors have their crossbows locked on Magiano and The White Rose, who both seem decidedly unfazed.

The men lower their weapons at Enzo's command, but before they have time for further action, several things happen at once.

The first thing Raffaele notices is the punch to the gut.

He stumbles a little and catches his breath- nothing has physically hit him, but he feels winded. He notices the same reaction in Enzo, standing beside him. It is as if a cold hand has wrapped around the energy of his being and bound it out of his reach, and the sensation is incredibly uncomfortable.

He finally looks to see the rest of his surroundings, and is even more unsettled by what he sees.

He cannot see- at least, not as he should be able to.

"Nice of you to join us, Your Majesty," a voice says, and Raffaele jumps, because it is coming from right behind them.

He and Enzo turn around to see The White Rose and Magiano, suddenly a few dozen feet from where they had been taunting the Inquisition. Raffaele doubts this is their true location, but he has no way of knowing for sure.

He is as oblivious to their true position as anyone else is. He cannot feel Dante's energy, or the Roses', or even Enzo's. The energy trail he had been following is no longer there.

This is not the simple blind spot in his power to feel the energy of the world that he was experiencing moments before.

His power is gone.

He needs only to exchange a single glance with Enzo to know he is experiencing the same thing.

"Hope you don't mind our picking up a few things," Magiano gestures to the crown in his accomplice's hands, "It is a special occasion, and this is kind of what we do for fun, you know?"

Raffaele and Enzo exchange another glance.

"It does not have to be like this," Enzo says to the Roses, calmness enveloping his voice. "Return our property and our powers, and we can all leave here unscathed. I appreciate the things you have done for the marked around the world; there is no reason for us to be enemies. In fact, we could be great allies."

The Roses exchange a glance.

"Hmm..." Magiano hums, "You see, we might consider that offer, but there is one thing."

There is a sudden clang from behind them, and they turn to see several Inquisitors, including Dante, with their crossbows knocked out of their hands. As they watch, a few more are knocked to the ground, and then a light flashes.

When the light fades, all of the Inquisitors except for Dante are prone on the ground, and a tall Kenettran man in a long blue coat is standing over them.

"You betrayed our friend," The White Rose continues.

"And he has been waiting just so long to see you again," Magiano finishes, and as he does, they both blink out of sight.

It takes Raffaele a moment to notice them, reappeared on the roof of a tall building across the road. Sergio- The Rainmaker - seems to have tried to make his way over to them only to be stopped by Dante, whom he is now engaged in what looks like an intense sword fight with.

Enzo shifts at their old almost-friend's appearance, his expression changing from emotionless to disappointed.

"I have to take care of this," Enzo says, drawing a dagger from his belt. "Stay out of danger."

Raffaele reluctantly nods as Enzo heads off into the fray. He regrets, not for the first time, that he is the only one of his friends not trained for open battle.

He watches him go for a moment, then jumps again, at the sound of another voice, suddenly beside him.

"I really am sorry about all of this."

He turns to see a young girl, barely of age, wearing violet silks and sparkling jewelry.

"I mean, to an extent," she continues. "Not sorry enough not to do it."

He stares at the girl for a moment. She is Tamouran, and her expression is friendly, if apologetic.

"Clearly," he replies, not accusingly.

The girl laughs, a bit sheepish. Raffaele stares at her for a moment.

"The Puppet Master?" he asks, because he is truly unsure. This girl radiates youth and joy- nothing fearsome about her. Nothing would tip one off to her being the Elite who can steal away the power of other Elites. Except, of course, her appearing at the same time as the other three Roses.

"I suppose that would be me," the girl says, shrugging. "And you are The Messenger? Raffaele Laurent Bessette?"

Raffaele nods slowly.

"This is going to sound strange, considering the circumstance," The Puppet Master says, "But I have always wanted to meet you."

Raffaele purses his lips. "Why, exactly?"

"Well-"

"The Architect!"

They both look up as Magiano calls down the name. He is pointing to the east, and sure enough, Michel is approaching on a balira, accompanied by a palace guard.

"Got it!" The Puppet Master calls out, and makes a strange clawed motion with her hand, as if she were holding a marionette handle. Just as he is dismounting the balira, he stumbles, clutching his chest.

"Sorry!" The Puppet Master calls halfheartedly, noticing this reaction.

Michel turns towards her- he is not too far away from them, now- incredulously.

"Good idea, but no luck," The White Rose says, she and Magiano suddenly appearing near them again.

Raffaele glances down at the White Rose's hands, where she still holds the matching crown to the one Enzo currently wears. He narrows his eyes, noticing something else gleaming there, and glances over at Magiano's hands, as well.

He recalls a certain rumor about what the Roses had been doing in Tamoura.

"Are you two married?" Raffaele asks, equally incredulous.

Both of the Roses light up, The White Rose leaning into Magiano's side.

"Yes, we are, thank you for noticing!" Magiano says, the lilt of a laugh in his voice. The White Rose leans over to kiss him, as they blink out of existence again, reappearing on a different rooftop across the road.

"Oh, by the gods," Michel mutters, almost rolling his eyes before running a hand down his face.

"So," Raffaele says, turning back to The Puppet Master, "This is part of some sort of elaborate celebration?"

She sighs, and nods, "Yes. I would not have specifically chosen 'series of jewel heists' as my ideal honeymoon activity, but it makes them happy, so," she shrugs, again.

Raffaele tilts his head. "Does it not make you happy?"

She frowns a little, but only for a moment. "Well, no. The whole 'robbery' thing was never my idea. But I figure there are much worse crimes, and everyone promised not to hurt anybody, so," she shrugs again, "It is like a compromise, you know?"

Raffaele raises an eyebrow. "'Promised not to hurt anybody'?"

"Well, yes," The Puppet Master replies.

"You assume you could if you wanted to? We are not exactly incompetent," Raffaele says, looking briefly to the rest of the fight.

He still cannot use his power, and what a shame that is, because he is sure the sight of all of this would be magnificent.

The Puppet Master seems to have released Enzo's powers in order to restrain Michel's, Thus he and Magiano are locked in a what looks similar to a game of catch, each of them throwing a sheet of flames at each other, each of them blocking it and tossing it back every time. While Enzo seems increasingly frustrated, Magiano seems increasingly amused.

Sergio and Dante are still locked in single combat, neither of them seeming to be able to get a leg up on the other. This is mildly surprising- Dante, along with Enzo, taught Sergio to fight, so Raffaele would think it'd be an easy win, but Sergio has clearly continued to get better over the years.

He notices something else- the sky has begun to go dark. The stories about the Rose Society's Rainmaker do mention him actually using his power- Raffaele wonders if he has truly, finally gotten the hang of it.

A ways behind them, The Star Thief has arrived, but she cannot get a hit in any better than the rest of them. She circles the Roses from a balira, but every time she gets close she is chased away by extremely real-looking illusions, Raffaele assumes provided by The White Rose, who seems to be watching Gemma out of the corner of her eye as she leans against Magiano.

All in all, everyone is more or less in a stalemate.

He notices something else- people that have come out of their homes and businesses, who are watching this spectacle themselves, intently. No one seems keen on joining in, but he sees various people shouting cheers, Rose or Dagger supporters getting competitive with each other. (Showing support for The Rose Society has never been banned in Kenettra, as it is in many other countries.) The sight reminds him of the Tournament of Storms- people getting competitive over which quarter of Estenzia will win the races, even though in the end they are all a part of the same city.

"Well," Raffaele says, "Perhaps you could if you wanted to, if we are tied while you are holding back."

"To be fair, you are down by one," The Puppet Master says. "The Windwalker is not here. As it is, I can neutralize two of you, and then it is a pretty fair three versus three match. If you had a fourth, that might change the game."

"I suppose," Raffaele says, tilting his head.

"I know you are all very powerful Young Elites. I am sure you know this, but your energies are all extremely potent, especially the king's. His reminds me of my s-," she cuts off, red forming on her cheeks, "Of The White Rose's."

Raffaele pauses, then turns back to face the Puppet Master. "Our energies?"

The Puppet Master smiles, and nods. "The energies that make up our powers. That is why I have wanted to meet you, you see, I can sense them too! Sergio told me a little about your studying them, and I have been doing some studying of my own, over the years, but I have always wanted the input of someone else who can see the world the way I do."

Raffaele raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. He, too, has often thought of meeting another person with a similar power to his own. Before he can comment this, though, a thunderous crash sounds from behind them.

A bolt of lightning has come down from the sky, crashing down onto a concentrated spot in the road. Raffaele feels a dread rising in him, and focuses in on the space.

His stomach drops as his eyes confirm what he had suspected. Lying in that spot, crumpled on the ground, is Dante.

"Rainmaker!" The Puppet Master yells, her voice horrified and indignant. She makes another clawing motion with her hand, and Raffaele sees Sergio, standing over Dante's body, stumble and clutch his chest, while his own vision rushes back.

Raffaele is distracted from the horror for a moment, by the near-overwhelming energies of nine Young Elites using their powers at once. He sees Enzo quell the fire he was about to throw in order to turn toward the scene, and he sees a dazzling imitation of Enzo's energy shimmering around Magiano, who does not take the opportunity to attack the King. He sees the threads connecting Gemma to her balira almost falter as she takes the sight in, and he sees The White Rose and her compatriots in their true positions, all for the most part a few feet from where their illusory doubles are standing. He sees Michel's energies covered over and tied down by blue, black, and opalescent threads, the same, now, as Sergio.

"Puppet Master!" The White Rose calls down, looking worriedly from Raffaele to her teammate.

The Puppet Master pays her no mind, staring over at Sergio.

"You promised!" she calls, taking a step towards him.

Sergio lets out a seemingly annoyed sigh.

"Is he dead?" he asks, impatiently.

The Puppet Master pauses to look down at Dante, and Raffaele does the same.

He does not look good, physically. He lies on the ground with his eyes closed, and electrical burns marking his skin.

However, his energy is it's normal angry red and orange; nothing like the rapidly fading pale blue of a soul passing into the Underworld.

The anger falls out of the Puppet Master's expression, replaced by something between agitation and relief. At the same time, Dante seems to groan, shifting on the ground, and Raffaele sees Enzo and Gemma's energies change in the same way.

"I know what I'm doing," Sergio calls over. The Puppet Master sighs, and after a sharp look from the White Rose, Raffaele feels that same constricting feeling again.

"Sorry," she mutters, and this time Raffaele knows there are multiple reasons for the apology.

"Well!"

Raffaele and The Puppet Master look up to see Magiano and the White Rose now hovering above the square, their voices amplified a few times over. A good margin of the crowd still cheers for them.

"It is probably a good time for us to take our leave," Magiano continues, giving a wide wave to the crowd.

"It has been lovely to see you all, and I promise you will be hearing of us again soon," The Rose says, leaning again into her husbands side.

As she says this, The Puppet Master stands up straighter, and barely gets in a wave to Raffaele before she vanishes into thin air. Sergio, too, pops out of existence where he had stood.

Raffaele watches as The White Rose places the Kenettran Queen's Crown on her head, drawing gasps from some parts of the crowd and cheers from others. She and Magiano give their last big waves, then disappear in a shower of silver and gold.

Gemma soars toward Raffaele on her balira, landing just in front of him.

"Can you sense them? Where are they?" she asks.

Enzo reaches him shortly after her, a couple of medics carrying Dante in tow, and Raffaele shakes his head.

"If the range of The Puppet Master's powers are similar to mine, I will not have my powers back until they are too far away to be sensed."

The others sigh, before Raffaele continues, "It does not not matter. I know where they are headed."

"How?" Enzo asks.

"Did y'manage to get it out of The Puppet Master while you two were making idle conversation?" Dante slurs, his voice strained, and Raffaele marvels at his ability to sound irritated and disapproving even having just brushed Moritas's fingertips.

"No," he says flatly. He then continues, "If The White Rose and Magiano are throwing a celebration at the expense of the world's most powerful nations, there is only one left that they have not yet visited."

It takes only a second for the meaning of this to sink in, and Raffaele sees smiles spreading across Enzo and Gemma's faces.

"They'll have a heck of a force waiting for them when they get there," she says.

Enzo nods. "We should send a dove to Lucent, then."

***

"How is he?"

Enzo stands as Raffaele enters his room, having just returned from checking in on Dante. It is past twilight, and the King is dressed for bed.

"He will certainly live," Raffaele says, and Enzo lets out a breath of relief. He sits back down on his bed, and motions for Raffaele to do the same.

"He will be suffering from chronic pains for a while. It will be a long time before he can fight again, if he ever can," Raffaele continues, taking a seat beside him.

Enzo's posture falls at that. He leans back against his headboard. "He did that on purpose," he says. "He hurt him, but he let him live."

Raffaele takes one of Enzo's scarred hands in his own. "Do not blame yourself. You did the best you could."

"I probably could have done something more eloquent than poisoning him unconscious and then banishing him to Merroutas on threat of death," he replies.

Raffaele pauses for a long moment.

"Perhaps," he relents, and Enzo exhales, closing his eyes.

"Any changes in opinion on them as a whole?" Raffaele asks.

Enzo opens his eyes back up and looks at him, then up at the ceiling.

After a moment, he shakes his head. "They were magnificent."

Raffaele laughs softly at that.

"What did The Puppet Master say to you?" Enzo asks, sitting up again.

"She apologized, mostly," Raffaele says, tilting his head. "She seemed like a very sweet young girl, to be honest."

"The Puppet Master?" Enzo asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, I was surprised as well. When I had my powers back for that brief moment during the battle, I saw her power, and it's most prevalent energy was that of Empathy," he says, recalling the threads he had seen wrapped around Michel and Sergio. "Of course, her second was that of Fear."

"Not completely without her darkness, then," Enzo says.

"It would seem," Raffaele nods. "Her other threads were blue, but there are so many blues... I might think Knowledge, because she mentioned spending time studying her powers, or maybe Joy, for she certainly invoked it."

Enzo seems deep in thought for a moment.

"Very interesting," he says, finally, and Raffaele nods in agreement.

"I do hope Maeve and Lucent can manage to detain them. I'd love to get them in a room to talk," Enzo says, lying down fully on his bed.

"Perhaps they will. Between the two of them, Maeve's brother Kester, and the rest of her private Elites, I would say they have a fighting chance," Raffaele says, lying down beside him.

He rolls over and kisses him, and when they part, they are both smiling. In a moment, Enzo raises a hand, and all the lights in the room snuff out.

Notes:

I guess the work summary isn't entirely accurate, now- the Roses and the Daggers do cross paths a little, before the great bleeding of the world. I know certain people reading this were rooting specifically for the Roses or the Daggers, in the case of a confrontation, but I hope everyone's satisfied with the fact no one really got hurt. (Except for Dante, but we all know Dante's a jerk, and he lived.)

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Chapter 25

: satisfaction and triumphSummary:

a girl reflects

Chapter Text

05 Marzien, 1364

The Sun Sea

Waters between the Sealands and the Skylands

Adelina Amouteru

"How could you?"

My sister and I both blink, as we say our words in unison.

She turns to face me, as she had not been before; while my words were indeed directed at her, hers seem to have been directed at Sergio.

"You revealed our true positions to The Messenger, Violetta! If he had thought to alert an Inquisitor any of us could have died!" I say, crossing my arms in front of me.

"It seemed that he had just killed somebody, Adelina! I had to do it!" Violetta says.

"How did taking away my power help, exactly?" Sergio asks, still seeming annoyed. We have just left Estenzia's harbor, our escapade at the Kenettran place only a few minutes over.

"I did not know if you were going to try and strike at one of the other Daggers next! I had to protect them! We do not go out murdering people, that is not okay!" she continues.

"The Daggers do not need your protection, Violetta," Sergio says.

"And you would rather risk our lives than let them die?" I ask.

"Everyone," Magiano says, slipping an arm around my waist, "Can we please calm down. Fighting with each other is not going to help anything. All that matters is that we all got out all right."

I breathe in, and then out again; I am still upset, but I feel calmer leaning into him.

"And, of course, that we got away with this," Magiano continues, tracing the edge of the Kenettran Queen's Crown in my hair.

I let out a breathy laugh at that, reaching up to peck his lips. The crown is heavy, made of thick metal and weighed down by many red and white jewels, but it fits me well.

When we look back over at Violetta, her hands are folded in front of her, and her lips are pursed.

"I did not mean to put us in danger. I am sorry for that," she says.

After a moment, I nod. "Thank you."

"And Sergio, maybe avoid hitting well-known Elites with lightning bolts from now on?" Magiano says.

Sergio lets out a breath and nods. "I'll tone it down next time. I never knew The Windwalker, that shouldn't be difficult."

"Good," Magiano says, nodding.

I notice Sergio and Violetta relax, the tension between us effectively dissolving.

I sigh. One of the (many) things I love about Magiano is how he can chase away harmful emotions, no matter the nature. I lean my head against his shoulder as we all head up the stairs towards the rear deck of our ship.

Our days of hiding in shadowy corners are long over- the ship we sail on now belongs to us, a part of our small but high-class personal fleet. The combination of this thought and the weight of the Kenettran crown on my head makes the white glow of my ambition burn blindingly, rivaling the pink-red of my passion that has enveloped me since my wedding day, and I revel in it.

Satisfaction and triumph flood into me as I stand with my husband and my sister and my friend, watching the Kenettran shore shrink behind us. I have achieved everything that I have wanted since I was a child. I am powerful, and I am loved.

And I am not even finished yet.

"So, that in mind," Magiano says, drawing me from my thoughts.

He claps his other hand onto Sergio's shoulder. "Are you satisfied?"

Sergio looks briefly surprised, then purses his lips, looking out over the open water.

"We did kick their butts pretty thoroughly. You took one of them out in mere seconds with your power, Rainmaker. Surely you have proved what you set out to prove?" I ask.

Sergio snorts at that, and after a moment, nods. "We did."

He pauses for another moment. "Seeing all of them again wasn't what I expected, but yes. I think I have."

"There you go," Magiano says, letting his hand slide off of Sergio's shoulder. "You deserve to move on from those guys. You have your whole life left to live; I know you'll find someone who won't decide to ship you off to a foreign country, someday."

Sergio rolls his eyes, but I can see him smiling.

"I presume going back to talk to them is still off the table, though?" Violetta asks, halfheartedly.

"I somewhat doubt they'd want to talk to us, now," Magiano says.

"You never know," she replies.

She sighs, looking out at the ocean for a moment, then looks back up at us with a sunnier expression. "I am glad you both had fun, at least. This is about you, after all."

Magiano and I both smile, and I nod. "Don't worry, Violetta. We will all be home soon," I say.

My sister half-smiles, more earnestly, and nods.

Magiano nods, too. "We won't spend too long in Beldain. If the weather is anything like Amadera, we'll want to be in and out as quick as we can," he says, and we all laugh.

I glance behind us, at the waters to the north, still smiling. Even with my sister's reluctance, I can hardly wait for what comes next.

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Chapter 26

: they toyed with death a thousand timesSummary:

a queen is sent a warning

Chapter Text

19 Marzien, 1364

City of Hadenbury

Northern Beldain

The Skylands

Lucent

"We are going to have company, soon."

Lucent steps into the pale-lit hall where her wife stands, staring out of a window.

"Are The Daggers coming to visit?" Maeve asks. Her voice is horribly tired, and it makes Lucent's chest hurt. She knows that Maeve has been plagued by terrible nightmares for the past few weeks, and it is starting to take a noticeable toll on her.

"Nothing quite so pleasant," she replies, reaching Maeve's side.

She glances back down at the letter from Raffaele. It warms her to see her old friend's handwriting- they do not visit nearly as often as they should.

Though the letter's contents are less comforting, to say the least.

"The Rose Society has made a successful hit on Kenettra. The Rainmaker struck Dante with lightning, and he will be off of his feet for weeks. Raffaele believes they are headed here next," Lucent says. "In the time it has taken this letter to reach us, they could already have reached the city."

Maeve moves away from the window, turning to face Lucent. The fatigue is still evident in her face and posture, but she seems more alert at the news. "We will need to gather my personal Elites, and make sure we are all together when they arrive."

Maeve starts down the hallway, and Lucent follows, keeping pace with her. "We should alert Augustine as well, to make sure the castle's defenses are at their height. I'll want Tristan with me, too, of course."

Lucent almost pauses in her stride at the last remark, and hesitates to speak.

"Are you sure?" she asks, finally, and immediately regrets it as Maeve tenses, the lines and dark circles under her eyes becoming more evident.

Tristan has not been doing well, these past few months. He has stopped talking completely, even to Maeve, and he spends weeks at a time alone in his villa on the edge of the castle grounds. And more than that...

Maeve refuses to speak about her nightmares, in the waking hours, but sleeping in the same bed as her, Lucent can glean enough. She has awoken in the dead of night to find Maeve asleep and shaking, muttering the name of her youngest brother as if it were the name of the goddess of death herself.

Lucent had her own nightmares about Tristan's death, for a long time after it happened, after she was banished. She still has them sometimes, even today, but this is different. It is like the air, the energy of the room shifts when Maeve is having her nightmares. She is emitting the same energy that scares people into staying far away from Tristan, and no power could ever keep Lucent away from Maeve again, but she is worried about her. Very worried.

"Of course I am sure," Maeve says, her voice closed off, and barely above a whisper.

Lucent nods, and takes Maeve's hand in her own. At first she does not reciprocate the gesture, but then she squeezes her hand back, tightly, as they continue through the halls.

"Raffaele suggests we try to take the Roses captive," Lucent says, as they draw closer to the main hall, where they should find Augustine.

Maeve nods. "It will be important to locate and incapacitate them quickly. If we can take out their illusion worker and their mimic first, they will lose their ability to be everywhere at once. Taking out the rest of them will be child's play after that."

Lucent purses her lips, glancing back down at the letter. "We'll probably want to stay indoors."

"A good idea. That's three of them effectively neutralized, and the last should be of no consequence. It will not matter if a couple of us cannot use our powers when we have dozens of soldiers backing us," Maeve says.

Lucent pauses. "Do you have an idea for how to take out The White Rose and Magiano?" she asks.

Maeve pauses too, looking at Lucent. "Concentration is something one typically needs to keep in order to maintain their powers, yes?"

Lucent nods, and Maeve smiles. Lucent smiles too, simply because Maeve's smile is something she has missed.

"Then all we really need to do, is break it."

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Chapter 27

: the temptation of the jewelSummary:

one thing is stolen, and another thing is returned

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

01 Abrie, 1364

City of Hadenbury

Northern Beldain

The Skylands

Adelina Amouteru

"What catches your eye, my love?"

I tilt my head against Magiano's shoulder as we stare up at Beldain's tall cases of crown jewels.

We have gotten in to the treasury just as easily as we always do- perhaps more so, even. Some of my excitement has worn off on the long trip to Beldain, and now that we are here, I cannot help but feel this hit will be underwhelming, following our hit on Kenettra. I wonder if perhaps we should have come here first.

The Beldish treasury is a dank, underground chamber, bitingly cold and dimly lit. It reminds me more of a place where you would keep prisoners than a place where you would keep valuables, and I wonder at how nothing here has become tarnished by the mild wetness of the walls. Sergio has his back to us, perusing the cases on the other walls, while Violetta stands just behind me and to the right, waiting patiently.

I touch the blue veritium coronation necklace we took from Tamoura, hanging around my neck. We are all wearing our things- I have my necklace, and the crown from Kenettra, Magiano has the Night King's pin and his crown from Domacca. We both have our rings, of course, and Sergio carries the scepter we took from Amadera. Trophies from every nation of the world, save one. Distributed to each of us, save one.

I turn my head behind me, a bit, meeting Violetta's gaze. She looks politely patient, though clearly still nervous, even after all this time.

"Does anything catch your eye, sister?" I ask, and Magiano turns to her, as well.

She blinks, glancing up at the jewels lining the walls. There are dozens- many diamonds, with the Beldish's devout following of Fortuna, accompanied by moonstones and nightstones and amber. The frozen Skylands all hold a certain reverence for Death, as well.

My sister looks between us and the jewels, seeming to measure whether I am being serious, then slowly steps closer. She takes in the jewels with a certain reverence that makes me recall her talk of seeing Elite energies in gemstones. I wonder for a moment what she sees, looking at this case.

After a long minute of staring, she glances back at me, then knocks open one door on the case. Behind it I can see a fist-sized chunk of raw nightstone, connected to a silver chain so thin it makes me wonder if it can actually hold the thing.

"Beldain's Dark Heart," Magiano says, leaning in slightly to see it. The nightstone does not glint in the dim light- it is a dull stone, compared to the others here, but my sister stares at it as if entranced.

"It is a coveted piece, as old as the royal family," Magiano continues, approval in his voice despite the lack of shine on the stone.

Violetta pulls it out of the case, hesitating a moment. Magiano and I both nod encouragingly, and I lift her hair so she can close the silver clasp behind her neck.

When it is on, her breath catches a little, her hand moving to the place where the stone touches the skin over her heart. I puzzle for a moment over this reaction, and think again to her talk of energies, how gemstones in their raw state emit energy more potently.

Magiano seems puzzled as well, tilting his head and looking at her curiously. I know he can detect energies, too, if on a much smaller range than Violetta or The Messenger. I am about to ask him what he sees, when he shakes his head.

"Any luck on your end?" He calls across the room to Sergio, who is still observing the other cases.

We turn to see him handling a heavy iron ring, encrusted with diamonds and pale blue gems. I assume them to be moonstones, before stepping in closer and recognizing them as aquamarines.

"Very nice," I comment, as he turns the ring in his hand, letting it catch the light.

As we are admiring the ring, Magiano stands straighter, seeming startled, and I here my sister's voice, an uncharacteristic, breathless whisper:

"They are close."

Just as I turn to ask either of them what is going on, I hear a bolt turn in the door we came through.

We all stand in silence for a full second, before Sergio strides over to the door and tries it's handle. It does not move.

Another moment of silence.

"Well that's just embarrassing, really," Sergio mutters. I barely register the words.

My vision has begun to go yellow, the image of this cold, underground room shifting into a different one. I feel heavy shackles weighing on my wrists, the sick wetness of a dungeon on the floor, where I am kneeling- I am back in the depths of the Inquisition's prison, condemned to burn at the stake, with no idea that Magiano and I will save each other.

The illusion drags on for more than a second. Panic rises in me as I try to ground myself back to reality- ten seconds, fifteen, thirty, and then- a touch, on my shackled wrist.

No. There are no shackles on my wrist, and I am in a treasury, not a dungeon. I let out a shaky breath as I take the hand the touch belongs to- the same person it has always belonged to, Magiano, my love, my husband. He is looking at me with concern, and saying my name like a question.

"I am here," I say, and he lets out a breath too, cupping my cheek with his other hand.

"Perhaps it would be worth it to head home early," he whispers, and I nod. The thrill of the situation is gone from me, and my the energy of my power feels too cold. The quick succession between our escapades in Dumor, Tamoura, Kenettra and Beldain must be what is causing this strain on my power. Going home and taking a break will fix this.

It has to.

Magiano nods in turn, then leads me to the door, and I follow him.

"There are a good six Elites outside the door, at least," he says, shaking his head, "I should have sensed them sooner."

As he says this, he pulls his arm back, and thrusts it forward, bringing with it a blast of wind so strong Sergio and I both have to brace ourselves. Several of the cases fall over, spilling priceless jewelry all over the floor, and the door flies off it's hinges, back into the hall.

Seven young men and women, four of them wearing crowns of some sort, narrowly dodge.

"I'll admit no one's ever tried that, Your Majesty," Magiano says, addressing the woman in the most ornate crown, black iron embedded with moonstone and nightstone and diamond, "But you could not possibly have thought it would be that easy."

Sergio steps forward to stand beside him, and my sister crosses the room to stand with us- am I imagining some kind of glaze over her eyes?- as the queen responds,

"No, I did not."

Her people draw their weapons, but we are unfazed. I assemble the threads of my energy, ready to paint us all invisible-

Then collapse to my knees, as my mind is torn open by a horrible shriek, like the accidental howling of a too-strong wind. I feel Magiano fall beside me, and see the seven figures approaching through my reddening vision, but I cannot focus my energy enough to help us.

Just as I can see worn riding boots a mere foot in front of my face, the person they belong to stumbles, and noise cuts abruptly off.

I take several deep breaths before I get up off the ground, and Magiano does the same. We look at each other as we rise, both of us asking and answering the same question- he is unhurt, and so am I.

We look up to see Sergio, already up and fighting both the Windwalker and one of the boys in crowns at once, and my sister, one hand held in a claw, her still semi-vacant eyes locked on the fight.

Sergio has two swords out, one being used to fight off the Windwalker's dagger, and the other to ward off the boy, who does not fight with a weapon, but delivers a relentless stream of hand-to-hand blows. The boy holds a look in his eyes so disturbing, so absolutely lifeless, I half-think I am just imagining anything off about my sister. That there is something off about this boy is glaringly, overpoweringly obvious, and I exchange a glance with Magiano to confirm he notices as well.

I pull the threads of my energy over us, making the four of us vanish, and halting the Windwalker in her assault. The boy, however, continues attacking, blindly, nearly a third of his hits still landing.

Magiano draws a knife, advancing invisibly to help, when suddenly the entire room shakes. I just have time to see one of the girls not wearing crowns wave her arm in our direction before the entire contents of the room comes flying toward us.

Hundreds of necklaces, bracelets and rings coat the four of us like iron on magnets, stumbling us and making our silhouettes obvious to our assailants. Before anyone can take aim, Magiano waves his arm in the other direction, and the jewelry flies off of us, back toward the wall.

The girl waves back, and she and Magiano enter a stalemate similar to the one he had had with the Reaper back in Estenzia, both of them focused on keeping the gems away from themselves.

Watching this, I notice only the translucent, crystalline gems have been affected- the opaque gem of my sister's necklace has not moved, nor has mine. I feel tugs on my ring and my crown, but I assume they are either too heavy or two intertwined with my body to be moved.

Magiano and I exchange another look. It has become increasingly clear- we are cornered, and we are outnumbered. It has been a long time since we have needed to legitimately fight our way out of a place- since we have been anything but glaringly superior to our opponents. This could go very bad for us- who knows what could happen if we are captured. We are still deep underground- we need to get past these people, and we need to get out of here, as soon as possible. No time for fun and games.

I motion for Violetta to bind the powers of the girl controlling the gemstones, but she does not acknowledge me.

I frown, and try again. Still no response.

"Puppet Master," I whisper insistently, and finally my sister blinks, turning towards me.

Unfortunately, her's is not the only attention I catch.

The other boy wearing a crown's head immediately turns in the direction of my voice.

"Rose," he says, in a heavy Beldish accent, raising his hand in my direction, "I promise this will only hurt for a moment."

As he speaks, a bolt of electricity flies out of his hand in a wide arc, aimed in the general vicinity of my voice. Magiano pulls me to the ground, but Violetta remains where she is, watching the bolt come.

"Puppet Master!" I say again, half standing up, before I freeze, dumbfounded.

As I watch, Violetta raises her hand, and the second the electricity would have hit her it turns black in the air, going still and then folding into nothing.

Seconds later I feel a horrible chill in my energy, the same feeling that rests under the surface every time I have felt Violetta's power, and that, a long time ago, went hand-in-hand with mine. Violetta becomes visible again, the threads I was using to conceal her turning black and fading away.

I take a panicked look at myself, but Magiano, Sergio, and I are still invisible. I have never witnessed Violetta's power working this way- destroying the threads of energy people have summoned with their power, without binding their energy all together- and I would be impressed, perhaps delighted, if not for the still-vacant look in her eyes, as she slowly approaches the other group.

Everyone else has stopped moving- even the boy with his dead eyes has stopped, at a motion from the queen. Sergio puts his hand on Violetta's shoulder as she passes him, but she brushes him off.

She stops face-to-face with the Beldish queen, who raises an eyebrow, staring her straight in the eyes.

I feel Magiano take my hand, and pull me to my feet. When we are standing, he looks at me grimly.

"Something is wrong," he whispers, motioning to Violetta, and I nod.

"Her energy has gone so dark," he says, as we slowly advance towards her, "The jewels we wear can enhance and influence our powers, but now that stone is overtaking hers. Her connection to Formidite is too strong, and she can't control it."

Formidite. The angel of Fear, the gatekeeper of the Underworld- of course, the deity that aligns with nightstone. A cold wraps around my heart at the thought of such a power overtaking my light-hearted sister, and I silently curse myself for not taking that necklace back the moment I noticed something was wrong.

Just as we have almost snuck up behind her, Violetta takes one more step towards Queen Maeve, and begins to curl her hand into a claw, making a motion as if she were holding a marionette handle.

Just as I feel that cold, cold energy brushing against me again, I hear Violetta speak once more, in that lifeless whisper-

"You were warned."

Then I stumble, dark and cold enveloping me. I feel my energy constrict and all of our invisibility go down, and I see every person in this room stumble, except for one. The boy in the crown, with the dead eyes, falls completely, collapsing onto the ground.

Queen Maeve's face goes white, and she rushes over to the boy's side.

"Give it back," she cries, crouching down and lifting the boy's head with her hand, "Give it back!"

Magiano steps forward and pulls on Beldain's Dark Heart, closing his hand around the stone and snapping the chain.

He tosses it across the room, and Violetta gasps, her hand moving to her throat.

"What..." she says, and I feel a wave of relief as I recognize her normal voice, and at the same time feel my powers rushing back to me.

She takes in the sight of Queen Maeve and the boy- one of her brothers, surely- and her face contorts in horror and confusion.

"Did I...?" she continues, her voice cracking, and Magiano places a hand on her arm.

"You didn't kill him," he says, looking back at the boy with a kind of still horror.

I look quizzically over to him, but before I can ask what he means, Sergio rushes over to us.

"We should go while they're distracted," he says, motioning us down the hall.

The prince's collapse has indeed grabbed the attention of all of our adversaries. As Sergio speaks, a couple of them look up, but I quickly paint us invisible, and the four of us dart down the hallway, Magiano and I having to lead Violetta by either arm.

By the time we emerge into the cold, but bright aboveground, there are tears freezing on her face.

***

"The Beldish queen is a Young Elite," Magiano explains.

Magiano, Violetta and I are lounging belowdecks, as our ship pulls away from Beldain. Sergio is occupied with the captain, charting our course back to the Ember Isles.

Violetta sits by herself, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "I know."

Magiano nods. "I tried to copy her energy once, when I was passing through Hadenbury, and I nearly fainted. It felt like the very Underworld itself coursing through my veins. I don't know how she does it every day."

"What does she do?" I ask, though at this point I already suspect the answer.

Magiano pauses for a moment. "When I tried to copy her, I could not do anything. Not offhand, at least. At this point, though, I think it is a fairly safe assumption she has the ability to steal the dead back up from the Underworld."

"Her energy was tethering her life to her brother's. Fueling it," Violetta says, not looking directly at any of us. She does not seem- for lack of a better term, possessed, any longer, only distant. I cannot help but feel guilt, knowing I created the situation that has upset her so deeply.

"When I took away her power, I broke the tether. I killed him," Violetta says, her voice breaking for the second time today.

"He had already been dead for years, Violetta. You must have felt Moritas's energy encircling him- he was well past his time," Magiano says.

"The gods of the Underworld used you as a vessel to reclaim what was always theirs, Violetta. You did not do anything- it was not your fault," I say, trying my best to sound comforting.

Violetta stands, seeming unmoved. She is now wearing her swan hairpin from Dumor, as well as her necklace from Merroutas and her bracelet from Domacca- all of her sapphire and opal jewelry. I think it is an attempt to stimulate the other aspects of her energy, and keep the angel of Fear at bay, though I doubt she will be inhabiting my sister again. There is not enough Underworld energy now that we are away from the Beldish treasury, and the deed she came to perform is already done.

"I think I need to rest," Violetta says, nodding to us before heading toward her quarters. I consider stopping her, but decide against it. Perhaps she does just need some time to rest.

Perhaps we all do.

Notes:

The next chapter set will be a couple of epilogues for Part 2, and then we move into the third and final Part, which I promise won't end with anyone all sad :)

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Chapter 28

: if your soul's already goneSummary:

a mourning eight years overdue

Chapter Text

02 Abrie, 1364

City of Hadenbury

Northern Beldain

The Skylands

Maeve Jacqueline Kelly Corrigan

"They've stopped."

The nightmares of Holy Moritas and her daughters, strangling her or drowning her, imploring her to 'return what she'd stolen.' The feeling of death, of the Underworld seeping into her- they have all stopped. It is all gone.

And so is Tristan.

Lucent does not react to her statement. Maeve thinks she already knew, in the same way she knew about her nightmares, without Maeve having to tell her.

They sit together on the side of their bed. It is late morning, and Maeve has just returned to bed after a hurried proclamation. Lucent was here when she got back, but her change of dress and her cheeks reddened from cold suggest she has been up this morning, as well.

"Maeve," Lucent says, taking one of Maeve's hands. Her voice is gentle, but stern, and Maeve stiffens in readiment for what she is going to say next.

"You aren't going to criminalize The Rose Society."

"I already have," Maeve replies, her voice hard and hollow. "They are charlatans and thieves. Internationally notorious criminals. They taint the reputation of Fortuna's Chosen."

"That didn't matter to you two days ago," Lucent says, "Not enough for you to put out a Dead or Alive warrant for them."

Maeve does not respond, sitting stone-faced.

"Enzo's not going to be happy about this," Lucent continues, "He still wants them on his side-"

"Maybe he will change his mind once he hears they killed my brother," Maeve snaps, looking Lucent in the face for the first time today.

Lucent's posture shifts down, a sign Maeve's finally said what Lucent was waiting to hear.

It is a long moment before she responds.

"You know what happened wasn't their fault," Lucent says.

Maeve's eyes widen. She is at a loss for words, for a moment.

Maeve's mind rushes back to the evening before- The Puppet Master approaching her, steadily and without fear, destroying her tether to her brother in a tidal wave of energy that none of them could see but all of them could feel.

Her words, a phrase that all of them heard but only Maeve understood.

You were warned.

Maeve does not want to admit she knows that, not to Lucent or to anyone else. Most of all, to herself.

It takes a while for Maeve to speak, and when she does her voice is shaky, her walls barely remaining in tact.

"The gods," she clenches a fist in the skirt of her dress, trying to keep a level tone, "Granted me my power."

"Maybe the gods were doing you a kindness by reclaiming it," Lucent says, her tone rising in emotion as well.

"In what way?" Maeve asks, her resolve a hairline fracture away from shattering.

"By taking away a power that was killing you!" Lucent exclaims, and Maeve is shocked as Lucent is the first one to break composure.

"We've all noticed, Maeve, you've been worsening by the day!" she says, "Tristan..."

She chokes up, and Maeve blinks rapidly- this is not how she thought this would go.

"Tristan's been gone for a long time, and I know that's my-"

"Do not say it was your fault," Maeve says, quickly, firmly, without thinking about it.

Lucent blinks. She looks at her, looks into her, in the way only she can.

"It was mine," Maeve continues, her voice breaking. "I should have never..."

She shakes her head, and wipes a wetness away from her eye.

"I just wanted to save him," she finishes, her voice barely above a whisper.

Maeve embraces Lucent, and they hold each other until they have both stopped shaking.

"Why would the gods give me a power I was never meant to use?" Maeve whispers into her shoulder.

Lucent tightens her arms around her, just slightly shaking her head, buried in the crook of Maeve's neck.

"We may never know," she says.

Lucent pulls away, and looks into Maeve's eyes again.

"What I was saying," she starts.

"Tristan is gone, but you're still here. We are still here. We cannot change the past, and we'll destroy the present if we try to. We have to enjoy what time we still have," she cups Maeve's cheek, "With the people we still have."

Maeve nods slowly. She looks ahead for another moment before she leans in.

Her wife's lips taste salty with tears, and Maeve is sure her own do as well. It is a bit of a dreary detail, so Maeve does not dwell on it.

They will have plenty of kisses in plenty of brighter places, plenty of happier states. Now is a time for grieving, after so long, but of course that will not last forever.

Nothing can, after all.

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Chapter 29

: for taking life, and then gifting it backSummary:

a welcome reunion

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

19 Abrie, 1364

City-State of The Ember Isles

The Sealands

Violetta Amouteru

"We're being followed."

All four of them stop as Sergio speaks, drawing his sword and turning to face the darkness behind them.

They are walking a cobbled path through the small permanent neighborhoods of the Ember Isles. They arrived home a few days ago, finally, after months abroad.

It is the edge of the night, and the stars stretch out bright and clear in every direction, accompanied by the three moons. Sergio has his sword pointed towards the shadow of one of the tall buildings lining this road, and looking Violetta can see a faint silhouette, and the stray threads of jewel toned energy that suggest a non-Elite malfetto.

"Put your weapon down," Violetta says, her words coming out flat.

It has been more than two weeks, and she still feels the chill of the Underworld inside her, the black threads that make up a third of her being throbbing with a renewed power. She can recall as if it were still happening, as if she had her sister's power of illusion and was calling on it to recreate the event, those same dark threads eclipsing her sapphire blue and bright opalescent ones, wrapping her heart in a pure, concentrated fear. She can still feel the space in her soul left by Holy Formidite herself, as if she had to push some of Violetta out of the way to make room, and that part of her had not returned once the angel of Fear was gone.

Sergio glances at her, but does not oblige until the figure steps into the light.

Adelina and Magiano both shift as they see the marked girl, not in recognition, but in curiosity. Magiano has his arm around Violetta's sister's shoulders- they both seem decidedly unbothered, unfazed, unaffected by what happened in Beldain.

A part of Violetta that has never had the strength to form thoughts before wants to be resentful- this was their idea, their irresponsibility ending in her pain and an innocent man's death.

At the same time she finds herself disturbed by these thoughts- she knows, in her heart, Adelina and Magiano do to a degree regret going to Beldain at all, that they feel guilt, if not over what happened to the Queen and her brother, then for letting what happened to Violetta happen.

Lately, though, Violetta's heart has been a hard place for her to reach.

Violetta starts, as she sees the new face. The girl is about her age, and of Domaccan descent- her hair is black and collected in a multitude of braids tied behind her head, similar to the way Magiano wears his, and most of her skin is a dark brown, darker than Violetta or Adelina's. The part of it that is not is a bright, electric green, a marking of jagged criss-crossing lines stretching from the corner of her lip to the tips of her fingers.

Violetta knows this face.

Kamaria stares at Sergio's lowered but still-drawn weapon for a moment, clearly afraid, though she does not stand back. She slowly shifts her eyes behind him.

"Violetta?" she asks, and Violetta steps forward, aware and cautious of the other Roses' presence, but relieved to see her.

Adelina narrows her eye, now. "How do you know my sister's name?"

Violetta shoots her sister a look. "I told her."

Kamaria had been one of the last malfettos they pulled straight from execution. She had spent a couple of days traveling with them before they sent her off to safety- to the Isles, the same place they sent all the others, the same place they eventually took refuge in themselves.

Violetta has lived on the Isles for more than a year, staying home from outings and minor missions more often than any of the others, and it has been hard to avoid being recognized in all that time, when so many people they met with personally still inhabit this city-state. Rather than lie low and avoid this casual recognition, Violetta eventually began to seek it out, when she was left on her own without the others.

She has never told the others about this. They- Sergio especially- can be so cautious about revealing their identities, or about befriending other people at all. Violetta respects him and knows he only wants to keep them safe, but she knows she has nothing to fear from these people, and it is so good to be around those her age, people she can be level with. People who remind her of why she agreed to be this, in the first place.

"I did not mean to disturb you," Kamaria says, looking cautiously from Violetta to the other Roses. "I heard that you were almost apprehended in Beldain, and I had to know that you were all alright."

"You aren't disturbing us," Violetta says, smiling just slightly, "It is good to see you again."

Kamaria smiles back. "It is good to see you, too."

Adelina is still eyeing her suspiciously, while Magiano is watching their exchange with something more like amusement.

"It is kind of you to hold such a concern," he says. "We have met before, yes?"

Kamaria blinks her gaze over to Magiano, and when she focuses on him the concern on her face begins to mix with a tangible admiration. It is a moment before she responds, simply nodding, vigorously.

"Kamaria designed the plaque you bought for Adelina," Violetta says, and when she does Adelina's demeanor shifts from suspicion to surprise to interest.

"Really," she says, her head tilting to rest on Magiano's shoulder. He almost-laughs at this, then absently runs his fingers through her silvery hair.

Kamaria blushes under the attention, tilting her head down and half-curtsying.

"I'm honored you like it, your Roseness," she says, and Magiano and Sergio both laugh at the honorific, while Adelina just smiles and raises an eyebrow. "Most of the artists here could only dream of their work actually finding it's way into the hands of the one it is dedicated to.

"I have a few other pieces- back at my home, if you'd like to see them?" she asks, excitement beginning to show in her voice.

Magiano hums. "It is already getting late- we're all heading home, right now. Another time, though?"

Kamaria shrinks a little, disappointed, and Violetta steps past Sergio towards her.

"I would like to go ahead, actually, if that is alright?" she asks, looking to the others a little hopefully.

Kamaria looks at her a little wide-eyed, then smiles.

"I don't see why not," Magiano says. Sergio and Adelina both look at him as if they are about to argue, but he gives each of them a look, and they both seem to fold.

***

Kamaria's home is a warm and inviting space. She shares it with several other Sunland refugees, all of whom have gone to bed by now. Violetta and Kamaria stand in her room, yellow-painted walls making it seem open even in the night, with several wood-carved trinkets hanging from threads on the ceiling.

There are plaques lining the walls as well- Violetta spots The Alchemist and The Rainmaker, and slight variations on the White Rose and Puppet Master carvings that hang in their living room right now. The center piece of the wall, though, is a plaque done up with gold paint that complements The White Rose's silver. It is surrounded by a sun painted onto the wall in the same golden paint- Magiano, it reads.

"That is lovely," Violetta says, drawing attention to it, and Kamaria lights up, turning to face the display.

"Thank you," she says, reaching out to touch the edge of the sun. She pauses for a moment, watching the gold paint catch the flickering lantern light, before she continues.

"There are so many stories about him, it is hard to tell which ones hold true. But I've heard that he and I almost suffered the same fate, as children," she says, her voice growing quieter for a moment.

Violetta nods slightly. She knows this much is true, but she also knows Magiano dislikes bringing up his true past. She will not reveal any part of it still unknown without his consent.

"I-" She pauses again. "I admire him greatly. He inspires me to do the things that I love, to pursue the things that I dream of. We are both Domaccan, we are both marked. We have both been hurt in the past. And still, he has done so much. Saved lives, combated injustice. He is a hero, a legend-" she smiles. "You all are. If he can achieve all of that, it gives me hope that I can achieve a life that I want, as well."

Violetta smiles smally throughout her speech, though she falters on Kamaria's second to last statement.

"I do not know if I would call us heroes," Violetta says. Her expression darkens as she recalls a busy stairwell crumbling in a flash of heat, citizens retreating in panic as rain floods their desert roads. A sister falling to her knees as her brother's body lies still on the ground.

Kamaria purses her lips, looking away from her carving, to Violetta. She seems to consider for a moment, before sitting down on the side of her bed, and motioning for Violetta to do the same.

She does, raising an eyebrow, momentarily distracted from her previous train of thought. Kamaria stares levelly at her for a moment before speaking.

"Can I ask, what did happen in Beldain?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. "I am relieved you all got back alright, but you seem... forgive me, I know we do not know each other all that well, but you seem shaken."

Violetta does not respond, glancing briefly off to the side, the image of Prince Tristan flashing over and over in her mind.

As moments pass, Kamaria's green-flecked brown eyes fill up with sympathy- or, no. Empathy.

"Do you remember the first day we met?" she tries again, her voice a bit softer this time.

Violetta looks back at her and then nods. She remembers the crowds gathered for the burning, Kamaria shaking and sobbing and panicked and bound, Adelina's over extravagant intervention. She remembers taking Kamaria back to the inn where they were staying, trying to comfort her in the midst of the loss of the only life she'd known, the midst of betrayal and trauma and near-death.

"Life had not been kind to me since the blood fever hit. As far as my family and my city were concerned, I was marked as a holy symbol, to be used, and eventually, sacrificed," she begins. "But when the time finally came, you stopped them. You saved me, and that wasn't all you did," she says, moving to take one of Violetta's hands.

Violetta lets her.

"My whole world had fallen out from under me, but you- you, Violetta- made me feel safe. You made me feel like I had a friend." Kamaria takes a breath.

Violetta almost wants to tell her that she can stop- these are such personal thoughts, she does not have to share them for the sake of trying to make Violetta feel better. But the energies, the emotions she can feel rolling up from Kamaria make her think that that is not the only reason she needs to say this.

"I know what it is like, to blame yourself for something that was not your fault. I know some of the other people you've helped-" her eyes flit to the door for a moment, "I know you want to be there for everyone, to be everyone's comfort. I can see that something has happened, something you might not be ready to confront."

Kamaria rubs Violetta's fingers between her own. She looks down at their joined hands for a moment before continuing-

"If you'd let me, I would love to be here for you now, as you were for me, then. I want to help you," she finishes, "I would love to be your friend."

Violetta feels a weight in her chest, and her Empathy surges. For a moment her vision is blinded by the opalescent glow of Holy Compasia's energy, the every-colored threads momentarily dwarfing her dark ones.

Her face falls forward onto Kamaria's shoulder, and her arms wrap around her middle. Kamaria's breath catches, and she hesitates only a moment before embracing Violetta in return.

"Thank you," Violetta says, and she means it.

Violetta can still see the prince in the corner of her mind, can still feel Fear thrumming in her energy. Holding the other girl in her embrace, though, they start to feel farther and farther away.

Notes:

Sorry for disappearing for a month and a half straight- I got wrapped up in another writing project for Camp NaNoWriMo, then caught up with exams. I hope these chapters were worth the wait! There will be a very large time skip between this chapter and the next- Part Three is starting, we're moving close to the end!

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