#Vanish (Firelight 2)

[gold-onthe-inside]

a pearl

who? spencer reid (post-prison) x fem!reader based on: a pearl by mitski (and also pearl diver also by mitski) written for: @mggslover's event lyrics: “You’re growing tired of me. You love me so hard and I still can’t sleep/Sorry, I can’t take your touch. It’s not that I don’t want you.” word count: 0.9k content warnings: mentions cat adams, reference to addiction/drugs & sobriety

He stared at the flickering flame in the living room, knowing he’s left your sleeping frame upstairs, and rubbed the sobriety chip between his thumb and forefinger, and he remembers the moment he had fallen in love with your smile, a warm saccharine thing that had brightened your whole face when he tried to pull a coin from behind your ear, but it hadn’t worked, only for you to find it in your pockets. He hasn’t made you smile like that in a while. Not in 3 months, 20 days, and 14 hours. Not since Cat Adams had made it her mission to ruin his life, and yours along with him. This year had just been the tip of a long-building iceberg of issues that you kept having to put up with because of him.

And sure, things were okay now. His mom was in a good home in DC, always a call and a drive away. They had gotten his murder conviction overturned. He was supposed to be safe. Then why did he feel this uneasy all the time?

He’s so lost in himself, the firelight reflecting in his soft and worried hazel eyes, that he doesn’t hear you coming down the stairs, doesn’t see the cute donut pyjamas that usually make his heart melt, and physically flinches when you touch his shoulder, the chip in his hand falling to the floor. “Sorry,” you said instantly, “I didn’t mean to… You just weren’t in bed, I wanted to make sure you were—”

“I’m fine,” he said, a little too sharply, and usually, you’re better at controlling your expressions, but it’s 2 in the morning and you’re tired, so the concern is visible on your sleepy face.

“Honey, you don’t seem fine,” you said softly, approaching him like he was a skittish horse.

He let out a breath, bending down to pick up the sobriety token, while you wait and watch him straighten. “Can we not do this right now?” he asked, sounding tired, and he can see your concern deepen, adding another wrinkle to your brow, the corners of your lips turning down. He can see the battle that rages inside you every day, every time he acts like this — do you confront him? Do you put your foot down like you had all those years ago when he was coming to work while in withdrawal? What would it take for you to finally retaliate?

“Okay,” you said, in your gentle but firm way, looking at him evenly. “Two choices. We sit here and talk, or you come back upstairs with me and get some sleep. Either way, I’m not going back up without you.” Your arms come up to cross against your chest in what you think is a firm, decisive position to take, but Spencer’s sorely tempted to smile at you, and then his heart sinks all over again. It must have come up on his face because your arms start to fall and you walked over to pull him to sit next to you on the couch. “Sweetheart, will you please just tell me what’s going on with you?” you asked, and you think your heart might crawl out of your throat when Spencer pulled his hands away from yours.

“It’s nothing,” he said, and you can see his body closing off, all your work to bring him out of his shell, to coax him into the sunlight, vanishing like smoke. “Everything’s, you know, it’s fine. The team’s fine, my mom’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Which means it’s only a matter of time before things aren’t fine again,” you said, tilting your head to meet his eyes. “Right?” You’d be a liar if you said you hadn’t felt it too — the panic in the middle of the night when he’s not there, the reminder you have to give yourself that he’s not in prison anymore, that he’s safe.

“I’m so tired,” he told you, his eyes falling to your hands, where you were gripping each other for fear of reaching out to him again. He was tired of waiting to get the phone call saying his mom was gone. Tired of the nightmares. Tired of feeling afraid in a house that was supposed to be his refuge.

“Sweetheart, you can’t rest when your body still thinks it’s on the run,” you told him gently.

“Then how do I get it to stop?” he asked you, a hint of desperation rising into his throat, causing his words come out more broken and shaky than he meant for them to, and it just made his chest ache more.

You leaned closer, pressing your forehead against his and cupping his cheek, feeling the light stubble on his jaw. "Stay here," you whispered. "In this moment. You and me. Nothing else."

“In this moment,” he echoed, his voice soft and quiet, barely more than a whisper. “You and me, and nothing else.” A hint of a smile spread across his lips, and you pressed a butterfly kiss to the corner before laying your head on his shoulder while he slid his arms around your waist. You don’t move, just eventually shift so you can both lay on the couch, the fire dying out into embers as he finally fell asleep to the rise and fall of your chest.

[hexhomos]

Kiss on the check accepted! :3c

And your response reminded me of a detail I always pick up on rewatches but hadn't fully untangled yet—in the flashback of her childhood, Mel steps into that broken throne room with blood still drying on it. At Ambessa's prompting, Mel goes right into talking about how to renovate the place. "Paint the walls gold"...like gilding over the horrors of conquest that got that power in the first place.

And when she describes the regent they should have, she finishes with, "she should be pliant, so we can mold her." That IS what she was doing with Jayce, slowly, over a decade, and then quickly through Acts 2 and 3.

And then in the scene, after Mel finishes describing a "pliant" regent who can be molded, her mother suggests MEL could be that regent. Young Mel is excited at the idea, entirely missing the implication that she too would be an asset of her mother's reign.

That's why she takes off her Medarda ring right before casting her vote for Zaun's independence. She's finally realized she's just as subject to her mother's games as anyone else and Chooses to stop working in the interests of her family's power.

And augh, I wish her s2 plotline hadn't taken her out of Piltover so we could have seen more of the spycraft against Ambessa she was up to in Arc 1. I can't help but think of how much stronger her confrontation with Ambessa would have been if we had a full season of "daughter works against mother" instead of just a few scenes and a lot of getting kidnapped. More ambiguity with Leblanc would've been great too instead of her killing Elora to say hello.

[continued from here]

EXACTLY the way they shafted the politics in s2 (specifically so they wouldn't need to have hard conversations) genuinely had a negative impact in the ENTIRE story. The systematic horrors were downplayed and plotlines were dropped with very short acknowledgements - this is why we get people complaining about the jayce/mel breakup scene "coming out of nowhere" despite the fact that it made perfect sense for these characters!!!!!! It was just too short and they changed the subject too quickly, so we don't have TIME to think about the economic issues again.

It's so clear to me that jayce, viktor, ekko, mel (each representing a diff political facet. curious!) etc were carefully removed from the actual real world so we never have to analyze or push back against the notion that cait/ambessa are doing a hostile military coup and HAVE gotten people killed, imprisoned, and tortured en masse. So they can neatly resolve all of the plot with an avengers-style montage and never talk about the stuff with real world implications. There is no war in piltover and zaun. Just a cartoony last second villain. We just need to unite to protect... piltover...? And now viktor is randomly forgetting his proud zaunite commie stance and teaming up with the imperial invaders that were plaguing the earth moments ago........? We never talk about the class inequality ever again? Forget everything. Nothing ever matters.

The end result was that we spent far less time with these characters and they ended up being pretty underdeveloped. I know this happened for marketing reasons, its so incredibly clear aspects of the story were dumbed down so they could sell more ingame skins or pitch new champions, and that was seen as more valuable and desirable for the company than politicking - because at heart riot don't care about the political stuff anyway. But it still makes me throw my hands up in the air. such an asspull

In a reality where we had enough time and investment to touch on this, Mel could have actually gotten to push back against ambessa/cait and directly deal with the consequences of her actions. SEVIKA could have gotten a proper payoff for her underground character arc, instead of vanishing halfway through and then randomly accepting a diversity hire seat on the council (insanity. that was insanity) Ekko and the firelights would have obviously played a key role in rallying people against ambessa and helping Jinx recover from her displacement crisis (sorry isha, but even you could have been better used as part of the firelights dilemma) Jayce's mounting disillusionment with piltover and his loyalty to Viktor would be much better explored if they were still in conversation about the cities, the world they wanted to help, and the chaotic blurry lines of personhood/citizenship that decide who is an 'acceptable' target under the fist of the state. Vi could have built a self-reliant identity for herself, something better to fight for that isnt 'being a cop'. This show could've been awesome. I wish it existed

[herjuhodivine]

How would yandere Ekko handle a darling who got injured while trying to escape?

Ty 4 reading my request!

ㅤ        ㅤ             ⠀◌   𑁍 _ my baby fire     ⸝⸝  

masterlist ૮ ྀི ◞ ◟ ა navigation

not proofread

if you escape during an important firelight meeting and he find that out DURING the meeting, oh he would be pissed but he wouldn’t be able to show it cause the members didn’t even know that he kidnapped you, everyone just thought you were the secret lover he was hiding for so long.

but let him catch you running, hiding etc and you’re injured. he would be concerned first and making sure you’re not dying on him.

“hey hey—you’re okay. relax, i’m not going to hurt you.” he walks slowly towards you as you backed up until your back hit a wall. your whole body tenses; coming to terms with your faint and freedom slipping away from you and completely vanish as the white haired boy stood before you. a sharp piece of wood cut your side, deep but not deep enough for major stitches or brink of death.

he would cradle you back to the hideout, everyone becoming worried about your obvious bleeding out and the children wanting to comfort you but ekko gently pushed them away, reassuring them that you’ll be okay. you’re not seeing the light of day for a month. minimum.

“firefly.” he spoke sternly as he cleans the wound properly but deliberately making it slow and painfully for you to hurt. “what did i tell you about running away?” his voice low and the feeling of pressure on your chest was unbearable and his burning gaze as you stared at the wall the entire time. “you’re so ungrateful.”

his top priority was healing you up first then feeding you. don’t try to refuse eating he will shove it down your throat if needed.

“now.” he slowly paces in front of you, sitting in the cold basement with chains tying your hands tightly. he grabs your face firm but gently. “who have you the right idea to try to get away from me? hm?” he breathes out and his head slide down from your face to your neck, his hand form around your neck but doesn’t squeeze it. “such a pretty thing. you’re too good for zaun.” he mumbled, more to himself than you. his lips connect to your lips, firm but soft; the type of affection signaling you’re never escaping after today.

he’ll only allow you out of the basement is to play with the children or help around the base, understand his strict watching of course, he can’t have his firefly running out into the dangerous world again, especially zaun, you seen this dump? why do you think he made firelights in the first place? is to keep people safe, to keep you safe.

©︎ J U H Ō . all rights reserved. please don't plazarize, copy, or steal any of my works without my permission, thank you !

edit: 9:40pm: omg this was suppose to come out yesterday at 8pm with episode 2 of purpose of fun love but the queue set it to 4am and i didn’t feel like changing it or posting it earlier than it set to be cause i actually have a post limit ( 2-3 max ) so i just let it be.

[mira-atakirina]

«Roots in a Foreign Sky»

Without Looking Back

Chapter 2

...

“They’re back! The Sky People are back!” Norm’s shout tore through the silence, making hearts clench in terror. “Drop everything! Take only what you need! Two minutes — we can’t be here!”

Once, this house had been their haven. A place where they grew up, laughed, dreamed. Now it was just a remnant of a life they had to leave behind without looking back.

Fear coursed through their veins like a cold wave. Even the eldest of the children, already burdened with the weight of adult life, froze for a moment, as if refusing to believe what was happening. But the survival instinct prevailed.

Without wasting a second, the older ones grabbed weapons and ran for the exit. They called for their ikrans, their voices lost in the rustle of the night forest, where every shadow seemed to hide a threat.

The dark sky flickered with flashes of warning, and the ground beneath their feet felt unsteady and treacherous.

This was not just a night of farewell to their home — it was the night the last pieces of the world they had known came crashing down.

...

Ikrans dove from the sky like shadows against the distant flashes of lightning. Their wings sliced through the damp night air with a sharp hiss, carrying the fugitives away from danger.

The children clung to the necks of their loyal companions, gazing down at the tiny lights of the home they once had — growing smaller with every wingbeat, until they vanished completely.

Below, in the firelight, enemy figures were already gathering.

The night roared with wind in their ears, reeked of cold fear and bitter smoke — and only hearts filled with pain and anger kept them from looking back.

Pandora met them in silence. The silence of those who survived. And those who knew the cost of escape.

...

“The blue stripes make me faster,” declared Spider with importance, smearing paint across his shoulder with his fingers. Uneven blue lines marked his skin.

You sat a little off to the side, near your older Na’vi brothers. They were quietly chatting among themselves, discussing something in low tones, while you patiently wove a basket from supple leaves and tough plant fibers, your fingers deftly threading the strands together.

A fire crackled nearby, scattering golden sparks into the air. The warm aroma of roasted fruit and freshly picked roots wafted from the flames, their juices hissing in the heat. The camp was alive with calm routine: someone was mending ikran straps, someone laughing as they told stories.

“Skxawng,” Kiri snorted, calling Spider a fool in the Na’vi tongue, and began helping him apply more even stripes of thick, warm paint that smelled faintly of berries.

You stifled a giggle. One of the brothers — the one sitting closest — caught the motion and raised an eyebrow in silent question. You simply shook your head with a soft smile.

“It’s nothing,” you replied, continuing your work.

The fire crackled gently, and the soft night breeze carried the scent of flowers and damp earth. In that moment, it felt as if the whole world was holding its breath, offering a rare peace and comfort.

“I’m serious. Even the animals respect me more,” Spider continued confidently, tracing another line of paint. “They sense me less as a human.”

You silently kept weaving your basket, listening in on the conversation. On Pandora, every little thing could mean the difference between life and death — especially for a human. This planet was beautiful, but alien. You wished you had been born Na’vi, or at least had an avatar body. But no — you were just human. Sometimes it felt like being a parasite on this world.

Suddenly, Kiri, still smiling, stopped him with a light touch to the shoulder.

“Wait! You’re human?!” she gasped with mock surprise.

Spider smirked sarcastically and pretended he was about to smear paint on her. Kiri laughed and backed away just in time, hiding a grin.

And the air between them filled again with a light, joyful mood — under the quiet crackle of the fire and the whisper of the night forest.

“Sey’li, I’m done. Can I go now?” you asked, setting the finished basket aside after what felt like hours of work.

The older Na’vi exchanged a lazy glance and nodded, letting you go for a while.

“Just don’t go far,” he reminded. “Dad and the others will be back soon. We might need help.”

You smiled and flashed an “OK” sign with your fingers, then got to your feet and jogged lightly over to Spider and Kiri.

“What are you up to, my blue friends?” you asked playfully as you ran up to them.

“Boosting my power,” Spider replied with great importance, holding out a hand smeared with blue paint. “Want some?”

“If you even try to smear me with that stuff again…” you warned, squinting at him.

Spider laughed, and you both noticed a few nearby Na’vi whistle and cheer teasingly.

Suddenly, a long trumpet sound echoed through the air — alarming, yet joyful. The whole camp stirred; people stood, dropped what they were doing, and began moving toward the open clearing, where the powerful beating of wings could already be heard.

“Hurry! Kiri! Spider! Y/n!” Tuk called out, breathless, waving you over. “Our warriors are coming back! Let’s go meet them!"

Without wasting a second, you all took off running toward the clearing, where the sky was already trembling with the arrival of the ikran.

You, Kiri, and Spider took off running toward the edge of the camp. Your feet slipped slightly on the damp stone floor of the cave, thick with the scent of moisture and smoke. The wind was picking up, carrying the sound of heavy wingbeats toward you.

The camp was quickly stirring to life. Na’vi dropped what they were doing, grabbed their weapons, and lined the paths. One hunter raised a ceremonial horn, and a deep, resonant note rolled across the camp.

Cheers and calls followed — voices raised in welcome for those returning from battle. There was strength and pride in their voices, but also unease. Not everyone always made it back.

Your heart raced as the first silhouettes of riders on ikran came into view.

Kiri briefly squeezed your hand — just once — as if to share this moment with you. Spider looked up, eyes fixed on the approaching shadows.

...

You reached the edge of the cliff just as the Sully family’s ikran began landing one by one on the stone. Their wings beat powerfully, stirring clouds of dust into the air.

One look at Jake Sully’s face made it clear — something wasn’t right.

“Oh no…” you muttered under your breath, catching yourself just in time.

Then you noticed something strange — Neteyam wasn’t riding his own ikran, but Jake’s. That only happened if a rider was injured, or their mount was too.

As expected, Jake immediately began reprimanding Neteyam and Lo’ak. His voice was harsh, laced with anger — but underneath, there was clear worry.

You and Spider instinctively kept your distance, not wanting to interfere. But standing still felt wrong, so you started helping — checking gear, loosening tired ikran harnesses, all the while glancing back at the scene.

“Kiri, help your grandmother with the wounded,” Jake ordered his daughter.

Kiri pressed her lips together, clearly wanting to argue. She didn’t want to leave — not while her brothers were under fire. But eventually, she gave in. With Tuk, she headed off to join the clan’s elder healer.

You and Spider exchanged a glance. You felt awkward witnessing the family dispute, even though Jake’s words weren’t unfair. He wasn’t just a father — he was the clan’s leader.

Finally, Jake let Neteyam go to get treated, giving in to Neytiri’s silent plea. His attention now shifted fully to Lo’ak.

And that’s when the real storm began — figuratively, and perhaps literally.

You stepped away from the tired ikran and moved closer. If you were going to get caught in this mess, might as well try to help your friend.

“Hey…!” Spider hissed your name in a loud whisper.

You didn’t turn — just raised a thumb over your shoulder to let him know you were fine. Spider exhaled heavily, shaking his head in defeat.

Approaching, you gently took Lo’ak’s hand in yours, inspecting him for injuries. Luckily, nothing serious — just scrapes and bruises. A bit of salve would do.

Lo’ak lowered his eyes, clearly ashamed. He didn’t try to speak in his defense — not under his father’s piercing stare.

Jake, not even glancing your way, said sharply:

“Go to your father. Check on Norm.”

His tone was cold — a command, not a request. You nodded silently, hiding the disappointment on your face, and turned away toward where Norm would be.

The last thing you heard as you walked off:

“And wipe that paint off your face."

Jake’s voice again — not a father now, but a commander speaking to his son.

...

You made your way quickly through the camp toward Norm.

The path wasn’t long, but each step seemed to pull you further from the safety of childhood. Around you, Na’vi and humans rushed about — tending to the injured, carrying supplies, salvaging damaged equipment.

A tall Na’vi warrior passed by you, his chest slashed with bloody wounds, armor shattered. His eyes were tired, yet full of determination. Others followed in haste, carrying a comrade in their arms — unconscious, his legs hung limp.

The air was thick with the smell of blood, burnt wood, and the bitter scent of healing herbs used on wounds.

You could only guess what these smells were — if not for the mask on your face. You involuntarily clenched your fists tighter, forcing yourself to keep moving.

Carefully weaving between hurried humans and Na’vi, you finally saw him.

Norm’s tall, wiry avatar stood out among the others — his blue skin smudged with dust. His tail twitched with nervous tension, and his broad shoulders seemed burdened with too much weight.

The moment he saw you, Norm stepped forward, his amber eyes glowing softly.

You nearly ran to him.

He dropped to one knee to meet your height and instantly pulled you into an embrace. His long arms wrapped around you like a shield, holding you close to his strong chest — and again you heard that deep, steady heartbeat.

You clung to the fabric of his bandolier. He probably smelled like a mix of herbs, smoke, sweat — and something comforting, almost home-like.

For a moment, the world around you disappeared — there was only you and him.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

You smiled involuntarily, though something inside twisted at the pain and weariness you heard in his voice.

When he gently pulled back, placing you at arm’s length, you immediately began inspecting him. Your eyes darted across his shoulders, chest, arms — checking for injuries. Just a few scratches and dirt on the bandolier — no serious wounds.

“Dad, are you okay?” you asked anxiously.

Norm smiled faintly.

“I’m okay. Nothing serious.”

“The others? Askuuk? Vi’an? Kel’ha? Erao?” you added quickly.

He nodded softly.

“They’re alive.”

You nodded too, though the anxiety in your chest still lingered.

Norm brushed a hand over your hair, then rose to his full height — his towering three meters reminded you again how small you were next to him.

He turned toward a pile of weapons — rifles, grenades, heavy belts loaded with ammo.

“Listen,” he said seriously. “Go to Mo’at. It’s dangerous here. If you accidentally touch something…” — he nodded toward the box of grenades — “it could end badly.”

You didn’t argue.

“Okay, Dad,” you nodded.

Before leaving, you hugged his strong arm again. Norm leaned slightly and gave you a playful wink.

“Go on, little one. Be my eyes out there.”

With a small smile, you ran off in the direction of a familiar tent among the others.

Behind you, your father — still tall, dependable, strong — returned to the chaos around him.

Just before you slipped from his sight completely, you caught a glimpse of the rest of your family from the corner of your eye.

Askuuk — tall and strong, with a firm, nearly cold gaze — stopped beside Norm without a word, giving him a short respectful nod. His face, as always, was focused — emotions rarely showed there, but in this silent gesture was a readiness to help and share the burden.

Next came Vi’an, a little late. He was younger — barely nineteen. He still looked leaner, lighter than his older brothers, and now, rubbing his neck, he grimaced in discomfort. The long flight and tension of battle clearly weighed on him more heavily.

Erao arrived last.

A bulky bandolier of weapons hung over his back — rifles, grenades, and strange instruments that clinked with every step. He carefully set the load down, snorted, and brushed soot and dirt off his hands.

His face, usually bright and cheerful, was stern now — Erao fully understood the seriousness of the moment.

The smell of battle still lingered around them. Smoke, ash, and the faint, metallic scent of blood.

You seemed to arrive just in time.

Neteyam winced softly in pain as Kiri carefully applied salve to the deep scrape on his side.

Nearby, Lo’ak and Spider were already exchanging knowing grins, quietly snorting with barely-contained amusement.

“A great warrior,” Mo’at, the clan’s tsahìk, remarked with a warm, teasing tone in her voice. Despite the irony, pride still shone in her eyes for her grandson.

Without hesitation, you sank down onto the mat directly in front of Neteyam to be at eye level with him.

You sat cross-legged in the Pandoran way, comfortably settling on the soft woven rug. Gently, you reached out and touched his shin—where his skin was lightly scored with scratches.

You touched him carefully, almost weightlessly, as if silently offering support through your hand alone.

Neteyam gave you a small smile in return, his eyes softening for a moment.

Beside you sat Tuk, clutching a large bowl filled with healing berries mixed into a medicinal paste.

She held it with both hands to keep it steady, watching the treatment of her brother with curious eyes, occasionally wincing when she saw it hurt him.

“Celebrate their return, but don’t forget,” Mo’at said. “The true strength of a warrior lies not in how high he rises, but in how he stands after he falls. And in those he chooses to fight for.”

Her words brought a quiet over the group. Even Lo’ak, usually playful, nodded silently, eyes fixed on the fire.

The warm breeze stirred your hair. The night smelled of smoke, damp earth, and the promise of peace after battle.

…

Together, your cheerful little group made your way through the large tent reserved for the avatars.

“They’re totally going to kick us out again,” you whispered, though you continued walking with the others.

“We’ll be quick!” Lo’ak waved it off with a grin.

Inside was a scene of organized chaos—some were brushing their teeth, others wrapping bandages around themselves or helping each other, while a few had already dozed off, lazily chatting in low tones.

Your father, Norm, was among those tidying up before bed. A toothbrush stuck out of his mouth as he mumbled something unintelligible.

“Hey, Spider!” he suddenly called out to your usual partner-in-crime.

Before you could blink, Norm whipped the towel off his neck and smacked Spider across the butt with a playful smack.

You barely managed to stifle a laugh, quickly rushing ahead to avoid catching flak from the scientists who had already warned you not to wander in here.

“You’re gonna pay for that!” Spider growled, turning around with mock outrage.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Norm replied with exaggerated innocence, pulling the toothbrush from his mouth.

“Pff!” Spider mimicked him, throwing his hands in the air dramatically.

As expected, you were quickly “caught.”

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?! Avatars only!” one of the female scientists called out in a stern voice.

Kiri wasted no time mimicking her in a high-pitched, sing-song tone.

“Sorry!” Lo’ak chimed in quickly.

…

After the long and “epic” journey from the tent to the lab, you and Spider finally took off your exo-packs with a sigh of relief. The sense of freedom was almost physical.

Your Na’vi friends, on the other hand, quickly put on their breathing masks—the Earth air was dangerous for them, though not immediately deadly.

“Yeah, ha-ha,” Spider said sarcastically. “You know what’s really funny? You guys can breathe our Earth air for hours. We get ten seconds in yours—if that.”

He gestured toward you as he said it.

“Exactly!” you chimed in, adjusting the straps of your top over your shoulders as you walked toward the familiar group of scientists.

Spider darted ahead, reaching them first. He fist-bumped Max as he passed, then—wasting no time—snuck in and gave your father a sharp pinch on the nipple.

“Ow!” Norm yelped with a disgruntled chuckle, jerking away.

“Ow…” you echoed, laughing along with Spider.

The lab had its own kind of coziness. A faint smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of equipment, and dim lighting created a sense of safety, a place that felt alive—despite the exhaustion on everyone’s faces.

...

You stood with Spider and Kiri, watching an old video recording—footage of Grace Augustine. A brilliant scientist, a sharp mind, a kind heart—that’s how everyone who’d known her described her. And you believed them. In a way, you even envied Kiri. She knew who her mother was, she knew the kind of woman she had been.

And you? Who was your mother? Norm’s wife, a Na’vi from another clan. Definitely not someone you could call your own. She had always been... neutral-positive, at best. Not an enemy—but not a mom either.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice Lo’ak until he strolled by, lazily propping one long leg on the lab table with casual grace.

“So who do you think knocked her up?” he asked with a smirk, nodding toward the screen.

“My money’s on Norm,” Spider chimed in, flashing a smug grin.

You rolled your eyes.

“Have you no shame?” Kiri said sharply, frowning, and you nodded in agreement.

“What? It makes sense!” Lo’ak insisted. “Teacher’s pet! Always glued to her in the lab…”

“I'd rather die, drink some acid.” Kiri snorted. “No offense, Y/n”

You wrinkled your nose and raised an eyebrow at her.

It was a weird thought—those two together. The age difference alone was enormous...

Turning away, your eyes landed on the amnio tank, where Grace’s avatar floated in thick fluid. She looked so peaceful in her sleep.

“See? Right there! In every clip, he’s always by her side!” Spider exclaimed, pointing at the screen.

You silently pinched his thigh in response.

“Ow!” cried the second-class clown.

“I can just picture it,” Lo’ak went on, theatrically placing a hand on his chest. “Their avatars sneaking off into the forest together...”

You smacked him hard on the butt. That yelp was no joke this time.

Before he could even react, Kiri gave him a playful shove.

“Enough.”

It all still felt light-hearted, fun—until Spider suddenly muttered:

“Sometimes it’s better not to know who your father is.”

The air thickened. The jokes stopped cold. Even the hum of the lab seemed to hush. Sadness settled silently between you all.

Spider turned away, leaning his side against the glass capsule.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “I don’t even remember him.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you tried to comfort him.

“Save it,” he snapped, eyes dark.

You exchanged a glance with Lo’ak. It hurt, seeing him like this. He did know who his father was. And his mother. But he also knew that everyone else who knew his father carried that look—hatred. Whether they showed it or not.

And again, something twisted inside you. Jealousy? No… more like longing. He knew where he came from. You didn’t.

“You’re nothing like him,” Kiri said softly, wrapping her long limbs around his waist.

There was such truth and warmth in her voice.

You spotted a sturdy box nearby, climbed on top to match Spider’s height. He was still staring off, leaning on the amnio tank, stubbornly avoiding everyone’s gaze.

You leaned forward slightly, trying to catch his eyes. The pain there was almost physical. He held himself together with the strength of his people—their jokes, their touches, their warm voices. Without that, he might’ve fallen apart long ago.

You reached out and gently touched his shoulder, careful, as if afraid of breaking something fragile.

“Hey...” you called quietly.

For a moment, he looked at you—his eyes still heavy with sadness.

You squeezed his shoulder a little more firmly, trying to let your warmth speak for you.

“We’ll always be together. We’ve made it through so much already... And you’ve proven, again and again, how much you mean to us.”

He glanced down at your hand—and for a moment, a tiny, almost invisible smile touched his lips. Like he was clinging to the comfort you offered.

At that moment, without a word, you knew that even the smallest touch could keep someone from drowning.

...

P. S. My writing may differ from the dialogues in the movie, as I have an artistic translation of this film in my country."

[bigriceenthusiast]

Ekko reached for her hair slowly, like he was afraid he'd make it vanish if he went too fast, and Jinx didn't bother stifling her giggle. She felt a little bit euphoric, having him undoing her braids with so much care, combing his fingers through them like she was precious. “Your hair's soft,” he hummed.

new chapter of someone to turn to is here!!! this one features scar!

chapter two is all about jinx's inventions and how they help the firelights! i hope you enjoy it because i had so much fun researching it omg

also a timebomb scene i'm super excited about<3

[never-forget-viva-la-pluto]

The way Arcane gave us TimeBomb was genius.

Spoilers ahead

At first it's enemies with a charged fight between shots of their childhood sparring matches. And he doesn't want to kill her, she resigns to kill them both. She spends the next few years thinking she succeeded because he vanishes into another dimension.

The dimension shows him in a life where he is happily with her and there was no major civil war keeping him from enjoying his life, no poison being pumped into his neighborhoods, nothing to push her as far as she had gone. His family is alive, and his enemy was peaceful.

But he returns to his real time, because his home was still in trouble, because he realized that he wasn't going to give up on her, and I think it is well within his character to realize that AltU!Powder/Jinx had a full history with AltU!Ekko and if he were to stay it would mean that he could potentially be taking that Ekko's happy life.

Ekko: "It's not enough to give people what they need to survive. You gotta give them what they need to live."

So he returns to his position as boy savior to find her right where he left her: with a bomb in her hands, ready to kill them both, but this time her target isn't him.

Jinx just wants to end it.

She has been called a Jinx so many times she changed her name to it. She sees all her dead friends, the ones she killed, and the ones she didn't, but it doesn't matter because she killed them all. Everyone she cares about dies because she is a jinx. She accidentally kills her friends/brothers trying to save her father. She thinks Ekko died on the bridge where she was ready to die with him. She accidentally kills Silco during a psychotic episode. She can't deny it and is ready to give up Powder forever, when Isha shows up and defends her. She is reminded that there is life outside the violence, she even got her father back from the dead for a little bit, but she loses them both. She is a jinx, and she dooms everyone and after Isha and Vander die, she starts hallucinating Silco and this time he isnt stylized, he is exactly as she remembers him. So when she cuts her hair and burns her home and prepares to kill herself, she isn't surprised to see Ekko there.

Jinx: "Nothing ever stays dead." -- " No matter what I do, I just can't seem to die." -- "Are you real?"

She pulls the pin on her bomb 4 times(Ekko rewinds time 4 seconds 4 times) and he says he needs to catch his breath and THIS is when she realizes he isnt a hallucination, that she didnt kill him on the bridge. And she doesn't pull the pin again(she does still throw herself from the height of her lab but she didn't try to take him with her), and he is able to talk her down. He reminded her that she isn't a jinx, by saying he still considers her as someone important to him. 4 times he saves her, with 4 seconds keeping her alive.

It's Enemies to Lovers for us, the audience, but for TimeBomb it was:

1. Friends (Childhood before hextech)

2. Enemies (Firelights vs Silco's regime)

3. Lovers (Alt U)

4. Friends (Finale)

"Time" has 4 letters as does "Bomb" but the audience only sees the two words put together. Enemies to Lovers.

[m00n-fever]

I'm releasing the rest of part one of my Solavellan fic, The Things We Leave Behind.

I've decided I don't have the patience for a slow drip feed of chapters. Enjoy! x

The Things We Leave Behind -

Chapters 2-5. >>Chapter 1<<

Solas x Lavellan | Canon-Compliant | Post-Inquisition, Pre-Trespasser

The war is over. The world begins to heal. But not all stories end with victory—some retreat quietly into silence. This is a story of yearning, unspoken truths, and the unbearable ache of what is still loved—but cannot be held.

Read more below.

Chapter 2 - The Distance Between Us

Skyhold was transformed.

The fortress rose like a jewel set into the mountains, lit from within by the glow of countless lanterns. From a distance, it looked like a dream pulled from the old tales—a beacon, high above the world, burning bold against velvet dark. Banners of crimson and gold streamed in the wind, catching moonlight like firelight dancing on steel.

The great hall pulsed with life.

Though the hour had long slipped into night, the celebration had not slowed. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, crowned with chandeliers that burned like stars. The walls were hung with rich tapestries—some bearing the Inquisition’s heraldry, others woven with scenes from the war, from the shattering of Haven to the end of Corypheus. The great hearths crackled with firelight, warming the stone and casting dancing shadows across the room. Long tables draped in silken crimson lined the hall, laden with food from across Thedas—some Orlesian, some Fereldan, even a Dalish dish or two—set with golden candelabras and goblets that gleamed with extravagance. 

Voices overlapped in layered harmony—nobles clustered at tables heavy with crimson cloth, their laughter like wind chimes in a storm; Orlesian diplomats traded polished compliments behind jewel-laden goblets; Fereldan lords laughed too loudly at their own jokes, cheeks flushed with wine. Between them moved the Inquisition’s highest officers and trusted agents—quiet pride etched into their stances, their eyes watchful even in joy.

And amidst it all, she stood—Herald. Inquisitor. Vhenan.

He saw her the moment he had slipped through the side entrance, disguised in the borrowed shape of a servant girl. The facade was meticulous, yet humble—soft-spun robes in earth-toned wool, a plain apron tied at his waist, and over his head, a coif and shawl in quiet hues. He’d softened his frame, bent his posture, reshaped every breath to vanish before it was missed. A servant girl, nothing more. The kind the world overlooked, ignored.

And the world did—but he saw her. The sight of her stilled him. For a moment, even time forgot how to move.

She stood upon the raised dais, speaking quietly with Divine Victoria—once Leliana, now veiled in ceremonial robes and silent authority. Lavellan’s hair, pale blonde and soft as sunlight through morning fog, fell in gentle waves across her shoulders, unbound and free. Upon her head rested a halo of white blossoms—Andraste’s Grace and Ghilan’nain’s Bloom—woven by careful hands, placed like a benediction. Their petals glowed faintly in the light, as if they had chosen that moment, that woman, to bloom.

Her face—bare now, free of vallaslin—was radiant, carrying both the hush and purity of fresh snowfall. And in her left palm—bare by design—the anchor glimmered faintly. Contained. Quiet. But unmistakable. Her eyes—blue as winter frost still clinging to water, pale and piercing—held the weight of sorrow and strength, of silence worn like armor. And her dress—

Orlesian-crafted, but Elvhen in spirit.

Elegant without excess, reverent without ostentation. Made of delicate, finely woven cloth dyed in moon-pale ivory, it flowed over her changing form with quiet grace. The fabric wrapped lovingly around the subtle swell of her belly, neither hiding nor flaunting, but acknowledging.

Gold adorned her in careful measure. A simple torc rested at her collarbone, its delicate curve shaped like the rising sun. It caught the light and held it close, like a promise. Thin bands circled both wrists, etched with Andrastian flame. There were no earrings, no gemstones. Only the flowers in her hair, the quiet glow of gold, and the quiet sanctity of her white dress.

She looked divine. But not because of them. Not because of their Maker.

Because she was his vhenan.

Others moved around her like constellations drawn into orbit, familiar figures glimpsed through the crowd—Cassandra, statuesque and armored even in celebration; Cullen, stiff in dress uniform, eyes never wandering far from the Inquisitor; Josephine, radiant in diplomacy, laughed politely at something Dorian had said, the latter already on his third goblet and holding court with well-oiled charm; Varric stood further off, a glass in one hand and his eyes distant; and Morrigan, her expression unreadable save for a flicker of knowing.

Each of them bore the truth in silence—that the child was not divine, not born of prophecy, but of love and loss and something older than the Maker. And yet none spoke it. They let myth unfurl like a shroud around her shoulders. Because people still needed hope. Because in a world still healing, a miracle was easier to carry than the truth.

And then—Cole.

He slipped between them like a breath through a half-open door, quieter than shadow, unseen by most. But as he passed by Solas, he hesitated. His head tilted slightly. His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in confusion, as though something about the air near Solas didn’t quite belong.

“Familiar,” he whispered. “Like a heartbeat I used to remember. But quiet now. Hiding. Hurting.”

Solas held still, breath shallow.

Cole lingered for a moment longer, his brow furrowing, then shook his head as if the feeling slipped away before he could grasp it. And then he was gone again, disappearing deeper into the crowd. 

Solas exhaled softly, his gaze returning to Lavellan. He drank in every inch of her with reverence. And just then, she turned slightly, and for a heartbeat—just one—her eyes scanned the crowd.

Time fractured around him, the moment sharp as glass. He saw it then, glimmering behind her poise—buried beneath the weight of expectation and divine illusion: hope. A quiet, fragile hope.

In the sea of faces, she was hoping for him.

Two dozen steps. Perhaps less. That was all that lay between them. His fingers dug into his borrowed skirts, curling against the rough fabric. He ached to go to her. To rest his hand over her belly, touch that life he had helped create, and whisper the old words—the ones he’d once spoken beneath starlight and ancient trees.

But he couldn’t.

Not when he was bound by his duty. Not when love could unravel everything.

He turned away—before memory, want, and hope could make him stay.

Chapter 3 - In the Cloister of Silence

Beyond the lantern-lit arches of the great hall, Solas slipped into the cloister’s edge, swallowed by the hush of stone and shadow. The colonnade rose beside him in a solemn procession—broad, rounded arches upheld by pillars worn soft by centuries, their faces etched faintly with the passage of time. Between each stood a low wall of mottled stone—ash and slate—high enough to stall a glance, low enough that a careless turn of the head might still glimpse what lay beyond.

He had chosen this path not for beauty, but for its veil of darkness. The arches offered cover, half-light and hush, shadows deep enough for a man unwilling to be seen. He kept to the outer wall, his head bowed, a phantom wrapped in illusion and borrowed cloth. The hush of celebration behind him faded with every step, like a half-remembered dream dissolving with the dawn.

The hour was late. Between torch and moonlight, the garden was caught in a delicate stillness—neither asleep nor fully awake. Pools of amber firelight puddled on the stones where torches burned low, their flames weary with the hour. Shadows stretched long between them, deepening the quiet that clung to the path like mist.

He did not walk the garden’s heart. He could not. Too exposed, too full of memory.

Instead, he kept to the edge, moving in the cover of the colonnade—past benches draped in silence, past beds of withering jasmine, lilac, and andraste’s grace, their blooms fading but not yet fallen. The trees loomed still and vast—ironbark, maple, and cypress—dark sentinels cloaked in the first gold and russet of harvest. Their branches stirred softly in the breeze, whispering among themselves in a tongue too old for mortal memory.

Every step was chosen with care. He was desperate to reach the Eluvian, but cautious—more than cautious.

Afraid. 

Not of being caught. But of turning back.

Each stride was a silent war. His heart ached, raw and ragged beneath the weight of her presence just behind him—so close, too close. He could still feel it: the echo of her voice, the warmth of her smile, the way her gaze had searched the crowd, quietly hoping.

He had nearly revealed himself then—drawn by the flicker of her searching gaze, by the ruinous hope written plain across her face. One heartbeat more, and he might have called out to her. Might have abandoned the quiet latticework of futures he’d woven in secret—sacrificed it all for the sound of her voice, the light of her eyes. The urge still burned, raw and unspent, curled beneath his ribs like a blade half-buried.

So he did not pause. He did not breathe too deeply. He did not look back.

At the cloister’s end, where the torches no longer reached and the stones ran cold beneath his feet, the narrow hall emerged. No lantern marked the door. No invitation. His hand shook as it closed over the cold iron handle. One last glance over his shoulder—quick, instinctive—before he slipped inside, before the weight in his chest could drag him back.

Chapter 4 - Reflections

The room stood cloaked in silence.

Moonlight sifted through the tall lattice windows, casting fractured shapes across the dust-softened floor. Old furniture stood veiled in linen, outlines blurred by time—like memories fading at the edges. And at the center, waiting, stood the Eluvian. Its surface shimmered with quiet light—not bright, not dim, but steady. Alive. It offered no reflection. Only a glimpse of what waited on the other side: stone and shadow, cold and still.

Solas stepped closer, his movements slow, careful. Reverent. His fingers brushed the mirror’s edge, and the magic stirred faintly beneath his touch, as if recognizing him. But he didn't step through. Not yet.

He stood very still. Then turned—and glanced back over his shoulder.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. His breath caught in his throat, then left him in a quiet, shaking exhale. His heart pounded—sharp and uneven—each beat a hammer against the walls he had spent years building. His resolve wavered, fragile as glass. For one unbearable moment, he hovered at the edge.

A heartbeat passed. 

And then another.

He closed his eyes.

He turned back to the mirror, bowing his head—not in surrender, but in sorrow. Then, with quiet, painful finality, he stepped forward—

And was gone.

Chapter 5 - What Remains

The room beyond was silent—ancient stone and shadow cloaked in the hush of things left behind. The Eluvian gave a final shimmer—like starlight drowning in deep water—then faded. Still. Gone.

The moment its surface closed, the illusion he had worn—every careful glamour, every softened edge—fell away like a cloak shrugged off in mourning, leaving only Solas beneath it: breathless, breaking.

He fell back against the cold stone wall, and slid down like something hollowed out, limbs folding under the weight of his own undoing. The silence pressed in—thick, ancient, absolute.

And then came the grief.

A sound tore loose from his chest—low and ragged, the kind of ache that had no beginning and no end. He pressed his hands to his face as though he might hold himself together, but the tremble in his shoulders betrayed the truth. Sobs followed—violent, unbidden. Not weeping, but breaking. Shattering. A sound older than words, as if sorrow had carved itself into the marrow of his bones.

She had looked for him.

Even radiant in the eyes of the world—crowned with prophecy, bearing the weight of the Inquisition, exalted as the Herald of Andraste, and now carrying their child—still, she had searched the crowd. Hope had glimmered behind her calm expression. Fragile. Beautiful. Terrible.

But he had turned away. He had chosen silence over salvation. Duty over desire. Future over feeling. Now, all that remained was stone and silence—the wreckage of what might have been.

His shoulders shook. Another sob wracked him—then another, and another, until all that remained was a man crushed beneath the weight of what he had chosen.

His sobs deepened. Shuddered. He folded forward, shaking beneath the weight of the decision that had cost him everything. He did not weep only for her—nor only for the love he had shattered, trembling and afraid. He wept for the child. For the small, precious life born from their love—a life that he would never hold.

He stayed there for a long time, curled against the ancient stone, his breath gone ragged and hollow. No magic shimmering in the corners. No plans whispered for the future.

No magic. No mask. No Dread Wolf.

Only Solas.

A man who had been loved. A man who still loved in return. A man who had chosen the world—

—and would never stop mourning the cost.

(To be continued…)

[littlepinkbirdie]

Touch the Sky (part 2)

Title: Touch the Sky — Part 2 Setting: Later that night, on the beach outside the Top Gun base Pairing: Natasha “Phoenix” Trace × Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff, soft romance, friends-to-lovers

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆

The fire cracked, sending golden sparks into the sky like shooting stars, and the ocean waves whispered softly in the background. The Dagger Squad laughed around the circle, a mix of sand, sweat, and beer-slick stories.

You sat next to Natasha, just like she said—close enough to feel the warmth of her arm brush yours every time she shifted.

Bob was halfway through an embarrassing story about Hangman’s failed attempt at flirting with a civilian barista when Natasha leaned in toward you, whispering:

“Remind me to never let Bob drink tequila again.”

You laughed quietly. “Noted. But I don’t know… this story’s worth it.”

She grinned, then tilted her head slightly, watching you. Her eyes were softer in the firelight—less sharp, more curious.

“You always this quiet?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Not always. Depends who I’m with.”

“And with me?”

You glanced at her, lips twitching. “Trying not to say something I’ll regret.”

She smirked. “Like?”

“Like how good you look right now.”

The smirk vanished for half a second, replaced by a flicker of something behind her eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something else. She looked away, then back at the fire, lips pressed in thought.

“Guess I’m not the only one distracted lately,” she said, almost too quietly.

You turned to look at her, heart tapping too fast. “Natasha…”

“I noticed you watching me in the hangar. I’ve been watching you too.”

The air shifted. You weren’t just two pilots on the beach anymore—you were something teetering between firelight and uncertainty. She turned to face you, her eyes meeting yours in a way that made the rest of the world dissolve.

Slowly, so slowly, she reached out and let her fingers brush yours where your hands rested in the sand.

“If I kissed you right now,” she said, “would you stop me?”

You didn’t answer.

You just leaned in.

Her lips found yours, soft and searching, like she’d been waiting all this time to finally land. The world disappeared into salt air, stars, and the warmth of her mouth moving with yours—tentative, then surer, deeper.

When she pulled back, just enough to rest her forehead against yours, she whispered:

“You scare the hell out of me.”

“Why?” you asked, breathless.

“Because I think I’m falling for you,” she murmured.

You smiled.

“Then we’re both in free fall.”

[pxnsneverland]

Dark Temptation | Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger (part 3)

(gif source: talesfromthecrypts)

plot summary: Despite being on opposite sides of an impending war in the wizarding world, Draco Malfoy, a young Death Eater, and Hermione Granger, fiercely loyal to the Order, cross paths when they are assigned as partners in a academic project. Forced to spend time together, their mutual animosity slowly gives way to an undeniable attraction, leaving both confused and vulnerable.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

pairings: Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger

word count: 3,728

warnings/notes: N/A

Chapter 3: Glimpses in Shadow

The clock in Gryffindor Tower had just struck midnight when Hermione finally closed her Arithmancy textbook. The common room was deserted, the fire reduced to glowing embers that cast long shadows across the worn carpet. Perfect. She glanced around once more before reaching into her bag and pulling out Malfoy's mysterious book. She ran her fingers over the ornate cover again, feeling that same strange warmth emanating from the leather. It was almost as if the book itself were alive, breathing with ancient magic. The silver embellishments caught the firelight, throwing eerie patterns on the table.

"I really shouldn't be doing this," she thought to herself, even as she opened to the bookmarked page on Vanishing Cabinets.

Hermione settled deeper into the armchair and began to read properly, her eyes narrowing as she absorbed the dense text. The more she read, the more disturbed she became. The book didn't just explain how Vanishing Cabinets worked—it provided detailed instructions on how to repair them if damaged.

"When the magical pathways between paired cabinets are disrupted," she read under her breath, "the traveler may become trapped between spaces or arrive in pieces. Restoration requires precise recalibration of the runic arrays..."

A passage about testing the connection made her blood run cold: "Living creatures provide the most accurate assessment of cabinet functionality. Begin with insects, progressing to birds once basic transit is established."

Hermione remembered the rumors about Montague claiming he'd been trapped between places, hearing voices from both Hogwarts and somewhere else. At the time, she'd dismissed it as the confused ramblings of someone who'd suffered magical trauma. Now she wondered if he'd been telling the exact truth. She flipped through more pages, finding annotations in the margins—notes that weren't part of the original text. Some were in faded ink, likely decades or centuries old. But others were fresh, written in a sharp, angular hand she recognized immediately as Draco's.

Near a diagram showing the critical rune patterns, he'd written: "Counter-resonance in the tertiary circuit? Test with stronger containment spell."

And beside a warning about the dangers of improper calibration: "Birds still arriving dead. Need more time."

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. Dead birds? What was Draco doing? She turned to another section, this one describing how Vanishing Cabinets had been used during the First Wizarding War as escape routes for Death Eaters when Ministry raids occurred. Next to this passage, in the same fresh ink: "Two-way passage confirmed. Location secure."

"Oh god," she breathed, the implications hitting her like a physical blow. If Draco was repairing a Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts, and its pair was somewhere "secure"...

The portrait hole swung open, making Hermione jump. She slammed the book shut and shoved it back into her bag.

—

Hermione arrived early to her and Malfoy’s designed work room for the Unity Project, her stomach knotted with anxiety. She'd barely slept after her discovery, dark circles shadowing her eyes. The weight of Malfoy's book pressed against her side, hidden in her bag like a ticking bomb.

"You look terrible, Granger," came Draco's drawling voice as he opened the door and approached their workstation. His own appearance wasn't much better—his skin had a sickly pallor, and his usually immaculate hair looked disheveled, as though he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly.

"Late night," she replied stiffly, watching him carefully.

Draco pulled out his notes without meeting Hermione's eyes. "I was thinking we could modify a Protean Charm to—"

"I know what you're doing," Hermione interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper.

His quill stilled. "What are you talking about?"

She reached into her bag and partially revealed the corner of his book before quickly covering it again.

Draco's face drained of what little color it had. "You went through my things?" His voice was dangerously quiet.

"You left it behind," she countered. "Vanishing Cabinets, Malfoy? Dead birds? What are you planning?"

His eyes darted around the room frantically as if it wasn’t just them in the room. "Keep your voice down," he hissed, leaning closer. "You have no idea what you're meddling with."

"Then explain it to me," she challenged. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're creating a way for Death Eaters to enter Hogwarts."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Give me my book back."

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"This isn't a game, Granger!" His fingers curled into fists on the table. "You think you understand everything, but you don't know anything about what's happening."

"Then enlighten me," she pressed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Because I'm this close to taking this straight to Dumbledore."

Something flashed in Draco's eyes—was it fear? "You can't," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "He'll kill them."

"Who will kill who?" Hermione asked, confusion momentarily replacing her anger.

"He'll kill my parents," Draco whispered, so quietly she almost missed it

Hermione stared at him, the accusation she'd been ready to hurl dying on her lips. For a moment, Draco's mask slipped completely, revealing something she'd never seen before—raw terror. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, leaving it standing up in uneven tufts. The confident, sneering boy she'd known for six years seemed to crumple before her eyes.

"You don't understand what he's like," Draco continued, his voice barely audible. "What he does to people who fail him."

The dim light from the room windows cast half his face in shadow, but Hermione could see moisture gathering in his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to maintain what little composure he had left.

"Voldemort," she whispered, and Draco flinched violently at the name.

"Don't—" he hissed, glancing around as though the name itself might summon him.

A chill ran down Hermione's spine. The reality of Draco's situation began to crystallize—not a willing participant, but a hostage.

"He gave me a task," Draco said, his voice hollow. "Said it was an honor for my family. But it's not an honor—it's punishment for my father's failure at the Ministry last year." He laughed, a broken sound with no humor in it.

The classroom felt suddenly colder. Outside, rain began to patter against the windows, distorting the gray daylight.

"What's the task?" Hermione asked, though part of her already knew.

Draco shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I can't. I've already said too much. He has ways of knowing things—people who report to him."

"Snape?" she asked quietly.

Draco's head snapped up, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. He reached across the table suddenly, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. "You need to forget this conversation happened. Forget what you saw in that book."

His fingers were ice-cold against her skin, and she could feel them trembling.

"I can help you," Hermione said, the words escaping before she could think better of them. "We can go to Dumbledore together—"

"Dumbledore can't protect anyone!" Draco snarled, desperation making his voice crack. "Look what happened to your precious Diggory, to Potter's godfather. The Order is losing, Granger. Everyone around Potter ends up dead."

A tear escaped, tracking down his face. Hermione watched, stunned, as he quickly wiped it away, looking mortified at his own vulnerability.

"You don't have to do this alone," she said softly, turning her wrist in his grip until she was holding his hand. The gesture surprised them both.

Draco looked down at their joined hands as if he couldn't comprehend what was happening. "Why am I even telling you this? You hate me."

"I don't hate you," Hermione said, realizing as she spoke that it was true. "I hate what you've done, the choices you've made…”

The rain intensified outside, drumming against the windows. Thunder rumbled in the distance. "There's no way out," Draco whispered, staring at the raindrops racing down the glass. "If I fail..."

"There's always a way out," Hermione insisted. She reached into her bag and pulled out his book, placing it on the table between them.

"Stop," Draco cut her off, suddenly straightening and letting go of her hand. The brief window into his fear was closing, his face hardening back into familiar lines of contempt. "This conversation never happened.”

“Draco…” She couldn’t remember if she had ever called him by his first name before, and the name felt strange on her tongue.

He looked up, startled by her use of his first name. For a moment, his gray eyes locked with hers, a silent communication passing between them that neither fully understood.

"Don't," he said finally, his voice low and rough. He stood abruptly, shoving his notes into his bag. "Keep the book if you want. It won't change anything."

"Where are you going?" she asked, rising to her feet as well.

"I need to think," he muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Alone."

Before she could respond, he was striding toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, his back to her. "If you tell anyone about this conversation," he said without turning, "I'll deny everything. And they'll believe me over you."

"No, they won't," Hermione replied quietly.

Draco's shoulders tensed. For a moment, she thought he might say something else, but then he yanked open the door and disappeared into the corridor.

—

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual dinner chatter three evenings later. Golden platters laden with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and steaming vegetables gleamed under the enchanted ceiling, which reflected a clear night sky scattered with stars. The floating candles cast a warm glow over the four long house tables where students huddled over their meals, gossiping and laughing.

Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, her food barely touched. Her eyes kept drifting toward the Slytherin table where Draco sat isolated from his housemates, pushing food around his plate. Dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, and his cheekbones seemed more pronounced than ever. He hadn't spoken to her since their confrontation, avoiding their project meetings with flimsy excuses delivered by owl.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice broke through her thoughts. "Are you even listening to us?"

She blinked, turning back to her friends. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a concerned look across the table.

"We were talking about Quidditch practice," Ron said, his mouth half-full of potatoes. "But you wouldn't know since you've barely heard a word we've said all week."

"I've just been busy with schoolwork," she replied automatically, her eyes involuntarily flicking back toward the Slytherin table.

Harry followed her gaze. "It's not schoolwork you're obsessing over," he said quietly. "It's Malfoy."

Hermione's cheeks flushed. "I'm not obsessing."

"Really?" Ron snorted, swallowing his food. "Because you've mentioned his name about twenty times a day this week. 'Malfoy's up to something,' 'Malfoy missed our project meeting,' 'Malfoy looks ill.'" His imitation of her voice was irritatingly high-pitched.

"I don't sound like that," she snapped, stabbing at a piece of carrot with unnecessary force.

"You kind of do," Harry said with a half-smile that quickly faded. "But seriously, Hermione, we're worried about you. This fixation isn't healthy."

"It's not a fixation," she insisted, lowering her voice. "I just... I think he's in trouble."

Ron almost choked on his pumpkin juice. "In trouble? Malfoy is trouble. There's a difference."

"You don't understand," Hermione said, frustrated. "He's scared."

"Good," Ron replied flatly. "After all the years he's made our lives miserable, maybe it's about time he got a taste of his own medicine."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort but stopped when she noticed Draco abruptly standing up from the Slytherin table. He looked pale and unsteady, clutching the edge of the table for support before straightening his shoulders and walking swiftly toward the exit. He moved like someone trying very hard not to run. Before he disappeared through the doors, Hermione caught a glimpse of his face—it was contorted with pain or fear, she couldn't tell which.

"I need to go," she said, getting to her feet.

"Hermione, wait—" Harry began, but she was already moving.

"I'll explain later," she called over her shoulder, ignoring the curious stares from other Gryffindors as she hurried out of the Great Hall.

The entrance hall was empty. Hermione hesitated, looking around frantically. Which way would he have gone? She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. The dungeons were the obvious choice—the Slytherin common room—but something told her Draco wouldn't have gone there. Not if he was trying to hide whatever was happening to him. A faint sound from above made her look up. Footsteps, moving quickly. She raced up the marble staircase, her heart pounding. At the top, she paused again, listening. Another sound—was that crying?—echoed down from the second floor.

Hermione followed the noise, moving as quietly as she could. The corridor was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners. She slowed as she approached the boys' bathroom, where the sounds were coming from. The door was slightly ajar, and she could hear running water and ragged breathing.

She hesitated, her hand hovering over the door. This was madness. What was she doing, chasing after Malfoy? He'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her. And yet...the fear in his eyes when he'd spoken about his parents, about Voldemort—it had been real.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open.

Draco stood hunched over one of the sinks, his white-knuckled hands gripping the porcelain edges. His school robes were discarded on the floor, and his white shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his pale chest. Water splashed from the faucet, some of it dripping down his face, which was twisted in anguish. He hadn't heard her come in.

"Draco?" she said quietly.

He whirled around, his wand appearing in his hand so quickly she barely saw him draw it. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet with what might have been water or tears.

"Get out," he snarled, but his voice broke on the last word.

"You're not well," Hermione said, taking a step toward him. "Let me help you."

"I don't need your help!" He backed away until he hit the wall, his wand still pointed at her. "I don't need anyone's help.”

His hand was shaking so badly that the wand trembled in his grip. Hermione took another cautious step forward, palms raised to show she wasn't reaching for her own wand.

"Your hand is trembling," she said softly. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

"Don't pretend you care," Draco said, but the venom in his voice was diluted by exhaustion. "This isn't some house-elf you can save, Granger."

The bathroom was cold and damp, the sound of dripping water echoing against the stone walls. Moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting elongated shadows across the floor.

"I do care," Hermione said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "Whatever you're doing, whatever he's making you do—it's killing you."

He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. “So what?”

Hermione crossed the distance between them and knelt in front of him. His wand was still pointed at her, but it had lowered considerably.

"Let me see your arm," she said quietly.

Draco's eyes widened. "What?"

"Your left arm. Let me see it."

He clutched his forearm protectively. "No."

"Please," she whispered.

Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Finally, with trembling fingers, Draco began to unbutton his left sleeve. He rolled it up slowly, revealing inch by inch the Dark Mark branded into his pale skin—black and ugly against the blue veins of his wrist.

Hermione couldn't suppress her gasp. She'd suspected, but seeing it was different. It seemed to writhe on his skin. Without thinking, she trailed her fingers over it and she felt him shudder under her touch.

Draco jerked his arm away, his face flushing with shame. "Happy now? Seen what you wanted to see?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, ignoring his defensive tone.

He laughed hollowly. "All the time." He pulled his sleeve back down, covering the mark. "Sometimes it burns like it's on fire.”

Hermione's eyes softened. Without thinking, she reached out and placed her hand gently over his covered forearm. "When did it happen?"

"Summer," he whispered, not pulling away this time. "After Father was sent to Azkaban. He came to the Manor." Draco swallowed hard. "Made me watch while he tortured Mother first.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and Hermione fought the urge to wipe it away. The moonlight streaming through the high windows cast his face in silvery light, highlighting the sharp angles of his features and the dark hollows beneath his eyes. The bathroom fell silent except for the rhythmic dripping of the leaky faucet. Draco's breathing had steadied somewhat, though Hermione could still feel tension radiating from him.

"Do you remember in third year," she said suddenly, "when I punched you in the face?"

A startled laugh escaped him, so unexpected that it seemed to surprise even Draco himself. "Hard to forget. You have a mean right hook, Granger."

She smiled. "I was so angry with you. I'd never hit anyone before.”

"I probably deserved worse," he admitted quietly.

Their eyes met, and something shifted in the air between them. The hostility that had defined their relationship for six years seemed to recede, replaced by something undefined but unmistakably different.

"Why are you here, Granger?" Draco asked, his voice soft but steadier now. "Why follow me? You should be with Potter and Weasley, plotting how to save the world."

Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, buying herself time to consider her answer. "I don't know," she admitted finally. "I just... I saw your face when you left the Great Hall, and I couldn't just sit there."

A ghost of his old smirk appeared. "Gryffindor heroics?"

"Human decency," she corrected gently.

Draco's head fell back against the wall, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, they seemed clearer, more focused. "There's no way out of this for me," he said. "You understand that, don't you?"

"There's always a way," Hermione insisted. "Dumbledore—"

"Can't protect everyone," Draco finished for her. "We've been through this."

The moonlight shifted as clouds passed overhead, momentarily darkening the bathroom before illuminating it again. In that brief play of light and shadow, Hermione saw something change in Draco's expression—a decision being made.

"I should go," he said, moving to stand. "If I'm missed for too long..."

Hermione rose with him, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. "Promise me something," she said, impulsively reaching for his hand. His skin was cold against hers, but he didn't pull away. "Promise you won't do anything... final... without talking to me first."

His gray eyes searched her face. "Why do you care so much?"

"I don't know," she whispered honestly. "I just do."

For a moment, they stood there in silence, hands linked, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Then Draco gently extracted his fingers from hers.

"I need to go," he repeated, but made no move to leave.

Hermione nodded, stepping back to give him space. "So do I. Harry and Ron will wonder where I went."

At the mention of her friends, Draco's face closed off slightly. He bent to retrieve his robes from the floor, wincing as he straightened.

"Your ribs?" Hermione asked, noticing the pain that flashed across his features.

"It's nothing," he dismissed, but the careful way he moved told a different story.

"Let me see," she said, stepping forward again.

"Granger, really—"

"Let me see," she repeated more firmly.

With a resigned sigh, Draco unbuttoned his shirt further, revealing a large, purpling bruise along his left side. Hermione's breath caught.

"Who did this?" she asked, anger flaring unexpectedly.

"Crabbe," Draco said, looking away. "He doesn't approve of my... recent distance."

Hermione carefully reached out, her fingers hovering just above the bruised skin. "May I?"

Draco nodded almost imperceptibly. She gently pressed her fingertips to the edge of the bruise, feeling him tense at her touch.

"It might be cracked," she murmured. "I know a healing spell that could help."

"Of course you do," he said, but there was no malice in his voice. Just weary acceptance.

Hermione drew her wand. Draco flinched slightly but held still as she murmured the incantation, her wand moving in a gentle figure-eight pattern over his ribs. A soft blue light emanated from the tip, sinking into his skin. The bruise didn't disappear completely, but the angry purple faded to a milder yellowish hue.

"Better?" she asked, stepping back.

Draco took an experimental breath, deeper than before. "Yes," he admitted, buttoning his shirt back up. "Thank you."

The words sounded foreign coming from his lips, as if he'd rarely said them before. Perhaps he hadn't.

"You should go first," he said, gesturing to the door. "If anyone saw us leaving together..."

"Right," Hermione nodded, understanding the implications. She moved toward the door but paused with her hand on the handle. "Draco?"

He looked up, his face half in shadow, half illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window. In that moment, he looked both younger than his years and impossibly old.

"Remember what I said," she told him.

Something flickered in his eyes—doubt, hope, she couldn't tell which. Then he nodded once, a barely perceptible movement.

Hermione slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. The corridor was empty, the castle quiet except for the distant hooting of owls and the eternal whispers of the ancient stones. She leaned against the wall for a moment, her heart racing as the reality of what had just happened settled over her.

She had seen Draco Malfoy—really seen him—perhaps for the first time. Not as the cruel bully who had tormented her for years, but as someone trapped and terrified, marked by darkness but not yet consumed by it. And something in her chest ached at the thought of him facing his impossible choice alone.

With a deep breath, Hermione straightened her robes and began the walk back to Gryffindor Tower, knowing that nothing between them would ever be the same again.

Stay tuned for part 4!! Click HERE to view!

[yrluvjane]

ƦƠԼԼƖƝƓ ƬӇЄ ƊƖƇЄ ƛƝƊ ƑԼƖƤƤƖƝƓ ƬӇЄ ƤƛƓЄ (Part 2)

Part 1

The fire crackled in the library of Grimmauld Place, casting long shadows over the shelves of ancient tomes. You sat curled in the armchair, fingers tracing the spine of a book you hadn’t truly been reading for the past hour. The weight of the evening pressed against your ribs like a physical thing—thirteen years of grief, of anger, of waking up to an empty bed and pretending it didn’t shatter you all over again.

And now he was here.

Sirius Black, alive and breathing and right downstairs, laughing with Harry as if no time had passed at all.

You took a shaky sip of wine, the glass trembling in your hand.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t look up.

"Most of those books are cursed, y’know."

His voice—Godric, his voice—was rougher than you remembered, worn at the edges like an old record. But it still sent a familiar shiver down your spine.

You forced your fingers to steady as you turned the page. "Most dark books are. Though the curses can be avoided if opened correctly." A whisper of magic, a soft click as the locks released.

Sirius exhaled sharply, and you could feel his gaze on you—heavy, searching. Like he was trying to memorize every detail before you vanished again.

"Won’t you sit?" you asked, finally looking up.

He looked older. The sharp angles of his face were more pronounced, shadows lingering beneath his eyes. But his hair was still that same wild tumble of black, his grin still crooked in that way that used to make your stomach flip.

Now it just made your chest ache.

Sirius sank into the chair opposite you, his fingers drumming restlessly against his knee. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid.

Then—

"I’m sorry."

The words were raw, ripped from somewhere deep. You blinked.

"Sorry?"

"For everything." His hands clenched. "For leaving you. For breaking my vows. For—fuck, for letting you think I was a murderer for thirteen years—"

"Sirius." You cut him off, voice sharper than intended. "You didn’t let me think anything. You were framed. By a man we both called a friend."

"But if I hadn’t—if I’d just thought for one damn second—"

"Then what?" You leaned forward, your wine forgotten. "You think changing the Secret Keeper would’ve saved them? That Peter wouldn’t have found another way to betray us? That Voldemort wouldn’t have hunted them down regardless?" Your voice cracked. "You can’t rewrite history by blaming yourself."

Sirius flinched.

The fire popped between you.

Then, quieter—

"You waited for me."

It wasn’t a question. His eyes dropped to your left hand, to the wedding ring you’d never taken off.

You swallowed. "I did."

"Why?" The word was barely a whisper. "After everything—after Azkaban—how could you still—"

"Because I knew you." You met his gaze, unwavering. "Even when the whole world called you a monster, I knew. And I fought for you, Sirius. Every damn day."

His breath hitched.

You continued, softer now. "Remus helped. When the Ministry barred me from visiting you, he smuggled in letters. When they tried to seize our assets, he fought them in court. We—Merlin, we tried."

Sirius’s hands were shaking. "You never gave up on me."

"Never."

A beat. Then—

"There’s something else."

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass. Here it comes.

Sirius frowned. "What is it?"

You took a deep breath. "We have a daughter."

The firelight flickered across Sirius's hollowed cheeks as he stared at you, his grey eyes wide and wounded. The moment the words left your lips—we have a daughter—you watched the color drain from his face.

His wine glass slipped from his fingers.

It shattered against the hardwood, ruby liquid splattering like blood across the floor. Neither of you moved to clean it.

"A... daughter?" His voice was barely audible, cracked at the edges like broken porcelain.

You nodded, your throat suddenly too tight.

Sirius swayed on his feet. His hands—those beautiful, aristocratic hands that had once cradled your face so tenderly—curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white.

"Fourteen years old," he whispered. The math was simple. Brutal. "Merlin. She was—you were—"

"Three months along when they took you." Your fingers twisted in your lap. "I didn't know yet. Not until after."

The confession hung between you, suffocating.

Sirius made a sound like a dying man. He staggered back, collapsing into the armchair as if his legs could no longer hold him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers digging into the armrests hard enough to tear the fabric.

"You raised her," he choked out. "Alone. While I—while I rotted in that fucking cell—"

"Sirius—"

"Does she—" He swallowed convulsively. "Does she hate me?"

The question shattered you.

You were on your knees before him in an instant, your hands hovering over his—wanting to touch, needing to comfort, but terrified he'd recoil.

"She could never," you whispered fiercely. "I told her everything. About your bravery. Your loyalty. How you'd have moved heaven and earth to be there if you'd known."

Sirius's entire body trembled. A single tear tracked through the grime still clinging to his face from the run across Europe.

"What if I'm not—" His voice broke. "What if I'm not enough for her now?"

You finally dared to touch him, cradling his face between your hands. His skin was cold beneath your palms.

"Look at me," you pleaded. When his glassy eyes met yours, you pressed your forehead to his. "You are her father. That's all that's ever mattered."

Sirius crumpled.

He dragged you against him with a sob so raw it ripped through your chest, his face buried in your neck as he shook. You clung to him just as desperately, your fingers tangling in his hair as thirteen years of grief poured out between you.

"I'm sorry," he gasped against your skin. "I'm so sorry—"

"Shhh." You pressed a kiss to his temple, tasting salt and smoke. "You're home now."

The Reunion

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains of Grimmauld Place, painting the dusty halls in gold. You stood at the top of the stairs, your hand gripping Sirius's so tightly it hurt.

"She's just through here," you murmured, nodding toward the sitting room where Elara waited.

Sirius's breath hitched. His palm was slick with sweat against yours.

"You don't have to do this now," you said softly, squeezing his fingers. "We can wait—"

"No." His voice was rough but steady. "I've waited thirteen years."

You pushed the door open.

Elara sat curled in the window seat, her dark curls—his curls—tumbling over her shoulders as she flipped through a book. At the sound of the door, she glanced up, and Sirius stopped breathing.

Her eyes—his eyes, stormy grey and sharp—widened.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then—

Elara slid off the window seat, her book forgotten on the cushion. She took a hesitant step forward, her fingers twisting in the hem of her sweater.

"Hi," she whispered.

Sirius made a wounded noise in the back of his throat. He took a shaky step toward her, then another, until he was close enough to see the freckles dusting her nose—your freckles—and the way her bottom lip trembled just like yours did when you were trying not to cry.

"Hi," he rasped.

Elara stared up at him, her eyes searching his face—memorizing it. Then, so quietly you almost missed it—

"I kept your records. Mum said you'd want them someday."

Sirius's knees buckled.

He caught himself on the arm of the sofa, his free hand pressed over his mouth as a sob tore through him. Elara didn't hesitate—she crossed the distance between them in two quick strides and threw her arms around his waist.

Sirius froze.

Then, with a broken cry, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair as his shoulders shook.

"I'm here," he whispered against her curls. "I'm here now."

You pressed a hand to your mouth, tears streaming down your face as you watched your husband cradle your daughter for the first time.

Outside, the wind howled against the windows of Grimmauld Place. But here, in this ruined house, with your daughter's quiet sobs muffled against Sirius's chest and his whispered promises in her hair—

For the first time in thirteen years, the world felt whole again.

2 years late but i still did it!

[butterworthd]

Ok so I have this character in fallout who is a member of the legion. He is in all the fallout games (except for 1 and 2). I just wanted to post Caesars death speech that i made that makes my character Lucius Varro the new Caesar. This is defo the most iv put in to writing and making lore for a character (even for Xx_lilTimy_xX[maybe]) Anyway here it is.

The Death of Caesar – Rise of Lucius Varro

INT. CAESAR'S TENT – NIGHT

The air is thick with incense. Firelight flickers against crimson fabric. Caesar lies dying, weak but defiant. Lucius Varro kneels beside him, helmet at his side, eyes sharp and still.

Caesar (rasping): Come closer... I need to see the man who finished what I began.

Lucius: I’m here.

Caesar: You ended the NCR. Hoover Dam is ours. You burned their flags, crushed their generals, shattered their false republic. The Boomers fell. The Brotherhood died screaming in their bunkers. Mr. House—unplugged like a forgotten relic. Every faction, every defiance—erased. All for the Legion.

Lucius: And for you, Caesar.

Caesar (smiling faintly): You destroyed the Enclave. Sabotaged the purifier. Stole secrets no one else could reach. Not for glory. Not for self. But for Rome.

Lucius: Rome endures.

Caesar (gripping his wrist): No, Lucius. Rome rises. You’ve done what Lanius never could. He conquered bodies. You conquered history. You’re not my blade anymore. You’re my legacy. You are Caesar now.

Lucius: Say it. Let them know it was your will.

Caesar (whispering): Lucius Varro is dead. There is only... Caesar Invictus.

Caesar exhales, his breath shallow and ragged—a final, fading sigh that seems to carry the weight of a dying empire. The flickering torchlight catches the last glimmer in his eyes before they close forever, plunging the tent into a heavy silence that feels like the very air has stopped moving.

Lucius remains still for a long moment, his chest tight with the gravity of the moment. Then, with deliberate calm, he reaches for Caesar’s crimson sash—worn and stained from countless battles—and slowly wraps it around his own arm. The fabric feels heavier than cloth; it carries the legacy of a god-king and the burdens of war.

He rises. Every muscle taut, every breath measured. The new Caesar stands alone in the dim light—both inheritor and avenger of a fallen giant.

EXT. FORTIFICATION HILL – PRE-DAWN

The first pale hints of dawn creep across the horizon, but the air remains thick with expectation. Hundreds of Legionaries stand in rigid formation, their faces stoic, eyes sharp, weapons at the ready. Silence hangs over them like a shroud, every soldier holding their breath as if sensing the moment that will carve history.

The massive figure of Legate Lanius stands at the forefront, a mountain of armor and menace, his gaze locked on the tent’s entrance.

Then, from the shadowed opening, Lucius steps forth—clad in gleaming black armor, the deep red sash of Caesar blazing across his chest like a banner of blood and fire. Each step is slow, deliberate, echoing with the authority of a man who has claimed not just a title, but a destiny.

His voice cuts through the silence, cold and unyielding: “Caesar is dead. But Mars lives on.”

He advances further, every word steady and sharp, as if etching a new chapter in the annals of the Legion—a promise of relentless conquest and unbroken will.

Lucius (now Caesar Invictus): With his final breath, Caesar named me his successor. His will is law. You will obey me—or be purged from this world. I shattered the NCR. I took Hoover Dam—the lifeblood of their empire—and left their Rangers as nothing more than corpses in the dust. Their banners? Reduced to ash, blown away by the desert winds. The Boomers fell from the skies like fallen angels. The Brotherhood’s walls crumbled beneath our siege, their proud order broken and scattered. The Followers of the Apocalypse vanished like ghosts, powerless to resist. Mr. House? Killed. Forgotten. A relic buried beneath the ruins of the Strip. The Enclave—dismantled piece by piece. The purifier—once a weapon they dreamed to control—now belongs only to Rome. All who dared stand against us have been erased. From their ashes, we rise. From their ruins, we build a Rome stronger than stone or steel. A Rome that will not fall. A Rome that will never die.

Silence spreads like a heavy cloak across the assembled Legion. One by one, soldiers drop to their knees, weapons lowered, heads bowed in unwavering loyalty.

Even the fearsome Legate Lanius, the living storm of war, slowly lowers his gaze.

Lucius raises Caesar’s blade high, its edge catching the first light of dawn.

Lucius: Rome is eternal.

The firelight flares, casting long shadows that dance across hardened faces. A low murmur swells into a roaring chorus of chants, echoing up the hill and across the wasteland.

Caesar Invictus has risen.

[kopivie]

SIREN AU PLS TELL ME MORE??

OKAY OKAY SO THERE WERE 2 VERSIONS!! at first i wrote this based directly off your post :

The forest was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the occasional chirp of crickets. Chinju Forest often carried an air of mystery, but tonight it felt heavy, as if the very trees were holding their breath.

You paused mid-step, senses on edge. There was movement ahead—a flash of white darting between the shadows, followed by the sharp crackle of elemental energy. Abyss Mages.

Carefully, you crept closer, heart pounding as the scene unfolded. Two Abyss Mages were circling something small and swift, launching spells that collided with the ground in bursts of frost and flame. Despite their best efforts, their target slipped through their grasp—a tiny white fox with three tails, its fur streaked with scarlet like the last brush of autumn leaves.

The fox darted forward, then skidded to a halt, cornered against a rocky outcrop. It turned, baring its teeth in defiance, but you could see the exhaustion in its trembling frame.

Without thinking, you sprang into action, unsheathing your weapon. The clash of your blade against elemental shields drew the Abyss Mages’ attention, their distorted voices snarling in anger. A swift parry, a well-placed strike, and the threat was eliminated.

When the dust settled, you turned to the fox, expecting it to bolt. Instead, it stared up at you with piercing scarlet eyes, its gaze both wary and... curious.

"Hey there," you said softly, crouching down. "Are you hurt?"

The fox tilted its head, almost as if amused by your concern. Before you could approach, it leaped onto a nearby rock and dropped something into your hand—a tiny furin wind chime.

The glass was cool to the touch, its surface painted with turquoise, crimson, and golden maple leaves. The scarlet tanzaku hanging beneath it gleamed faintly in the moonlight, streaked with gold.

You looked up, but the fox was gone, disappearing into the forest as silently as it had appeared.

The wind chime jingled softly, its melody a gentle whisper carried by the evening breeze. You glanced at it, clipped securely to your bag, and smiled. Its delicate design of painted maple leaves and streaks of gold had become a small comfort in your travels.

That night in Chinju Forest had been strange. You’d saved the little white fox from Abyss Mages—a bold and reckless move, in hindsight—and it had left the wind chime with you before vanishing into the shadows. Ever since, the wind chime had a habit of ringing at odd times, even when the air was still.

Tonight was no different. The chime tinkled again, its clear tone cutting through the quiet woods.

You paused, looking around. "Hello?" you called out.

Silence.

You shook your head and continued walking, dismissing it as your imagination. But no sooner had you taken a few steps than a soft rustle reached your ears.

Turning sharply, you caught sight of white fur slipping between the trees.

"Hey!" you called out, but the figure disappeared.

By the time you reached your camp, you were too tired to dwell on it. As you set up for the night, the wind chime rang again—this time louder, as if announcing someone’s presence. You turned, only to find the little fox perched on a nearby log, its scarlet-streaked fur gleaming in the firelight.

"You again," you said, surprised.

The fox tilted its head, glassy red eyes reflecting the flames. It hopped down and trotted over, its tails swishing lightly behind it. Before you could react, it curled up at your feet, as if declaring itself your companion.

"Well," you muttered, amused. "I guess I don’t mind the company."

The fox’s ear twitched, as if it understood.

Days turned into weeks, and the fox became a constant presence in your life. You didn’t know why it had chosen you, but its quiet companionship was comforting. It would appear whenever the wind chime rang—whether you were deep in the woods or wandering through the fields—and linger until it decided to vanish again.

Sometimes, it seemed almost... human in its behavior. It would watch you intently, its gaze sharp and thoughtful, or tilt its head in a way that felt like amusement. Once, you’d jokingly offered it part of your meal, and it had swiped the food with a smug flick of its tails, leaving you laughing at its audacity.

Yet, no matter how much time you spent together, the fox remained a mystery.

"You’re not a normal fox, are you?" you mused one evening, sitting by the fire.

The fox’s ears perked, but it didn’t answer.

"Figures," you sighed, leaning back. "But you’re not going to tell me, are you?"

The fox stood, padding over to nudge your hand with its nose. Then, with a soft huff, it curled up beside you, its tails wrapping around itself.

You smiled, stroking its fur gently. "Alright, keep your secrets."

The wind chime swayed softly from the breeze, its soft tinkling the only response.

|||||||||| this one was not completely finished its still a draft

and then i wrote this for a friend:

The first time you saw the fox, it was perched on a rock by the riverbank. Its white fur gleamed under the sunlight, and its crimson eyes stared at you with a sharp, unnerving intelligence. At first, you thought it might bolt the moment it noticed you, but instead, it stayed completely still, watching as you cautiously stepped closer.

“Not shy, are you?” you murmured, crouching to its level.

The fox tilted its head, its tail flicking once before it leaped gracefully from the rock and disappeared into the underbrush.

You assumed that was the end of it—a fleeting encounter with a particularly bold fox.

But it wasn’t.

The next morning, you found the fox sitting just outside your camp, its snowy fur standing out against the muted tones of the forest. You froze mid-step, unsure what to make of it. It simply watched you, its tail curling neatly around its paws.

“Are you following me?” you asked with a laugh.

The fox yawned in response.

It became a regular occurrence. No matter where you went—through dense forests, up winding mountain trails, or across open fields—the fox always seemed to find you. It kept its distance at first, but over time, it grew bolder, padding closer to your campfire or lying in the shade of the trees while you worked.

You began talking to it, even though you knew it couldn’t understand.

“Well, I can’t keep calling you ‘fox,’ can I?” you said one evening, stirring the pot of stew over the fire. “You need a name.”

The fox’s ears twitched as it looked up at you, as though it understood every word.

“Hm… Let’s see.” You tapped your spoon against the pot, thinking. “How about Ember? It suits you, doesn’t it? With those eyes of yours.”

The fox didn’t respond, but the way its tail swayed slightly made you think it approved.

“Alright, Ember it is,” you said with a smile. “You’re officially part of my little camp.”

From then on, the fox became more than just a shadow following you. It was your companion, curling up by the fire at night and trotting beside you during the day. It would tilt its head at you as if asking questions, nudge your hand when it wanted attention, and even paw at your pack when it wanted food.

Yet, there was something undeniably strange about it.

Like the time you woke up to find a small, perfectly folded maple leaf resting on your pack. Or the way it seemed to always know when you were feeling upset, pressing its warm body against your side to comfort you.

“Sometimes, I wonder what you really are,” you muttered one night, scratching behind its ears. “You’re too clever for a fox.”

Ember only blinked at you, his gaze steady and unreadable.

You started to feel a strange sort of bond with the creature, one that went beyond simple companionship. It was as though Ember understood you in a way no human ever had. You found yourself telling him stories about your travels, your dreams, and even your fears. He never responded, of course, but the way he stayed close and watched you with clever crimson eyes made it feel like he was listening.

And yet, there were moments when you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye.

One evening, as you sat by the fire, you caught Ember staring at you again. There was something in his gaze that made your chest tighten—a depth, a knowingness that didn’t belong to any animal.

“Who are you, really?” you whispered, half-joking, half-serious. “Some spirit? A guardian, maybe?”

The fox stood, stretched lazily, and padded over to you. He pressed his head against your hand, his fur warm and soft beneath your fingers.

You sighed, shaking your head. “Whatever you are, I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and that’s enough for me.”

If Ember understood, he gave no sign. But as he curled up beside you, his tail brushing against your leg, you couldn’t help but feel that you were right.

There was something special about this fox—something you couldn’t quite explain. And for now, that was okay.

--

The shrine stood atop a quiet hill, its torii gates framed by the delicate rustle of leaves. A soft breeze carried the scent of cherry blossoms and incense, familiar and calming. Kazuha ascended the steps with a natural ease, his form now entirely human—except for the fox ears poking through his hair, and his white (though dipped in crimson) tail swaying behind him. He adjusted his ceremonial haori, brushing a few stray leaves off its hem before stepping into the main courtyard.

As a kannushi, his duties often brought him here, ensuring the shrine was properly maintained and the offerings were received. This time, however, his steps felt heavier, weighed down by thoughts of the human he’d been following.

“You’re late today, Kazuha,” came a lilting voice, smooth and teasing, from within the shrine.

He barely had time to sigh before Yae Miko emerged, her fox-like grin as sharp as ever. She stood with an air of effortless grace, her vibrant hair catching the sunlight as she tilted her head at him.

“Apologies, Lady Yae,” Kazuha said, bowing respectfully.

“Oh, none of that,” Yae waved him off, the faintest smirk curling at her lips. “You’ve been distracted, haven’t you?”

Kazuha hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Yae’s eyes gleamed with mischievous curiosity, her sharp gaze seeing far more than Kazuha would’ve liked.

“I am simply carrying out my duties,” he replied evenly, though the faintest tint of pink bloomed on his face.

Yae’s grin widened. “Ah, duties, you say? Like wandering through the woods in your fox form? Or perhaps spending a suspiciously long time in the company of a certain human?”

Kazuha stiffened, though he quickly masked it with a composed expression. “You misunderstand, Lady Yae. I merely keep watch over them. It’s… nothing more than that.”

“Oh?” Yae’s tone dripped with amusement, and she stepped closer, folding her arms as her tails swayed behind her. “How curious, then, that your so-called watching has lasted for weeks. Surely, you don’t think I’m blind to your little excursions, Kazuha. Or to the fondness in your eyes when you speak of them.”

He lowered his gaze, his hands tightening at his sides. “They don’t know. I haven’t revealed myself.”

“Of course, you haven’t,” Yae said, her voice softening, though her teasing smile remained. “You’re too cautious for that. But you’re also quite transparent.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You like them, don’t you?”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

Yae’s laughter rang out, light and melodic, though it carried a sharp edge of satisfaction. “Oh, this is delightful. Kazuha, the calm and composed kannushi, enamored with a human. You’re practically a walking tale from one of my novels.”

“Lady Yae,” Kazuha said with a weary sigh, his cheeks faintly flushed.

“Oh, don’t pout,” she teased, waving a hand. “It’s sweet, really. A kitsune falling for a human is a tale as old as time. But tell me, Kazuha—what will you do about it? You can’t exactly follow them around as a fox forever.”

“I…” Kazuha hesitated, his voice trailing off. “I don’t know yet.”

For once, Yae didn’t push further. She simply smiled knowingly, a glimmer of genuine fondness in her eyes.

“Well, whatever you choose, I’m sure it will be interesting,” she said, turning to leave. But before she stepped away, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Oh, and Kazuha?”

“Yes, Lady Yae?”

“Next time you bring them a gift, try something more subtle than a folded maple leaf. Humans aren’t as dense as you think.”

Her laughter echoed through the shrine as she disappeared into the inner sanctum, leaving Kazuha standing in the courtyard, his face burning with embarrassment.

He exhaled slowly, glancing up at the sky.

Yae wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t follow you as a fox forever. But for now, he wasn’t ready to leave your side—or reveal his true self.

Not yet.

--

The weeks passed in a blur, and Ember had become a near-constant companion. The clever fox seemed to enjoy your company as much as you enjoyed his, curling up beside you at camp, trotting alongside you on forest paths, and even sitting patiently while you spoke your thoughts aloud as if he were a trusted confidant.

You’d grown used to his silent presence, even relying on it. Despite the fox’s mysteriousness, he had become something like a friend—a comforting shadow amidst the unpredictable wilderness.

So when the bandits attacked, you found yourself wishing Ember was nearby, even if there was nothing a fox could realistically do to help.

The rogue Nobushis had ambushed you just as you were packing up your camp. You’d barely managed to grab your weapon before they lunged, their blades flashing in the sunlight. You fought back fiercely, your instincts sharp and your movements honed from years of travel and training.

But you hadn’t seen the Kairagi creeping up behind you.

You noticed them too late. Their swords gleamed as they arced toward you, and there wasn’t enough time to turn, let alone block the strike. You braced yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and expecting the searing pain of a blade.

Instead, all you felt was a sudden, cool breeze brushing against your face.

The sound of metal clashing against metal rang out, followed by a startled grunt. When you opened your eyes, your breath caught in your throat.

Standing between you and the Kairagi was a young man, his back to you as he effortlessly deflected the incoming strikes with a blade that shimmered like moonlight. His movements were fluid and precise, as if the wind itself guided him.

But what truly left you speechless were his ears. Snow-white, tipped with crimson, they perched atop his head like a fox’s, twitching ever so slightly as he fought. Behind him, a fluffy tail swayed with each step.

“Stay behind me,” he said, his voice calm and melodic, carrying the same soothing cadence as the breeze that had just saved you.

Before you could respond, he moved again, a blur of white and red. The Nobushis had no chance—he danced around them with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, his blade striking with the precision of a falling leaf. Within moments, the bandits lay defeated, their weapons scattered across the ground.

The young man turned to you, sheathing his blade in a single, practiced motion. His crimson eyes met yours, warm yet piercing, and your heart skipped a beat.

“You’re safe now,” he said gently, his gaze scanning you for any injuries. “Are you hurt?”

You could only shake your head, your voice temporarily lost.

He stepped closer, his expression softening. “Forgive me for not revealing myself sooner,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I’m Kaedehara Kazuha, a kitsune. The fox you call Ember… that was me.”

Your mind reeled. “You… You’re Ember?”

He nodded, his fox ears twitching slightly. “I’ve been watching over you, though I didn’t expect to reveal myself like this.”

You blinked, still struggling to process everything. “So, all this time… the maple leaves, the way you seemed to understand me…”

“That was me,” he admitted, his lips curving into a small smile. “I couldn’t help but grow fond of you. I wanted to stay close, even if it meant keeping my true form hidden.”

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, at the ethereal being who had been your companion all this time.

Finally, you let out a breathless laugh. “Well, that explains a lot.”

His expression brightened at your reaction, his tail swishing behind him. “You’re not angry?”

“Angry? No,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m just… surprised. But if anything, I’m grateful. You saved me.”

Kazuha’s eyes softened, and he inclined his head slightly. “It was the least I could do. You mean a great deal to me.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for the first time, you realized just how much you trusted him—even before you’d known the truth.

“Well, Kazuha—or should I say Ember?—it looks like I owe you my life,” you said with a smile.

“You can call me whatever you like,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. “I’ll always answer to you.”

And as he stood there, the wind rustling through his snowy hair and his fox ears twitching ever so slightly, you realized that your journey had just taken a turn far more extraordinary than you could have ever imagined.

--

The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, and the gentle rustle of the wind through the trees filled the quiet air. Kazuha sat beside you on the hillside, his gaze distant but serene, as if he could read the world’s poetry through the swaying leaves.

You’d been traveling together for months now, ever since he revealed his true self. Despite his otherworldly nature, or maybe because of it, you had grown closer than ever. Kazuha had become more than just a protector, more than the mysterious yet cunning fox who had followed you. He had become your confidant, your closest companion, and—if you dared admit it to yourself—someone you had started to care for in a way that terrified and thrilled you all at once.

And that was why you felt so nervous now.

The words had been stuck in your throat for days, a tangled knot of fear and longing. You glanced at him, his profile illuminated by the dying light. His white hair, streaked with crimson, swayed gently in the breeze, and his fox ears twitched at the distant call of a bird.

“Kazuha,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He turned to you, his crimson eyes warm and attentive. “Yes?”

You hesitated, your heart racing. How were you supposed to say this? What if he didn’t feel the same? What if you ruined everything?

“I…” You took a deep breath, clenching your hands in your lap. “I need to tell you something. It’s… important.”

Kazuha’s gaze softened, and he turned his body toward you, giving you his full attention. “Go on,” he encouraged gently.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” you began, your voice shaky. “Ever since we’ve been traveling together, you’ve been… everything to me. You’re kind, and thoughtful, and you always seem to know what I need, even before I do. And I… I’ve started to care for you—more than I ever expected. More than I probably should.”

You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “I know you might not feel the same, and I don’t want this to make things awkward between us, but I just… I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

Then, you felt the gentle brush of fingers against your chin.

Kazuha tilted your face upward, his eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that took your breath away. His touch was light, as if he were afraid to startle you, but there was a quiet certainty in his expression.

“You’ve been so brave to tell me this,” he said softly, his voice like the whisper of leaves in the wind. “But you didn’t need to be afraid.”

Your eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, a small, genuine curve of his lips that made your heart flutter. “I’ve felt the same for quite some time now. I’ve been drawn to you since the moment we met, and that feeling has only grown stronger with each day. You’ve shown me kindness, understanding, and a sense of peace I thought I’d lost long ago. How could I not fall for you?”

You blinked, your breath catching. “You… You mean that?”

“I do,” he said, his voice steady and sincere. “With all my heart.”

The weight that had been pressing down on your chest lifted, replaced by a rush of warmth and relief. You laughed softly, the sound shaky but full of joy. “I thought you’d never feel the same,” you admitted.

Kazuha chuckled, his hand still resting lightly against your face. “Then I must not have been clear enough,” he said, his voice teasing but gentle. “Allow me to correct that.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t.

When his lips met yours, it was soft and unhurried, a kiss that felt like the gentle caress of the wind after a long journey. His hand slid to the back of your neck, his touch firm but tender, as if grounding you in the moment. You melted into him, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, and for a moment, the world around you faded away.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes met yours, filled with a quiet happiness that mirrored your own.

“You mean so much to me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll treasure you for as long as you’ll let me.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you couldn’t help but smile. “Then I hope you’re ready for a long time, Kazuha.”

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of flowers and the promise of many more sunsets shared together.

hi yes hello i read this once when i woke up and i just reread it now and AGAUAWNWHSWUEVRHWHWJEUWJQJSBJWJSDH

I LOVE ZUHA SO MUCCUHHHH THIS IS SO GOOD😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

i remember this idea though! i can't quite remember how the furin idea came about, but i think i have a draft of my own about it somewhere if you wanna see that too? bc i can't quite remember how the siren thing was supposed to go for albedo 😭

[jayflying]

And why is Martyn... Like That? (No Stranger Curses AU)

(Part 1: "The scars that others see.") [Part 2][Part 3]

In hindsight, he almost wants to blame BigB for all of this.

Martyn was just trying to do the good friend thing, being there when he was needed. And if BigB claimed he had received a prophecy guiding him to... wherever Grian had vanished to after Evo? It wouldn't be the first time B had visions. In Martyn's experience, they were pretty damn accurate. And Jimmy, and Pearl… they needed to know. Somehow Martyn knew he needed to be the one to tell them.

(If he'd just known Jimmy was following them he never would've-)

Well, they did find Grian. Found his game, that is. His stupid game and its godforsaken memory blocking.

Martyn realizes sooner than most that it's not a game for any of them. He makes a choice, then; to cast aside his honor, be frugal with his loyalties. He'll sink as low as he has to go, just to stay higher than six feet deep.

Ren was a convenience at first. A bigger, louder threat, one he could easily puppeteer. A bigger threat with a very distinct way of speaking.

Martyn has always been a vocal mimic. No one ever seems to expect how sound is second nature to him. He tests the waters with mob noises at first, and they fall for it every time. From that moment on, he starts to memorize the little details in others' voices. Especially in Ren's. (Maybe if he was paying less attention, he wouldn't have gotten attached.)

But planning and wit can only foresee so much. Bluffs and deception will only get him so far. He can't beg for his life in a false voice when his enemy is an explosion. His cunning doesn't save him when Impulse, that traitor, puts an arrow through his skull. It brings him great satisfaction to return the favor. Satisfaction doesn't get him very far either.

He thinks he might be one of the only people in this ridiculous game that remembers there was a first one.

He travels south. Sets out his alliances quickly. Tries not to rock the boat. He remembers what these people are like when they're angry - well, most of them - and he knows now how desperately he does not want unnecessary enemies. He hides in plain sight. Makes sure to be nothing but helpful. (They can't prove any of the thefts were him.)

A little voice in his head warns him over and over exactly how this will end. In secret, he's already laying out his backup plans.

As much as he cares, Jimmy is a liability. Impulse's heart lies with whoever can keep it in his chest, and he can't even blame the man for that. (Will not blame, but will not forgive.) Grian is so fond of chaos, it's almost malicious. And Martyn doesn't recognize anything about Mumbo, which is dangerous enough in itself.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The Shadow Alliance serves him better anyway. They all know where they stand. Better to be hesitantly trusted than lovingly betrayed.

…He spends a lot of time alone, these days. Sometimes he goes days at a time without seeing anyone else out in the woods. It's not that it gets to him, but— he talks to himself a little more than he used to. At some point he decides not to be ashamed of it anymore, at least when he's in private, because if it's the only thing that can bring him any joy in this stupid game — if it's the only way he'll ever hear any of their voices again — then it's worth it.

He makes his final stand at the highest mountain peak, glowing in the firelight, surrounded by all the spirits of the dead. It's poetic, for his downfall to be so literal. In some bittersweet way, he likes it.

The thing that gets back up again isn't entirely himself. He can feel a presence pressing up against his mind. Whispering to him, the way the Boogeyman curse once did. But this time it doesn't bother to hide its orders beneath false logic and pretty words.

Kill the one that has defied me, it orders, spitting each word like poison. It leaves no room for hesitation or resistance. Martyn can feel in every fiber of his being just how helpless he is. He speaks its lies with a smile, even as his hands tremble with desperation.

In the end, he falls to a so-called mistake. An explosion of his own making, badly misplaced. In the brief moment between anticipation and oblivion, he meets Scott's eye just long enough to plead.

Stay.

Martyn is so tired of feeling alone.

[aghastral]

Secret Garden

Chapter 2

The Lair

The 17th Passage wasn't far from Cross Market—just a few weathered wall segments, and I was there. As expected, the mage's craft remained hidden. In a place saturated with human magic, pinpointing the source I sought was no simple task. The damp alley lay silent, its emptiness heavy. I trailed my fingers along the rough stone blocks, their cold seeping into my skin, and froze. A familiar hum buzzed in my ears.

The path forked at the end. Hell. I shut my eyes, let the noise in my head burn brighter. And there she was—that voice. Again. "Typical. Just my luck" I thought, but my feet moved anyway, bare soles slapping the grime. No hesitation. No second-guessing. My fingers kept clawing the wall until—there. A thread of magic, coiled tight. Finally. I grinned. "Let's see where you lead."

The place was a hole—walls and floor the color of dried mud, a ceiling that pressed down like a coffin lid, and light that came from candles and oil lamps, because of course it did. I tightened my focus on the magic veil keeping me invisible and started prowling. Walking through walls? Yeah, it felt like squeezing through a meat grinder, but hey, useful as hell. The magic thread had dumped me into a room crammed with junk: cheap jewelry, rusted basins, a cracked lampshade, a bike that looked like it survived a war. Dust coated everything. Charming.

I ghosted through the shadows, silent as a knife. Where the hell am I now? That hum, the magic thread—useless. I slipped through the door and found a hallway brown as dirt, five more doors, and amber light flickering at the far end. Stairs leading down. Bingo.

"Shouldn't react to curse potions," a raspy, unnatural voice floated up.

I slid toward the sound. The hum was gone, but now my body felt like it was wrapped in tar. Ears clogged, steps dragging and my patience gone. I shoved my right hand to my forehead and carved a rune into my skin. The magic snapped—free.

"If it were a real disease, it wouldn't react. That's why so many are failing."

Oh, I knew that voice.

I smirked. Ain't life a funny thing? The fraud from the other day? Turned out he was the potion master I'd been hunting. Curiosity itching, I followed the smoke from the downstairs fireplace. And there he was. Firelight painted him young, almost... interesting for a human. Blond hair, brown eyes, a delicacy that screamed elf. But without his disguise charm, his scent hit me. Humans reeked like rot. Mages? Smoother, thanks to the magic in their veins. But this guy? Not human, not mage. What are you?

A crow clung to the hearth like a jagged shadow beside him. The room mirrored the rest of the hovel—cluttered with useless junk, brown as a dirt grave, lit by candles and the fireplace's hungry flames. My host slumped in a threadbare red armchair, some ancient grimoire in hand. Me? I perched on the windowsill across the room, invisible, the night's icy wind biting my skin. The open window framed a moonlit field. Hmph. A "door" to FairLands.

"You know my thoughts. This is just the beginning. Something's coming," the mage said, not glancing up.

"Don't bite off more than you can chew," the bird snapped, launching itself past me into the night.

"Please. I felt the wards tremble. Show yourself," he muttered, still reading. Asshole . If the bird hadn't fled away, I'd have thought he was talking to it. Typical fey luck—always dangling me over chaos. Instead of panic, his words sparked a smirk. Let's play.

"You're a curious one, aren't you?" I taunted, voice echoing, still cloaked.

"Ah, miss—please. I don't take appointments at this hour. Schedule like everyone else." He stood, tossing the book. It vanished before hitting the floor.

"Don't flatter yourself. I don't want your services" I sneered.

He chuckled, melodic and infuriating. "Your confidence wavers, miss. Drop the act." He poked the fire, sparks dancing.

Enough games. I dropped the veil hiding me, still perched on the sill. "What's this disease?" No lies.

"I'm a gentleman, but I do appreciate... reciprocity." His voice dripped honey as he sank back into the chair, eyes sharp.

"Then don't worry. I'm leaving." I turned to the night, my skin already blending with the shadows. Home.

"You're exceptionally rude." His voice was suddenly at my ear. He'd materialized beside me on the sill. Damn magic. I met his gaze. For a heartbeat, something flickered—his warmth too close, his scent oddly sweet, like burnt sugar and pine. "Baekhyun," he breathed, studying me. "People are falling into comas. No warning. No waking. Just... death. Humans only."

Without a word, I leapt from the windowsill. Didn't look back.

Baekhyun clawed at my thoughts—not just because of the plague creeping through humans (a problem that'd bite my kin in the ass eventually), but because the man himself was a puzzle. And I hated puzzles. I'd never seen him before, and I've dealt with enough magic-touched humans to know most reek of desperation or cruelty. But this one? He'd tossed his name at me like a dare. Idiot. You don't hand your true name to a fae, let alone one inside your house.

I hadn't opened my shop in two days. Been too busy stalking the edges of this mess, grilling every contact I've got, even begging the Mother-Trees for answers. Useless. Those ancient hags only stir when they damn well please. So far, all I've got is this: it's a curse, probably. Oh, and FairLands forests are rotting in some places. Nothing grows. Not a sprout, not a bloom. Our land's older than human sin, fertile as a goddess—. Now? Feels like a blight's gnawing at its roots.

My wandering dumped me back in the same fields I'd fled that night from the mage's hovel. Two hours ago, I'd hauled myself into the tallest tree around and sprawled across a branch, stewing. How the hell did this all spiral out of control without me noticing? I'm a forest fey—my veins practically run with sap. Plants whisper to me. Or they used to. The fact that I'd missed this rot festering in our realm? It pissed me off.

Humans? Let them drown in their curses. But FairLands... That was the blade twisting in my gut. The blight here, the plague there—they're connected. I'd bet on it. Worst part? What if this is nature's way? What if the land's finally coughing us out like a sickness? Lost in my brooding, I didn't miss the shift in the air. It was back. After fleeing the mage's hovel, I couldn't see it. Couldn't smell it. The place was rigged with a perpetual enchantment—invisible, ever-shifting, anchored nowhere. But now? I tasted the spell's metallic hum. Heard muffled voices. Even caught that bastard's scent—something cloyingly sweet.

"Go see him, then. Nothing's stopping you," croaked the raven, landing on my branch like it owned the damn tree.

"Funny. I love animals," I drawled, eyes still shut. "But push me, and I'll pluck your feathers for a pillow."

"The master's just as curious about you. And I'll admit—miss—no one's ever slipped through his moving wards before. Not like you did." It preened, a casual bastard.

"What can I say? It is my specialty." I shrugged, feigning indifference.

"He'll answer your questions. If you ask nicely." Before I could retort, it shot into the sky, vanishing through the magic veil hiding the mage's lair.

Damn that bird. It'd dredged up the worst part of me—the fey itch to poke a hornet's nest.

.............

[hexguardheart]

Beneath the Crown - Act X

Chapter 1 – "The Matchstick"

The applause from Caitlyn's press conference still echoed across news broadcasts, social feeds, headlines. But in the margins and far from the podium, the lights and the clean words, Vi moved differently.

She didn’t want cameras. She didn’t want speeches. She wanted faces. Names. The people left behind.

So she went back underground.

She returned to the burned-out remains of The Pit, then walked past it. Into the neighborhoods where police had rounded up protestors and never filed the paperwork. Into shelters where missing persons flyers faded on corkboards. Into corners of the city where the rebellion had sparked... then vanished.

They remembered her. Scarred lip. Cocky smile. Quiet now. Listening more than she spoke.

She met a woman named Joy, whose daughter disappeared after joining a Crown rehabilitation program. A teenager named Yusuf, who’d filmed riot officers beating his brother (footage confiscated, never seen again). A former Palace staffer who told Vi she wasn’t the only one who had seen Aline Moreau vanish. Others had, too. Many stayed quiet.

All stories. All pain. All silenced.

Vi recorded every name, every date, every quote. She brought it to Juliette in a single envelope.

"You want more than a confession?" she said. "Then print this. Let them see the whole machine."

Juliette flipped through the notes, eyes narrowing.

"This is dangerous, Vi."

"So was the truth Caitlyn told. This isn’t just about her family anymore. It never was."

Juliette looked at her, quiet. "You’re not doing this for her."

"No," Vi said. "I’m doing this for the ones who didn’t get a stage."

The article dropped three days later.

“The Hidden Engine: How the Crown Maintains Control”

It wasn’t poetic. It was surgical. Names. Photos. First-hand accounts. The systems that had enabled Caitlyn’s family to hide the truth for decades had also crushed hundreds of others.

It spread like wildfire.

This time, the protests returned.

But they were smarter. More organized. The people weren’t just angry, they were informed. They weren’t shouting for a name. They were shouting for change.

Caitlyn saw the article late that night, sitting alone on the balcony of her temporary flat.

She read every word. Every testimony. Her name wasn’t in the piece. Neither was Vi’s.

But she knew.

She folded the paper slowly, placed it on the table beside her tea, and whispered into the dark:

"Thank you."

Somewhere across the city, Vi sat in the back room of a community center, a young protestor asleep beside her. There was no camera. No speech. Just her voice reading a story out loud to whoever still listened.

The match had been struck again. But this time, the fire belonged to the people.

Chapter 2 – "Ash and Pulse"

The tunnels beneath Southbank still breathed with the low hum of forgotten machines. Damp brick. Rusted scaffolding. Memories pressed into concrete.

Vi stepped through the service gate behind the old train station. No guards. No passwords. Just an old whistle blown three times. The door opened.

Ekko stood in the dark, leaner now, but all fire in the eyes.

"You came late," he said.

"Wasn’t sure you'd still be running things," Vi replied.

He grinned, tired and sharp. "I'm not running anything. I'm holding it together. That's different."

The Firelights had become something new now. Not graffiti-tag kids on bikes, but a communication network buried beneath the city. Runners. Hackers. Smugglers. Organizers. All young. All angry.

Ekko walked Vi past a row of repurposed server racks and sleeping mats. "They think things are changing. They saw Caitlyn’s speech. They think justice is trending."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"

Ekko shook his head. "Justice doesn't trend. People forget fast. Especially once the Crown finds a new scapegoat."

They stopped outside a rusted side room. A whiteboard was covered in names and places. In the corner: printed stills from a video.

Vi stepped closer. A chemical spill. A protest. Riot police. A boy in the hospital.

"South Wharf," Ekko said. "Refinery owned by a Crown-adjacent investor. Leaks, cover-ups, forced displacement. The story’s buried."

Vi felt something twist in her gut. This wasn’t a ghost from the past. This was now.

"Why haven’t you gone public?"

Ekko shrugged. "We don’t have reach. Just facts. And pain."

Vi turned toward him slowly. "I do."

Chapter 3 – "The Quiet One"

The door creaked open with the kind of reluctance that came from habit. Vi stepped into a low-ceilinged flat tucked into an old library wing, repurposed, almost invisible. She found Viktor hunched over a desk, his frame thinner, his limbs lined with old burns and scars.

"I thought you were a ghost," he said without turning.

"I might be," Vi replied.

He turned, finally. His face was older. So was his silence.

"You didn’t come to reminisce," Viktor said.

Vi shook her head. "I came because I need something only you have. Truth. Tech. Names. Data that still matters."

Viktor motioned to the corner of the room. A stack of hard drives. Folders. Photos.

"I’ve been collecting. Quietly. I can’t undo what I was part of. But I can show you what no one else wants to see."

Vi sat beside him. "Why now?"

Viktor looked at her, eyes hollow. "Because you’re not hiding anymore. And because Caitlyn made it possible to remember."

He picked up a small drive. Labeled only: EVIDENCE. SOUTH WHARF.

"Inside is footage from internal surveillance servers I cracked a year ago," Viktor said. "A tech contractor for the refinery contacted me anonymously. They were forced to install thermal sensors. Not to prevent accidents, but to track heat signatures... human ones."

Vi frowned. "What for?"

"To detect protests forming before they became visible. The Crown used it to send riot teams preemptively, before anyone even shouted."

Viktor’s voice was razor-thin now. "There’s also footage of officers dragging injured protestors into unmarked vans. No medical aid. Some never reappeared. And there are documents: contracts, purchase orders, encryption logs showing the entire system was funded through a quiet subsidiary, directly linked to the Royal Department of Civic Order."

Vi’s blood went cold.

Viktor handed her the drive. "This is the part they’ll kill to keep buried."

"Then we better make it too loud to bury," Vi said.

"I was never brave enough to speak," he added. "So give them my voice."

Vi nodded, swallowing the weight in her throat.

Chapter 4 – "Signal Fire"

The next morning, the city didn't wake so much as jolt to life.

Juliette's article dropped just after dawn. No soft rollout. Just truth—raw and blistering.

"The Eyes Behind the Smoke: Inside the Crown's Covert Suppression Network."

Screens lit up. Streets rippled. A single scream became a crowd. Then a march. Then cities. It spread not like a headline but like fire through dry timber.

But fire, Vi knew, could just as easily burn the innocent.

She stood in the war room of an abandoned courthouse turned resistance hub, surrounded by old maps, glowing monitors, and live feeds from street drones. Ekko sat cross-legged on the floor, headset on, speaking in clipped tones to underground teams across the boroughs. Viktor had set up a relay system to amplify crowd-safe signals. Juliette updated their allies through encrypted news hubs and private forums.

"It’s too fast," Juliette murmured, eyes wide at the dashboards of growing protest zones. "This could spiral. We need a message. We need structure."

Vi looked out at the screen, there was a sea of people surging in front of Parliament, fists raised, signs like wounds stitched with names. One sign read: “We remember South Wharf.” Another: “No more shadows.”

"We don’t stop them," Vi said. "We guide them."

She turned to Ekko. "You get the kids into position. Medics. Exit routes. Supply chains. Keep the marchers safe."

To Viktor: "You jam riot frequencies, but don’t interfere unless it turns. You hear me? No escalation."

To Juliette: "Push the live streams. But cut anything that shows faces unless they’ve consented."

And then she walked outside.

Just Vi. No mic. No crown. No guards.

She stood atop the broken steps of what once was a city hall and raised her hand. Not to command. To join.

They quieted, slowly. Tens of thousands. London’s heart beating in pause.

"I don’t have a title," she called. Her voice was rough, cracked from use. "I don’t have bloodlines or birthrights. What I’ve got is this..."

She pointed behind her. At the building. At the city.

"...a place that should belong to all of us. Not just the ones with the keys."

She held up a copy of the South Wharf files. Shaking in her grip.

"We’ve been watched. Tracked. Beaten. Lied to. They used our pain to polish their image. That ends now. Not with violence. With vision. With power that we hold, together."

There were no cheers. Just something heavier. A silence that sank in. A collective breath.

And then the march moved.

Orderly. Massive. Unstoppable.

Chapter 5 – "Quiet Witness"

Everything was broadcast live from every angle, and Caitlyn, watching from the television in her hotel room, didn’t miss a thing.

She hadn't spoken to Vi since the letter.

She hadn't needed to.

Because this...this...was louder than any apology.

She was no longer just a lover or a rebel. She was a conductor. Turning grief into purpose. Chaos into harmony. Rage into change.

Juliette's broadcast fed to every screen. Viktor's encrypted networks rerouted resources. Ekko’s people protected the front lines.

But it was Vi who gave the movement direction.

Caitlyn pressed a hand to the windowpane. She felt her heart lift and crack open.

Her mother stepped beside her, silent.

"She did it," Caitlyn whispered.

Elisabeth nodded slowly. "She is doing it."

And for the first time in weeks, Caitlyn let the tears fall. Not from despair.

From awe.

[darkadaline]

Ashes and Honey

Chapter 2

The forest was quiet, blanketed in the hush of early morning mist. Uhtred dismounted slowly, boots sinking into damp leaves, his breath curling in the chilled air. He could hear the soft drip of water from the branches, the distant cry of a crow—signs of life that felt too sharp, too alive, for what lay ahead.

The underbrush parted, and then he saw her.

Curled beneath a thicket of brambles, she looked more like a broken doll than a living girl—knees tucked tight against her chest, arms shielding her head. Her hair was tangled and caked in dried mud, white as snow and ghostly against the earth. Her skin bore the mottled hues of cold and neglect, pale as frostbite, with angry welts peeking through torn fabric. Her frame was so slight he feared the wind might carry her away. She was shaking, violently, every breath a tremble, as though her lungs no longer knew how to take in air without fear.

Her body recoiled from nothing—just the air, the silence, the morning. It was as if every sound had teeth, every shadow a threat. He could see the raw wounds on her ankles, the way her fingers clung to the earth beneath her, white-knuckled, clinging to the forest floor as if it were the last solid thing in a world gone cruel.

Uhtred approached her the way one might approach a wounded doe, each step slow and deliberate. He saw her shaking—small, endless tremors, as if her body had forgotten how to be still. Her scent reached him, faint and trembling, crushed violets muddled by fear. Omega.

Unbonded. Unclaimed. But the scent was wrong—tainted with panic, threaded with exhaustion and blood.

When Uhtred reached forward—slowly, carefully—to see her face, her entire body spasmed. She flinched as though struck, a raw, broken sound catching in her throat. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't even a cry. It was a soundless gasp, strangled and desperate, the kind a creature makes when it’s too hurt to make noise anymore.

He froze, hand suspended in air.

"You're safe now," he said softly, though he knew the words meant nothing to someone who had never known safety.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him. Her head remained tucked under her arms, breath catching in shallow gasps. Her entire body recoiled, shrinking further as though trying to vanish into the brambles themselves.

Finan arrived with quiet steps, his expression darkening the moment he saw her.

"She’s not going to last out here," he said, voice low. "She’s halfway to death already."

Uhtred nodded. Slowly, he unfastened his heavy cloak and leaned forward, wrapping it around the girl’s frail form without touching her skin. She didn’t resist—but she didn’t acknowledge the gesture either. Her fingers clutched at the bramble beneath her like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

They didn’t speak further. They just worked.

_______________

The ride back to Rumcofa was slow and silent. Uhtred held her before him, one arm secure but loose around her middle, the other guiding the reins. She barely had the strength to sit upright. Her head lolled against his chest, her weight like that of a child, too light, too still. Every time the horse shifted beneath them, her body twitched—small jerks, as though each step brought remembered pain.

She never spoke. Never cried. But her breath told stories—quick, clipped breaths like someone waiting to be hit.

Finan rode beside them, glancing over often, his jaw clenched. Osferth whispered a prayer under his breath, voice catching. Sihtric brought up the rear, one eye on the path, the other on the shadows.

The rain returned as they neared the hall, cold and relentless, soaking cloaks and hair, but Uhtred didn’t feel it. His mind was with the small, trembling form in his arms. He didn’t tighten his grip, didn’t speak. He just held her, carefully, as though she might splinter.

_______________

Finally they arrived at Rumcofa. Inside the hall, firelight welcomed them, smoke curling lazily from the hearth. The warmth bit into their soaked clothes. Uhtred carried her in himself.

She didn’t stir.

He laid her gently on a low bed in a quiet chamber near the hearth. Even in unconsciousness, her body remained curled tight, trying to shield herself from imagined blows. Her fingers stayed balled into fists, the cloak still clenched in her grasp.

Willa came quickly, summoned with broth and clean cloths. Her eyes widened when she saw the girl.

“Gods,” she breathed, kneeling beside the bed. “She’s burning up.”

Finan hovered near the door, arms folded, shoulders tense. His eyes, usually sharp with mischief or mirth, now held a heavy, quiet worry. He wasn’t used to feeling this helpless—standing just beyond reach of someone in need, unable to fix what was broken.

Uhtred stood by the hearth, gaze distant, jaw tight. The crackle of fire couldn’t warm the ache in his chest.

They fell into silence again, both men staring toward the quiet room beyond the hearth where she lay, as if trying to will safety into her bones. Neither said it aloud, but they both felt it—an ache, a need, a vow growing wordlessly between them. They had found her. And they would protect her.

_______________

That first night, Elin shivered beneath layers of blankets. Her skin burned with fever, yet her lips were cold. She whimpered in her sleep—small, helpless sounds like a frightened animal. Her head tossed weakly, and sometimes she muttered things that made no sense, half-formed syllables, the sounds of fear learned too early and too long.

Finan sat with her, cloth in hand, gently dabbing her brow. Her skin twitched beneath even that soft touch, her brow furrowing as though the fabric were a whip rather than a mercy. Her body tensed, instinctive and automatic, as if pain were a certainty—not a memory, but a rule the world always followed. Even in fever, even barely conscious, some deep, surviving part of her expected pain and tried to shield her from it. She shifted away from him, curling tighter into herself, trying to disappear into the edge of the mattress.

Uhtred sat down beside her, trading places with Finan, who stepped back with a clenched jaw. He tried the cloth next, but when he moved close, her brow twitched again. Even as she hovered just above awareness, her body responded—pulling inward, inching away, so far toward the edge of the bedding that she might fall. Her fear filled the room, thick and bitter, cutting through the smoke and firelight.

Uhtred leaned in, voice low and warm and steady. "You’re safe. No one will touch you. Not unless you ask."

But the words vanished into the air. She didn’t respond. She barely breathed.

Finan stood behind him, fists clenched, eyes burning. The scent of her fear was unbearable—more pungent than fever-sweat, sharp and acrid, as if the room itself recoiled from it. He had seen wounds before, seen suffering. But this was different. This was fear so deeply rooted it had become part of her very breath.

"She doesn’t eat," he said quietly, voice strained, as if forcing the words out made them more real. He couldn’t take his eyes off her—the way her body still trembled, the way she recoiled even from the gentlest hands. "She will become weaker and weaker. We need to do something."

A beat passed in the heavy silence before Osferth, who had hovered near the doorway all along, finally stepped forward. "Perhaps," he began carefully, "she would feel safer if it wasn’t one of us sitting with her. A woman might help ease her mind."

Uhtred looked up, brows furrowed in thought.

"What about Willa?" Osferth continued. "Everyone trusts her. She’s kind, and she has the touch of a mother. She already tends to her. Maybe if she stays longer… talks to her more…"

Finan exhaled, slow and heavy. He nodded. Willa had always made their hall feel more like home. Maybe she could reach where none of them could.

"Let’s ask her," Uhtred said."

And so the hope settled—not in swords or strategy, but in gentleness. In the steady hands of a woman who knows how to heal.

Willa came and went with care and gentleness, coaxing small sips of broth into her mouth, speaking in a soft, steady voice. When Elin whimpered, Willa whispered comfort. When she clawed at the blankets in her sleep, Willa smoothed them back. Every motion was quiet, tender, practiced.

“She’s not here,” Willa murmured. “Not really. Lost in fever.”

Uhtred leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes never left Elin’s sleeping form.

“She flinches in her sleep,” he said quietly. “Like she’s dreaming of running.”

Willa nodded. “She probably is.”

Finan came to stand beside him, his expression grim. “It’s like she doesn’t know how to rest. Even unconscious.”

Uhtred exhaled slowly, a tension in his shoulders that never eased. “We’ll give her time. However much she needs.”

He didn’t say the rest—but they both knew it. They would wait. And they would not let the world hurt her again.

_______________

When Elin finally opened her eyes and truly woke, the fire was low and the room empty. She did not remember how she had come here. Her body ached—not with pain exactly, but with the memory of it, as though the fear lived inside her bones.

She bolted upright.

The bed felt wrong. Too soft. Too clean. Her feet hit the floor, and she backed into the far corner of the room, dragging a blanket with her like armor. She sank down there, chest heaving, eyes wide, every inch of her poised to flee.

Where was she? What did they want? Her breath came faster. Panic skittered in her chest like a trapped animal. She scanned the room for exits, for weapons, for anything that might aid her escape. She had to get out—before they decided what to do with her. Before they realized she wasn’t worth saving.

A shape moved beyond the firelight in her mind. A man’s silhouette. Broad-shouldered. Towering. Like the ones who used to come when the village needed to punish an omega.

A memory pierced her thoughts—screams. A girl’s scream, high and ragged, echoing across thatched roofs and stone walls. Elin had heard it from behind her own door. She had clutched her hands over her ears, curled into a corner, but the sound had gotten in anyway. It always got in.

Another image—rough hands grabbing at her arm, dragging her out into the square, cold mud on her knees. Men’s laughter. Women looking away. And above it all, the voice that said, omegas are made to be used.

Her lips parted, breath tearing in and out, faster now. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. The firelight blurred into streaks. Her hands clutched the blanket tighter. The walls felt like they were closing in.

Then—

Voices. Just outside the room. A murmur. A footstep.

The curtain creaked open.

An elderly woman entered, tray in hand, but stopped the moment she saw the empty bed. Her gaze swept the room, landing gently on the curled form in the shadows.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice warm but cautious.

Elin said nothing. Her eyes were glassy with panic.

“I'm Willa, the head maid. I’ve brought broth.” Willa moved with exaggerated slowness, setting the tray on the table by the bed and retreating again.

"Where am I?", Elin managed to croak out.

“You’re in Rumcofa, love,” Willa said gently, her voice low and melodic. “Lord Uhtred and his men brought you here. You’ve been terribly ill—burning with fever—for more than a week now, poor lamb. We’ve all been worried sick.”

Her mind was clouded, the fever still gripping her body, but her senses were slowly beginning to sharpen, though she could hardly keep track of what was happening. Everything felt strange and disorienting—this room, the fire crackling softly, the unfamiliar faces.

Willa’s voice broke through the fog. “May I ask your name, sweetheart?”

The question felt like an intrusion. Elin’s throat tightened. She didn’t know if she could trust this woman, or anyone in this place. Her heart was still racing, the echo of the village square, the fear of her chains, too fresh in her mind.

She trembled, fingers curled into the blanket. Her throat was raw, aching from the lack of use and the sickness that had been clawing at her for days.

Willa’s silence was patient, gentle—waiting.

Elin swallowed, wincing at the pain. The name felt strange on her tongue, but it was hers. It was all she had left.

“...Elin,” she croaked, the sound rough, like the dry crack of earth after a long drought.

Willa’s face softened, her eyes warm and kind. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face as she bent slightly toward Elin, her voice now tender, almost coaxing.

“That’s a beautiful name,” she said. “Elin. It suits you well.”

Elin’s chest tightened with a mix of emotions she couldn’t understand—something in her stirred, something unfamiliar. But it wasn’t distrust, not exactly. It was something else, something fragile, like a thread of hope she had almost forgotten how to feel.

Willa’s voice was gentle, almost coaxing. “Well, Elin, you should eat and drink so you get your strength back and become healthy.”

Elin didn’t move. Her eyes flicked to the bowl of warm stew in Willa’s hands, to the cup of water balanced carefully atop the tray, then back to Willa herself—shoulders tense, chin tucked, wary as a cornered deer.

Willa took a small step forward. “I can bring it to you—”

The reaction was instant. Elin’s body locked up, her breath caught sharply in her throat, and her eyes widened, terrified. She pressed back into the wall behind the bed, as far as her trembling limbs would allow.

Willa froze.

“Oh,” she breathed, her tone shifting at once, soft with understanding and regret. She retreated quickly, hands raised slightly in surrender. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She moved to the small table beside the bed and placed the tray down gently. “I’ll just leave the food and water here, all right?”

She turned to go, but at the door she paused. Glancing back at Elin’s wide, watchful eyes, she said, “I know you won’t believe me yet... but you are safe here, Elin.”

Then she left, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Silence settled over the room like a heavy cloak.

Elin didn’t touch the food. She stared at it for a long time—steam curling from the bowl into the air, the scent of herbs and meat warm and tempting—but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Her body was still thrumming with alarm, her mind trapped in the reflex of survival.

Safe. The word echoed in her head like a foreign language. Willa had said it with such conviction, but Elin couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t afford to.

Safe was a lie she’d been told before.

Her gaze shifted to the closed curtain again. She didn’t blink. Her body remained taut and motionless under the blanket, as if even the smallest sound might bring danger..

Hours passed. The shadows in the room lengthened and deepened, candlelight flickering and fading as night claimed the sky. The food cooled. The water grew still. But Elin didn’t sleep.

She stayed exactly where she was—curled tight beneath the covers, eyes wide and glassy, fixed on the door.

Waiting.

Watching.

Just in case.

_______________

The days passed like trickling water. Willa brought food. Elin refused it. Then picked at it. Then began to eat—small bites, carefully chosen. Bread. Broth. A spoonful of honeyed oats that made her lips part in startled wonder.

Willa never commented on how much or how little Elin ate. She simply returned, a fresh bowl in hand, and settled in the chair by the hearth, chatting idly while she mended linen or shelled peas into a wooden bowl.

At first, Elin never answered. She barely even looked up. But Willa spoke anyway, her voice warm and unhurried - how Osferth had nearly set the kitchens alight with his attempt at stew, how Finan laughed so hard he spilled his ale over Sihtric’s boots. She laughed gently, speaking as if Elin were just another woman at the fire.

Every day was something small. The cow that escaped its pen. A bit of gossip from the traders in town. How Uhtred had grumbled about the rain soaking his cloak. How Osferth, still blushing, had stammered through a conversation with a pretty girl at the market.

Elin stayed silent, but her shoulders didn’t hunch so sharply anymore. Her eyes tracked Willa’s movements. And when the door opened now, she no longer flinched like she expected pain to follow.

The men still made her freeze. Even their voices through the walls made her breath shorten. When they entered the house, she curled tighter in her corner, still as stone. But when they left—when the door clicked shut and their scent drifted away—she began to creep forward.

At first, it was only to the edge of the room. Then, a few days later, she began following Willa in silent steps, padding softly behind her like a shadow. Willa never commented, only made sure to walk slowly, pausing at each task in case Elin wanted to linger.

Sometimes, Elin stood by the window and looked out. Other times, she watched Willa knead dough or stir the fire, the flicker of the flames dancing in her pale eyes.

Then one morning, as Willa stripped the bedding and brought in clean linens, Elin’s voice, paper-thin, slipped into the air.

“…Thank you.”

So quiet it could have been the wind. Willa didn’t react aloud, only let the smallest smile curve her lips. She tucked the linen into place with care, humming softly under her breath, “Your welcome, love.”.

Elin began to eat more regularly. Not just when Willa left, but sometimes even as the older woman sat nearby. She never looked directly at her, but the rigid lines of her posture softened. She stopped hiding behind her hair. One evening, Willa entered to find her not in her usual corner but seated cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her white hair draped over one shoulder as she worked at a knot with her fingers.

It was that same evening that Willa told the story of Finan’s broken chair.

“He practically fell straight to the floor with his legs still crossed,” Willa chuckled. “Jumped up like the floor had offended him. Swore it was Sihtric’s fault for placing the chair too near the hearth, as if that made the wood brittle.”

And then—so soft it might have gone unnoticed—a sound escaped Elin.

A laugh. Tiny, breathless. A half-choked huff of air that surprised even herself.

Willa turned slightly, smile deepening, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. As if she knew one wrong word might make the moment vanish like mist.

She only kept talking. “Sihtric just pointed at him and said, ‘You’re getting too fat, Finan.’ I thought they were going to wrestle right there in the hall.”

Elin smiled again. It didn’t last long. But it had happened.

Later that night, Willa paused at the door, glancing back at the girl now perched near the fire with her blanket around her shoulders.

“One day,” she said softly, “you’ll see you were never meant to be afraid.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

But Elin stayed by the fire a little longer that night, watching the flames instead of the curtain.

_______________

And for the first time, she slept without her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

That night, Uhtred and Finan lay in their shared bedding, the fire across the hall a dull glow behind the hanging curtain. The hum of the hall had long quieted, reduced to the occasional creak of timber and the hush of sleeping men. In their corner, beneath heavy furs and the scent of pine smoke and leather, the world felt softer.

Uhtred curled closer to Finan, cheek brushing against his temple, the familiar shape of him grounding in a way nothing else could. Their legs tangled beneath the covers, and Finan shifted only slightly, his hand finding Uhtred’s arm and stroking there.

“She’s starting to come to herself,” Finan said eventually. “Bit by bit. Willa says she ate a full bowl today. Sat in the sun, too. Didn’t bolt when the stable boy walked by.” 

Uhtred hummed, a deep, low sound in his chest. Finan pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, lips warm against skin. They breathed together—slow and measured—their chests rising and falling like two oars in calm water.

“She still stays in her room whenever we’re near,” Uhtred said, voice roughened not just by sleep, but something deeper. Regret. Restraint.

“She’s afraid we’ll hurt her,” Finan murmured. The words cracked a little at the edges. His arm around Uhtred tightened. “It hurts, seeing her like that. Like a bird with a broken wing. You reach out and she just tries to tear herself apart to escape.”

The silence held for a moment, the kind that said everything.

“She doesn’t know what it means to be protected,” Finan said softly, eyes open to the darkness, voice barely a breath.

Uhtred didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled around Finan’s hip, thumb tracing idle patterns into the bone there. The fire popped once in the hearth. In the stillness, it almost felt like the world was listening.

They both stared into the fire, the weight of the truth heavy between them.

“I feel my instincts are stronger,” Uhtred murmured. “When she’s near. I’m meant to protect her. Like my bones remember her before my mind can.”

“She’s an omega,” Finan whispered after a pause. “She’s vulnerable. It’s natural for you to feel like this. But You can’t act on instinct. Not with someone so broken.”

Finan’s nose brushed against his neck, warm breath curling there. They lay pressed together, the space between them filled with warmth and love, even in their worry.

Uhtred’s jaw tightened. “I know. I still can’t understand how you can treat them like that. Omegas were always sacred,” he said. “Protected. Valued. Ragnar used to say the gods whispered to them. That their blood ran closer to the earth’s heart.”

Finan made a small noise of agreement, and Uhtred’s hand found the small of his back, cradling.

He drew in a breath, and it shook on the way out.

“I felt it the moment I saw her in the square,” he admitted. “That pull. Not just instinct. Something older. But it doesn’t matter what I feel. Or you. She has to choose us. If she ever can.”

Finan kissed his collarbone, tender and sure. “She’s safe now. We’ll keep showing her that. Every day.”

Uhtred nodded again, closing his eyes as Finan curled tighter around him, their bodies fitting like pieces carved from the same tree. For a long while, they said nothing more. They didn’t need to.

They had chosen her. All that remained was whether she might one day choose them back.

_______________

A few nights later, Elin sat at the edge of her bed, woolen blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, bare feet resting on the cold stone floor. The chill of autumn crept in through the cracks in the shutters, the kind of cold that crawled slowly under skin already too thin. Her body, still rebuilding from long months of hunger, had more strength now—but it was a quiet, fragile thing. Her legs still trembled if she stood too long, her breath still caught in her chest if she climbed the stairs too quickly.

Outside her small room, the hall glowed faintly with firelight. The little fire in her room not enough. The muffled crackle of burning logs drifted through the curtain, low and constant like a heartbeat. 

She stared at it for a long time.

Just for a little while, she told herself. Just the fire. Just warmth. Then I’ll go back.

Still she sat, knuckles white around the blanket, heart thudding like a warning in her ribs.

It took another handful of heartbeats before she stood. Her knees wobbled beneath her, and she had to steady herself against the wall. But she didn’t sit back down. Her breath came a little faster, though not from fear this time—just effort. Just living. It was hard sometimes.

Elin padded slowly to the curtain, listening, trying to hear if somebody was out there. Nothing.

She hesitated, fingers on the latch. Then, slowly, she pushed the curtain aside.

The world didn’t break into chaos.

The main hall lay in quiet hush, lit only by the dying fire in the hearth. No voices. No footsteps. No eyes waiting in the dark.

Clutching the blanket tighter, she slipped out. Her bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor as she crept forward, steps careful and measured. With every one, she waited for something—a shout, a hand, pain—but none came. Only the soft groan of timbers and the fire’s glow ahead.

She made it to the hearth.

Lowering herself to the ground took effort. Her body still ached when she bent too far, and the floor was cold beneath her, but she didn’t care. She wrapped the blanket more tightly around her, knees drawn to her chest. It was the one Finan had left folded by her door two days ago. She’d touched carefully first, then clutched it like a lifeline.

It still smelled faintly of pine and woodsmoke. Of fire. Of something else too—something unfamiliar and soft, like warmth made solid.

Like safety.

She didn’t believe it yet. Not fully. But she could pretend, here in the quiet, when the others were sleeping. Here, alone, she could curl in on herself without anyone trying to fix her or reach for her or drag her back into being someone she wasn’t ready to be.

From the far end of the hall, Uhtred had seen the flicker of movement—heard the faint scrape of the curtain. Then he’d spotted the small figure making her way to the hearth, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He watched her settle, knees hugged close, firelight dancing against her pale hair.

When her eyes flicked toward the darker corner of the hall, where he stood half-shrouded in shadow, he stepped back without a word. He let her have the space. The silence. The choice.

Her gaze lingered a moment longer, uncertain—but there was no one there.

She looked back at the fire.

And she stayed.

The blanket smelled like pine. Like smoke. Like hands that had never tried to hurt her.

And for the first time in her life, she had a feeling of home.