#Stop using the runes for your idiocy

[valtiels-darkness]

.:Progress:.

So, with having the whole mass of inspections comes organization and relocation of things. Here are my skull/bone children! I make things out of dead things. Beauty from Decay. That sort of thing. Sourced as ethically as possible (some were gifts, some were happy finds in the woods, and some were antique finds.) You can see a few of my WIPs there.

I dabble into a lot of things and many mediums of art, music, and what not x.x... I also do perfume/candles! Ughs... I need more supplies xD

Note: You'll see the Algir rune. It is for protection. I am not a ws pos and to those that use the runes for their stupid hate bs, fuck off and do not interact or engage. I curb stomp nazis.))

[dahliawolfe]

Valkyrie

Valkyrie

Loki/OFC

The soil was dry and it crunched under Thor’s boots as he strode over it. “Why are we here?” Sif questioned for the fifth time since Thor assembled his warriors.

“Sif, these are my lands now. I will scour them until their very ends to assure that all Asgardians are well taken care of. It is what the All-Father would have wanted.” Sif sniggered behind him. Odin wasn’t the most loved in his kingdom, but everyone had respected him. It was true that Odin had neglected certain classes among his people, and Thor planned to change that. War had ravaged this part of Asgard, and Thor was doubtful that there would be anyone left, but he’d made it his mission check anyway.

The swift movement to their left had all of them drawing their weapons. Thor motioned for Sif to flank the right side of the boulder ahead of them as he stalked to the left, Mjölnir at the ready. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. Kneeling on the ground in a defensive crouch was a young, blonde girl. Her pale skin was smeared with blood and dirt, and her blue eyes flicked around frantically. Thor held up his hand, dropping Mjölnir back to his side.

“Little One, there is no need to fear,” he soothed, holding his hands out in a peaceful gesture. “I’m Thor. I wish to help you. Can you tell me your name?” The girl drew further into herself, pulling away from him hostilely. “Alright. Alright. No one here wishes to hurt you.” The rags covering her body slid down, revealing the scars across her back, under the curve of her shoulder blades. Deep, ugly scars that were jagged and shiny. Thor contained the urge to recoil, but only barely. Runes ran down the length of her spine, deep russet against her snowy skin. “Valkyrie,” Thor whispered reverently, causing a shocking reaction from the girl, who fell backwards, trying to escape. Sif roughly grabbed her arms, hauling her upright, and anger flared in Thor’s veins. “Remove your hands!” he boomed, gaining a sour yet shocked look from Sif, who relented, releasing the young girl’s arms.

…

The girl skittered away. Thor could see that she was weak. He doubted that she’d had food in a long while, and her lips were dry and cracked. He could see her growing more lethargic the longer they stood there. As much as he didn’t like the answer, Thor knew he would just have to wait her out. “We have food. And water. You can come with us,” he offered, giving her a smile. Jane had always told him that his smiles were magical. But the girl simply glared coldly at him, clutching the rags closer to her body. Calculating his move, Thor darted forward, gently grasping the girl, dragging her to his body. She thrashed violently, screeching loud enough to shatter glass. But Thor could feel her growing weaker. Soon enough, Thor knew she would wear herself out. He did not expect the sharp elbow to his nose, and his grip almost slackened, but he felt her legs give, and he caught her, swooping her into his arms.

…

The healers gathered around the young girl, whispering frantically amongst themselves. Thor stood nervously across the room, determined to not leave the girl’s side. “That will be enough! Stop whispering about her, and heal her!” Thor barked, immediately silencing the room. Thor couldn’t help but be on edge. Valkyries hadn’t been seen in nearly 500 years, and here was one, laying right in front of him.  Or, so he suspected. The healers would confirm, but Thor couldn’t imagine any other explanation.

“Your majesty, we will be at work for a long while, I suspect. Would you like to rest and come back once we are finished?” a healer spoke, approaching him.

“No, I will wait here. Is it true? She is Valkyrie?”

The healer nodded grimly. “Yes, I believe so. Sad, she must be the only one left.” Thor nodded, looking back to the young girl.

“Indeed.”

…

Loki strolled the halls of the palace searching for his brother. Anger boiled in the pit of his stomach. How dare Thor call himself king when it was Loki doing all the work! The prince refused to let the injustice stand!

Finally, Loki heard his brother’s voice coming from the healers’ room, so he stormed in, slamming the doors wide open. “Thor!” Loki boomed, startling everyone in the room. Thor looked up to meet his brother’s stormy eyes.

“Loki?” he questioned.

“How….” Loki was cut off with a whimper coming from the healers’ table. His eyes landed on the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. And they were immediately drawn to the runes running delicately down her sides, over her hips, and across the bottom of her abdomen. His eyes widened. Valkyrie? “Thor?” he questioned.

Thor’s eyes snapped to meet his brother. “Brother…”

“A Valkyrie?”

“Yes…”

Loki was unable to stop himself as he stepped toward the girl. Thor stepped into his path. “Loki,” Thor warned. Loki waved him off. The prince reached the young girl and stroked a gentle hand down her side. Her eyes snapped open, immediately filling with fear.

“It’s alright. You’re safe here,” Loki soothed kindly, a trait he didn’t usually exhibit. The girl’s sapphire eyes met his own, and he smiled down at her. “Can you tell me your name, Little One?”

“Ei-Eira,” the girl croaked.

“Eira, I am Loki, Prince of Asgard,” he said, introducing himself with a bow. Bootsteps sounded behind him as Thor approached.

“Odin?” Eira questioned, making her way upright.

“No. I am Thor, son of Odin.” The girl all but snarled.

“He is a pathetic All-Father,” she declared, shocking everyone in the room. “My people are dead because of him.”

“Odin…” Thor began, but Loki cut it.

“Is dead. Thor is now king of Asgard. He wishes to repair the damage done to Asgard.” Rarely did Loki come to his brother’s defense, but he spoke the truth. He really believed that Thor was trying his best to fix their father’s mistakes. Eira looked at them both evenly. Before nodding and standing.

“I should wish to have some food.” She looked down at her naked body. “And clothing.”

Thor snapped his fingers. “Inform the Queen’s maids that Eira will need assistance,” he ordered.

“Until then,” Loki began, removing his cape and draping it over Eira’s shoulders. “I will show you to your chambers.”

…

Eira studied the halls of the Asgardian palace as Loki led her to her room. From the pearlescent walls to the golden hued floors, she’d never seen such opulence. It was honestly wasteful.

“You are Valkyrie, no?” Loki questioned.

Eira snorted. “The Valkyrie are dead. I am no more than a relic. Used, scarred, and worthless.”

“Hardly. You are more valuable than you realize. You are a symbol of hope for Asgard. A symbol that the greatness that we once obtained is more than a distant memory.” Eira sneered harshly, pulling to a stop to face the prince.

“I am no ones hope! I am weak! I do not even have my wings! The gods, they left us long ago! And soon enough, we will all join them!” With a huff, she stormed forward, leaving Loki struggling to catch up.

…

Thor and Loki stood outside Eira’s door waiting. They were to take her to meet their mother and dine in the great hall. Her doors swung open with a whoosh and a creak, and Eira stood before them, the picture of a goddess. Their mother had selected a sapphire silk dress for the girl, and it flowed over her lean body and hugged her curves. The gown was backless, exposing her runic skin all the way to the crest of her hips. Their mother had offered her own golden bangles, themselves inscribed with runes, and they graced her slim arms, from wrist to bicep. Her long, golden hair hung in gentle waves, braids and traditional beads scattered throughout. The hilt of the slim bladed knife that Frigga had insisted Thor offer the girl was prominent against her thigh, the sapphire at the tip making facets in the silk.  “Are we not ready to dine?” Eira asked after a few moments of silence.

“Yes, of course.,” Thor agreed, motioning for her to go ahead of them.

…

Frigga stood from her seat at the head of the table, her arms spread wide, and smiled. “Welcome, Eira! I do hope my boys have treated you with kindness.” Eira bowed, her arm over her heart.

“All-Mother, Thank you for your hospitality. It will not be forgotten.”

“Get up, Dear. You shall bow to no one. On the contrary, we should all bow to you.” To emphasize her words, the queen began to kneel, when Eira quickly grabbed the All-Mother’s arm, halting her.

“Please, no. My queen, I am nothing. No one to worship. I am a smear on the history of the Valkyrie.” Frigga gasped, drawing the young girl to her, hugging her tightly. Almost reluctantly, Eira hugged back.

“You are so much more than you say, my girl.” The queen then kissed the girl’s temple and helped her stand. “You look beautiful in sapphire. I had always hoped to clothe my daughter in the hue, but I was only graced with boys.” Frigga rolled her eyes in playfulness. “Now, we eat!”

…

“You showed great respect for my mother. I thought you felt slighted by this family.” Loki probed as the first course was being served. His voice was only loud enough for Eira to hear. The girl looked up sharply.

“No. I despise Odin for what he has done. Why should I blame the wife for the husband’s idiocy? Or the sons for that matter? Queen Frigga is a proud, strong woman. I respect her, and it would be my honor to serve her. I was born a warrior, and if my Queen requires it, I will be so again.”

…

The next morning, Loki made his way to Eira’s chamber to fetch her. Frigga wanted to show their guest the gardens. She met him before he could reach her hall. The night before, she had looked like a princess. Today, she looked nothing short of a warrior. Brown leather pants tucked into the legs of knee-high chocolate boots. Her loose white shirt hung under the leather jerkin covering her chest. Her hair was swept into intricate braids and pinned just above the base of her neck. The knife his mother had given her the night before was strapped around her thigh. And a long, grey cloak hung over her shoulders.

“Good morning, Eira,” the prince greeted with a smile.

“Good morning, Prince Loki. Your mother, she provided mostly gowns for me. This will not displease her will it?” She gestured to her outfit.

“No, I assure you. She will not be displeased.”

“Good. You came to ask me something?”

“Mother. She wishes to show you her gardens. She is quite proud of them.” Eira nodded.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

…

Eira stood watching Thor’s team spar, and she shook her head. “The female needs to spend less time picking up her feet,” she whispered to Thor, who chuckled. Sif, who overheard, snapped her head up.

“Would you like to show me?” she challenged the Valkyrie.

“Indeed.” Swiping a sword from the weapons wall, Eira jumped down from her perch and took guard. In less than a minute, she had the other female pinned, sword to her throat. “If you hadn’t picked up your feet, I would not have been able to take you so easily.”

Sif nodded angrily and took Eira’s outstretched hand and hoisted herself up. “Thank you for the advice,” she snarled, storming from the room.

Thor was leaving the smithy when Loki caught up to him. “What are you up to, Brother?” the prince questioned.

“Eira is quite the swordsman. I am having her one made.”

“A thoughtful gift,” Loki agreed.

“What do you think of young Eira?” Thor asked, slinging his arm over his brother’s shoulders.

“She interests me, I must admit.”

“I….”

The brothers were interrupted by the long, high screech coming from the palace doors. A bloodied Eira emerged, leading Frigga by the hand. “We are under attack!” she bellowed, rushing to Thor and Loki. The sword she had swiped from the armor room dripped with blood. The knife, that she’d no doubt quickly sheathed in order to take the Queen’s hand was also smeared with blood. Thor grabbed Eira’s shoulders to steady her.

“Who is it? How many?” he demanded.

“I do not know. A dozen at the very least.”

Sif appeared, weapon brandished. “Thor?”

“Sif, prepare to attack!” he commanded, calling Mjölnir to him.

end pt. 1

[onthevirgeofdestruction]

Familiar

Words: 1,565 Warnings: Magic, Blood, Demons Characters: Roman, Logan, Demon-cat!Virgil Universe: Magic! Genre: Idiocy

dice roll prompt from the server

   “Roman, what on earth are you doing?” Logan crossed his arms and loomed over Roman bent over and old tome with a pair of kitchen sheers and a flower.

   “Uh-” Roman started, looking panicked. He had absolutely no idea why he started this spell. He just knew he wanted to do it. Roman shrugged and clipped the flower in half, the top half falling into a cauldron and incinerating into a wisp of dark smoke. Logan gagged at the smell and Roman maybe almost regretted it for a moment until a tiny bundle of fur popped out of the cauldron and hissed. The black kitten’s green and purple eyes met Roman’s and it hissed again, swiping. “Aw!” Roman cooed and held out his hands, pausing for a moment to let the kitten sniff his fingers before withdrawing the cat from the cauldron.

   “Why… why? Roman, you’re allergic to cats,” Logan said, staring disbelievingly between Roman and the tiny bundle of magical fur.

   “It’s a magical familiar, no dander!” Roman said, holding the cat close to his chest and scratching gently behind the cat’s ear. The cat purred gently and shifted against Roman, pushing its head into Roman’s hand.

   “Seriously, Roman, why did you summon a familiar? We don’t have the facilities for a familiar. You don’t know how to take care of a familiar. We don’t even know what this little demon eats!” Logan motioned to the cat angrily and the cat hissed at Logan.

   “I know I’m a demon but I resent being called little,” The cat hissed back.

   “But you are so little!” Roman cooed quietly and scratched the cat’s chin. The cat made an angry expression before melting into the scratches.

   “Roman. You summoned a demon instead of a familiar,” Logan crossed his arms and glared at Roman.

   “Ah, whoops? I, uh, guess I mixed up the spells?” Roman said sheepishly, removing one hand from scratching the cat, much to the cat’s dismay, and flipping the spellbook pages. “Uh, shit,” Roman rubbed his face after looking at the runes with furrowed eyebrows. “Well, we don’t need facilities for a familiar,” Roman shrugged.

   “Roman, do you know what demons eat?” Logan rubbed the bridge of his nose and furrowed his eyebrows.

   “The souls of the innocent,” The cat’s tiny voice reverberated slightly against the walls.

   “A bagel?” Roman offered hopefully, at the same time as the small demon cat.

   “No!” The cat objected sourly.

   “Two bagels!” Roman couldn’t help but finish the vine and Logan threw up his arms in frustration, groaning and running his hands through his hair.

   “That wasn’t funny!” Logan shot.

   “Actually, a bagel does sound good,” The cat purred. “But that’s not what I eat,” It added airily. “And I will need sustenance soon,” The cat said darkly.

   “Uh, Logan?” Roman looked up pointedly at Logan from the floor, scratching at the cat’s chin again. The cat once again pushed happily into Roman’s hand.

   “How dare you-” Logan started, pointing at Roman crossly. The cat’s sharp growl cut him off.

   “You know I don’t need permission to eat from someone threatening my master, right?” The cat said menacingly and licked its small furry lips. Logan cleared his throat and stood straight.

   “I was not threatening him. I was simply offended that he would ask me to help feed you when I am opposed to your very existence,”

   “Excuse me,” The cat hissed and slashed in Logan’s direction. “Demons are better familiars!” It spat aggressively.

   “Let’s not rile up the demon, Lo,” Roman rolled his eyes.

   “Roman, dismiss that thing!”

   “No! Its name is Virgil and I love it!” Roman shot back.

   “Roman, put that thing back in the cauldron and send it back!” Logan growled through his teeth and Roman protectively held the tiny cat demon close.

   “No! I’m doing the bonding ceremony and you can’t stop me!” Roman said petulantly, getting up quickly and tugging a ribbon out of his pocket and draping it over the demon’s paw, which it extended happily.

   “Roman!” Logan reached out.

   “a̛ll͜i̛̛g̶̢a̶͢t̷͟i̵o̴͡ ̢ ̸͟Vi̷r̛͠͞g̶̶il҉ ̷̸͟s̸͝e͘r͢͢͢vuş͝!̵͠͞” Roman cried out quickly, and the ribbon burnt to a crisp and reappeared as a red bond around the tiny paw of the demon.

   “You freaking nincompoop!” Logan screamed out in frustration.

   “We’re bound now and you can’t take it from me!” Roman shouted back and held it up, rubbing his face against the little cat demon’s. The demon looked very smug for a cat. Logan dropped his arm and sighed dramatically.

   “So, Logan is it? Your soul looks yummy,” The cat purred as Roman stroked it a few times. “It’s an old one full of knowledge. You give me a little and I’ll tell you how to access some of it,” The small demon said temptingly and Logan froze, enticed by the offer.

   “Hey, what about my soul?” Roman said, pulling the demon-cat away from his chest and looked at it eye to eye.

   “You, princey? Old royalty. No cool knowledge, but that’s not your vibe, anyway. But I do know that there’s an inheritance you can claim,” Virgil purred and licked the bond on its paw. Roman’s eyes widened and he put the cat on his head slowly. The demon settled down on Roman’s hair while Roman happily shook his fists and started dancing.

   “I’m going to be rich!” Roman cheered brightly.

   “You don’t know what that demon wants in trade!” Logan pointed accusatory to the cat demon smugly perched on Roman’s head.

   “Hey, there, specs, I’m not a servitor but I do serve Lord Roman here,” Virgil pointed down with its paw to Roman.

   “I could get used to Lord Roman,” Roman muttered and rubbed his chin conspiratorially.

   “It is trying to trick you, Roman, that demon-” Logan growled and motioned with his head to the demon on his head.

   “Virgil, thanks,” Virgil licked its paw again, looking pointedly at Logan.

   “The demon might serve you but it has its own goals and wants! A familiar works for you. A demon does not!” Logan grimaced and gripped his hands tightly in frustration. Virgil rolled his eyes and laid down and settled into Roman’s fluffy hair.

   “Its already bound to me, Lo, quit being such a drama queen,” Roman gestured dismissively and walked over to his desk, picking up his athame.

   “Roman, what are you doing now?” Logan groaned.

   “I… don’t know,” Roman said curiously, looking down at the athame.

   “You’re getting me dinner, dingus,” Virgil rolled his eyes again.

   “That’s lord dingus to you,” Roman pointed with his athame and the strangest noise Roman ever heard erupted from the cat demon. The demonic meow cackle sent shivers down both of their spines.

   “Lord dingus. Of course,” Virgil purred. “You just need a drop for the soul link,” It said offhandedly, shifting Roman's hair with its paw.

   “I, uh, I don’t know how to make a soul link,” Roman said sheepishly.

   “You summoned me but you can’t make a soul link? You’re a riot, princey,” The cat made an amused expression.

   “Please, Logan?” Roman pleaded.

   “I mean I can always feed on his soul the unsafe way,” Virgil teased Logan and licked its lip again. “Or yours,” it added threateningly and its eyes glinted.

   “Fine!” Logan threw up his hands in defeat. “But I’m not linking with a demon. This is your stupid choice and your tainted soul!” Logan said sharply and tapped on the table. “Combine the blood and burn it together,” Logan exhaled in distress and flipped the pages in Roman’s grimoire to the right ritual, then pointed at what he needed to read. Roman lit a large candle with a flourish.

   “Just a drop, m’lord,” Virgil said airily and bit itself in the paw pad and held out its paw for Roman. Roman lifted his finger and Virgil smeared the deep purple blood on Roman’s finger. Roman pricked himself in the finger through the blood. Roman winced as he stabbed himself in the finger and moved his hand over the flame, pushing up with his thumb and causing a drop of blood to drip down into the flame.

   “an̴̸i̕͟m͘͢a fr̷̡͜a̧t̷̢r̛i͡͞s ̴̡une̕͘͞s̷c̕o̶͘͜͜” Roman’s voice reverberated and the combined blood hissed as it hit the flames. A pulse blasted through Roman and he flinched and winced inward, protecting is core as the feeling shook through him. Virgil sighed in relief in Roman’s hair and melted inward.

   “Holy Hecate, kid, that’s some good shit,” Virgil muttered and contentedly licked at Roman’s hair. “Nice soul. Keep it up,” It said appreciatively.

   “I don’t know this specific monstrosity’s needs, but this is a weak link and he shouldn’t affect you too much,” Logan grumbled.

   “I’m fine with this for now unless you want something much bigger out of me than information and minor tasks,” Virgil said flippantly.

   “Thanks for helping me,” Roman said tiredly, clutching his chest for a moment before standing back up proudly and tall.

   “You are completely incorrigible,” Logan huffed acridly. “And I’m keeping my eye on you,” Logan pointed and glowered at Virgil, who looked more settled into his perch on Roman’s head than Logan was comfortable with.

   “This was fun. Let’s do it again sometime,” Virgil cackled and rolled over on Roman’s head and licked its paw.

   “Crawl back into the pit of hell you came from and die,” Logan squinted as acrimoniously as he could manage at the demon lounging in Roman’s hair.

Personal Tags: @elizabutgayer @ollyollyoxinfree 

Taglist Repository: 

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[dustyphantom]

Man and Woman

Yay Minor characters! It’s lightly hinted that Ren might be bisexual(He tsundere’s at Jellal), though it could just be because the Trimen flirt with everyone.

Prompt: Air

Character: Ren

Air always told him whatever he needed to know. Ren could read how someone was feeling by the way they breathed, or how the air currents bent around them as they walked. He could tell if a storm was coming, if anyone was sick.

However, the one time it couldn’t tell him something, it was the thing he needed to know the most.

Being a member of Blue Pegasus meant flirting with girls. That was never a problem, and still wasn’t. He loved being with women, teasing and talking with them, being as suave as the rest of the guild.

But, even so, he couldn’t stop himself from looking over at Jenny, watching her smile as she flirted with the men, shooting them smiles and cute grins. He envied her, her easy beauty speaking to men, dancing around them with the grace and beauty of a pegasus. 

He’d always wanted, that, the ability to talk to men the same way he did women. To draw their attention, show them his charm, hold them as they slow-danced at the weekly balls they held at the guild hall.

Gods, he had a wife. She was okay with him being around other women, it came with being a wizard of Blue Pegasus. But what about men? What would anyone think? He wasn’t gay, he still liked women. But would anybody understand? Hell, he didn’t understand! Was there even a word for this?

It was like that for a long time, him just having to admire men from afar as he was rocked with internal turmoil. But it was okay, so long as he could cover it up. Nobody needed to know.

That was, until one summer, when there were new members of their guild.

Everyone was surprised when the Thunder Legion showed up at their door, and was even more shocked when they heard that the great Fairy Tail guild had suddenly disbanded without an explanation. Of course, they had readily accepted the powerful wizards as members of their guild. Although they struggled at first, the four of them soon found their places in the guild.

However, what was more shocking to Ren was how Freed and Laxus behaved around each other. Laxus was never any good at the hospitality part of the guild, but he was always ready for Freed’s flirtatious jabs or sudden approaches. However, his suspicions weren’t confirmed until Freed leaned up to kiss the lightning dragon’s cheek before he left for a job. Freed kissed another man, and nobody had said anything. It was just… okay.

And it happened again. Freed and Laxus were in love with each other, and they also flirted with women, and everyone was just okay with it. They were okay and confident and happy. 

It took Ren a few weeks to build up the courage to pull one of them aside. Frankly, Freed seemed easier to talk to. It was a Friday night, the night Blue Pegasus held their balls. Ichiya wouldn’t be happy with him if he left in the middle of the ball, but it was for a good reason, and the only time he’d managed to catch the rune mage alone.

“Hey, Freed. Are you busy?”

“Hmm? Is there something you needed, Ren?” He asked, turning to face the air wizard.

“I just wanted to talk. Alone.”

Freed raised a brow, “Is something wrong?”

“Not really we just… need to talk,” Ren said, looking away.

“Then by all means. I’m willing to talk.”

Ren took Freed’s hand pulling him from the crowd of people and out the doors of the guild, taking a seat on the steps. The green-haired man sat next to him, “So, what did you want to talk about?”

“I… It’s hard to explain, but… well, you like men, right?”

“I do.”

“And you like women too, right?”

Freed chuckled, looking up at the night sky above them, “Not really. I mean, they’re alright, but I’d prefer to just serve them.”

Ren growled. Now he was even more confused, “What if he was gay, and he just liked women in a platonic way? What if his love for Sherry was a lie just to cover up his gayness?

The rune mage frowned, “Something’s bothering you. What’s going on?”

“Gods, I just thought this was the answer!”

Freed raised a brow, “Me?”

“Well, kinda. I just… I’m not sure if I like men or women. I feel like I might like both, but I can’t right? What if I was just lying to myself about liking women and I’m actually gay?”

Everything was silent for a moment, no noise except the wind rustling the branches of the trees that lined the road. The air was calm, nothing was out of the ordinary. He saw Freed’s breath as the rune mage let out a gentle huff of laughter, “You know, it’s perfectly fine to like both men and women. Plenty of people do.”

“Wh-what?”

Freed nodded, “I might not like women, but Laxus does. It’s called being bisexual. Just like being gay, it’s not something you can control, and it’s completely normal to be that way.”

“You’re serious? It’s okay?”

“We both know your magic can tell you that.”

He was right. Freed’s breath was steady and even. He was telling the truth, not trying to comfort him with a lie.

A smile crept onto Ren’s face, “Thanks, that means a lot.”

“Of course,” the rune mage responded, “Now, I’m going to head back inside. Take your time.”

He stood, leaving the door opened behind him as he entered the guild hall. For the first time in months, Ren could truly feel the breeze. He took a deep breath, allowing himself to take in the cool night air. His chest was no longer tight, it was easy to breathe and just… be.

“Ren! What are you doing out here, man?”

Of course, Ichiya and the Trimen would notice his absence soon enough.

“I just needed some air.”

“Of course. It can get quite stuffy in there,” Hibiki agreed.

“Come back soon! They miss you in there,” Eve said cheerily.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Wait, men!” Ichiya stopped them, “Can’t you see that our fellow man is far too quiet?” He turned to face Ren, “Is there something you need to tell us?”

Ren smiled. For all his idiocy, Ichiya was surprisingly good at telling when something was up with one of his teammates, “Yeah, I guess I kind of do.”

He took a deep breath. The rest of the trimen and Ichiya had been by his side for as long as he’d been in the guild. They were like how he observed the Thunder Legion to be: A tight-knit family that was always watching out for each other.

“I’m bisexual. I think. Yeah.”

The other three men stood silently, just staring at him for a long moment. It was Ichiya who broke the silence, “Is that all, man?”

“That’s all you have to say?” Ren asked.

“It’s not a big deal. I mean, it’s just who you are, right?” Eve replied.

“I… guess?”

“Of course, it is not a big deal, man, but you have come to terms with yourself, and that deserves celebration.” Ichiya proclaimed, “This calls for a chant!”

“Oh, gods…” Ren mumbled into his hand, but made no attempt to stop them.

“Ren is the man!”

“He’s the man!”

“Who likes men!”

“And women!”

“Ren the brave!”

“Ren the glorious!”

The other men threw themselves at him, tackling him into a hug. Ren couldn’t help but laugh, his breath easy and relaxed, “You’re all awful, you know that?”

“Yeah, but we’re your awful friends.” Eve said.

“Always have been, and always will be.” Hibiki agreed, pressing a peck on Ren’s forehead. The air wizard blushed, then reciprocated the embrace.

“It takes a lot of guts to come out. No matter who you love, you are still a man.”

@ft-wwtdp

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: Coagulate

Relationship: Zelgadis Greywords & Xellos

Characters: Xellos, Zelgadis Greywords

Tags: Pre-Slash, Nudity, Blood and Injury

Summary: Following the events of Morass... in a snit over Xellos' theft of his Claire Bible information, Zel gets himself into trouble. Short ficlet.

Notes: This is connected to Morass. I’ve had it mostly written for a while and finally finished it. Thanks to @norakwami and @chrissysky for reading through and giving quick feedback! Poor Zel—that is totally gonna be a running gag.

AO3 link

Morass

--------

Zelgadis ran as fast as he could with one leg going numb down the ruins’ corridor, slashing behind him with his Astral Vine-enhanced sword, keeping his other hand against the wound in his side.

He had known there would be demons, but he hadn’t expected so many. He’d been careless, stupid. And one had gotten through his defenses. And given the impact, its claws were poisoned.

The shaman had cleared out a defensible room a little further down the corridor, one he could ward if he reached it.

The sound of pursuit was further behind him after another swing of his sword, and he reached it. He tossed his blade aside and used both hands and as much strength as he could muster to push the stone door back in place. He fished a piece of cascarilla chalk from a pocket and drew the runes necessary to ward the room on the door, his blood mixing with it to turn the symbols pink.

Just as he finished, there was a crash and then a howl of rage beyond the room.

There was no time for relief, Zel realized as his leg started to give out, the numbness hitting his knee, his vision starting to dim as the poison threatened far worse.

Quickly, he murmured the incantation for Dicleary, feeling the drain of the spell as it removed the poison. It took more than he expected.

He leaned against the wall, panting, and let his body slide down. Even with the poison dealt with, he felt woozy, and when he pulled at his tunic he realized why; the side of his shirt and pants were sodden with blood, and the deep gashes across his side and hip were still bleeding heavily. Each breath he took felt left the wounds burning. It was too much for his body to heal unassisted before he bled to death.

So soon after the mudslide incident, Recovery would strain him, using his body’s resources to at least stop the bleeding. He felt like a fool for not waiting longer to explore the map Xellos had left. For not letting himself recover further, too frustrated by the fact that he’d lost his leads on Claire Bible manuscripts to the Mazoku.

Better unconsciousness than death. He’d have to take stock of his own idiocy later, when he wasn’t bleeding all over the place. Even though he modified it to focus only on stopping the bleeding, the spell took the rest of his strength.

Zelgadis let himself slump onto his uninjured side as his vision faded. He could only hope the ward held.

Pain woke him, his blood-caked tunic being peeled from the healing gashes. He opened his eyes to a figure leaning over him.

A too-familiar figure.

“Xellos?” His voice was hoarse, weak. What would the Mazoku be doing here?

“Goodness, you do seem to make a routine of this sort of thing. Really, you should have more care.”

Somehow the playful amusement of his voice sounded off, like an undertone of displeasure. Zelgadis wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Still bleeding?” he asked, though he figured he’d be dead if he was.

“No, though those slashes do look ugly.” The Mazoku let the tunic fall back into place.

Zel shrugged slightly, wincing when the movement brought pain. “They’ll heal.”

“Hm.”

Xellos reached forward, gently pulling the pack from his back. He pulled out the canteen and handed it to Zel, who suddenly realized how thirsty he was. It made sense; blood loss begat dehydration. Moving hurt too much, so he opened it with his teeth.

By the time he had slaked his thirst, Xellos had a fire going.

His body wanted rest so it could heal, exhaustion tugging at him. But Zel wanted at least one answer.

“Why are you here?”

This was the second time Xellos had shown up when he was injured. The Mazoku wasn’t rescuing him or anything ridiculous like that, but he was helping… and that seemed rather out of character to Zel.

“I thought I’d check your progress with the map I left. Honestly, I expected you would have rested more after your last brush with disaster, and especially before coming here.”

The exhaustion was eating at his vision, and he wasn’t able to do more than grunt at that. Zelgadis knew he’d made a mistake; he hardly needed Xellos to rub that in.

The Mazoku had moved to the door, peering at the rune. “This was stronger than I expected, but it seems your blood has given it more power. How interesting.”

Zel’s own curiosity was piqued at that, but he didn’t have the energy to even consider the matter further. The glow of the fire followed him into sleep.

When he next woke it was to the smell of a hearty stew. He was alone, next to the fire in his bedroll.

And naked again—he hoped this didn’t become a running thing like going over waterfalls. But at least he was clean of blood.

As he ate, he examined the healing gashes, wincing as he realized that one across his hip had come uncomfortably close to castrating him. He shuddered. Even with his body’s ability to heal, he didn’t think it’d regenerate lost flesh.

His torn clothing was beside his pack, both oddly devoid of blood, and Zelgadis realized abruptly that the blood that had to have pooled where he passed out against the wall was similarly gone. The fascinated tone of Xellos’ voice before he’d passed out again came to mind, and he tried not to be creeped out.

His tunic and pants were distressingly shredded in places, ruined. A note atop read, You nearly became a eunuch. I doubt you want to lose that! Zel grimaced at the reminder. Fresh clothing is in your pack. Do be more careful with this set, Zelgadis-san. Another crude chibi version of the priest signed the note.

His pack had also been restocked with food and water. There was even a small stock of firewood, enough to last a few days. Zel had the uneasy feeling he’d paid for this help with his blood, literally.

He was likely to need more rest after casting another healing spell, and so after finishing his meal he dressed and built up the fire, moving gingerly with the pain. Fortunately none of them reopened.

The Recovery spell sapped him, though not as completely as last time—not suffering from blood loss probably helped. He crawled back into the bedroll and mentally took stock of his situation.

Zelgadis had let his frustration get the better of him, and he’d very nearly gotten killed as a result. And as much as he’d like to, he couldn’t blame that on Xellos. The Mazoku irritated him, but he needed to better control his emotions. He had gotten himself into this situation.

Because of his foolishness, he was trapped in a hostile space, protected by a ward, until he was recovered enough to fight a horde of monsters. And at least he had enough supplies now for that.

As sleep started to pull at him, he wondered again why Xellos would bother… and like with the blood, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

[dialux]

dawn is coming, open your eyes

Inspired by this picset, from ages and ages ago.

But where, exactly, this story comes from is very strange. It’s... a very long and very winding story into a Percy Weasley after the war, figuring out his demons and fighting past them and learning to be happy in his own skin, which... might or might not hold some personal demons.

Warnings for familial issues! Death also features prominently because it’s immediately post-war! And politics, as per the usual, because this is My BrandTM. Hope y’all enjoy!

...

there is a kind of love so filled with rage that i can’t even look at your face even as it exists in my mind.

...

“Hello Percy,” says Luna.

Your eyes are red. Your cheeks are raw from scrubbing hard enough to scrape away the top layer of skin. Your hands shake, when you think too much; they don’t shake at all when you forget, and somehow that’s worse.

Fred is gone.

It’s not your first thought in the morning when you get up, and that feels like a terrible kind of sacrilege.

“Hello Luna,” you say, and sit down besides her.

...

It isn’t-

It isn’t like that.

But you’re mourning, and you’re learning that you aren’t a quiet mourner. Things tend to explode if you stay still long enough to remember that Fred is- not here. As if he’s passed his love for explosions onto you with his last breath.

Nobody seems to understand, though. Everyone walks around you on eggshells, until you take your wand and a cloak and walk out of the Burrow one morning, skin itching something fierce. You walk and walk, feet blistering in your boots, hands sweating on your wand, eyes streaming with something other than tears.

“Hello Percy,” Luna says, slipping beside you as if nothing were amiss. “How are you today?”

You’d always ignored Luna, more than anything else. It felt kinder than to shout at her for her strangeness.

“Fine,” you grunt. “I’m just- fine.”

“Good,” Luna says, and lifts her wand, reaching out to you. “Because I have a job for you.”

You twist through a tiny, airless tube for endless moments, and finally land on a cold, dreary island before you can say anything more. It takes you a beat to realize, and then you do: it’s Azkaban. Horror clutches at your heart.

“You sent people here,” Luna says, softly, when it’s clear you’re unable to speak. “You-”

“I know what I did.”

“Then you’ll fight back.” She looks harder, brighter, than any Luna that you’ve ever known. You remember, suddenly- she’s lost a father where you’ve lost your brother, but Luna has no other family to hold her, or grieve beside her. “There are cells the Death Eaters sealed, here. Someone has to unseal them.”

“Sealed-” You break off. It’s been weeks since the end of the war; if they sealed them off to only outside influence the people inside might have had a week, at most, what with the lack of water and food. If the Death Eaters also sealed off the air, as most wards tend to do...

“The people inside must be-”

Luna nods. “Dead.”

Then why? You want to ask, before she smiles, sad and small.

“They deserve burials,” she tells you. “Burials in better places than this.” Luna swallows, and there’s a brief glimpse of a girl with sunlight hair in that motion; a girl whom you hadn’t ever loved, a girl you miss, suddenly, with a fierceness that surprises even you. “Flowers and tombstones and grass. Warmth. Wands.”

Oh. Oh, if their wands were taken- they must be-

“Muggleborns,” you whisper.

“Dead,” she repeats. “And you helped send them there.”

Ginny would have flung accusations at you, eyes shining like a hundred swords. Ron would have glared until you gave in, and then acted sanctimonious for all of a few minutes before forgiving you. Fred- he’d have probably painted your face with some week-old blood, trying to make his point and horrify you as always.

Luna doesn’t say anything more, but the undercurrent is clear to you: you can go back home, you can wallow in self-loathing and misery and continue to blow things up whenever someone startles you. Or you can try to fix what you’ve done. You can be of use, and it looks like no one else wants to do this job so it’s not like you’ll have to talk to many people.

You’re a Gryffindor at heart anyway.

“Let’s go,” you say, through gritted teeth.

...

That’s how it starts.

Luna asks, and you accept, and it hurts like you’ve got a splinter the size of a fist digging into your chest; but it feels good, too, in it’s own way.

There are a hundred people in Azkaban whose cells were warded properly when the Death Eaters fled. It was a mix of panic- the Battle of Hogwarts happened so quickly- and idiocy and bureaucratic mix-ups, but of the almost six hundred muggleborns that were locked up in Azkaban over the course of the year, more than five hundred escaped. Those who didn’t were the old, the weak, the quiet; from what you’ve been able to deduce, some people even sacrificed themselves to keep holes in the wards open long enough for others to flee.

It’s not like you’re the best warder Luna could have gotten. Hell, Bill’s better than you by a long shot; this is his actual job- but your mother’s always depended most on Bill and she actually needs him, now, what with- Fred. Charlie’d flunked Ancient Runes in his third year and taken up Divination instead; George might be better than you, now, but he’s too... something.

Broken, you think, and the thought burns inside of you, enough that you hiss out, flick your wand at an innocent bit of stone and watch it explode. Like a clock.

A hand settles on your forearm. “The nimbopaths tend to be stronger here,” she says. “Maybe we should drink some tea?”

“Just- thoughts,” you say, quietly. Nevermind that neither of you have brought tea with you; what’s important is that her hand feels very warm, and there’s something scarily like guilt rising up your throat. “I’ll finish this ward myself, don’t worry. There’s another one in the left hallway, if you want to map it out.”

Luna leaves. You knead your forehead and get back to work, carving runes with both wand and knife, carefully cracking the barrier until you can get to the gaunt corpse behind it.

You don’t scream when you see the bodies.

(You haven’t screamed since you saw Fred die.)

...

Nobody asks where you go, which surprises you more than you’d think. But they just accept that you disappear- even George, who’s been spending the most time with you. It’s regular, at least, insofar as that you leave at dawn and return only past midnight. The only people who see you are Harry and Ron and Hermione, and the three of them are strange enough that they don’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary in your wrinkled clothes or shabby appearance.

Finally, a week- or two, or three- later, Charlie sits you down.

“You need to rest,” he says, quietly. “You’re running yourself into the ground. Kingsley wouldn’t want that.”

I don’t give a damn about Kingsley, is on the tip of your tongue. I’ll run myself into the ground if I want to, is marching right behind it. I deserve this, is what echoes behind it all.

“There’s things I have to do,” you say instead.

Luna’s found a spell that keeps the bodies from decomposing. There’s a long line of them, now, arranged in one of the better-aired corridors of Azkaban; corpses in stasis that you both need to find graves for, names for, wands for. One of them had hair the color of a sunrise, streaked with a dye that sits next to your shaving cream in the store in Diagon Alley. You’d almost broken down three days ago, when you saw that purple box.

When you left that store, there was a box with Wott’s Ever-Changing Dye, Spec. Ed: SUNRISE! emblazoned on it, hidden with your daily supplies.

Maybe in a few months you’ll stop dreaming about your sins.

“I never even see you,” Charlie says. “You’re gone before I wake up, you come back after I fall asleep, you’re looking like a ghost. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, Perce, but you’d best stop before you break down. Mum can’t handle you going off your rocker, alright?”

You jerk away. “I’m sorry,” you say, precisely, each word crisp as the apples that grow in fresh spring, new and green and tart enough to draw tears to the eye, “that I am inconveniencing you.”

“Shit,” you hear him mutter, before Charlie launches himself forwards; but it’s too late.

You cross the kitchen’s threshold, and there- sitting, like a fucking mosaic of pieces that, through your tears, looks almost like Fred- is George. George and your mother and your father and the rest of your family, but Fred isn’t there, he isn’t there, he’ll never be there to tease you or frighten you or love you, not anymore.

“I’m fine,” you say, and it’s not a lie, though you can see that nobody believes you. “I’m fine,” you repeat, and Charlie’s behind you and he puts his hand on your shoulder and it’s not fine, but you’re fine, you’re fine and it’s the world that’s not fine at all.

Fred’s gone, and you’ve got a list of sins that you’ll spend the rest of your life scrubbing.

I’m not even twenty-five, you think, and I’ll never do anything great.

“I am,” you say, and this time it is defiant, as foolishly defiant as ever Fred had been, “fine.”

A shrug of your shoulders, and before Charlie can catch you, before anyone can believe that you’re going to do this again, the son who had loved rules more than he’d ever loved family- you’re gone.

...

The cliffside is cold, and you don’t have a cloak or the will to perform a warming charm.

You don’t cry, but when it rains, you don’t wipe your face either.

Your eyes are red.

...

“You haven’t told them?” Luna asks you the next day, when you show up in sodden clothes and hair as tangled as Potter’s on a bad day.

“Three more cells,” you reply. “We’re almost done.”

You reach for the doorknob, but it clicks shut with a finality that makes you whirl back to Luna. She looks back at you with a look in her eyes that makes you want to wince, her wand held high and stiff between you two. It feels like someone’s made you swallow ice.

“And after that we need to find names, and ground to bury them, and wands.” Her lips, already thin, depress further. “This will not end, Percy. Every day there will be something more, and you have to-”

“You don’t get to tell me what I have to do,” you whisper.

It’s nothing but the truth. Luna brought you here, but it’s your decision to actually do something instead of mourn. Your guilt is your own; no one, not Charlie, not George, not Luna- not a single person in the world gets to tell you that this guilt is lessened by coming here. They don’t get to do this to you. And if you want to spend the rest of your life righting the wrongs of a war that you were on the wrong side of, then there is nothing that will stop you.

“You need to tell them what’s happening,” Luna says, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder. “They’re going to worry. Percy- Fred wouldn’t want you to do this.”

You step away, and slash your wand down, once, twice, thrice. The door falls into pieces, stripped wood, and you step out into the corridor. The wind catches at your cloak and hair, still soaked through. You don’t shiver.

“I signed forty-three documents,” you say softly, watching her, waiting for the inevitable horror, revulsion, hatred. “Did you know that? I signed away forty-three people’s lives. Fred’s the least of my sins.” A breath, and wood crunches under your feet as if they were bones, dried and dead. “You can tell my parents that, if you want to.” The ice in your throat spreads to your arms, to your fingers, to your heart. “But I’m going to break Azkaban’s wards today, and tomorrow I’ll find a burial ground for the dead, and the day after that I’ll find out how to make wands, and you can help me bury these people if you want to but I’m not going to stop, do you hear me?”

...

You’ve always been good with charms. Penelope’s always been good with potions.

The summer of ‘96, you have a long, explosive fight with her. You hadn’t been living together, not exactly; you’re both too independent for that. But you have an extra towel and toothbrush in your bathroom and the particular brand of rough-grain bread that Penelope likes in your kitchen, and it’s the closest you’ve come to sharing your life with anyone else.

She’s afraid.

You’re not just a Gryffindor, she says, blue eyes shining, face earnest, please, come with me- there’s other places you can succeed. It doesn’t have to be here, you-

I’m not going anywhere, you say, and you’re terrified, of course you are, you’re angry and grieving and alone and-

And you have done a lot wrong, in your life, but you haven’t run. At least in some small, aching way, you belong to Gryffindor for reasons other than your blood.

Penelope doesn’t say goodbye.

You find a thin vial resting on your bed that night- black and glittering, like the night sky ground into a liquid. You recognize it, of course. By all rights, you should turn it into the Ministry. By all rights, you should put her name on a list of criminals, for brewing one of the most dangerous potions in the world.

You pocket the vial instead.

...

(Your best subject had been charms.

But you’re even better at paperwork. It’s why Crouch takes you on- they mock you, your brothers, your family, but he took you on and he kept you on because you were good at what you did.

Forty-three people suffer for that.)

...

Azkaban surrenders the last of its sealed cells quietly, and you levitate the last body to the corridor where the rest have been lying for the past fortnight. Luna is there- her hair looks like moonlight-purified water, colorless and pure in the dull darkness.

She has a new wand, one that Ollivander made for her after the Malfoys took hers. It’s too temperamental for your taste; it reacts more to Luna’s emotions than to her words, and the results can be unpredictable. The day after you both uncovered one of the younger victims, it had only released saltwater for the full day, no matter what else Luna tried.

But it also matches Luna’s personality. Like right now: there’s a glittering charm bracelet that she’s woven out of light and some old metal scraps lying on the floor, and it shines around almost twenty people’s wrists and throats, pale blue or sparking purple or glowing yellow, like a strange string of faery lights.

"The stasis spell goes from darkness to darkness,” she says, folding one boy’s fingers open slowly, massaging the cold flesh.

You bite back the first words you think of, the acid bite of your previous meeting still concentrated. “What does that mean?”

“You have another three weeks,” replies Luna, softly. “Then the graves will rise up and swallow them once more.”

The stasis spell will fall, you realize. That’s what she’s trying to say. The spell will last from new moon to new moon, and it will fall soon and the bodies will rot, and that means-

“Graves,” you say. “Wands. We’ll need-”

“No,” says Luna. “Not us.”

You.

It had slipped your mind, but- yes, now you remember, Luna and Ron and Ginny and Ron’s friends- they’re all heading back to Hogwarts. Another week and they’re going to leave, and you’re going to have to do this alone.

Alone.

You know how that feels. You have it scored straight into your bones.

“I’ll handle it,” you say.

...

The Ministry is silent when you enter it.

It’s too early in the morning; fog still lines London’s streets, and the streetlights are still lighting up the city. The tips of your robes are damp. Your footsteps echo on the marble stone.

(The last time you were here, you killed sixteen men.

Yaxley had asked for tea, and you’d felt some shift in the air- you’d nodded docilely, you’d made the tea with careful, even hands, and then, when they were ignoring you, while they were casually discussing some crime on humanity, you’d poured Penny’s black, shining poison straight into the dark liquid.

You’d waited patiently, calmly, as they dropped.

Thirteen men like that- and then you left, quietly, and sealed the door shut. Three more men had chased you, up and down the hallways, and you’d killed two with quick wandwork but the last- the last you’d captured and carved, slowly, with your careful, even wandwork, and you hadn’t stopped until he sputtered out the truth of Hogwarts’ siege.

Nobody knows, of course. You couldn’t stand it if they did. But when you apparated to Hogwarts, it was with the blood of sixteen men on your hands.)

Kingsley’s in his office. It’s not the room where you tortured a man, not even on the same floor, but your hands tremble all the same.

“Minister,” you say, as you enter.

Kingsley looks- drawn. His bones are sharp under his skin, but he burns brighter than you remember from before, as if the pared flesh has revealed some of the fierceness beneath. When he waves you to a seat, it’s a sort of kindness.

“Percy,” he says. “I wondered when I’d see you in here.”

“Ah. I’m...” you think, for a dizzy moment, that you’ll just accept, that you’ll take the opening Kingsley offered and slide back into your old position as if nothing has changed. The nausea that rises with the dizziness clears your head, firms your voice. “I’m afraid I’m not here for the reason you think.”

“Oh?”

You swallow. “Do you know about Azkaban?”

“I read a report on it a few days ago, yes,” says Kingsley, spreading his hand on one of the stacks of papers currently crowding his desk.

I could file that, you think, abruptly seized by a desire for it. I could sort out this mess. I’d be good at it. I could-

You could. You’d reshape the nation. And you’d be scrupulously fair, viciously, steadily, fair. You’d know it, because you’d have all of it in the palm of your hand, you’d be the one doing it.

But there are other ways of doing good.

You know that now.

“Someone from Hogwarts is working on clearing it,” says Kingsley. “It’s going well, according to- ah, yes, I think it was Xeno’s daughter- a good girl, with her head in the air, perhaps, but- she’s smart, and got through a stint in Azkaban herself without breaking. Is there a problem with it?”

“No, no problem,” you reply. “But I’ve been working with her on clearing it.”

The world doesn’t stop turning when you say it out loud.

So you continue.

“We’ve recovered forty bodies. Muggleborn bodies. We’ll need place to bury them, before the stasis spell we’ve put on them starts to breakdown.”

Kingsley pauses. “Ah. I’d wondered- I thought you’d be here the day I entered, you know? But then I remembered your brother. When was his funeral?”

“Months ago,” you say, through clenched teeth, desperately trying to keep yourself from twitching. “A month after the Hogwarts- battle.”

“You’ve been excavating Azkaban all along, Percy?”

The kindness drags along your nerves. You don’t want kindness. You want professionalism, and crisp agreements, and not this- this stupid hurting rage.

“Not for very long,” you say, though, because Kingsley’s being kind while still remaining within the bounds of professionalism. “It’s going faster than I’d expected. But the stasis spell works only from new moon to new moon.”

“Did you have any particular rituals in mind?”

“I had some ideas.” You swallow. “There’s- I think, sunlight. That’s something they deserve.”

“Not something we have a lot of here,” says Kingsley mildly.

“There’s charms for that,” you reply. “And I thought- think- there’s an island. Off of Azkaban. It comes near enough to the anti-muggle wards that we won’t need to do anything complex. It’s abandoned, and...”

Perfect, you think, but don’t say. Nothing’s perfect, is what you’ve learned. It’s all just piece-meal attempts at cobbling together a vision that might, if one squints, look vaguely acceptable. But you’ve visited the island and it’s small and rough and scarred and still: perfect.

“I’ll see what I can do,” says Kingsley.

You force yourself to nod back to him.

“Percy,” he says, when you’ve gathered your coat and almost managed to leave, “your office remains empty. I look forward to seeing it filled soon.”

You freeze. You force air into your lungs. You say, without turning, “I’ll offer you a list of meritorious candidates when I get some time, Minister.”

“I need help,” says Kingsley, and his hand closes on your shoulder. You shudder. “You’re one of the few people from the old Ministry who hasn’t been arrested, you know, and we need the experience.” He pauses. “And you look like you could use the work.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. Then, slower, “And I cannot help you, Minister. I would be far greater a burden than an aid.”

“Percy-”

You shy away from the contact. Pull your robes around you. Nod, grimly, politely, and grind out, laboriously: “I thank you for the opportunity, Minister. But I... there are some things that cannot be- undone. Sometimes, people- people cannot be trusted. Not after they’ve- not after what they’ve done.”

“I know where your loyalty lies, son,” says Kingsley, but he doesn’t try to touch your shoulder once more. “We know where you fought when it mattered.”

Your lips twist in a facsimile of a smile. “All of you keep saying that,” you say, in a voice too low for addressing the Minister, but you don’t care. You don’t care. You are not off the rails completely, but you can taste that wildness and it is heady as much as it is frightening. “As if this war’s lasted for all of one battle. There has been a war in our country for three years, Minister Shacklebolt, and there has been a battle waged in every wizarding home within our borders. I know where I stood for too long- and I know that there are things that cannot be forgiven, no matter what else is done after the fact.”

Kingsley looks- old. His face is set in taut, narrow lines, and his eyes shine in the morning light, almost-gold. “I know this war, Percy.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” you say recklessly, before drawing yourself up. Breathing in. This, at least, you can offer. Advice, if not the work of your hands. “Children died, Minister. Muggleborns. Halfbloods. Purebloods. We all bled for a madman, and the answer that our government has for us is to sit tight. Is it any wonder people sit in their homes and ask when the next Dark Lord will rise?”

“Voldemort is gone.”

“Albus Dumbledore kept secrets,” you say. “And now, so does Harry Potter. History is set to repeat itself, Minister- and it is set to become as we once were, led by Lords and Ladies. Where do we, the common man, lie then? The chattel between lords at best. The victims, at worst. What we lost when we elected to turn our heads and bite our tongues and let a one year old boy become our savior...”

You trail off. Your hands are shaking, now, and your head is aching. There’s a small crowd surrounding the Minister, just a little ways off, but you can see the flash of a pink string quickly moving out of sight. Extendable Ears.

So now your political stance is solidified.

Nausea builds in your gut. You look at Kingsley, and regret swims before you. That he was caught even listening to your near-treasonous words might spell the end to his brief tenure as Minister. It’s quite a shame- you rather like him, even if he’s too willing to return to the status quo.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, and turn, and flee as quick as you can without actually running.

...

After, you get drunk. Roaringly drunk. As you’ve never done before in your life.

Impotent anger and bitter hatred and caustic self-loathing. It all melts underneath the touch of the- whatever- that the bartender gives you. At least you’d had the knowledge to go into muggle London, where there’s nobody who’ll report you to your mother; otherwise you’d be waking tomorrow to a howler from your mother and a quick, apologetic Hangover Relief from your father.

Only that’s how it might have been, once, for Charlie and Bill.

Now. You doubt your mother would even notice your absence. Even if she did, why would she care about one son drinking away his night when another’s buried six feet under the earth? So. No howler from your mother. No potion from your father either, though, and that’s a shame. Thank Merlin you probably have one stored away in your potions cupboard, just in case.

“One more,” you say to the bartender.

He shakes his head. Anger flashes through you, so hot it hurts. It reminds you of when you were a kid- your accidental magic had only ever come out when you wanted the twins to be silent. Once, you’d managed to silence the entire Burrow for a glorious three hours.

Fred and George had gotten you back for that, with interest; but you hadn’t cared.

“C’mon,” you say, levering yourself up those last few feet. “C’mon, you know I’m good for it, I need-”

The bartender shakes his head one last time, final, and the fragile bridge holding you to- sanity, or normalcy, or maybe just that land of reason that you’ve clutched onto your whole life- shatters. You lunge forwards and drag the bartender closer to you, and something is glowing at your feet so when you look down you realize that it’s not something but it’s you, and that glowing thing is coming from your fingers which are dripping fire.

Then there’s hands around your shoulders, dragging you away from the bartender. Hands that remain firm and tight all the way until you push through the door, and you’re stumbling, you’re choking on all the air you need but aren’t getting.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hear from what must be the man who’s holding you, “can’t say I’ve ever seen-”

His voice wavers in and out, like a bad connection on the Floo. You vaguely register that it’s familiar; you don’t pay much attention to anything other than the blessedly cold air in your lungs and the rough stone beneath your shins. You feel sick.

“Weasley,” you hear, and it makes your chest want to shrivel up. “Weasley, hey, the fuck’s your name- it was- Percy, yeah, Percy, you hearing me? Up, Merlin, get up, would you? Obliviators’re on the way. Best if we aren’t caught here- Percy, hey- Percy!”

The world goes dark, and you don’t even regret it.

...

You do regret it when you come to the next morning.

Sunlight’s spearing through the butter-yellow curtains straight into your eyes. You make a mush-mouthed sound and flap your hand at it ineffectually. But trying to turn over hurts your head even more; you just flop backwards in the end, and close your eyes.

“Weasley?” you hear from a distant corner.

“Hnngh,” you say.

“Weasley,” sighs the man, entering your line of sight. It’s a man you vaguely remember- you’ve seen him around, though you think he was a Ravenclaw back in Hogwarts. A prefect, you’re fairly certain, below you. His hair’s damp and he’s wearing a loose tracksuit and he looks... unfairly put together for the misery you’re currently feeling. “D’you remember what happened last night?”

“Mmph.” Painfully, you swallow. Then, still aching, you lever yourself upright. Like hell’re you going to speak to a Hogwarts prefect lying down like an invalid. “Kind of. Fire?”

“You were dripping it,” agrees Prefect. “It was a miracle you didn’t burn the pub down.”

You wince. “I. It. I thought.” Then you pause, take in the entirety of your situation- you’ve just crashed on a stranger’s couch because you were too drunk the previous night after spending a full day getting wasted in a muggle pub and trying to burn it down, all because you chewed out the Minister for something that isn’t even his fault. There’s really only one thing you can say. “I was stupid.”

Monumentally stupid.

Unfathomably stupid.

“Mm,” agrees Prefect. He walks away, then comes back with two things: a copy of the paper, and a fizzing blue mug. “Drink that first. And- you are Percy, right? Percy Weasley?”

“Yes,” you agree slowly.

“You’ll want to read that paper, then.” Prefect’s eyes are sharp on your face. “You don’t remember me?”

“Prefect, right? Ravenclaw?” You shrug. “Don’t remember your name.”

“Roger Davies.” Davies nods to the paper. “Read it. And- Weasley?”

“Yeah?”

“Not all of us liked your brothers,” he says evenly. “Not all of us made the right decisions. A lot of us were- not brave. But we survived.” He pauses, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you want to swallow- something bright, and fragile, and perhaps brighter for its fragility. “A leader should know that.”

“‘m no leader,” you say, sighing as you sip the hangover relief. It blazes down the back of your throat. A good hurt, though, so you barely even grimace.

Then you look up, and Davies is frowning at you.

“Shame, that,” is all he says. “Think you’d do a good job at it. Always did.”

“Thanks for the relief,” you tell him, before you rise to your feet.

You shake his hand as firmly as you can manage. Stumble to the fireplace, mumble your address and manage three steps into your home before you collapse from the dizziness. When you open your eyes again, the paper’s crumpled tight in your fists. You let go. Smooth it out.

Your breath is snatched right out of your lungs.

“Fuck,” you whisper. You don’t like to swear, but there isn’t any other way to treat this. “Fucking fuck. Oh my fucking god!”

Hungover or not, you have to go home. You have to make sure your parents know-

Know what?

That you’re not a traitor? That you’re not the radical revolutionary the paper paints you as? That with a two minute speech to the Minister, you’re suddenly not the poster child for change from the top to the dregs of society?

Percy Weasley: Radical or Traditional?

You steel yourself. Get in the shower. Shave. Pick out some crisply folded robes. Comb your hair back. By the end of it, you’ve made your decision. Then you stand in front of your fireplace for a good five minutes, dithering, before you call out, “Roger Davies’ home!”

You don’t walk back into his home, just call and allow him the ability to pick up or decline. He does, after a pause so long your knees start to ache.

“Yeah?” he asks, wandering into view. “Forget something, Weasley?”

“My manners,” you say wryly.

“You said thanks already.”

“I know.” You swallow. You can still back out. But if you say the words, if you give them a voice... you can’t take them back. You can never take them back. “But I told you that I’m no leader. I’m not, you know, not a general. Not a Lord. I’m the normal one.”

“Yeah, I got that,” says Davies.

You tilt your head at him. “I don’t know if I’m the best for this. But... I think I can help you.”

...

You don’t return to the Ministry. But nobody stops you when you start clearing shrubbery to make a proper burial service, so you don’t stop either. You’ve told the Minister your plans, anyhow, and if someone has the temerity enough to attempt to stop you you’ve got his name ready to drop with a flatly insincere smile.

Luna comes to your flat two days later, Ollivander twitchy but at her side. She doesn’t mention the Prophet article, which you’re grateful enough for that you forgive her interference with your family.

(It’s not like you don’t understand, you soothe yourself. Everybody wants a happy ending, all the hurts smoothed away. And for Luna, who’s an only child, who has been such a source of strength to her father- it must seem even stranger, even crueler, for you not to desire with all your body and mind to return to them. Have the Weasleys not suffered enough? Why are you so fucking incapable of kindness?

But war has pared something away in you- worn down those pieces that wanted things with hard desperation, cut away those parts that made you want love or approval or appreciation.

What is left of you now?)

Ollivander hems and haws and looks increasingly insulted at your desire to bury wands with the Azkaban muggleborns; it’s very rare to lose wands like that, and usually done only for people who have nobody else in the world. No family, no friends. Nobody who’ll take or remember these people.

You don’t care.

These people had wands, but they were yanked out of their fists. There’s no way to track that down, now, and the injustice of it bubbles in your chest every time you feel exhaustion dog at your heels.

“The- the waste- it’s unconscionable- how can I-”

“Waste?” you ask mildly.

Luna leans back, starlight-hair glittering. She doesn’t look away from you, eyes level and warm. You straighten your spine and dig out the boy who’d bargained with pureblood supremacists, words cajoling; gaze unflinching.

“Their old wands will sit in some old pureblood vault for decades,” you tell Ollivander. “We cannot retrieve them; those records have been destroyed, or perhaps never maintained in the first place. If ever they see light of day, they will be in the hands of the very people who took them away.” You lean forwards, and take no joy in the subtle flinch of Ollivander’s shoulders. “We are burying wizards and witches, Mr. Ollivander, and they shall be marked as such. They will be given that dignity.”

His pale, silver eyes say everything he’s too polite to say.

Traitor, radical, fool.

Too angry to be any use. Too stupid to be quiet. Too cruel to be part of the Light.

Well, that’s fine. What use have labels been to you anyways?

Why do you care so much? sneers Ollivander, silent, wordless.

And you do not answer: Because I could have blown up the Ministry if I was pushed, and I don’t know why I didn’t push myself. Because I let the war pass me by and my family is made up of people who cannot forget that, even if they will forgive me. Because I am here, and I can, and so I will.

“I cannot make wands for people I do not know,” says Ollivander finally.

“I have their profiles arranged,” you reply, hand resting heavily on a stack of parchment. “Take your best guess.”

“I have not made wands in- months. The process- I cannot- the speed will be too low to-”

“Then I will help you,” you say lowly, and watch the flash of irritable defiance in Ollivander’s face flare and fade out. “Forty wands. We’ll get this done before the month is out.”

It’s going to be a challenge, of course, but you have never shrunk from honest, hard work before, and you won’t start now. Youngest aide to an official in the history of Britain; sharpest Weasley in a family that you had to claw distinction out of; the face of a burgeoning radicalist movement through the nation. You’ve done it all before, and you’ve done it well, and you’ll do this too, properly.

Beautifully.

[mogadichu]

SOAST- Chapter 7: The Dhim’ra

The floating market rested at the heart of Elas-Ri-Hradek like a great wooden star, each of its five points jutting out for over a mile. Silk dresses and scarves in every color of the rainbow hung like streamers over brightly-painted booths. Enormous sapphires and rubies, emeralds and diamonds, both cut and raw, glimmered in the sunlight behind locked glass cases. Gold and silver rings, embroidered leather belts, fur-lined robes, all ready for the taking as greedy men and women skittered about with their strings of coin.

 Naga stood petrified on the Darrus’ bobbing skiff as Jerra tugged at her halter. She usually hopped onto the deck at once, but now, she did not budge, as though her clove hooves were nailed to the boards. He tugged again, and this time, she tugged back, with a low, constant whimper. “Come on now, old girl,” Jerra said tenderly. “You’ve been here a hundred times.”

“Just leave her, my love,” Shay said distractedly. She and Kale were already walking briskly down the boardwalk. Jerra looked back at Naga. Her ears were pinned back. The tawny hairs on her back stood on end.

Something was wrong. She could sense it.

Jerra hesitated, scanning the booths and brightly draped boats. Nothing seemed amiss. The market was full and fresh. The temperate water was still. Even the sky was blue and cloudless. He relaxed after a moment. Naga had grown old and skittish; perhaps the noise was finally beginning to frighten her old ears. He stroked her graying muzzle before joining the fray.

Exotic spices filled his nostrils as he hurried to catch up to his parents; basil, garlic, mint, cinnamon. A plump, red-cheeked woman sifted dry tobacco leaves, her booth devoid of potential customers. Her sleeves slid upward to reveal the thick runed cuffs on her wrists. Jerra blanched as his gaze rose to the woman’s mismatched eyes. Joghon. He scuttled away from the abhorrent, diseased woman. No wonder her booth was empty. Since when did the masters permit them to sell at the floating market?

Kale saw it, too, and it made him even more uneasy than he already was. “Shay,” he whispered, his eyes shifting about the market. “Let’s go back to our booth. They aren’t here.” He entwined his fingers with hers, willing her to stop, but she plucked her hand out his grasp. Her eyes remained forward, her feet hitting the deck with a determined slap.

“They are,” she said. “We don’t know how bad things are back home. Perhaps they’ve just been too busy to see us.” Kale’s brow furrowed. After all these years, she still thought of it as home. “They wouldn’t just abandon us, Kale.” Shay stopped abruptly, lifting a hand to his bearded jaw. “They wouldn’t just abandon you.”

Kale  kissed her palm as he stared down at the deck. Suddenly, he was too ashamed to look at her. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“They’re your brothers,” Shay breathed. “How can you say such things?”

They stood in silence for a moment, holding each other, the crowd parting around them like a stream around a stone. Kale shook his head. Why was she still doing this? Why did she drag him here, year after year? Why torment him with his brothers, whom he barely now knew?

Slowly, tentatively, his eyes found hers. “Let’s just go home.”

“That’s why we’re-”

“You know what I mean, Shay.”

Shay’s hand fell away, and she stared. She would have been angrier had the pain not been painted bright and brutal on her husband’s face. “After the way they treat you,” she said, “after the way they treat us, you want to simply stay there?”

“We could move, find another village. Perhaps, we can go to Janav.”

“No.” It was always Shay’s plan to stay in one place, to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. “We’re not going to Janav, because we’re not staying in Kelsh.”

Her words sparked something within Kale, a brief but violent strike of rage. “It’s been eighteen years, Shay,” he hissed. “I think it’s time you accept that we aren’t going back. We can’t. They’ll never forget. If we return to Yerda, they’ll never stop hunting us, our children. Not after all we’ve done. Whether or not any of us like it, Kelsh is the only place that’s safe.”

Jerra watched them from the adjacent booth, utterly disinterested in what his parents were saying. He grimaced as he sipped his cup of cider, all too aware that he could not feel the leather of the cup, the heat of the cider beneath his fingertips. Every time he picked up a bowl, a tool. Every time he was forced to ask for help with switching his arsenal of wooden hands, he was aware. They rubbed against his calloused stumps and the leather straps around his forearms chafed his skin. He never told his family that he still woke up in cold sweat; still saw the blood that that had drenched him as that ethereal blade sliced into his wrists, clear as the cloudless sky above him.

They could all leave, but he was not going back, not ever again.

“What about Sahn?” Shay hissed at Kale. Jerra flinched, as though the question were directed at him. Sahn, the archiver, the storyteller, the soft heart. Jerra did not want him or Aurie to return to Yerda, either. Yet, the thought of them staying in Kelsh with Okan-Isan also made his stomach sink.

Kale looked away from Shay’s blazing gaze. “Sahn is stronger than you think he is.” His hands clenched into fists. “Besides, perhaps if we’d moved, he wouldn’t have had the chance to-”

“Don’t you dare blame me,” Shay snapped.

“I’m not blaming you,” Kale said through his teeth. “I’m just-” Kale gasped, cutting off his own defense. Two copper heads bobbed above the crowd in the distance. Only their chins and mouths showed beneath their red hoods, but he knew them instantly. He rushed forward, his arms open to embrace his two younger brothers. But they’re hands grasped his collar, tugging him into a crevice between two empty booths.

Kale let out an “oof” of surprise. “Kima,” he huffed. “Kuri, what’s the matter?”

Kuri, beardless and riddled with worry lines, swung his gaze from Kale, to Kuri, to Shay and Jerra, who squeezed into the crevice to meet them. His eyes were wide and frightened, the bulge in his throat bobbing as though he were gulping down a jug of water. “I… Kale, we have to leave.”

Kale’s brow furrowed. “What’s the matter?” he repeated. Kuri’s mouth opened and closed before he pressed his forehead to Kale’s chest, whimpering like a lost pup.

Shay embraced the three violently. “Oh, my boys,” she cried, seemingly oblivious to Kuri’s agitation. “Is it time? Can we finally come home?”

Kima and Kuri exchanged an unreadable glance before turning to their brother. “Greenie,” Kima said. Kale started at the sound of his childhood pet name. “Greenie, listen-”

“We have done something,” Kuri finished the sentence. “Something- well, I don’t know what. Darya said that we had to, that we had no choice-”

“We did have no choice,” Kima interjected. He stood stoic and immovable as Kuri continued to whimper.

“But we- we saw it. We saw it leave him, like a shooting star. It was almost beautiful. And now, we don’t know-”

“Uncle, you’re babbling,” Jerra grunted. He placed a wooden hand on Kuri’s shaking shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Kuri gazed at his nephew. His face had paled from copper to beige. His entire head seemed to tremble, like in a feverish chill. “The Dhim’ra,” he breathed. “We found a Dhim’ra.”

  It was as though winter had blown through the thin crevice. Jerra backed away from Kuri, wrapping his arms around his mother, who stood stiff as a wooden plank. Kale gripped his brother’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. “What did you say?” 

“You heard him, Greenie,” Kima grumbled. His eyes were turned downward, a flush creeping through his dark beard.

Shay stepped forward finally. “I thought they were extinct.”

“Now, you know that’s impossible,” said Kuri. “If they were, there would be no more joghons.”

“And what a tragedy that would be,” Kima drawled.

Kale gave Kuri a gentle shake. “Where is it?”

“Darya found it, in Anndr. She said this one had managed to stay out of sight for years, and yet, there it was, in a scholar’s library. She had never even meant to find it. Taking him was a bit of a struggle. We had to-”

“Where. Is. It. Now?” Kale repeated, shaking Kuri’s shoulders with every word.

Kima answered for him. “Dead.” Kale’s entire body went cold.

“Darya made us,” Kuri rushed out. “She said we had no other choice.”

Kale swallowed down the curses lumping in his throat. He and Shay had been informed many times about the new leader of their tribe. They said Darya was still a young woman, too naïve to know the ways of the Taidjura. But, this was not naiveté. It was idiocy. One did not simply kill a Dhim’ra in times like these, when there were so few of them left, when they were so valuable to the joghons.

Shay leaned on Kale’s arm, as though she was ready to faint. “What did you do with the body?” she asked, her voice low and quiet.

“I don’t know,” said Kuri. “We left while the pyre still-”

An ear-splitting shriek sliced into the crevice before Kuri could finish. Jerra went to look, but Kima gently pushed him back, poking his head out instead. More noises spread from the boardwalk, crashing wood and tearing fabric and indistinguishable roars. Kima’s face twitched, the slightest window of weakness, as he returned. “What is it?” Shay asked.

“It’s her,” Kima breathed.

“Who?”

“Rize.” Kima and Kuri fumbled with their packs, throwing their hoods over their heads. They began to shove the others through the side street, back to their skiff.

Jerra struggled to look behind him, catching glimpses of overturned booths and saberwolves with mismatched eyes, mowing down screaming traders with their curved tusks (though carefully moving around the joghons, leaving them unharmed). He fought the chill threatening to rattle him. Joghons on Kelshin shores, selling at the floating market, using their magic freely in the presence of humans. And, “Who in Moyane’s name is Rize?”

“I thought she was just some crazed zealot,” said Shay. “That she was nothing.”

Kuri shoved even harder. “Just go,” he cried. He and Kima scrambled onto their skiff, where Naga screamed in the corner, rapping her hooves against the side as though she would break through. Jerra rushed to calm her. Kale and Shay fought to squeeze through the trail of boats struggling to get to safety. “Get down,” Kuri gasped as jagged fins cut through the water, the glow of those infernal eyes shining beneath the surface. Jerra stared in horror as one of them jumped from the water, morphing from a shark into a muscled brute.

“There you are,” the joghon growled, every bit as monstrous as Jerra remembered. “Where is the Dhim’ra, human swine?” Jerra cowered away, clutching to Naga like a frightened child. Kima, nearly twice its size, lunged forward, flicking a pointed stump in his hand that shot out into a spear-headed javelin. He buried it into the joghon’s chest before it even had time to react, towering over it like a building. The javelin shrunk back down before the body hit the water.

Finally, the boats dispersed, the fins vanished behind them, back to the chaos in the floating market, and the group rocked along smooth waters, the galaxies arching above them, silvering the world below.

“Now,” Shay sighed, “will you tell us what is going on?”

Kima only patted her shoulder. “I swear,” he said, “all will be answered when we get to Kelsh.”

[jflashandclash]

Attrition of Peace

Thirty-Six: Alabaster

How to Tell a God They’re Stupid in 2,000 Words or Less

 Warning: A hack job (some graphic descriptions of violence)

             Although Alabaster had only been listening to Phobetor for a few minutes, he had already made up his mind about the God of Nightmares: Phobetor’s plan was stupid and he should feel stupid.

           Alabaster donned his helm and shoved Pax and Euna out of his way. Without much thought to whether or not it would work, he continued toward Camp Half-Blood’s boundary. Some part of his mind processed the potential variable of the camp recognizing him as the enemy he was and stopping him. But Axel had said the barrier was almost gone. From what Alabaster could feel through the Mist, it was.

           No magical force halted his approach. Zeus must have been too distracted to smite him with a lightning bolt though—Alabaster realized in disgust—Alabaster’s disobedience would likely garner Zeus’ attention quicker than Phobetor’s little outburst.

           Instead of an invisible wall, Alabaster felt a wave of exhaustion flood his body. The world wanted to slip away. This was how Phobetor was knocking everyone but Lou Ellen and Clovis out.

But Alabaster was a child of crossroads, including the line between the waking world and the dream world. His mother was Hecate: a goddess who accompanied Persephone throughout Erebos.

           If Phobetor thought this was exhausting, clearly he had never been near a college during finals week. Claymore had been having Alabaster shadow enough classes to understand a fulltime doctoral student’s pain.

           After imagining his entrance into Camp Half-Blood for the last year and a half, whether to kill Percy Jackson or to see if any of his siblings had survived the war, Alabaster thought he’d feel more upon discovering he could enter. He didn’t feel anything more than the exhaustion and a dull numbness when he sprinted towards Phobetor.

           As he rushed past Clovis, Sherman, and Miranda, he nailed the back of Sherman’s knees with his staff, buying Clovis some time.

           The child of Ares collapsed backwards.

           Phobetor’s hand was in the upswing when Alabaster reached him. Phobetor stood with his weight on one foot while using the other to pin Connor’s arm down. The god had hacked the child of Hermes’ hand twice, leaving two gouging clefts—one in his palm and one along his forearm. Connor withered and cried in his sleep.

           Before Phobetor could sever Connor’s hand completely, Alabaster jabbed his staff forward. He caught Phobetor’s hand between the prongs at the end and twisted hard.

           The hatchet flew off a few feet to the side.

           Phobetor huffed like a middle-aged bourgeois that was told his house looked quaint. “Alabaster C. Torrington. Hecate’s infamous finest,” he sputtered. His clothing smelled like mothballs and rot, similar to the Leonis Caput. “Aren’t your nightmares that of your best friend falling in love with the enemy leader and your past lover joining them? Yet, here you are, defending those that shame you. Where did all that famed pride go that I heard of during the Second Titan War?”

           Phobetor took a step back, disentangling his hand from Alabaster’s staff.

           Although Phobetor pretended not to notice, Alabaster was pleased to see the god’s wrist broken.

           “KICK HIS ASS, AL! NO ONE TALKS TO A LIEUTENANT OF KRONOS LIKE THAT!” came the broken rattle of Jack’s voice, followed by a few Romans muttering in disgust.

           The cheering had gone silent except for Jack’s shout. Alabaster could envision the Romans’ discomfort and confusion.

He tried not to think about their hatred or the months he’d spent in isolation, running from a monster that couldn’t die with no one left to turn to, because his mother wouldn’t chose sides between her children and his friends were dead or had been blackmailed out of talking to him.

The Romans should suspect he would turn on them. They probably didn’t know if they should cheer, even if he was helping Clovis.

           But he wasn’t doing this to help Clovis.

           “I’m not here to save a camp filled with delusion and idiocy. I’m here to stop a thug from forcing his will onto others.” Alabaster glanced below Phobetor, to where Lou Ellen had sat up. She was crawling closer to Connor and Matthias. Though looking worn down and dazed, she winked at him knowingly.

           Some distant instinct told Alabaster she needed a distraction.

           He returned his gaze to Phobetor, raised his staff with one hand, and lowered his other to his handgun. “I’m sick of seeing demigods die to you and your kind’s flighty whims. I can’t believe the Romans and Greeks worship assholes like you. You don’t deserve to be a god.”

           Someone made a catcall from behind him. “I forgot how hot you are when you’re indignant with theology, Witch Boy—Aye--!”

           Alabaster sighed. His arguments might be taken more seriously without Ajax’s commentary or objectification.

           Phobetor, however, took the insult very seriously. He sputtered and stomped his foot. He gestured behind Alabaster as though the son of Hecate had forgotten about Sherman.

           The Romans made a choked noise of alarm. Probably from where Sherman was about to obliterate Clovis.

           Alabaster withdrew his gun. He quarter turned to find Sherman in full swing towards the less physically adept demigod. Maybe a camper might have hesitated, but—with the ease of proximity—Alabaster fired four shots into Sherman’s shins.

           The son of Ares cried and collapsed onto the ground.

           Clovis stared back at Alabaster.

           Alabaster gestured towards Miranda Gardener on the ground. “Go!” he snarled. They didn’t need any more dead demigods.

           Without checking to see if Clovis followed his orders, Alabaster returned his focus to Phobetor. From what he found, Lou Ellen had just needed a distraction. She, Connor, and Matthias had vanished in a trick of the Mist.

           Meanwhile, Phobetor reached outward. His piccolo-hatchet flew into the air and returned to his hands. “Deserve? Deserve?!” His hatchet spewed spiders as he swung at Alabaster.

           Alabaster dropped his gun to use both hands to block. The force of the blow sent a tremor shuddering through the staff and into his full body. He hadn’t gone toe-to-toe with a god—even a minor one—in over a year. But those months of constant preparedness with Lamia meant Alabaster had learned to recuperate his magic rapidly; he was ready for another fight.

           “Do you know what dreams would be without nightmares?” Phobetor snarled. The spiders from Phobetor’s hatchet lunged off Alabaster’s staff, towards his face. “Everyone fusses over how creative Morpheus is, but—without my terror to compare to—what would be the sweetness of his dreams!? Lackluster and banal!”

           With a few mutters, Alabaster set off a rune on his PJs and the spiders burst into flames. He twisted his metal pole to strike Phobetor. When he hit the God of Nightmare’s shoulder, Alabaster’s staff sunk in like he’d struck a tar pool.

As quick as he could, Alabaster disengaged, taking a step backwards. Alabaster withdrew a hex stone from one of his pouches and tossed it—

           But the God of Nightmares was too fast.

           His tar-like body morphed to avoid the projectile. To curse him, Alabaster would need to throw something that the god couldn’t dodge. Or didn’t want to.

           Alabaster sensed a shift in the Mist near Phobetor’s feet. Something told him that he only needed to buy a little more time for Lou Ellen.

           This time, snakes slithered down from Phobetor’s coat ruffles as he went to attack.

           “I think—” Alabaster hissed as he kicked a snake away and deflected another hatchet blow. His body rattled with the strike. “Like your brother, you’re not as powerful when you’re awake in the mortal world. And, keeping all those demigods asleep must be straining you.”

           Phobetor harrumphed, “I am the grand Ikelos, you impertinent boy!”

But Alabaster could tell he was right. There was a reason Phobetor hadn’t been able to put he, Lou Ellen, or Clovis to sleep, or expand his sphere of influence to the Romans. There was a reason he couldn’t outright kill all the campers. Putting mortals into a sustained sleep was one thing, but—as Morpheus had discovered during the Battle of Manhattan—putting demigods to sleep was much more challenging, especially while knocking out a drakon, statue, and tree.

Lou Ellen reappeared by Phobetor’s feet, tossing away a snake. She gave Alabaster a thumbs up, then swiped her hand by the god’s foot.

The limb disappeared.

Phobetor gave a shout of alarm.

Someone else lumbered past Alabaster. He was shocked to see Clovis—seeming fully recharged—shove a Roman spear at Phobetor’s other leg.

Phobetor yelped and tried to shift his leg into tar. Although Alabaster wasn’t sure how the physics worked behind it—and would love to know—Phobetor couldn’t keep the tar leg’s footing without the other to balance. He stumbled backwards, flopping over Lou Ellen’s back.

She laughed and tossed two things to Alabaster: Phobetor’s detached foot, and a small, pink pigball. After Jack’s decapitation, Alabaster thought he wouldn’t be happy to see a dismembered limb for at least a week, but this one made him ecstatic.

The switch was simple, a slight of hand trick that kept Pax entertained for hours when he was little. Alabaster coated both objects with Mist, making the foot look like the ball and the ball look like the foot.

Lou Ellen scrambled over to their side, as well as she could with her apparent dizziness. Clovis prepared his spear for another attack.

Phobetor hissed in fury as he went to get to his feet—foot.

Alabaster tossed the fake-foot-real-ball in one hand. “It seems fitting that you’d lose this, considering it looks like you’ve been taking them from campers all day.”

“Give that back!” Phobetor huffed.

“Gladly,” Alabaster said.

He tossed the “foot” towards Phobetor. As he did, he and Lou Ellen chanted in perfect unison. “Incantara: sus transformatio.”

Logic told Alabaster the chances of success were 50/50: Phobetor was physically weak and vulnerable, and Alabaster and Lou Ellen were the former and current heads of Hecate. But Phobetor was a god. Petty spells shouldn’t work on him.

However, some part of Alabaster knew it would work. Like he’d done this before.

And as Phobetor caught the foot, smoke poofed around him. The jester costume deflated. His hatchet-piccolo fell to the ground, his kiwi bird mask right after.

In the place of the God of Nightmares sat an adorable grey piglet with a bowtie that squealed indignantly.

 Thanks for the read guys! I hope you enjoyed this siblings combo XD

Side note: I love Alabaster and how confused he is.

Soundtrack for this song was Toccato by Overwerk. The artwork on the youtube video released by xKito reminds me SO much of what would happen if Kally and Atë had a full conversation. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCnJAMkETiU

[asflowersfade]

Scribble-Doodle: Stuck With

De-aged parabatai ahoy! I should be actually working on my series, instead... *points*

Jace doesn’t know what’s happening. Just moments ago, he was in Idris, training with his father, now he’s - he looks around, wide-eyed and scared - in the sewers somewhere, scrambling out of clothes that are too big for him, now naked but for the t-shirt hanging off his shoulders and past his knees.

What’s going on? What’s going on?!

There’s a skittering sound and a chattering so vile and unnatural it’s like nails on a chalkboard. And then, suddenly, something lunges out of the darkness. Jace reacts on instinct, throwing himself forward and rolling on the dirty, slimy floor, grabbing the hilt of a Seraph Blade peaking out of the pile of discarded clothes. He activates it but it’s too big for him, too heavy, he can’t swing it, so he just twists around and holds it up in front of him - and the demon, a shax demon, impales itself on the blade, its mandibles snapping close just inches away from Jace’s face, then it bursts into flames and dissipates.

What is going on here? Jace asks himself, looking around wildly but careful not to make a sound, because that’s important, to not make any noise, to be quiet as a mouse, not to draw attention to himself until he knows what’s happening! Is this another of his father’s tests? Please, let it be another test, because in that case, even if he failed and then got punished for incompetence, his father would come for him, eventually. But if it’s not, if it’s some… some kind of… magic, then Jace doesn’t know what he’ll do!

There’s a silent groan to his right and a rustle of fabric, and Jace whips around, the disgusting sludge squishing between his bare toes. There’s something there, in the dark, on the ground, a mound of something moving. He tries to raise the Seraph Blade higher but it’s too heavy and his arms are starting to tremble so the point dips instead.

“Ow,” a soft voice whispers and in the shaft of yellow light - a street light, its glow filtering down through a manhole? - Jace sees a pale hand, too small to belong to an adult, slide out of... another pile of clothes?

Carefully, Jace takes a step closer - and pokes the mound of fabric, black linen and buttery soft leather, with his big toe. When the pile makes a startled sound, Jace jumps back, his heart hammering.

There’s a person, a small person, buried underneath the clothes. And now that person shoots up, sitting up straight and looking around just as wildly as Jace a moment before. Somehow, that’s reassuring - Jace’s not alone in this, whatever this is - but also not really - the other one obviously has no idea what’s going on either.

“Izzy?” the other one - a boy, probably Jace’s age but much slighter, dark-haired and dark-eyed and way too pale, in Jace’s opinion - whispers loudly.

“No,” Jace replies just as quietly, lowering the Seraph Blade in his hands; its point clangs against the wet floor.

The other boy scrambles to his feet, too, or at least he tries to, because he trips over his t-shirt - it’s way too big on him, reaching to his shins and sliding off one thin shoulder - and falls back down. “Ow!” he utters again.

Jace decides to go on the offensive. When in doubt, attack, that’s his father’s motto. “Who are you?” he asks belligerently.

Looking up, all big-eyed, the boy rubs his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a muddy smear on his face. “Alec? Lightwood?” he replies, making it sound like a question.

Lightwood, Lightwood, Jace’s mind’s working hard. He knows of the Lightwoods, they’re an old Shadowhunter family, stationed in New York. Which could mean… He looks up again; sounds of heavy traffic echo down the manhole. Could they be in New York? But how?

“And you?” the boy - Alec - asks uncertainly.

Jace’s eyes snap back to him. “What about me?”

“Your name?” Alec’s brows furrow in annoyance. Annoyance’s good, better than fear. They can’t be too afraid if they’re to survive this, whatever this is.

“Jace Wayland,” Jace replies. “Do you know what happened? Where we are? Why we are here?”

Alec shakes his head and tries to get up again, but he falls for the second time, slipping on the foul smelling muck. Jace rolls his eyes. He lets go of the Seraph Blade with one hand and reaches down to help the boy up. Alec accepts gratefully, extracting himself from the too big clothes.

Too big… Jace looks at the pile of fabric he crawled out of, then at the other one. There’s a bow lying in a pool of liquid better left unasked about, right at Alec’s feet. The weapon’s also too big. Jace blinks, then he looks down at the Seraph Blade in his hand. No way. Absolutely not!

He sets the Seraph Blade aside - it’s useless to him anyway - and drops to his knees by “his” pile of clothes to search it. Immediately, he discovers his stele, his own stele, the one his father gave to him, and a pair of smaller Seraph Blades, daggers much better suited for his small hands. He activates both and hands one over to Alec.

“Here,” Jace says. “Be careful, there’re shax demons around. I think we must’ve stumbled across some trap and it did this” --he waves his stele up and down his body-- “to us.”

“And ‘this’ is what exactly?” Alec asks, accepting the blade.

Jace’s very aware of how stupid this will sound. “I think it… de-aged us? Some spell? Or something?”

Alec eyes him for a moment. Then carefully, he takes a step away from Jace as if Jace were crazy. “Right.”

Scowling, Jace snaps, “Do you have a better explanation? I was just with my father, in Idris!”

Frowning again, Alec admits reluctantly, “Well, I was with my sister a moment ago, studying in the library.”

Jace lifts his hands in a “there you have it” gesture, annoyed with this-this child. Yeah, it sounds dumb but magic is dumb. And dangerous. Which reminds him…

Alec’s eyes turn round when he sees Jace activate his sight rune. “You have runes! And so many of them already!” he whispers, awed.

Duh. “Well, yeah. You don’t?” Jace asks, irritated, and he turns to look at Alec now that he can actually see in the dark. And for the first time he realizes that Alec truly does not have any runes at all, his skin’s completely unmarred, Jace can’t even see his angelic rune anywhere.

Seriously? Alec’s what, seven? Eight? He’s definitely as old as Jace. How can he have no runes at all at this age? How irresponsible of Alec’s parents to leave their son so unprotected! Did Alec actually ever see a real demon up close? Jace’s seized with horror: He isn’t stuck with a complete amateur here, is he? Raziel forbid.

Alec shakes his head. “I haven’t had my first rune ceremony yet. It usually doesn’t happen till you’re ten, you know?”

Idiocy! “Then how do you protect yourself in a fight?” Jace asks in disbelief.

Alec blinks at him. “I… don’t fight? Kids don’t fight demons, we just train and study.” He’s looking at Jace like Jace’s being stupid again.

By the Angel! Jace is stuck with an amateur. They’re both going to die.

There’s the skittering sound again and Jace whips around. Now that his sight rune’s activated, he can actually see the demons, and his heart skips a beat because the tunnels are crawling with them! No. No, no, no!

“We have to go, now!” Jace hisses, backing away towards the wall. There’s a side-tunnel up there, three feet or so of the ground, a drainage pipe of some kind. Maybe it’s narrow enough that the things won’t be able to pass through?

“Why?” Alec asks, turning and looking around fearfully. He can hear the scuttling of chitinous legs on brick but without the sight rune, he can’t see anything.

“Shax demons!” Jace whispers. “They’re everywhere! We have to get out of here. There’s a drainage pipe in the wall behind me, up there. I’ll hoist you up.”

Alec looks at him uncertainly. “But…”

Jace grabs Alec’s hand and pulls him to the wall as the shax demons slither closer. Alec’s staring at him and Jace can feel him trembling a little. If this turns out to be one of Michael Wayland’s test after all, then Jace’s about to blow it by helping this kid - everyone for himself, that’s another of his father’s mottos - but Jace can’t leave Alec here, he just can’t. When he looks into the other boy’s eyes, there’s something, some strange feeling, a twinge in his chest, a certainty that if he leaves Alec to die here, he will regret it for the rest of his life.

“Trust me!” Jace says imploringly, squeezing Alec’s hand.

All of a sudden, as if flipping a switch, as if he came to a decision of some kind, Alec relaxes. His trembling stops and he nods. “Alright,” he whispers, squeezing Jace’s hand back. And something pleasant and warm flutters deep inside Jace’s chest. How odd.

“Then up you go,” Jace says.

He clenches his stele in his teeth and deactivates the Seraph Blade so that he doesn’t cut Alec by accident. Then he grabs the other boy and hoists him up to the drainage pipe. Alec climbs in - Jace can hear rats running away, squealing - and Jace follows quickly, just as the shax demons rush in, realizing that their prey’s about to escape. Their mandibles snap together a bare inch away from Jace’s foot, making his heart jump.

“Go, go, go!” Jace yells at Alec as the demons try to squeeze in after them, reaching in with their sharp, barbed legs, and he hisses as they cut his skin, making him bleed.

Alec crawls forward as fast as he can with Jace at his heels but he keeps hitting his head, bruising his arms and scratching his skin because he can’t see where he’s going. Still, he doesn’t utter a word of complain, he just goes.

And then the pipe ends without warning and Alec falls out, head first. Luckily, he tucks himself into a ball, the way he was taught, and though he hits the ground hard, he rolls with it until he splashes into the stinking sewer water where he stops, lying on his back and gasping, waiting for Jace to catch up.

Jace climbs down the wall; here the pipe opens almost five feet off the floor and he realizes just how lucky Alec was that he didn’t break his neck. Next time Jace’ll go first and lead the way. He helps Alec back to his feet, then he grabs his hand again so that they don’t get separated in the dark and they run, the shrieking shax demons still behind them.

They run and they stumble, bruised and bleeding, with no direction in mind just to get away, get away, get away, as far as they can from the monsters pursuing them. They run and they hide in tiny crawl spaces, just barely big enough for two children to pass through, and it seems that hours must’ve passed, a small eternity, it feels that way, at least. And whenever they rest, they huddle together for warmth, holding onto each other, and despite all the horrors, it feels good, this closeness.

But then it happens, in a crossroads of several tunnels, Jace’s looking ahead and behind them, watching out for demons, but he can’t have eyes everywhere at once, and Alec must’ve noticed something, a movement in the shadows, or something, because suddenly, he pushes Jace out of the way and Jace flies across the crossroads and hits the slimy wall hard. And when he turns…

Alec’s down, stabbed through his right shoulder, pinned to the floor by a shax demon’s leg, but before Jace can do anything to help him, Alec lifts his Seraph Blade and activates it, and though it’s a simple dagger rather than a sword, he does it directly below the thing’s belly and the blade slices through the carapace easily. The monster screeches and turns into dust.

“Alec!” Jace yells and scrambles towards the other boy, skidding across the dirty floor and falling to his knees by his side. He’s afraid to touch Alec who curled up into a ball, holding his torn and bleeding shoulder. “Alec, please!”

And then the demons are everywhere, simply everywhere, crawling out of every tunnel - they must’ve stumbled right into their nest by accident - and Jace realizes that they can’t fight them all off, that they won’t survive this! And he tried so hard! He did! And he failed!

Jace throws himself onto Alec, covering him with his body, and he whispers into Alec’s ear, “I’m sorry!”

But then there’s a blinding flash of light and the roar of fire and the crack of a whip and the demons are shrieking and whining and scuttling directly over the boys - but not to get to them, to get away!

It goes on and on and on and Jace’s holding Alec tight, having dropped both his Seraph Blade and his stele to protect the other boy, but finally it’s all over and they’re both scratched, torn and bleeding even more than before - but they’re alive.

Slowly, Jace lifts his head. His sight’s blurry - he was kicked in the head and one of his eyes is already starting to swell - but in one of the tunnels, in the one to his right, he can see three people running towards them, two women and a man…

Darkness claims him.

When Jace next opens his eyes, he realizes two things: he’s in the Infirmary of the New York Institute and he’s himself again, a twenty-something adult, thank you very much!

He tries to shift and groans because, though he was re-aged - is that even a word? - during the time he was unconscious, he’s still as battered and bruised as before. He guesses he should be grateful for small miracles. Miracles…

Jace’s eyes widen and he looks around fast, searching for… He sighs in relief. Alec’s in the bed next to him, an adult again, too. He’s lying on his side, facing Jace, naked to the waist and Magnus is at his side, healing his torn shoulder. The wound looks ugly, blackened with poison, but since Magnus is here, Jace knows that his parabatai’s in good hands.

“What happened?” Jace croaks out, staring at Alec, who’s still unconscious or maybe asleep.

Magnus glances up at him, but someone else answers Jace’s question, a voice on the other side of his bed. Clary. “You fell into a trap,” she whispers and when he turns to her, she lifts his hand - she’s been holding it the whole time, it seems - and kisses his knuckles. “We thought we lost you.”

Izzy’s standing behind Clary with one hand on Clary’s shoulder and she’s smiling at Jace. “We’re so glad you’re okay. When we found your weapons and clothes--” She swallows hard and shakes her head. “We suspected the worst. But then we noticed the footprints leading away, children’s footprints, and we realized that something must’ve happened, that magic was involved. So we called Magnus.” 

“The warlock who set the trap miscalculated, used the wrong sigils,” Magnus comments quietly. 

This time when Jace turns his head towards the other bed, he notices blue magic sparkling; Magnus keeps running his fingertips over Alec’s shoulder again and again, across the skin and towards the wound, pushing the poison out of the jagged hole in Alec’s flesh, and wiping the black ichor away with a towel with his free hand. 

“He or she planned on wiping out their pursuers but instead, the spell de-aged you,” Magnus continues with his explanation. “It turned you into kids again. You could’ve still died, killed by that...” --he makes a face-- “amateur’s pet demons, but instead, you handles your self remarkably well.” 

Jace nods. They were truly lucky, he knows that.

And then Alec opens his eyes and for a long moment, while the others rejoice, he and Jace just stare at each other.

“Hey,” Jace croaks out quietly.

“Hey,” Alec replies. “Thanks for saving my life out there.”

“Back at you.”

They smile. Everything’s okay.

[tysonrunningfox]

Eret III: Chiefing Intensified

My babies were all waiting and wow, they are ridiculous.  Also, Gobber is here and I love him.  

Previous Parts

The chief keeps me until almost sundown, talking nonstop and explaining the whole smoker setup and how much food the village needs to keep running smoothly until the winter breaks. I almost hate how easy it is to ignore who he is in favor of what he’s saying, but maybe after the last couple of days, I just can’t handle full situational awareness at all times.  My head would explode.  It’s dangerously close as is, counting row after row of smoked yak and listening to all the ways it could go bad anyway.  

Because nothing’s ever foolproof. All the preparation and carefully thought out decisions in the world and sometimes you still end up completely and utterly fucked.  

He finally lets me leave when I spot Aurelia, walking past like she’s trying to be secretive on the way to my old house.  She looks both ways when I walk up to her like she’s making sure I’m alone and Bang sniffs her hand in cautious greeting, like he’s still worried about her from her outburst the night before.  

“I won’t turn you in for stalking,” I roll my eyes, “I’m going to head over to Fuse’s shop now, if you can convince Arvid to come, I’m sure we’ll have something to tell him.”  

“I swear, you Vikings and your dragons,” she scoffs, “always banding together despite your differences for the greater, scaly good.”  

I almost ask her to tell him sorry for me.  

But that wouldn’t be real and I’m not sure I’ll mean it when I see his face, all red tattoos and blind, stubborn anger.  

“I can go talk to him if interacting with Vikings is such a burden for you.”  

“Right, because you haven’t been pummeled in a while,” she rolls her eyes and pats Bang’s head before turning to continue on the rarely used trail to the Hofferson house.  We never walked home, always flew or left by boat. It feels like she’s opening up a new path to the house by walking on it and I don’t know how I feel about that. I don’t know how shallow my bitter, confused jealousy’s grave is.  

But I don’t know how much worrying about it matters, anyway, because Arvid hates everyone with the misfortune of being connected to the chief.  

“See you at Fuse’s shop, Arvid-less or not,” she looks back over her shoulder and nods, a familiar determination in her face.  She’s going to get him to fight with her, at least.  

“Sounds good,” I wave, glancing at the sky and seeing Toothless circling overhead before deciding to walk.  “What do you think, bud?  Want to walk with me or want to go home?”  I scratch Bang’s head and he groans, pressing his face against my leg before turning and taking off towards the nearest shore.  He’s probably hungry, or well, hungry and miffed at me for not going fishing with him.  

Maybe he’s going to go see Dad, get a few fish off the boat.  I’ve never gone this long after yelling at my dad without apologizing to him. It used to drive me crazy, his stony, silent disappointed face that cut so much deeper than mom yelling, I’d do anything for him to stop.  But this is different because he was wrong and this situation is wrong and I can’t back down now, not when I’m finally getting somewhere.  People think there’s a reason to tell me the truth now, and I can’t turn back from that.  

People wave as I walk into the square and I wave back, skirting around a couple of conversations that people try to start.  I wonder if it’ll always be that way, or if I’m still just a novelty people want to check out.  

My feet take my by the forge window, the ultimate habit, and I look in to see that Smitelout’s gone and Gobber’s alone, organizing a stack of what look like saddle orders.  Gobber looks older than I remember too and I hate that even more than Dad looking old.  He looks up and I wave, feeling wrong and foreign on this side of the window.

“Need something?” Gobber asks, halfway between angry and something almost apologetic that I’ve never heard from him before.  

“No,” I shrug, leaning forward slightly on the counter, “I mean, it’d be great to not be in loads of trouble for storming out yesterday, but…”  I look up at him, eyebrows raised until his expression softens.  

“I think I can make an exception.”  Gobber stands up, hand on his knee like it hurts.  It probably does.  He probably had to take up a bunch of my slack yesterday because no matter what decision I make, it gets harder for someone.  “Just this one time.”  

“Yeah, I think I won’t make a habit of learning that my mom used to be engaged to the chief and freaking out.”  

“With your luck, I don’t think you can assume you’ll be that lucky,” he walks over, handing me some small part with hammer marks that aren’t mine or his, “Smite finished this up for your mom today, it’s a saddle repair, think you have time to finish it up?”  

“Yeah, of course,” I put the piece of iron in my pocket and look at him again, “seriously though, I’m sorry.”  

“Quit groveling,” he brushes me off, “you stayed on the island, that’s enough.”  

“I’ll have you know I had a tantrum on a boat in the bay, so I did leave the island,” I don’t know why I’m telling him, because I don’t want advice, “I yelled at my Dad.  I yelled at everyone yesterday, you aren’t alone if you need like a support group to cope or something.”  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Gobber rolls his eyes, but he looks at least a little bit mollified, “Smitelout hurts me more with that glare of hers.”  

“Well, it’s a savage glare,” I give a fake shudder, tapping my hands on the counter and standing up, “and I have to go see Fuse about one of her crazy ideas, but uh…”

“Go,” he waves me off, “and don’t forget that you’re mine the first day the chief doesn’t need you. Your half finished projects are taking up half the storage shelf.”  He waves gruffly at the mess with his metal hook hand and I wish I could be more like that. I wish I could pull off the grumpy, untouchable thing, that my explosive, reckless idiocy wasn’t the whole sum of my charm.  

“And that’s what I get for apologizing, more responsibility,” I step away from the counter and laugh, “way to encourage me owning up to my actions.”  

“That’s not my job,” he laughs, “thank Thor.”  

“Yeah, lucky you.”  I point towards the Thorston house, “well, I don’t want Fuse experimenting on me if I’m late so…”

“We need you in one piece, so get out of here,” he waves me away and I tap the counter one last time before going, feeling lighter and more tired than I was.  

Usually, I hate the snow and how it’s a thick, cold, heavy blanket over everything fun, but this year? This year I’m hoping for an early blizzard that goes above my head and gives me an excuse to sleep for a week. Preferably a week where no one talks to me and I don’t have to share a house with the chief and Stoick looking to me for entertainment the whole time, but I don’t think I’m ever going to get everything I want all at once.  

The door of Fuse’s workshop is open and there’s a stream of greenish smoke leaking around the top of the doorframe.  I knock on the open door, and she jerks to look at me like I snatched her out of some deep thought.  

“Oh.  Hey, I thought you’d be here earlier.”  

“Sorry, got held up with the chief,” I look around at the piles of ingredients all over her counter, “if you can’t do it anymore we could talk tomorrow or something.”  

“No, this is fine, just…don’t touch anything,” she nibbles on the black singed edge of a fingernail and wrinkles her nose at the taste.  “Is Aurelia coming?”  

“Allegedly, with Arvid, if he’s still interested in helping.”  

“It’s for the dragons,” Fuse turns to look at a parchment covered wall, “even he’s not self-centered enough to refuse to help the dragons.”  

“What are we looking at?” I step into the room beside her, looking at the same wall.  It’s covered with her perpetually wrinkly parchment and she’s drawn about a dozen diagrams of the sick dragons’ island, about half of them slightly wrong and crossed out.  I’m impressed that she could be so accurate from memory and I touch the point of the volcano on the drawing closest to me.  

“I talked to my uncle Fishlegs some, pretending I had some new found interest in geology, and he says that there’s probably caves under any volcano of this size and that they’re probably full of softer rock than what makes up the rest of the island,” she wraps the end of her sooty braid around her finger while she talks, snaggletooth digging slightly into her lower lip, “that means that even if we can’t access them, if we bomb near them it could cause a collapse and if what the dragons are trying to get to is underneath.”  She shrugs, picking up a mostly new book that’s obviously rarely borrowed and offering it to me, “want to read about it?”  

“Want is probably the wrong word,” I take the book anyway and flip through it, skimming a few of the runes and wrinkling my nose, “I trust you, anyway, you tell me what to make and I’ll make it.”  

“Huh, ok,” she cocks her head and takes the book back.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  

“I guess I just figured you’d be taking charge of this, like all that chief training would be kicking in already.”  

“I think I’m learning most about delegation,” I swallow, because I can’t help but think of my mom wanting to help and the chief not letting her.  And the pressure of everything on the island making him stupid and selfish.

And how easy it is to think of myself as some chosen dragon savior when I know how well that turned out for the last guy.  

“Yeah?”  She says it like filler, like she knows she has to say something to remain in the conversation but she doesn’t have anything useful to say.  

Somehow, I don’t care that she lied to me.  She’s the only one that did it practically.  

“Consider yourself acting chief of blowing things up.”  

“Making that official might make the chief suspicious,” the corner of her mouth twitches into a rare smile, like she forgets that people need expressions more than rocks do, “but I accept.”  

“Should we wait for Arvid to talk about this more?”  I look out of the door and see the shiny brick red of Aurelia’s hair at the bottom of the path to the Thorston house.  She can’t have been at my old house long to be back here already, unless she gave in and flew at some point.  I wonder if Arvid’s even coming, but something tells me she wouldn’t have left unless he promised to.  “And Aurelia might be more interested in the boring rock book than I am.”  

“Sure, she can borrow it.” Fuse looks out the door too, almost nervous for a moment, “and why would we wait for Arvid?  I figure we’ll just tell him where to put the heavy things.” She doesn’t sound like she’s trying to insult him, it’s just something that comes naturally.  

“He said he wanted to help,” I shrug, “plus, he’ll just get pissy if he thinks we’ve been plotting without him.”  

“Then why invite him?” She looks at me in that openly complicated way she does, like I’m fully welcome to stare at the unbreakable code of her brain.  “Obviously we’re going to plan some of this without him, you know, given that I’m the only one who knows what we need and you’re the only one who can make any of it.”

I open my mouth to start making up an answer to that, but a landing flap of wings catches both of our attention.  It’s Arvid, swinging off of Wing a few steps from a wary Aurelia who pauses halfway up the hill.  I don’t expect Arvid to wait for her, but he does, falling into grudging step beside her while she says something about an argument.  She catches my eye and shakes her head, shrugging her coat collar up to her ears and walking faster.  

Arvid follows, avoiding looking where he’s going entirely and staring at the back of Aurelia’s head like she spat in his food and he can’t quite figure out why he’s not pissed about it yet.  

Aurelia looks halfway smug before she trips on a rock and Arvid reaches out to reflexively catch her arm, apparently still in the habit from a lifetime of saving my face before deciding to break it.  She shrugs his grip off with one of those sharp, jolty, poorly thought out motions, stumbling sideways and almost falling again.  

“That’s not going to get me on your side.”  

“I don’t have a side,” Arvid wipes his hand on his pants like touching her sullied it and she sets her jaw like she’s mad even though I’m uniquely suited to see the pangs of a deep-piercing, stupid crush.  

“Yes, you do, and it’s against Eret and I’m with him.”  

“Chief’s brats stick together, I know the drill,” Arvid says that to hurt me, refusing to acknowledge my existence like he knows I hate the most.  

“Oh my gods,” Aurelia rolls her eyes, walking away from him, “you act like we pledge allegiance to the chief before remembering to breathe.  It’s not a cult,” she stops outside and looks around like she’s expecting a trip wire, “hey, Fuse.”  

“Hey, Aurelia.”  

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Arvid asks, feet planted where they were when she last talked to him.  He seems to be oddly stuck, like he stumbled into an impossible patch of quicksand.  

“Right,” she turns back to him, hand on her hip and an expression like she likes the height boost of being further up the hill, “I forgot, I’m so well liked around here I must worship the Chief Hiccup designed natural order of things.  It’s not like I’m stuck hanging out with the village weirdos or anything.  No offense, Fuse.”  

“Not offended,” Fuse turns back to her counter, organizing two seemingly identical bags of black powder.

“Hey,” I don’t sound as offended as I want to because I’m stuck on Arvid staring at her with this wide-mouthed, dead cod expression.  

“Didn’t realize being a princess was so rough,” he sneers, a weak recovery of his bad attitude.  

Aurelia scoffs, “right, because it’s not like my dad literally rewrote laws to find an heir that wasn’t me.  In case you haven’t noticed, he’s a dick.”  

I laugh.  Arvid turns an embarrassed shade of pale and patchy red that I haven’t seen since his voice stopped cracking and girls started looking at him before he looked at them.  

“Are we going to talk about the dragons or not?”  Fuse isn’t quite bored, but she doesn’t care about Arvid’s bumbling either.  

“Yes, please,” Aurelia steps inside and sits on the second stool next to Fuse, poking a small clay pot with a careful pinky and asking what’s in it.  

Arvid steps up to the doorway and looks around, avoiding eye contact until I clear my throat.  

“Took you long enough to get here.”  

“Not my fault the princess wanted to walk.”  He glances at Aurelia like she’s a target he doesn’t know what to do with.  

“You waited for her?”

“We weren’t done with our discussion yet.”  He doesn’t step inside, his toes barely touching the shadow of the door frame. He looks around like he’s thinking about storming off and looks back at Wing like he’s reminding himself it’s for the dragons.  Not me.

Because he wouldn’t do anything for me anymore.  

“Discussion?”  I think for a stupid, homesick, heart-pounding second that he might answer the question, but he glares at me, eyebrows a hard, straight line.  

“It’s none of your business.”  

“Do you have to be such an asshole?”  Aurelia whirls on him, tone sharp and newly honed, like she put real work into the edge.

Arvid’s face goes patchy again, white except for two pink splotches framing the tattoos that aren’t quite so inflamed anymore.  He crosses his arms and shrugs one shoulder at her like he doesn’t have anything to say, he just is an asshole and he can’t change.  She rolls her eyes and turns back to whatever Fuse is showing her.  

“How long’s this going to take?”  He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe and making the entire shed shift slightly.  

“We’ve got to plan to make at least twenty four large explosives, it’s not like deciding to punch someone, it takes time,” Fuse takes a small bag off of a hook on the wall, “an emulsion of this is yak fat could potentially be a delayed explosive in water, we might be able to plant it near any of those caves we could find.”  

“I’m not going to stand here and be insulted,” he looks at me to stop it, for a second, before he realizes that we don’t do that anymore.  

I wonder if he talked to dad.  If he learned what I learned yesterday.  I wonder if it’s bugging him too or if he’s really to the point of caring about me so little that he doesn’t care.  

“Then don’t make it so easy,” Aurelia drawls like her heart’s beating way too fast and she doesn’t want to give it away.  

Arvid swallows hard, “just because I’m not Eret doesn’t mean I can’t help.”  

“His name isn’t an insult,” Aurelia stares at him, “neither is chief’s kid.  And please, contribute.  Prove it.”  

“Dagur’s chimney,” Arvid’s voice is flat, like he doesn’t know what to feel about this and he can’t muster up the will to figure it out, “we dropped a smoke bomb in it and one wall fell.  Isn’t a volcano just like a massive chimney?”  

“That’s…” Fuse frowns and pulls a ball of parchment out of her pocket, flattening it badly with the side of her hand and starting to scribble on it, “that’s not a horrible idea. It might be easier to explode than implode if everything underneath it is already filled with lava.”  

Aurelia shrugs one shoulder, lips half pursed, “who knew you had it in you?”  

Arvid crosses his arms more tightly, side of his neck going patchy too.  

I almost say that I did, because I have always known that he’s not stupid even if he didn’t know it, but something terrifying about Aurelia’s expression keeps me quiet.  She didn’t see that coming.  Arvid surprised her and if I know anything about Aurelia it’s that she knows everything before anyone else knows there’s something to know.  

“Remember that last part you made for me?”  Fuse either doesn’t notice the awkwardness or she doesn’t care, digging through a stack of papers for a drawing, “if we figured out which wall of the volcano was weakest and aimed an explosion at it from the inside it could…you remember the part right?”  

“Yeah, I do.”  

“We need to make it work,” she says that just to me, “with something bigger than I designed it for but we could make some smaller bombs and test it out.  I could use help with that, you could help me fill shells.”  

“Yeah, I can do that,” Aurelia volunteers too enthusiastically, like she expects the offer to go away, and Fuse looks expectedly at Arvid.  

He shrugs.  

“Is that a yes in gruff asshole?”  Aurelia asks, opening her mouth like she’s going to say more but then pausing like she doesn’t want to talk over him.  

He shrugs again, frowning when her face reddens.  

I’m too tired for this.

“Let’s meet at the forge,” I decide, and Fuse is right I already feel like chiefly training matters somehow and that they’ll listen, “when…let’s do it when it snows.  The chief will be busy and everyone else will be at home, no one will notice us.”  

“Sounds good,” Fuse stands up and looks around expectantly, “and I have to get some things done now.”

“Oh, sorry,” I scratch the back of my head, “we’ll get out of your hair.”  

“No, it’s fine,” she looks at me, specifically, “I want to get your opinion on something—”

But I can’t focus on what she’s saying when Aurelia is raising an eyebrow and staring at Arvid expectantly until he moves out of her way with that same dead-fish face.  Because it still feels wrong and weird and painful and Aurelia and I have to get home for dinner, anyway.  

“Some other time?”  I feel bad when Fuse looks legitimately disappointed and for some reason it makes me want to pat her shoulder again, but that was bizarre enough this morning so I shove my hands in my pockets instead. “Being chief in waiting is the job that never stops, you know?”  

“Yeah,” she looks at Aurelia, looking like she’s going to say something else and then stopping because it’s not something I practically need to know, “some other time.”  

“You’re the best,” I follow Aurelia outside and start walking towards the chief’s house, oddly relieved when she follows me.  

Like she was going to do something else.  Like I didn’t want her to.  Like it’s none of my business just like Arvid said but I can’t help but feeling like it has something to do with me.  I don’t even know what it is but I already want to stick my hands in it, maybe being with the chief so much is going to my head.  

She looks back at Wing taking off and tries to play it off as a stretch.  I snort.  

“You know, I understood the going to talk to him tactic, but the violently shutting down everything he said thing was new.”  

Maybe part of me is hoping that she’ll tell me to leave her alone so that I can absolve myself of involvement in her decisions that still feel creepy even though I want to let go of that.  I want to kill that deepset seed of loyalty that makes me want to defend Arvid, I want to stop feeling like I have to protect her or that there’s anything to protect her from.  

So basically I’m doomed to feel odd and awkward no matter what I say, and barring learning to shut up, that leaves retreating into sarcasm as my only option.  

It’s funny, conversations seem a lot more like battles when I’ll be stuck throwing my own punches afterwards.  

“Nah, it’s the oldest one on the books,” she shrugs, “he asked me why I was running ‘errands’ for you and it pissed me off.  You only outrank me in theory.”  

“And why would he think anyone would want to be chief with you undermining their confidence and botching errands all day?”  

She elbows me in the ribs and I laugh, reaching to ruffle her hair before she stops me with a glare that says I’ll regret it.  

“Today was fun though,” she tucks her hands back into her too long sleeves for warmth as a piercing wind slices up from the ocean, “being a part of the secret planning.  Seeing why Arvid is scared to pick a fight with Fuse. She’s crazy, I actually believe she’s going to blow an island out of existence.”  

“If anyone can do it, she can.”  I hold onto why I want to, because talking about it makes it feel bigger.  Like I might be as silly and over my head as the chief seemed to think when I tried to bring the sick dragons up to him.  

But if he could save dragons from Vikings by showing off, I can surely save them from something as comparatively predictable as an island in their way.  

“You know what I keep noticing?”  Aurelia looks down the grassy slope, “I don’t remember the last time I saw a wild terror. At first it was a nice thing, like not stepping in dragon dung for a while, but now it’s just ominously quiet.”

“Just like the house last night with no yelling parents.  Do you think the chief’s going to sleep upstairs again?”  I change the subject like it’ll feel like less pressure. It doesn’t.  

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, “but I hope he puts away the happy family breakfast act.”  She looks at her fingers, forcibly blasé, “just when I think he’s over the whole confusing me with my mom nonsense, he brings me her favorite food like that’s not upsetting.”  

“That’s why you were weird this morning?”  

I wish again that I could really talk to Arvid or that Ingrid were here or that Rolf’s spine could ever be self-supporting with the stick up his ass, because they’re the only ones besides me and Aurelia who could ever understand this.  This feeling of belonging two places at once and nowhere at all in the same instant.  The choices we have to make the lines we have to draw, the sides we have to choose even when none of them feels like ours.  

I remember Aurelia’s mom. I remember that she was pretty and that she looked at me with confused bitterness I never thought was personal. I remember that my parents didn’t hate her the way they did the chief.  They made excuses for her weak norse and told us all to give her space, the kind of space meant to console, not offend.  

Aurelia doesn’t remind me of her at all.  Mostly Aurelia reminds me of all the things about myself that never made sense until they did.  

Well, that and why known paternity is important to prevent a child from experiencing icky pubescent crush-related trauma.  

“Yeah.  That and Stoick didn’t wake me up because he was bugging you.”  

“Bugging is right,” I jokingly roll my eyes, “no, he just wanted me out of the way to get to Bang. It’s a love connection.”  

“He likes you too,” she steps ahead of me to get the door, fighting with it and the wind for a moment before heaving it open, “that makes one brother who can stand you.”  

“Thanks for keeping score,” I walk in past her and look around, pausing at the chief sitting in front of the fire with Stoick’s terror in his lap.  

He perks up like he’d kill for another deep talk and I look around for Mom.  

Aurelia storms to her room and slams the door with spiteful dedication.  

“She went on a flight,” the chief offers, staring after Aurelia and looking confused and pathetic and like he’s never tried to talk to her, “your mom did, I mean.”  

“Oh, that’s probably why Bang’s not home yet.”  

“Right, he’s probably with her,” he nods, “I guess I’m not used to my dragon flying off without me.”

“Yeah,” I nod, thinking about leaving again because this is awkward and I haven’t apologized to my dad yet and I’m scared if I fall asleep a week will pass and I’ll wake up to another new, messed up reality.  

I sit down on the ground and start helping Stoick with the tower of blocks he’s building because it’s the only thing that doesn’t feel like a decision.  

[strategicadventure]

Episode 81 - What Lies Beneath The Surface

Keyleth guessing her falling in lava was karma for that duergar she killed lol I forgot about that kill

“the oath of annoyance paladin”

so glad that Zahra and Kash are alive!

KERREK!!!

Vax using lay on hands and then Kash lightly kneeing him in the nuts

Sam no! stop with the drugs!

a rune on Gilmore’s forehead?!

J’mon holding Gilmore in his claw while they talk, I’m so interested in Gilmore’s story what are they talking about

Scanlan using the flute for drugs omg Scanlan

OMG SAM

“great time for a personal crisis”

Scanlan wakes up after passing out from drugs “(hitting Percy) are you real?” Percy: “....no” - Percy is such a little shit

Scanlan quickly shifting from attention on him to yelling at Vax about charging in, so worried about Scanlan

Vax just shoving his letter at Scanlan and walking off; not sure if him manhandling Scanlan and Vax’s note is gonna change their dynamic or add onto Scanlan’s troubled state

things Grog is looking for in the cave ”gold, platinum, cheese if they’re lucky”

Matt: [detailed description of dragon’s motions and how small a gnome is in comparison] J’mon “nah, keep it” and walks away - lol Matt

“raise your hand if you have less than 30hp” [four hands go up] Kerreck: “oh I could probably take out the whole group!”

is that?.........is that a deck of many things??? given to GROG? intelligence of 6?! OMFG

everyone’s face when they realize what Grog found

I think I legitimately gasped and said oh no while I started laughing

harp music and Laura Bailey manifests like a devil on Grog’s shoulder, she isn’t even in character “Travis what are you doing!”

Vex’s eyes when Grog says carpet

“is there a name for this, whatever this is? what’s the name” “idiocy”

Matt is flipping so many pages! Travis: “is it really the most powerful thing in the game?......WHY WOULD YOU GIVE ME THAT?!”

he got a sword? is it good, is that it? oh man I’m laughing so hard at this

Grog destroying busts cause he doesn’t care and Percy is just dying at the destroyed artifacts

somehow that did not turn out horribly? Travis always seems to roll (and now pick) inexplicably well as Grog for things he shouldn’t necessarily

Vex got a flying carpet! and its bigger than the last one!

Percy and Keyleth are adorable and I love their friendship

Kerr suggesting to give the Clasp the deck is amazing and devious holy shit

Grog and Percy agreeing on pragmatic courses of events is so interesting; they are so different but align quite often on strategic maneuvers

glad that Gilmore is finding some of his own stuff

the scrying on Raishan worked!

can Kerr be here every week? cause his idea about looking for the place in old stories is such a good one

Matt should never challenge Percy cause Percy will roll that nat20

Gilmore backstory yay!

a dancing sword that will fight on its own, that is so cool

lol I love Samantha; Grog being attracted to any woman that can cause him injury, and as for his flirting - “is he going with you? good”

Percy finally hugs his sister and its to get muck all over her. ah siblings

SCANLAN SHORTHALT

the attempt to get Jarrett ‘drugs’ was hilarious but this is now a huge problem and someone needs to find out and fix this. welcome to the new year where its time to worry about Scanlan!

Vax and Percy talking in the bath is great and Vex hiding underwater makes it even better

Travis being the biggest Perc’ahlia fan is such a joy to watch holy crap

so necromancy is the thing driving all the story arcs. I cannot wait for the Vecna storyline to kick into gear

I wonder what deity Kerr is connected to

“Kerr, the fire has passed through you”

Allura MF Vysoren outdrinking all of them like a champ!  “were you in a motorcycle gang? how did she do that?”

Grog and Keyleth have somewhere along the way become my favorite two members and I hope that when they rearrange the seating they end up sitting by each other

“do you like it shorter?” “I like you”

really like this talk between Vax and Keyleth -- its really good for Keyleth to hear that people have faith in her, and its just really interesting how far Vax has come with faith as well

Scanlan has had a lot of stuff piling up for awhile now and is acting out with drugs. burning Vax’s note and going after more drugs even after his body rejected the first batch - this is such a huge thing and idk how long after Raishan’s death it will take someone to notice since Scanlan has such a high deception modifier. at this point I’m assuming it’ll be Scanlan deception vs Vex perception, like when he lost all that money in Ank’Harel

[leroyzboots]

The Fifth Ninja Chapter One: Rise Of The Snakes

The red-headed girl sat in the training yard, her eyes closed and legs crossed. Meditation was something she did often, to distract herself from the idiocy of her friends. Opening her icy blue eyes, her wizened sensei stood before her. “Is something wrong, Master Wu?” Her voice rang out, sharp and clear. “Yes May,” her master replied. “Where are the others?” May sighed, a hint of annoyance laying behind it. Getting up, she strolled over to the paper door, her blue furred boots padding softly against the cobblestone. Various shouts could be heard from behind it, and video game beeping as well. “In here,” she muttered, and threw them open. The four ninja sat clustered around the tv, controllers clutched in their hands. Pizza boxes and slices lay scattered across the floor. Master Wu quickly zipped behind them and unplugged the tv, the screen going black. All of them groaned. The purple gi’d ninja shook her head. Her mind trailed off as her sensei and her friends incessantly babbled. Her training had been more intense, but she wondered why these boys changed her way of thinking. She had not been this way a few months ago. May was snapped from her thoughts as Nya Smith ran in the doorway. “Guys,” she panted, her voice panicking. “It’s Lord Garmadon! He’s returned!” The ninja began stumbling over one another, grabbing weapons and armour. May calmly pulled her waist length hair up into her hood, and began walking down the path to their dragons. As she did not have one of her own, she rode on Jay’s. Her gloves gripped the wooden poles, her exposed fingertips feeling the delicate lines of the birch. As the dragon soared up into the air, the wind blew fiercely in her eyes. The mountains loomed up through the clouds, but the dragons neatly soared over them. The village below seemed to spawn into existence, the people on the ground popping up from nothing. Jay suddenly dived, aiming at the ground at an intense speed. May let out a small yelp as the ground came up to meet them. Wisp pulled to a halt at the last second, sending May flying off his back and slamming into the snow. Pulling herself out of the white mass, she shook the snow out of her gi and turned to the boys, her temper getting the better of her. “What the hell?!” She yelled over their arguing. “Can we just not throw a teammate 20 feet, please!!!” The other four stared in confusion. May sighed, taking a deep breath. “Can we just.. Get on with it?” They walked cautiously towards the village, passing villagers who greeted them with smiles. May’s gauntled hands gripped the wooded hilt of her bo-staff tightly, ready to whip it out. From behind the fountain a large shadow crept out on the wall. A curious feeling crept through May. Not fear. But something far different. A sudden urge to step in front of the others almost overpowered her before she snapped out of her stupor. She hadn’t realized, but her mind had traveled for so long that standing in front of her was a small child. He wore a deep black jacket, his hood pulled up, but strands of tussled pale blond hair poked out from underneath. His eyes were a curious shade of red, almost pink. Tilting her head to the side, May stared at this strange kid. “I am Lloyd Garmadon!” he shouted, throwing his arms in the air. “Give me your candy!” She felt connected to this boy. A very strange connection. She followed the ninja as they hoisted Lloyd into the air, and began carrying him. He thrashed in their arms, kicking and flailing. As Zane strung him up on the flagpole, May removed her hood, her long hair drifting back down to her waist. Lloyd stopped kicking at once. A strange look came over his face. May wondered what it was. Her face of curiosity turned to disappointment as she saw the others eating his candy in front of Lloyd. “Assholes,” she muttered. She walked back to the dragons. Wisp turned happily towards her, nuzzling his head in her hands. She giggled. She used to be afraid of the elemental creatures, but now she loved them. May turned back, watching her friends approach their own dragons. As Kai attempted to clamber on Flame’s back, he kicked his bag and a scroll fell out. “I don’t remember putting this here,” he commented. May and the others huddled around. “That is Sensei’s bag,” the master of ice explained. “You must have grabbed it in the rush.” May stared down at the paper as Kai unraveled it. Filled with runes and scribbles, there were five images. One for each ninja, and in the middle, a green one. May’s mind traveled again. Where was she? She didn’t wear green. Zane read the runes aloud. “One ninja.. will rise above the rest.. as the one destined to defeat the dark lord.” He read it uncertainly, as though it wasn’t clear. May blocked out their arguing again. What if she was the green ninja? Should she care? She didn’t.

May watched as the other ninja sparred off with one another. They had decided that whoever won was the green ninja. Cole had asked her to join, but she declined. “I’d rather not beat the shit out of you, I kinda like you guys,” she had said. Cole shot her a grin as he used his scythe to sweep Kai’s feet from underneath him. May happily returned his smile, but it quickly turned into a look of concern. Kai’s sword was glowing, the flames licking his hands. May sprang to her feet, a odd instinct kicking in. “Drop it, you idiot!” She yelled, suddenly she wanted to jump in the growing flames-wanted to stop him and never put him in danger-                                                                          “Sensei!’ She yelled loudly, praying he would hear. “Help!” The wall of fire roared, and May cried out, praying her friends were alive, that Jay was untouched, Kai unburned, and Cole and Zane safe-                                            The shurikens of ice spun over the monastery, a shower of frost spreading over the fire, calming them. And calmed May as well, as her friends were unharmed. “What were you thinking,” Master Wu growled, his tone utterly disappointed. “We were trying to find out who was the green ninja,” Jay blurted. Zane whacked the backside of his head, and the blue ninja scrambled to save himself. “Sorry, did I say green? I meant uh, lean ninja.” May groaned under her breath and Cole beside her muttered “Smooth move.” “You were not supposed to see that,” Wu sighed. “But sensei,” Kai protested. “We wanna know.” The others nodded except for May. “Which of us is the chosen one?” They gazed expectantly at their master, but he turned away. “None of you,” he dismissed. “If you don’t unlock your full potential.” May started. Full potential?  She wasn’t at peak condition already? “If this is what it takes for you to train, then so be it.” Their sensei called to them from over his shoulder. “but none of you are near the level of what it takes to be the green ninja.” May could have sworn as her sensei strolled away he muttered under his breath. “Maybe May.”

May blocked every one of Cole’s punches. He lunged at her, with no malice but still intention. May dropped to the ground, and thrust her legs around one of his, twisting her hips. He fell to the ground, the wind knocking out of him.May moved smoothly on top of him, studying his panting, flushed face. “Just like old times, huh Carrots?” he wheezed. May smiled, and pulled him to his feet. Their sensei opened the door in a panic. “The serpentine are back,” he shouted. “Everyone in Jamanakai village is in danger!” May stared, but a bubble of fear for her friend was growing inside her. “Calm down sensei,” Cole re-assured. “We were just there. It’s just some kid who-” Their master cut him off. “The spirit smoke does not lie.”  Worry sprung in Kai’s voice. “Nya’s there right now.” Jay squeaked nervously. “Nya?” That was all it took. May slid down the slope to the dragon, hurling herself on Wisps back. “Stay close and stay together,” Kai called over the wind. “Would we do it any other way?” Cole called back. “Yes. Yes you would.” Mays’ comment made Jay laugh, but fear lay behind it. The dragons didn’t even slow, simply getting low to the ground. They leaped off the backs, landing in a tight circle around Lloyd. “Sorry to bust your buzz, little Garmadon,” Cole said, and May cracked her neck threateningly. “But it’s already past your bedtime,” Jay finished. Lloyd turned around. “Get them!” he called. Mays’ eyes widened at the tall snake people that were approaching. They had no legs, their tails flicking back and forth steadily. “Oh boy,” May whispered, but dropped into a defense position. Kai yelped something about the Serpentine, but that strange instinct was already taking over. May’s mind was empty.Jays sudden cry of “Run!” snapped her out of it. With experts precision, she leaped onto an awning, flipping onto the roof. Pulling a sai from her holster, she dug it into the wall, using it to break her fall as she slid down the white stone. A wave of relief washed over her as she saw her short black-haired friend. “Nya!” She shout whispered. Nya waved away her concern. “They’ve hypnotized everyone.” Her face dropped into a frightful grimace. “When you hear them shake their tails, don’t look em in the eyes. That’s how they get you.” Jay groaned, his whiny tones sinking into May’s ears. “Great. Can’t use our weapons, so now we have to fight with our eyes closed?” He laughed, and May could tell by the look on the other faces they though he was insane. “If you can grab the staff, it holds the antivenin,” Nya piped up. “We can reverse the effects.” Kai sighed. “Guys look,” he began, and May could sense something mushy. “Forget about the green ninja thing. Lets make sensei proud.” Called it. “The four of us work as a team,” Kai stated proudly, before May kicked him in the shin. “Ow, sorry- Five of us.” May smiled, and Jay turned to Nya. “And you can be our honorary member.” The girls face fell. “Gee, thanks,” she said with overpowering sarcasm.

May leapt from one roof to another, her furred boots barely impacting. she landed in a crouch on the ground, and looking up, three blue snakes were advancing. “Ok,” she said, grinning. “Bite this.” And with that, she spun on her heels, activating her spinjitzu. Kicking each snake in turn, she stopped, standing in triumph... until it was quickly replaced with a churning stomach. “That’s not good,” she yelped. Throwing back her hood, she dashed over to the rocks, where she vomited violently, the acid stinging her throat. Wiping it from her mouth, she turned and headed for the square. Cole sailed through the air past her head, his boot slamming into the Serpentine.The staff dropped to the ground, and he eyed it. “Go ahead,” Cole urged. “Give me a reason.” May growled playfully, and the general screeched and fled in terror. May laughed and her and the master of earth shared a fist bump. May glanced up, and was instantly memorized by the glare of a snake. His voice was so soothing, she could just stop fighting, why didn’t she..“Cole! May” Nya’s shouts jolted her like always. Her friend jabbed the snake in the eyes. “You have the antivenin,” she reminded them. Cole shook his head. “By golly, you’re right.” May stared at her brown-eyed friend. “Did you just say ‘by golly’?” They strolled to the water, the blue orb sinking into it and releasing a sweet-smelling mist. Smiling happily at her friends, May’s eyes turned to her sensei, where Kai was apologizing. She joined in on the conversation mid-way. “I’ll protect the boys, don’t worry.” Nya laughed, and the others rolled their eyes. “Let us return home to the monastery.” They walked down the path, their shoes thudding. “When am I going to get my own dragon,” Nya whined. Sensei said something, but May was sure Nya didn’t hear. May sidled up close and whispered in her ear. “What if you became a samurai?”

(Finally finished! I worked hard on this, I hope you guys enjoy. It might take me a while, but I’ll publish chapter two soon too!)

[asflowersfade]

Scribble-Doodle: A One-Time Offer

A teen parabatai story set in 203. Valentine makes a one-time offer, Hodge is tempted, the boys are oblivious.

“Meet me at the side entrance in five minutes. Witherspoon.”

Hodge growls when he reads the message on his cellphone. Entitled bastard. All of them, the people coming in from Idris and looking down at him because of his past, treating him like their servant.

Still, he goes because refusing on principle isn’t worth the hassle. The word is that Witherspoon’s the Inquisitor’s favorite. Raziel save him from ass-kissers.

When Hodge arrives at the side entrance, nobody’s there, so he opens the door and steps as close to the barrier as possible, until he feels a slight tingle in his circle rune. He looks out into the darkness - yes, there, a silhouette of a man.

“I’m here, Witherspoon,” Hodge calls out, annoyed. “What do you want?”

“Many, many things, old friend,” the man says as he steps out of the shadows.

Hodge frowns. What the--? But then, when the man walks closer, when he nears the door, Hodge’s breath catches in his throat because the man might wear the face of Jack Witherspoon - glamored! - but it’s definitely not him.

“Valentine?” Hodge breathes out in shock.

The man chuckles as he stops just outside the barrier. “You know me so well. Long time no see. You look well,” Valentine says, looking Hodge up and down.

“Not thanks to you!” Hodge spits out.

He remained loyal to their leader until the end and what did he get for it? Nothing, Valentine abandoned him and ran. He ran, he did not die, of that Hodge was certain. Men like Valentine do not die in house-fires.

Valentine shrugs. “You could be dead. Or in prison,” he points out. “I made sure that you ended up here.”

“It was you?” Hodge says in disbelief. “I ended up here, in New York, because of you?”

“Thanks to me,” Valentine corrects him. “I still have friends in high places, you know.”

That Hodge can believe. “But why?” he asks, puzzled.

Valentine looks him straight in the eyes. “Because I needed someone to watch over my son once I was gone from his life.”

“Your--?” Hodge’s breath catches in his throat. “So Jace is your son?” Another suspicion that Hodge has had for years and kept silent about, still pathetically loyal to their once-leader.

“Of course,” Valentine confirms. “My son - and my masterpiece!”

Raziel!

“And he’s also the reason why I’m here now, in this” --he looks down at himself in disgust-- “stupid disguise, hiding like a coward. Oh, our dear Mr Witherspoon had an unfortunate encounter with a demon, by the way.”

Hodge shrugs. He couldn’t care less about that pompous prick.

Valentine chuckles at his reaction. “That’s the Hodge I remember so fondly.”

Hodge doesn’t want to talk about his attitude towards unimportant people. “You were saying…?”

“Yes. I heard that my son plans on taking a parabatai,” Valentine says. “And I want you to stop him.”

Hodge blinks, surprised. “What…? But why?”

Valentine waves a hand scornfully. “A parabatai bond? I thought I taught him better! It’ll make him weak, dependent. I need him strong when I’m ready to make my move. Strong and ready to join me. A parabatai will only hold him back.”

Shaking his head, Hodge narrows his eyes. “And how do you suppose I do that? They’re determined to go through with it. They passed the last test today. And,” his voice softens a little, “they’re good together, Valentine. Really good.”

Valentine makes a cutting gesture with his hand. “I don’t want my son to be merely good. I want him to excel and he can’t do that if someone’s dragging him down constantly. He does not need this baggage!”

Hodge doesn’t like what he’s hearing, he doesn’t like it at all. He still believes in Valentine’s cause but… Jace and Alec, they are… they’ve become very special to him, untouchable. He loves them as if they were his own sons. But Valentine would never understand that. For him, everybody’s a pawn.

“If you help me, if you stop this bond from happening” --Valentine pauses for effect-- “I’ll help you escape. You’ll have proven your loyalty to me beyond any doubt and I’ll take you back in, let you join me again. All you have to do for it is stop this idiocy.”

Hodge breathes in sharply. His heart starts hammering in his chest. Freedom. To be able to walk outside again, to fight for his cause again… Isn’t it maybe worth it? The boys don’t need to become parabatai, after all. Nothing will really change for them if they don’t bond.

“What do you want me to do?” Hodge asks reluctantly.

Valentine smirks; he might be wearing Witherspoon’s face but it’s his trademark smirk. “Here,” he says and throws something to Hodge.

The barrier zings and sparks a little as the thing passes through but that’s all, there’s no alarm, so it’s nothing magical. Hodge catches the thing deftly - it’s a little blue bottle, sealed with wax.

“What is it?” he asks, looking down at it.

Valentine shrugs. “Something I brewed. Just pour it into young Mr Lightwood’s drink at some point before the ceremony - tonight would be best, just to be on the safe side - and that’ll be it. Don’t worry, it’s untraceable.”

Hodge feels burning cold race up his spine. “Poison?” he whispers. “You want me to poison Alec? Kill him?” No way!

“Oh, don’t worry, it won’t kill the boy,” Valentine assures him. “I have no desire to murder a child.”

Hodge doesn’t understand. “So what?”

Valentine waves his hand. “It’ll simply make him… an undesirable prospect as a parabatai. Nobody wants to be bonded to a cripple, after all, not even a soft-hearted fool like my son.”

Breathing in harshly, Hodge looks down at the bottle in his hand. It’s his ticket to freedom, to everything he’s ever wanted. And it would be so easy, he can almost see it in his mind. Alec trusts him, so it would be easy to use it and--

And then what? Stand by and watch him suffer? Cause him irreparable harm? Destroy his life to get back his own? The boy he taught how to wield a blade and shoot arrows?

Never.

“No,” Hodge says and throws the bottle back. “I will not hurt them. Either of them. Ever.”

Valentine catches the bottle and looks at Hodge with narrowed eyes. “This is a one-time offer, Starkweather. Do this and you can once again fight by my side. Refuse - and suffer the consequences. Because I won’t forget.”

Hodge feels a pang of fear - he’s always admired Valentine, but he also knows how cruel and savage he can be in his hatred - but then he thinks of the kids again. He can’t do it. He simply can’t.

So he says it. “I can’t, Valentine. I’ll do anything else you ask, but I will not hurt the children!”

Valentine watches him as if measuring his determination. Then, after a long, tense moment, he nods and steps back. “Alright, Hodge, but remember, you had your chance and you didn’t take it. And you crossed my plans. This will have consequences for you.”

Before Hodge can say anything, Valentine disappears into the shadows.

“Hodge? You alright?” a voice asks behind him.

Hodge twists around fast, one arm raised to-- But it’s just Alec and the boy’s looking at him with wide, alarmed eyes, quickly taking a step back. Hodge lets his arm drop.

“Sorry,” Hodge says, rather shaken by being almost caught conspiring with an enemy, and closes the door fast, “you startled me.”

Alec smiles a little. “I’m sorry, I thought you heard me coming. I’m… erm.” He points with his thumb over his shoulder. “They’re looking for you in the Ops Center.” He pauses. “Are you really okay?”

Walking closer, Hodge forces himself to smile brightly. “Am I okay? What about you?” he changes the subject deftly, diverting Alec’s attention, and squeezes Alec’s neck in a familiar, comforting gesture. “It’s your big day tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Alec tenses a little and drops his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers.

“Hey,” Hodge says, nudging the boy to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you--” Alec takes a deep breath. “Do you think that... that we will be good parabatai? Jace and I?”

Hodge stares Alec in the eyes for a long moment. And then, even though he can still hear Valentine’s words echo in his mind, he nods firmly and says, “The best, Alec. I would stake my life on it.”