#and I know from Eight Little Talons the Houses were more known for /how/ they made their fortune

[midnightwind]

I really do need to buy the Origins and Veilguard art books because I'm just making shit up about the Crow Houses again

[mmvalentine]

hi!! how are you? I’m the one who sent you that dream prompt lol

I was thinking of this (way less weird) prompt: where feyre and Rhys knew each other since kids and were together, there’s a part of the books that Rhys says he and mor used to be sent to the cabin when they got into trouble (I think?) and here it is: Rhys has got himself in a fight with his dad and is sent there alone, but feyre finds a way to go to him without anyone knowing and they have the cabin all to themselves *insert smut here*

Hello little dreamer! Alright I've done so much prompt work these last couple of days and was trying to work through them chronologically because that's what seems fair but now I am tired and I just want to do one more and then take a break and this one is hands down my FAVOURITE of the ones left in my inbox right now. So you're getting bumped up!! Bit of a long one, fair warning.

A Chink in the Wall

Rhys has been alive for eighteen years, has known Feyre for seventeen, and has loved her for what feels like a thousand. He does not remember a time without Feyre, he has known she is his mate since before he knew what the word meant, and their progression from childhood best friends to lovers was something he does not remembering happening at one particular time, but gradually, the same way his legs had grown longer.

What he does remember is the first time they'd slept together, and how he'd spent so long thinking about it beforehand that he'd thought he'd go mad, only to discover the real madness was once they'd started and then couldn't stop. He'd thought he was hyper-aware of Feyre before- now the scent of her hit him like a brick any time she walked in the room, and once he'd caught her scent he needed to be touching her. Would start to shake and fall apart at the seams until he could pull her into his lap.

Over the years, Rhys's mother always told him that he was too rough with Feyre. Did it when they were kids and did it now, when Feyre would be around their house and he constantly had his hands under her hair or squeezing on her her hip or scratching at her belly.

"You can put her down for one second, for Cauldron's sake," she'd say over dinner.

And Rhys knew why. Had always known that as the High Lord's only son, he had power roiling off him in waves. He figured it was part of the reason why he was always moving, more and more as he got older. Whether it was sparring with the Illyrians or crawling thought the bedroom of Feyre's bedroom window, it felt like he leapt between extremes these days. Felt like he was always thirsty and needing to swallow down violence and pleasure and feeling like water. His father called it the "age of fighting and fucking;" his mother said this is why they couldn't have nice things.

But his mother doesn't know Feyre like he does. Feyre isn't some fragile little girl, she is the strongest person he knows. She is the only one who, when he is throwing all he has at her, can not only contain the energy flooding out of him in uncontrollable torrents, but still loves him all the same for it.

So these days, he does not like to be without her. Does not like to be too far from her, and although they both have curfews, Rhys does not often sleep alone.

Today is a exception.

Today, Rhys is fighting with his father because he stole a fine bottle of brandy from his father's shelf and snuck it between the bars of the cell where Azriel has been locked away. Again.

Rhys yells that what they are doing to Azriel is cruel and if they let it go on they are just as bad. His father yells back that it is not their place to meddle in another family's business and what does this have to do with Rhys being a sneak and a thief? Rhys says it is typical of his father to care more about alcohol than the life of a fae, and his father says and what exactly are you trying to say boy? And then he tells Rhys that he was not so old that Rhys's power is greater than his just yet, and then the fight breaks out.

Rhys does not like to reflect on what happens next too much because he wants to win so badly, wants to best his father just once, but he is eighteen and his father is nine hundred and twenty and the High Lord of the largest court in Prythian.

Suffice to say, the fight is over when Rhys has a black eye and bruised ribs, his father is holding him off the floor by his shirt front, and his mother is pleading with him to put him down.

He drops Rhys with a thud, and Rhys glowers at him.

"The cabin," his father snarls.

"Surely he's had punishment enough," his mother says, but his father does not look at her.

"You come swinging your fists at me?" he says to Rhys. His voice is quiet now, but glitters with rage. "You steal from me, you defy me, and then you come at me with your pathetic little claws out? Well. You can spend three days in isolation."

Rhys looks toward his mother, but there's nothing she can do. He opens his mouth to sling a final insult at his father, but space is already folding around him and he's being sent where no one else can winnow in or out without his father's explicit say so.

Rhys spends the next twenty minutes angrily pacing the cabin. He flings shadows aimlessly at the cabinets, curses his father eight times to sunday, and punches a hole in the wall. It is the latter that gets Feyre's attention.

Ouch, she says through the bond. I felt that one.

Rhys drops onto a couch heavily, the anger washing out of him at the sound of Feyre's voice in his mind.

I'm sorry, he says. I know you hate it when I break things.

Things. Your own knuckles. Yeah it's not my favourite.

Rhys sighs. I'm in the cabin, he tells her.

I know, she says. What did you do this time?

Got into a fight with my dad.

Well did you at least land a couple good ones?

Rhys grins, in spite of himself. I did manage to get a kick into his stomach, this time.

Good, Feyre says. Unlike his mother, she never tells him to try to get along with his father.

I miss you, Rhys says.

You saw me this morning, Feyre points out.

Yes, replied Rhys, but you had way too many clothes on. It didn't count. He can almost feel Feyre shifting in his mind.

You always think I'm wearing too many clothes, she says.

I do, Rhys agrees. Not naked is not good enough.

He slouches back on the couch and closes his eyes. Although he is not yet powerful enough to take down his father, his power is growing. Day by day it stretches and expands uncomfortably, like growing pains, and when he's not in Feyre's bed, sometimes the shadows hound him at night. They claw at him now, rake at his chest like a cat that thinks it's giving affection but leaves you in tatters.

He turns his thoughts back to more pleasant things.

Take it off, he growls at Feyre. Take it all off. I hate it when I can't see your skin.

And what makes you think I've been wearing clothes this whole time? Feyre asks. Rhys freezes, and is rock hard in an instant.

Show me, he shoots down the bond.

Ask nicely, Feyre answers.

Please, Rhys says. Runs his talons down the shields of her mind from top to bottom. Please. Sends her a memory of him kissing her every inch of skin. Please.

Feyre's shudder reaches him like a whisper, and then he's seeing through her eyes.

The interior of her bedroom. Where he spends more time than in his own. Clothes strewn on the floor- boots kicked off in the corner. Illyrian leathers dumped in a pile. Under garments hanging off the end of the bed.

Feyre's bare ankles crossed in front of her on her bed, on top of the covers.

Rhys shivers. He watches Feyre's gaze travel excruciatingly slowly upward, up her shins, past her knees, onto her lovely thighs.

More, Rhys breathes, but Feyre pauses. Her knees bend and the view shifts, as if she has been sitting up and is now laying back down. I need you like I need air, Rhys whimpers, and his hand grabs at the insistent ache in the front of his pants.

Mmm, sighs Feyre. Sometimes I need you. Sometimes I think I could just do it myself. Her gaze finally shifts and watches her own hand slide between her legs.

Oh you cruel thing! Rhys says. He is now practically panting the sight of her starting without him. He loves it. He hates it. It's nowhere near enough.

You know it's not as good by yourself, Rhys tells her.

I don't know, Feyre muses. I'm pretty sure it's faster. Rhys growls.

Who needs faster, he says, when I can be so, so slow. He shows her the image of him settling between her knees. Pressing kisses that start at her knee and travel down her inner thigh. Laying the flat of his tongue on her and licking a lazy stripe up her pussy that ends in a suckling kiss over her clit.

Feyre moans straight down the bond, and it cleaves through Rhys like a arrow shot true. Get over here, he tells her, and Feyre laughs breathlessly.

I can't, lover, she says. Your father has that place warded like a prison, remember? Rhys swears out loud and hurls more shadows uselessly against the walls of magic.

Alright, alright, Feyre says to him. You know just throwing things at it isn't going to work.

Fuck this, Rhys says savagely. You're my mate, he can't keep us apart.

Well, we just need to outsmart him, then, Feyre reasons. He might be stronger, but I've always thought you were smarter. Well, she amends. At least you were when you bothered to use your brain and before you were all... testosterone-y.

Rhys finds himself smiling. Testosterone-y?

Yeah, you know, Feyre says. The old upstairs brain. Remember that guy?

Rhys laughs. He is always in awe of how quickly Feyre calms him down. I thought you liked my downstairs brain, he says in his midnight voice.

Use your upstairs brain to get me through the wards, and I'll show you how much I like your downstairs brain.

And that is more than motivation enough.

Rhys gets up off the couch, and paces around the room again. My dad has always been lazy with spells, he says. He relies on his brute strength, and on everyone being afraid of him more than anything else.

Okay, Feyre says, picking up his train of thought. So... what if there's a weakness in his wards?

A chink in the wall, Rhys agrees.

Yes.

Rhys stands still, and reaches out his mind. Probes against the wards surrounding the cabin, and is aware of Feyre doing the same on the other side. They work their way right around the cabin, when finally, Feyre breathes, here.

And then Rhys gathers every bit of power he has in him, and pushes it all against that one spot. Reaches through it, throws everything he's got until his hand is breaking through, Feyre's grabbing a hold of him, they're folding space and he pulls.

There's a shudder that runs through the cabin, and then an extremely naked Feyre falls right into Rhys's chest and they collapse on the thick carpet together.

For a second, they just blink at each other in surprise.

"It worked," says Feyre. And then Rhys realises holy shit it worked, and smoothly rolls so that Feyre is on her back and he is all over her.

"Great work," is all he says, and then he blinks and his clothes vanish too so they are both naked and the heat of her against his bare cock is absolutely unbearable. He groans, slides his hand under one of her thighs, squeezing gently, and hooks it over his elbow before pushing straight into her, unable to stand not being inside her for one more second.

Feyre moans and lifts her hips to him, barely less eager. Rhys wonders idly if the age of fighting and fucking applies to females, and then as Feyre's nails scratch angry red lines over his shoulders he thinks it might just. He wonders how long this age will go on for, and if his desperate need for Feyre will ever abate. He hopes it doesn't.

"I thought you were going to be slow," Feyre says, breathless but with the most gorgeous light dancing in her eyes. Rhys's body screeches at him but he manages to get control of his movements. To move in and out of her languidly, lazily, tortuously slow. Feyre seems to enjoy it at first, keeps her eyes on his until they're rolling back in her head.

But the longer it goes on the more sensitive she becomes, until she is writhing in his arms seeking more friction, and every time he hits his base she jolts like she's being electrified. The fact that he is tormenting himself, too, seems absolutely worth it for the knowledge that he alone can wring this kind of pleasure from her.

"Still rather play by yourself?" he teases. "Does it feel like this when it's just your own fingers?"

Feyre snaps her eyes open at this, and between jagged breaths, teases him right back.

"Sometimes," she says. "When I'm touching myself and picturing you." A shiver runs through Rhys. "When I've got one hand between my legs and the other squeezing my breast." She demonstrates the last, and Rhys watches with hunger as her hand goes over her own chest.

"Fuck," he bites out, and picks up the pace a little.

"When I've got you curled around my mind and showing me that you're touching yourself too."

Rhys speeds up again.

"But mostly, no," she says, barely able to speak now. "No, nothing feels as good as when you're fucking me senseless."

And Rhys can't argue with that. He forgets his self-control completely and loses himself in her, in her body, in the intoxication of the sounds that she makes when he's inside her. The irony of his sentence to a remote location is that for once, they are able to make as much noise as they want and every time Feyre moans Rhys thinks he gets a little high.

By the time Rhys is close, they have started to breathe in tandem, and he locks his eyes on hers so that seconds later they are coming together. Rhys is breathless with the beauty of her, has always loved the look on her face when she climaxes, and suddenly the prospect of being locked up alone for three days seems mighty appealing.

Feyre sighs, eyes closed and chest moving deeply as she gets her breath back. Rhys draws out of her and then immediately misses her. He kisses her cheeks, her nipples, her stomach, and then without really thinking about it, closes his mouth around her clit and strokes it back and forth with his tongue.

Feyre sighs his name, and the sound of it is so sweet that he redoubles his efforts, until Feyre is rocking her hips to him and before he knows it, they're starting again.

Rhys thinks its going to be a very good three days indeed.

**** Little babies. Sigh I do love them so. Thank you my sweet anon for this lovely prompt.

Bonus: click here to see what Rhys's dark powers look like when they're still growing and trying to figure their shit out.

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen @asteria-of-mars

[chews-erotically]

Waxing Gibbous 

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

       * Warnings: Angst/ mentions of childhood trauma/ mention of domestic abuse, violence/ killing both in- and unintentional/ SMUT/ hand job/ fingering/ mentions of partner-sharing, threesomes/ PTSD/ nightmares

      * Summary: Confessions of sin and of desires.

      * Word Count: ~2200

*Part ONE* *Part TWO* *Part THREE* *Part FOUR* *Part FIVE**Part SIX*        *Part SEVEN*  *Part EIGHT*  *Part NINE*  *Part TEN*  *Part ELEVEN*  *Part TWELVE*

 PART THIRTEEN

    The weather on Central turned cool as the months stretched on. You’d realized after the bar that you had perhaps pushed too far, too soon. You’d both retreated back to the sanctuary of your home to regroup. The insidious nightmares continued for you, though nowhere near the level of intensity of the first. You continued to sleep with the lights on, limbs entangled with Ezra’s. You held on to one another, fingers drifting over pulse points, entwining fingers and legs. Two halves of some damaged whole.

    You’d found some solace in cooking. You had gone so long without anything more than the nutritionally dense, yet bland and uninspired nutribars and ration packs that you were desperate to experiment. It was slow going at first, but Ezra was far from selective with what he’d eat. He devoured everything you put in front of him, even burnt and strangely seasoned. He offered profuse compliments that expounded upon his good fortune in having found someone so willing to graciously cook for him. It always made you snort, but you appreciated the fact that he was supportive.

    Ezra had begun writing an autobiography of sorts. You often heard his dictation well into the stretch of your afternoons, his voice animating into flights of vivid imagery and florid, expounding descriptions. He dictated, but he also typed, pecking with the pointer fingers of each hand. You knew that when he was typing he was not to be disturbed. He never said it outright, but you knew that he typed because he could not bring to life the horrors he’d both witnessed and committed, he could not convince himself to speak of things he’d done that would shake the foundations of a kinder man’s moral compass.

    You were not privy to those thoughts. You stayed away, you respected his need to keep that part of him tucked away. You knew it was his way of working through it, of processing the deeds that had led him to what seemed in the reaches of his mind to be an unearned reward. He would tell you in his own time, you did not press or push him as you knew better than most how fragile peace of mind could be. You would allow him any indulgence that may work to keep the dreams away.

    When Ezra had a nightmare, you were most often awoken by a keening whine between clenching teeth. He did not thrash as you did, rather he’d lie beside you as if paralyzed. You had to talk to him to bring him back, coaxing his rigid muscles to loosen with careful, even strokes of your palms across his limbs and torso. 

    “Come back to me, love. You’re not back there. You’re here with me.”

    He would reemerge from his fathomless depths gasping, and reach out to you, winding his limbs through yours as a thistle seeks to weave itself into the wind that caresses it.

    You moved your hand to his chest, felt the frantic pounding beneath his breast. Like a trapped bird desperate to escape. You smoothed your fingers across the expanse of his bare chest, his skin warm and alive, thrumming. Present. And then lower, rubbed against the soft curve of his belly as its panicked heaving incrementally slowed.

    Lower still to the soft curls beneath his navel. Your fingers wove through the hair, teasing the skin with your nails. Ezra huffed, eyes fluttering. He turned his head toward you, knocking his forehead against yours.

    “My Dove….the succubi had their talons hooked into my tattered soul once again, I’m afraid.”

    You leaned forward and kissed him softly. His hitching exhale made its home within your mouth.

    “Is there nothing I can do to take this away, Ezra? Nothing I can offer you that will soothe you?”

    Your finger dipped down, lightly tracing the curve of his half-hard cock. You felt it twitch, followed by Ezra’s sharp intake of breath.

    “The demons that consume the nether regions of my addled mind cannot be placated so easily, Dove. The things I have done, the wretched life I’ve lived would leave you without thought of staying. My greatest fear is your discovering the nefarious deeds of my past, of learning exactly who it is that you lie willingly next to in this bed.”

    “I know who I lie next to, Ezra. I lie next to a man who decided to trust me, who gave me my voice back and showed me that I am worthy of love. That will never change. No matter what sins you’ve committed, I can stop loving you no more than I can keep the moon from waxing and waning.” Your hand encircled his length, rubbing gently. You trailed kisses across his shoulder as he gasped. He reached a hand to cover yours, stilling your actions momentarily. He paused for what seemed an impossibly long beat, seeming to consider his next words to you.

    “When I was a child in Louisiana we were poor. Mama worked three jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. My father was a drunk, shiftless sonofabitch. He put his hands on Mama and on me and Isaiah like clockwork when his life did not go his way. It did not go his way often. One night, he was really workin’ Mama over something awful. Isaiah was out in the shed fiddlin’ with an old transistor we found earlier that day at the salvage yard. I was alone in the house and Father had his hands around Mama’s neck.

    “She was strugglin’ and kicking at his knees, wherever she could reach, but Father wouldn’t stop. When he maneuvered close enough to the root cellar I saw my chance. I ran and I screamed, as loud as I could, and I shoved up against Father with all of the force I could muster. A meager show, to be sure, but Father was well on his way to obliterated by that time. He was just unsteady enough on his feet to topple forward down the steps. I heard his neck snap like a twig and he was dead before he hit the dirt. Mama and I told Isaiah it was an accident. But the truth is, Dovie, I took a life for the first time when I was nine years old.”

    Your hand raised from his groin to cup his cheek, your throat constricting around the lump forming there.

    “You were just a little boy, Ezra, scared for his Mama. You were protecting her. He may have killed her that day, if not for you.”

    His eyes narrowed, his voice thick with emotion. “That day set my path. I knew that I was not fortunate. I hated that I didn’t have what others were so freely given. I was born under a bad star, under an awning of misfortune. I was determined from that day forward to do whatever it took to survive. Kill, maim, steal. I have sold my soul a million times over to ensure my own victory in all my ensuing endeavors.”

    When he paused to collect his thoughts further, your hand drifted back down to his groin. He was now fully erect, and you felt the precum beading at the tip of his cock. He was hot, unbelievably so, and his eyes squeezed shut with a low groan as you swept your thumb through the slick of his crown. His head tipped back into his pillow. He resumed his confessions with a straining voice.

    “Later on, when Isaiah and I began prospecting as a means of finding our fortunes, we often found ourselves on the wrong end of an underhanded deal. We were green, and we were easy marks. We were swindled, robbed and double-crossed more than I care to admit, Dove. It took me a fair amount of time to become just as ruthless as those who would venture to hoodwink myself and my partner. The first time I killed on a job, it was a woman who thought she could bewitch and seduce me. Isaiah had overheard her plans with her partner to satiate my carnal desires before making off with my haul in the dead of night. I saw the knife in her hand as she tried her best to take my cock down her throat. I wrested it from her and used it to penetrate her chest. The third intercostal space of the ribcage houses an anatomical landmark known as Erb’s Point. Her own weapon found its home at the apex of her heart, and she bled out summarily.”

    His breathing was becoming more shallow,  his exhales more explosive as you continued to stroke him as he spoke, reaching every so often lower still to cup and gently roll his balls, which were steadily drawing themselves up, tightening against his tensing body. He canted his hips up into the air as you worked him. He rasped out a stuttering groan and panted up into the ceiling before whipping his head toward you, turning his body onto its side in the bed beside yours.

    “You know by now….”

    (gasp)

    “Isaiah was stabbed and left to die in an alley. It was the work of that woman’s partner. While I…”

    (groan)

    “While a did heartily mourn the loss of my only sibling, I could not….Kevva, girl….I could not begrudge him his need for karmic justice.”

    You brought your palm to your mouth, licked a wide, lascivious stripe from the base of your palm to the tips of your fingers. Ezra’s hand found your hip and squeezed. His eyes were dark, lust-filled and far away. He was lost in his reverie while consumed with your ministrations.

    “Keep going, sweetheart,” you soothed to him, nipping at the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I’ll take it from you. Don’t hold it back..”

    He answered with a full-body shudder, teeth catching his lip. He swelled and twitched and leaked into your eager hand; you knew he was close. He canted his lips to the cusp of your ear, breath hitching, stirring the hair there like chaffs of wheat in summer wind.

    “I found...myself alone and so I was available to partner up with whomever I could find that I deemed beneficial on my various excursions. I...fuck, I….found myself attached to a most open arrangement related to a job I signed up for on the Pug. A married couple, male and female. They….they both took a shine to my proselytizing, indeed they each became in short order equally enamored with...other more physical aspects of my prowesssweetmother….”

    His canting hips began an erratic stutter as your hand squeezed and stroked and twisted around his turgid cock. Your own breath became thick and shallow, a pool of arousal collecting at your center that you soon felt drooling onto the flesh of your inner thighs. You nipped at his jawline as his eyes fluttered shut, eyebrows knit together, mouth open as he embraced the divine sensations you were giving him.

    “Ezra….” you moaned against him. “Ezra, did you fuck them? Tell me how you fucked them…”

    “Always….shit….always together. That was the agreement. His cock in my mouth, her mouth on my cock… oh my gods sweetheart I’m close….he’d eat her pussy while I fucked his tight ass….she...fuck meee...she loved a hard cock in her cunt and in her ass at the same tiiiimme…..oh Jesus Dove FUCK.”

    His hips thrust and stuttered, his balls drawn taut and tight as he spilled into your hand. He buried his face in your neck and moaned, whimpered, as his seed came forth hot and thick to paint your palm and fingers.

    When he finally stilled, you brought the mess he’d made to your lips and made a show of licking every finger before lapping at your palm to clean it thoroughly.

    Ezra’s fingers found themselves parting your soaked, swollen folds as you gasped against his mouth, your tongue licking in to caress his teeth, to tangle with the slick velvet of his own talented instrument.

    “I want that, Ezra,” you groaned against his hot mouth. “I want that with you...I want you to watch me while I lick a cunt. I want to gag on someone else’s cock for you. Perform for you. I want to watch you get fucked in that beautiful ass….” you keened as two of his fingers entered your twitching, weeping hole. Ezra watched your face, eyes wide and mouth open, as he processed the frantic, lust-soaked words that spilled from your lips unabashed in their filth.

    “Is that what you desire my love? To explore the whims of the Satyr, to share the pleasure of other willing bodies with one another?”

    “Fuck yes, Ezra…” you sobbed against his flexing bicep as his fingers and palm worked you toward your own rapid petit mort.

    “Kevva wept, Dove, then you shall have it.”

tag list:  @ifimayhaveaword, @rzrcrst, @absurdthirst, @cinewhore, @hopelikethesun, @yespolkadotkitty, @sin-djarin, @lackofhonor, @din-damn-djarin, @mrpascals, @theocatkov, @thefineandnobleartofavoidance, @hellojustheretolookatmeemees, @cyaredindjarin, @im-like-reallythirsty, @mstgsmy, @goldafterglow, @givemethatgold, @shaqbutt, @sirianisrock, @artemiseamoon, @thatreclusewriter, @scribbledghost, @f0rever15elf, @opheliaelysia, @qveenbvtch, @hdlynn, @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa, @spacegayofficial, @ezraslittlebirdie, @ezrasarm, @ezraslittleblondestreak, @tintinwrites, @kindablackenedsuperhero, @darthadeline, @alexisinorbit, @knittingqueen13, @lueurnotes, @xakilicious, @keeper0fthestars, @huliabitch, @di-kut, @zombieaurora, @corrupt-fvcker, @cryptkeepersoul, @teaofpeach, @thestreamergirl, @frannyzooey, @mndalorians, @sistasarah-sallysaidso, @autumnleaves1991-blog, @heatherbel, @the-feckless-wonder, @millllenniawrites, @revolution-starter, @melon-eyes 

[claybefree]

A Letter to Josh Poteat

To be honest, I don’t know why I’m writing you this. It should have been the art I made for my ex-wife Mary in 1995, that she gave back to me in 2008 after I left her, that I later put in the trash. The art you told me recently got you working with shellac. It should be that I’m giving you, instead of this depressing thing about how I haven’t spoken with the oldest of my children in almost nine months, and the younger not since two Christmases ago. 

I guess because when we talked about it before, I can’t remember exactly, maybe you asked in passing, “How’s the kids?” and I didn’t have an answer at the time. Maybe because I think you’ll understand me, like you always did. I haven’t been sleeping again lately, and this is when my mind wanders to the man I read about who died, trapped in a cave, but I don’t want to tell you about him. It’s too awful. If I find my mind lingering on him, I get seized by a whole body panic and I have to get up.

When I first got sober and couldn’t sleep, I went to war nightly with God. My mind was a scorched battlefield, blackened, shelled earth churned from trenches to craters. These days it resembles Zone Rogue in France, given back to nature and forbidden, saturated with ordnance, hundred year old arsenic lingering in craters. The toxic woods, wild and hoary, haunted now by deer and wild boar, trenches filled in with vines.

There is this vision I carry, not quite of myself- An old man alone in a mouldering trailer in the woods, bitter, childless and insane. No doubt, you have known such men. When I first got sober, he figured heavily in my mind- I considered this an alcoholic death even if I managed to stay clean. 

It’s cold mornings like these- when I’m up early to feed the yowling cats, but again not quite early enough to manage to write, I wonder if perhaps he’s already arrived. I get on my worn out coat hanging by the leaky back door I haven’t fixed yet and head out into the frozen mud to free the chickens from their coop. The cracked tile floating underfoot like a shit-covered mosaic, and I remember to grab the screwdriver. I’m not using it to kill anyone, it’s to prize the eight little half-domes of ice from cups of their watering bucket. You know how this works. I always figured that, being a country-boy, you grew up with the same tales of horrors perpetrated against these birds, or else, like me, witnessed them firsthand. 

Summer gets up and I finish my coffee with her as she tapes up my sprained hand. I try to get out the door before her kids wake. To facilitate quiet conversations that have a better chance of happening if I’m not around.

Pointing the truck toward Southside, it’s crossing the Powhite bridge where it really starts to bother me. Likely because it’s this point on the other side of the bridge, I’m only a mile away from their house. I ignore the river, bloated and steel grey,  I’m looking for the nameless creek that empties into it there. I’m sure you know it, completely fabricated, it passes under Forest Hill and the train tracks. It’s cold outside the cab of my truck, but I’m not fooled by the last groan of winter. Studying the woods alongside the road, accessible as they aren’t yet burdened but the weight of all that green, I’m not sure what I'm looking for. Lost children perhaps. The sandy stretch where it emerges from snaking around behind the toll station is lined there with birches, flaking and slender, and shouldered with granite as it runs fast from a glut of late March thaw.

I’ve been going this way for a little over a month, filling a friend’s garage with sawdust from fabricating casework for bookshelves, paying particular attention to whatever happens to be going on with the creek as it seems to determine the flavor of grief for that week. Throughout the winter It’s been ever present, with me to the point I feel like there's something wrong, like a vitamin supplement I'm not taking. 

Even though it’s been a string of bad days, the garage is warm enough, and I’ve been doing this work long enough I can rip down material on the table saw letting sadness wash over me without worry of losing a finger. I pay special attention to the music I listen to, so that I don’t have to take time and fall apart. At the end of the day I’ll sweep the dust-pile under the saw into a bucket for the chickens. There’s a ruined tire from the Harley I keep filled for them to bathe in. Which reminds me I haven’t told you about Greg the Bastard.

 When Summer brought them home a year ago as chicks, they were unsexed, and as they grew, we inadvertently wound up with two roosters. Even though Greg is much bigger, he’s still number two and it’s made him skittish and unpredictable. Fierce Greg the Magnificent, Hen Raping Greg. He charges the dog as well as the kids now, and he’s even started to buck up on me. He stalks the yard like boys and men you and I have both known all our lives- insecure, large and dangerous. He doesn’t scare me, I’m more afraid the day will come when I will have to kill this animal. 

In my twenties, Liz King, who you might know, got me a job after school let out with a woman I won’t name here. Another artist, she lived in an old farmhouse down Jeff Davis Highway and had been sexually assaulted by a man there. My job was to help powder and paint the place in order to put it on the market as she didn’t feel safe there anymore. We painted the whole inside. Flying the back roads in her pick-up to some Paint store way out Hull street, she told me how the man had befriended her dogs beforehand and how he threatened to kill her if she looked at him. I don’t remember asking her about it, just the image of her long legs in cut-off shorts clutching and shifting the small truck all over Southside. I made it most mornings, except after getting home late from a Rancid show in Hampton, I was too hungover and didn’t get to her place til well after noon. She was gone, but had worked the whole morning by herself. Later that day, when I called Liz to tell her how I fucked up, she fired me over the phone. 

I bring all this up because she owned a lone rooster named Ajax, who hated me. Specializing in ambush tactics, I wasn’t safe anywhere in the yard from Ajax. The lady usually escorted me in from the gate, but heading out to the shed was dangerous. I can still feel him on the backs of my bare legs. Once, while rolling the living room ceiling and overwhelmed by the fumes of oil based primer, I stepped out on the front porch to dry heave a minute and catch my breath. Ajax heard and came stalking around the corner. Incapacitated, I cussed him, but head lowered, he came for me, creeping up the steps one terrible talon at time. 

Later I made a six foot tall portrait of Ajax as best I could remember him. Crimson comb like a child’s depiction of fire out of control, waddles surrounding the beak blazing and reckless. The emerald of the sickle feathers a cyclone of green. Hock, shank and spur a series of harsh, black lines. Very Twombly-esque, it’s still hanging in my dad’s office. Based on this one hangover, I went on to make work for the next ten years depicting the Battle of Troy as a series of cock-fights. Achilles the Terrible dragging Man-killing Hector through the streets of Troy. That sort of thing. The drawing I made Mary came from that run. 

I go home by way of the Huguenot bridge, because the Nickel bridge takes me directly in front of the house where my children live, which no matter how I’m doing, always threatens to cave my head in. If I go that way, I always think about stopping, and kneeling outside in the cold, perfect grass, with the thought if I wait long enough they might come out to see me.

I know it’s merely grief, the same garden variety of depression, that Chris Cornell said in an interview once was no less dangerous and could just as easily land a man on the end of a rope. 

But that is not my way. I’ll drive home to Summer and her kids, help with dinner, watch TV and bed by ten thirty. Regardless. And if I find myself lying awake and the void comes, I won’t scream into it like the old days, I’ll sing to it. I don’t know why, maybe it’s a lament. Maybe I think my children will walk out of the darkness and into my arms.   

[monstersandmaw]

Embers - male dragon shifter x reader, Part Thirteen (sfw)

Hey folks - sorry I didn’t post it yesterday. Here it is, at 6.30am on a Saturday for you instead! And we finally get a glimpse of Mikaeïl in his... bigger form too...

Next week is our final chapter! I can’t believe it! Thank you so much to those of you who’ve let me know you’re enjoying it, and to those of you who have reminded me (on more than one occasion!!) that Friday means Embers day, and where the hell is the story, Ghosti!! haha.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve

Mikaeïl’s request that you ‘bring something warm to wear’ for your weekend with him confused and mystified the hell out of you. Added to that, he absolutely refused to give you any more information about it, so you found yourself driving over to his house with a number of different jumpers and coats packed, and a knot of anxious tension in your stomach.

It didn’t help that he’d texted you before you’d set off to say, ‘When you get here, come round the side of the house to the back terrace.’ And that had been it.

So, dutifully, you followed the gravel path around the side of his huge, sandstone, ancestral mansion, and emerged onto the upper lawns.

At the sight that greeted you, your fingers lost their strength and you dropped your weekend-bag to the ground.

Standing on the lawn, resting his huge, coppery wing on the thumb joint like a bat, was a gleaming wyvern. Large, perhaps thirty foot tall when he drew his head up to its full height, with metallic scales the same colour as those you’d seen on his human body, ranging from bright copper to tarnished bronze and even gold along the crest of his back, Mikaeïl was stunning.

Drawn by the movement of your arrival, he watched you fall still and stare openly at him, though a soft, familiar, low-frequency rumbling pervaded the whole garden, and the sound of it stirred you back to life.

Leaving your bag where it lay abandoned on the sunny gravel path, you walked over to him with awe etched onto your face, and breathed, “Mikaeïl?”

The wyvern nodded once, slowly, golden eyes glinting.

“Can you talk when you’re like this?” you asked as you continued to approach him.

“I can talk,” he said, though his voice was different. It still had all the delicate enunciation of the Mikaeïl you knew, but it was richer, far more sonorous, and much deeper.

When you were standing beside him, you raised your palm, barely noticing the trembling excitement in your fingers, and pressed it gently against his cool scales.

He lowered his head and sank his body to the ground, lying down for you like a colossal dog while you just explored the miraculous strangeness of his incredible body. “You’re so beautiful…” you whispered. Two horns curved back over his head, the same ruby-red, flecked with gold, that you knew from his other form, only they were so much larger like this.

“God, Mikaeïl,” you chuckled in wonderment. “You are just so beautiful…” He was; fabergé looked like they could have taken inspiration from him for one of their unbelievable creations.

If wyverns could blush, you suspected Mikaeïl might well have done. As it was, his nostrils flared, and his head shied away slightly, showing off the beautiful array of spikes at the edges of his jaw and head, and he rumbled something again more deeply. In response, you put your palm on his deep chest and felt the vibrations of it shiver through you.

Suddenly, the penny dropped about the clothing, and your eyes went wide. “Mikaeïl… when you said to bring warm stuff to wear… You’re not… We’re… We’re not going to…”

A slow, deep laugh rolled out of him and he shifted his weight slightly, drawing your eye from his glimmering scales - each one like hand-hammered bronze - down to his clawed hind feet and the tip of his wing which rested on a single, massive, taloned thumb. While you waited for his reply, your fingers wandered to the leathery, sunset-yellow membrane of his wing, right near the knuckle which propped him up, and a shudder ran through him, all the way to his barbed tail.

“Sensitive?” you murmured with a wry smile.

“Mmm,” he rumbled, lowering his head and slowly, luxuriantly, inhaling the scent of your skin right by your neck. “How do you feel about going for a short flight?” he asked softly.

“Honestly…?” you said breathlessly, “I have no idea. I’ve never, uh… flown before. I mean, not like that…”

“Test flight?” he asked.

“Please tell me that you don’t have spines on your back because I’m not sitting on that and trying to cling on…”

Mikaeïl laughed his rich, deep laugh and said, “Take a closer look at the junction of my neck and shoulders…”

He rolled slightly towards you but still you couldn’t see the top of his back properly, so in the end he had to help you up with his wing like a leg-up onto a horse. His back was smooth for perhaps a foot and a half between the end of his sinuous neck and the start of his back - the perfect space for someone to sit. You ran your hand over the space and he shivered again.  

“It’s like it was made for someone to sit here,” you commented.

“Not quite,” he said dryly, “But my family were royal guards, a thousand years ago - which is why we have three forms: human, half human, and this. We have been known to carry royalty into battle or over long distances…”

“Royalty,” you cooed as he lowered you back to the ground. “Nice… You sure I’m worthy? I’ve never even sat on a motorbike, let alone a wyvern…”

Again, Mikaeïl laughed at your sense of humour, and nuzzled his nose affectionately against your stomach while you rubbed his forehead. His head was as big as a small couch and it was going to take some getting used to, but he was so damned gorgeous that you could hardly process the fact that this magnificent creature was the Mikaeïl you’d come to know.

“Put on a coat to keep warm while we fly, and I’ll take you for a little trial run… if you like. You don’t have to though…”

“You’ve got something else planned though, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But it’s alright if you don’t want to fly there.”

“No, let’s try it,” you said, as you scuttled back to your bag and dug out the warmest coat you had. You imagined that with the wind rushing past you, even on such a sunny day, it would be cold.

And you were right.

You clambered warily onto his back, settling yourself in the smooth crook of his shoulders, nestled at the base of his neck and the start of his hugely muscular wings. Conveniently, he had two large horn-like spikes at the base of his neck, to which you clung for dear life as he began to flap his wings, trying to get some lift. You clamped your thighs around him as tightly as you could and leaned forward, honestly terrified.

“I won’t let you hurt yourself,” he promised and then you lurched upwards into the sky.

The ground rushed away beneath you and he continued to rise in jerky movements that made your stomach churn and drop each time. Eventually he had climbed as high as the roof of the mansion, and began to glide, the canvas of his great wings spread to catch the air, and you tried hard not to lose your breakfast all over his beautiful scales.

Mikaeïl did one lap of the parkland of his property and then began to descend gradually, spiralling down until the ground rushed up to meet you and he landed with a jolt that his body absorbed before it could throw you from your tenuous position atop his back.

“Alright?” he asked nervously, tilting his head to one side to see you out of the corner of his golden eye.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, with your heart still pounding in your ears, you nodded and swallowed. “Yeah,” you croaked. It had felt like a rollercoaster ride, only much, much wilder. “That was… amazing…!”

His laugh rippled through you and he said, “Why don’t you stow your bag in the conservatory, and if you could lock up, that would be amazing. Then if you’re alright with it, I want to take you somewhere a little further away.”

You nodded, slithering and landing weak-kneed on the grass beside him.  “Come here first,” you said, crooking your finger and beckoning his head closer.

He obliged, curious and amusedly wary, and when his muzzle was level with your face, you took his smooth, leathery head in your hands and kissed him squarely on the tip of his nose. His laugh came out as a warm blast of air through his nostrils, ruffling your hair, and you laughed too as he closed his eyes for a moment, clearly enjoying the closeness and the contact.

Nudging you playfully away after a minute or so, he rumbled happily, the sound halfway between an alligator and an elephant, only much deeper and louder, and you trotted off to do as he requested.

Once back, you ran your hands over his shoulder and chest again, letting the deep, appreciative sounds thrum through you, and watching as he closed his eyes again in pleasure. “You’re going to cause trouble if you keep touching me like that,” he said eventually. “And then I won’t be able to fly.”

“Not decently, anyway,” you grinned and he shook his head, laughter dancing in his yellow eyes.

“Get back on board and we’ll go before you render me incapable of flight altogether.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” you asked coyly and were met with a snarl that held no danger.

“Get. On.” he said but the fierceness of his tone was ruined by the laugh that bubbled out of him immediately afterwards.

“Fine,” you pouted, and clambered back on his back the same way you’d done before.  

With a final glance up at you, those eyes turned serious and he said, “Are you ready? Comfortable?”

“Yeah. How long will we be in the air?”

“About twenty minutes,” he said. “You let me know if you need me to land though, alright?”

You nodded, and he turned his attention away from you, hind claws gripping the earth as his great leathery wings, the colour of saffron, began to beat again, and he lifted skywards once again.

To be concluded next week...

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[fyrewrites]

The Magus’s Apprentice

Unfinished Ars Magica drabble

The small village on the outskirts of the faerie forest was, more or less, a peaceful place. The echoes of past large-scale cosmic wars resonated throughout the place, and to the Gifted ones, these echoes were harmful.

So it was that a child of eight, previously thought to be as UnGifted as any other, awoke screaming, crying out to the world to make it stop.

This young girl’s name was Amande, and she was in great pain.

Her parents, a farmer and his wife, had no idea how to help their daughter, so, against everyone’s best judgement, they called upon the old wizard in the tower. The tower was in the faerie forest, however the feeling of a new Gifted one was powerful enough to cut through even the worst of the faerie magic.

So the wizard came swiftly.

The fate of the girl was debated at length; the wizard wished to take the girl and teach her how to use her Gift, but the parents were afraid of that. What if she destroyed the village? The wizard let their fears vanish as he spoke a while about the dangers of an untrained maga, which would surely end in the village being destroyed sooner or later, whereas if she went with the wizard, no harm would be done, save for her absence.

In the end, the family conceded to the wizard’s wish, and Amande was no longer Amande, but an apprentice.

Amande cried out in pain, a pain which lessened as the wizard led her away from her home. She soon realized that she didn't even know the name of her new master, nor anything else about him, save that he was a wizard. As she opened her mouth to ask one of the questions she wanted answered, the wizard said, “Don't speak.”

They continued on in silence. When they reached the tower, Amande gasped. It was better than she had thought! She had thought it was a crumbling structure constantly under siege by the faeries, when in fact it was a sturdy, if worn structure, built of stone. Carved into the blue arched door was a strange symbol, which looked like two keys crossed. Amande had never seen that design before.

The wizard tapped on the door with his fist, as if he were knocking. The door unlocked itself and opened, much to the amazement of Amande. Did all wizards have the power to do that?

She walked inside. The door closed behind her, and as the wizard looked at them, the candles lit themselves.

“Welcome to my tower,” the wizard said. “My name is Elanirvidius, and I am your master now. May I know your name?”

“Amande,” the girl said immediately. “Are you really going to teach me magic? Am I going to be a wizard?” Her face was lit with childlike wonder.

“I am not a wizard, and neither will you be,” Elanirvidius said. “I am a magus, and you will also be one. And, yes, I will teach you magic.”

Amande let out an excited shriek. “When can I learn? Can I start now? How long do I have to wait?”

“First, I must Open your magic,” Elanirvidius said, sitting down in a chair. A little table immediately walked to him, bearing a glass filled with water and a well-thumbed book that had many bookmarks stuck in it. “That, I am afraid, takes some time.”

“So I won't learn magic now?” Amande’s bright expression faded.

“You will learn soon,” the magus said, then sipped the glass of water. “Please sit; you cannot be comfortable standing while I am not.”

Obediently, Amande sat on the softest chair she had ever sat on. It was better than standing, just as Elanirvidius had said. She asked, “How long do I wait?”

“It is late summer now,” Elanirvidius said quietly. “When autumn leaves turn red, you will be able to learn magic.”

“So…” she thought. “When the harvest comes?”

“Yes, I believe that is the time. Would you like me to show you the tower? An apprentice who does not know her and her master’s house is not much of an apprentice, after all.”

The tower possessed four floors. The first was the library and entry. The second was the laboratory, which was filled with all manner of strange projects that Elanirvidius kept Amande well away from. The third housed Elanirvidius’s room, a guest room, and the restroom, which appeared very magical indeed, as there was a basin there that filled itself with water, warm or cold, upon request, as well as a chamberpot that emptied itself. The fourth floor housed an observatory, as well as a smaller library that contained Elanirvidius’s personal notes and observations on many things, mostly the sky.

It was this magical tower that Amande now called home.

For the first season of her apprenticeship, Elanirvidius taught her how to read and write the language of magic. By the time her magic was Opened, she could read an entire spellbook, and could write a scroll.

On the day the autumn leaves turned red, Elanirvidius brought Amande up to the observatory, and asked her to look through the nearest of the three telescopes, and tell him what she saw.

She looked, and gasped. “It's magic!”

“It is time,” Elanirvidius said, “for you to learn magic.”

Amande studied the page Elanirvidius was showing her. It was written in the magic writing, which Amande knew fluently now. She read the words, then tried to understand them.

Search deep within yourself. It is there, waiting. It is your Gift. Welcome it, ask it to become part of you. Then, use it. Use The Gift to create light. If at first you don't succeed, try until you do. There is a light that shines in the darkness, and that light is you, Gifted one.

Amande followed the words’ instructions, and with the guidance of her master Elanirvidius, she created a floating orb of light that rested in her hands. She flung it up, and it rose, then fell down again, slowly and gently, to rest in her hands once more.

“Well done,” Elanirvidius said. “And your sigil is apparent also: gravity.”

That night, while Amande lay awake in bed conjuring lights, Elanirvidius dipped his pen, an emerald feather, into some black ink and wrote. He made special note of his apprentice’s sigil. Very few magi possessed a sigil that involved gravity, and those that had were known as great magi. Almost all of them had become archmagi, if that was a term that was applicable.

He finished writing, then rolled up the paper into a scroll and sealed it with purple wax inscribed with the mark of his House, two keys crossed.

He sent out the scroll, which was an official request for apprenticeship, then read Sigils: G to L, searching for gravity. He desired to know what exactly that sigil meant.

Dawn had just graced the village with its light, and the parents of Amande were woken by a loud tapping on their window. The cause was a bird carrying a letter in its talons.

They opened the window, read the letter, and rejoiced. Amande was well into her first year with the wizard, who she termed Magus Elanirvidius, and she had already learned very much. She had requested that the “magus” allow her parents to visit his tower so that they could check in with their daughter. He allowed this and welcomed them at any time.

So, the parents were quick to make their way to the tower of Elanirvidius.

“You came!” Amande said excitedly. “Do you like it? Do you? It's really nice here! And I can do magic now!” She conjured an orb of light, now second nature to her, and bounced it around as if it were a ball.

Her parents nodded. They were still quite shocked by how the door had opened as if by… magic. Now, too, their daughter was doing magic, and Elanirvidius had not shown himself yet. Where was he?

Amande created more orbs of light, throwing them around haphazardly. They all came back to her, no matter how far she tossed them. She aimed one, threw, then gasped as an ink vial spilled all over a paper. Oh no!

She rushed over and tried to fix it, but ended getting herself covered in ink. There was only one thing to do: tell her master.

She'd never been in her master's room since he'd given her the tour months ago. No room was forbidden to her, of course, but she had never felt the need to enter this room. Now she was.

Amande opened the door and called, “Elanirvidius, I spilled ink on a paper.”

Elanirvidius was not there.

Where in the world could he have gone? 

Amande checked everywhere in the tower, finding no trace of her elusive master. She returned to the library, then decided she would show her parents around. She did so with enthusiasm, but they were not so enthusiastic. She hoped that would change once Elanirvidius cane back.

Elanirvidius returned to the tower. He had met with one of the officials of his House, and they had dealt with the matter of Amande’s apprenticeship. It was decided that she was his apprentice, and so he would instruct her for fifteen years and take her to matters of importance, among other things.

He entered his tower to find two UnGifted people within—Amande had let her parents come. He observed the scene, his eyes coming to rest on the spilled ink vial, which had ruined a spell, One Key To Open Them All. Luckily, he had composed that just yesterday, so he recalled its formula very well. However, it was still ruined.

“Amande,” Elanirvidius said, “I believe I forbid throwing lights after last week’s incident.”

Last week, Amande had accidentally thrown a light orb through the ajar door to the laboratory, interrupting the ritual Elanirvidius was conducting. He had punished her accordingly, giving her a tricky reading assignment. Hidden within the pages of her book had been a quiz on formulaic magic, specifically pertaining to the orbs of light.

Clearly, she had not learned her lesson.

Amande apologized, but the matter of the spilled ink could not be resolved with words. Nor would a punishment work. So, Elanirvidius said, “Your actions have ruined my latest spell.”

He took the offending parchment and burned it in his hands. The ashes were swept away by a broom that sat in the corner.

“Leave,” he told Amande’s parents. They did so. With them gone, Elanirvidius continued. “Now, follow me. I have an important task for you.”

Her task was to assist in sorting the laboratory—the non dangerous part.

[magicalsalamander]

Soleil Chaser

✶ Pairing▹ BTS Hoseok ⇆ Reader

✶ Genre▹ Game of Thrones Univ | Dragon Rider | Fantasy | Fluff | Angst | 

✶ Words▹ 10.7K

✶ Warning▹ rated mature; Depictions of traumatic events, death of a minor character, blood, witchcraft inaccuracies, explicit language, and explicit themes.

✶ Summary▹ Heavily breathing wasn’t enough to get air into your lungs fast enough. You vowed to never let this happen again. You swung an ax breaking the chain holding the jaw of your Dragon. You promised to never let this happen again, but you found yourself on stage at Barter’s Beach on Talon for the Pirates taking. However, a man even the pirates feared, the Sun King of the Jade Sea, proposed a deal to you, join him or die trying? What will you choose?

✶ A/N: Header image Anan 2019/ This originally was supposed to be a one-shot, but I decided to divide it into three parts. The story takes place centuries before the show, and know no canon characters show up. Light editing, will fix soon. Thank you for reading!

✸ | Masterlist | Next

The black night sky was lit by the high red flames and spangles of embers that decorated the starless night. From the coastline to the bordering lush jungle that surrounded the city, everything—everything was engulfed in carnivorous heat.

Trembling pupils, hands and legs, you grasped onto the edge of your stone window. From your room at the near tip of the stone pyramid, you helplessly watched your city be consumed. Your eyes reflecting those red flames that licked at every part of the city. The colossal dragon ridden by a man with white hair slithered through the sky as it roared, spewing fire and destruction.

You couldn’t look away.

“Y/N! We have to leave!” Your mother tugged and yanked you away from the window as a haunting roar rung over the city. Tears rolled down your face as you took a last look over your shoulder at what was once your city, your home, Gorosh.  

Your mother pulled you through the dark halls telling you to look away from it all. But how could you avoid the bodies of people that once served you as they laid bloody on the floor? The blood of your people, the ones who protected the Ghis empire…were gone.

Your mother picked you up after stumbling one too many times and tucked you deep into her neck. “Shhh, my little Harpy, it’s going to be alright.”

Your mother, she held you tight, she truly did, but that wasn’t enough. The eight-council, your father being the eighth, were brought to their knees and heads rolled on the floor, including your mothers, by the dragon rider…the people with white hair.

You were forced to watch it all.

The pyramid, Gorosh and the Old Ghis Empire fell that night. Gorosh became a colony under the new Valyrian Freehold.

There was no way to remove the blood of your ancestors from the embroidery or the leather of your sandals. The tokar you had to abandon and exchanged for a Valerian slaves robe was never going to fit you right.

You had known nothing but freedom, but you won’t ever forget the fifth Ghiscari war and what it forever did to you.

There was no freedom under the Freehold.

You stood next to your Mistress’s throne, lightly bouncing the white-haired child to keep the newborn quiet. The throne room was balmy as a thousand candles burned; despite the temperatures still being high in this summer’s evening. The child felt heavy in your small arms; you were a child holding a child.

The great Harpy statue that used to stand tall behind your father's throne was turned into your Mistress’s throne. They had the body of the women melted and molded into a throne, only her wings remained. Your Master, the Lord, took over your father’s. The smooth, stone walls were decorated with Valyrian history, carving the conquering of Old Ghis into the pyramid’s walls.

Two guards marched onto the platform and placed a wooden, gold-crested chest down on the podium. Their metal armor clanked as they stood upright and took a few paces behind the podium. The mysterious guest delicately with their purple fingertips caressed the chest with a smirk as he turned with an extended hand. “I present to you my Lord, a gift to your newborn son. A dragon’s egg.”

Your Master raised a brow looking over to his wife, who had an equally skeptical raise to her brow. He pressed both hands on his throne and pushed off approaching the sorcerer. As he approached the sorcerer folded his hands proudly into his red robes. "Please, open the gift, my Lord."

The Lord was a relative of the main Targaryen family in Valyria. He had decided to stay in Valyria when the fifth war began while the rest of his family left. After the fifth war had ended, he had been punished for attempting to escape when he realized the weight of his decision to stay and refusing to participate in the war. So, they gave him the escape from Valyria that he wanted: to hold the captured city, Gorosh, while the Rise of Valyria happened across the sea. He was stripped of his honor, his dragon, and banished as punishment.    

Brushing his long white hair from his shoulder, he haughtily opened the chest with two hands. Sitting center on velvet was the promised gradient black to red dragon egg. Like a child who just got sweets, he laughed jollily as he stared at the sorcerer who confirmed its authenticity with a nod. The Lord picked it up and it was small enough to fit in one hand. He rotated it around under the light of the torches, admiring it with the same childlike smile.

Subconsciously you tucked their newborn closer to you as he raised the egg up. You had seen what a dragon could do. What the rider had done. What it had done to your city. How they brought the beast into this city to bring it to its knees. You held the sound of anger and disgust back, trained now of what a sound out of line could do to you. However, that didn’t stop you from taking a subtle step back.

Your Mistress, who sat at the edge of her seat, gasped in delight.

As he shifted it around, it became prevalent that on the other side of the egg it had cracks and scales were chipped. His brow began to furrow in anger, “You present me, a gift to my son, a broken dragon egg!”

With a squirmy sashay, the sorcerer took the egg from your Lord. He caressed it gently like it was a child, “Oh no, no, no, my lord. I would never bring you such a curse. I present you an egg from the nest of the original dragon from the mountains of Valyria. It was tucked and protected for years, salvaged from the first war.”

The Lord perked up eager once again, anger simmering, “Yes, well then, but what if it isn’t a male dragon? Our family only births sons. Strong male beast must support strong men.”

The sorcerer placed the egg back into the hands of the Lord. “You are wise my lord, but there is no true gender to dragons’. This egg will be a strong one.”

The Lord held it up higher to the candlelight’s watching the scales of the egg twinkle a rose gold across the scared portions. He sighed in wonder, “Ah, I see it, I see gold. I have a good feeling about this egg.”

The mistress slithered from her throne and caressed her hand up her husband’s back and over to his shoulders. She squeezed as she remained behind him, whispering into his ear, “My love, we can become dragon lords. With this we can return to Valyria, but as dragon lords. Let’s take back what was ours.”

His pupils dilated as he turned around in the arms of his wife. This brought a twisted smile to the Lord's face. He leaned down and kissed her longingly. He could have power. “You’re right, we can take what our cousins took from us and abandoned us in Valyria. We’ll take Valyria one day; it’s going to be ours.”

He set the egg back in the chest, speaking to the sorcerer, “I will hatch the egg for my son. Thank you for your gift, Sorcerer. You have my word that this House will protect you on your journey to King’s Landing.”

The sorcerer bowed deeply and thanked the Lord.

The baby began crying and spitting up, you wiped at his face cooing him to shush. Your Mistress turned to you her sweet face contorted for a split second, irked by her son’s noises. “Harpy, leave.”

You bowed and began walking away, but not without looking over your shoulder at the egg. Goosebumps waved up your arms and spine. Something within you was deeply unsettled.

The child had fallen asleep and been asleep for a while. In a moment of silence, you waited for him to stir. The sudden sound of short pacing outside the room had your ear perking up. You crept, occasionally looking back to check on the sleeping baby, as you tiptoed towards the door. You placed your ear on the door listening in to the sound. The sound died out as you listened in. With a tight hand on the door handle and a hand against the door to counter the creak you knew it’d produce, you pressed it open an inch. You peeked outside of the room with the sliver of light letting out to the hall. The echoing sounds of the footsteps bounced off the walls, but the hall was empty.

With a final look behind you, you slipped out of the room. Your curiosity getting the better of you. The unsettling feeling from earlier was something you weren’t able to gargle down. As much as you tried to rest, your body felt jittery. You knew the pyramid like the back of your hand, every nook and crannies.  You crept along the wall and gazed down the connecting corridor finding a cloaked figure just turning the corner. Against your instincts, your feet moved before your brain had registered.  With hurried stepped you kept just behind the figure through many different halls.

You waited behind a pillar as they exited out the courtyard, rounding the broken harpy statue, to the monastery. The heavy stone door opened and allowed light to pour out over the dying grass before it instantly cut off.

You crept out across the yard and gazed around the courtyard once more before you sinked into the shadows behind the wings of the Harpy. You peeked through the metal-laced window catching dark figures standing around in a circle all softly lit by the moonlight pouring in. The figure you had been following handed off a jug to a sorceress who then held it up to the moonlight. Six, red-cloaked figured tipped their heads back and began approaching the pit of sand. The red, sacred sand from Old Ghis was like a talisman to your family. She raised it high and began pouring the liquid into the shallow pit as she walked around it clockwise. Anger simmered in your veins, feeling yourself being tainted as the precious sand was made heathen.

Dragged forward from the corner of the room by two guards was a young woman on her knees. You recognize the Goroshian girl, a kitchen maid that had recently been taken in. You watched the panicked look in her eye as she fought against rope restraints. The chest you had seen earlier was presented by two more cloaked figures. Your eyes filtered around the room and the closer you looked, in the shadows, near the guard handling the slave was the sorcerer, Lord, and Mistress. They smiled pleasantly as if they were watching a play.

The sorceress had passed the jug off and stepped forth grabbing the egg. You could see her lips moving rapidly as she picked up the egg and walked towards the pit. She held it in the moonlight chanting louder as you could hear what sounded like gibberish through the window.

The guard dragged the maid to the pit holding the back of her head with one hand. With his other hand, he unsheathed his sword holding a stoic face. After the sorceress was done with her chant, hands still in the air it all happened so fast. The guard raised his blade and ran it over her throat and sheathed his sword. Your eyes nearly bulged from your skull, but you couldn’t look away. You watched as her blood sprayed over the pits, causing a small spark that erupted into flames. The guard dragged the dead maid away and the sorceress tossed the egg into the fire. The prominent crack on the egg began to illuminate like molten lava. The sorcerous turned towards the Lord and Mistress and bowed.

The blood magic had been completed.

You held a hand over your mouth. How could such a terrible thing happen and the people around so content. That maiden was dead. The soil was tainted. Your parents, your people, were murdered. How could they be so content?

How could they do all this…and for a dragon?

You had to leave. You slipped from the window holding onto the wings of the Harpy as you slid from your hiding spot. You hurried back feeling nauseous and sick. Your vision was getting spotty as you ran back into the pyramid. You clutched onto the wall breathing heavily. Tears fell and you began sobbing in a deep corner of an empty hallway.

There was nothing you could do.

You shouldn’t have seen that.

After three years in the burning fire, the egg began to rumble. The Mistress over the years had grown impatient. She dismissed even the authenticity of the egg, but the sorceress had promised that there indeed was life. With her eyes rolling back she prophesized, “It will be a beast that will guide. The rider has leather arms like the beast.” The Mistresses needed no more provocation, in fact, she kept the room of the monastery secretive and protected to ensure the prophecy’s actualization. She even got her son to wear leather armory at any opportunity.

You pruning hands scrubbed at the stain in a cotton nightdress that wouldn't come out.  Your hand was snatched from the water causing you to drop the dress with a splash as you were yanked to a stand. The Mistress dragged you along, incautious of the puddles of water or baskets of clothes. You nearly severed your head as she pulled you through the strung about clothing lines. The other slaves doing laundry as well looked at you with fear in their eyes before they averted them away quickly.

"Mistress, what—what's going on?” She didn’t answer you, she continued to drag you about the halls until you came to the royal chambers. As you arrived at her chambers another maid shoved her toddler into your arms. Naturally you took him in your arms, coddling him to you as he latched on. You were grabbed by the elbow by the Mistress and taken away without further addressing. You held her son tight to you, careful of not dropping him as she dragged you. You were taken far across the pyramid to the monastery she had been guarding so carefully. Not even you, her personal slave, were allowed in there. You looked over to the Mistress shaking slightly, you saw what happened last time to the slave girl. You didn’t want to die today. “Mistress, please, tell me what’s going on?”

She turned to you with a stoic look on her face, “Harpy, your lucky I didn’t send you to the mines.”

Your mouth was sealed shut, but your eyes were wide open in shock. The stone doors opened, and the Mistress shoved you inside. You looked over your shoulder watching the doors close as you stared at the intense smirking face of the Mistress.

She was throwing you into the deep end.

Her son cried from the sudden motion, but you hushed him to quiet, but it was really more for yourself.

You turned around when you heard shuffling and was confronted with the sorceress. She was a young, beautiful woman, she wore a red cloak and her accessories were red as well, especially her steel necklace. You clutched him close to you as more cloaked figures appeared walking in line then began forming a circle around the pit. The sorceress stood at the top of the pit facing you.

You finally took notice that the dragon egg was rattling in the center of the fire. The red sacred sand had turned charcoal black. The sorceress commanded you, “When the egg hatches you will allow the dragon to greet its master, girl.”

Your hands were shaky, but you obliged by nodding. What other choice did you have?

You didn’t have time to prepare yourself as the egg began to violently rattle. The flame began to grow, expand, like it was breathing. Your rag of a dress flowed about you as a sudden wind in the room picked up and intensified. Loud, humming chants filled the room and it was all you could hear besides the toddlers crying. The black sand was carried in the wind and pelted your skin. You placed the toddler’s face in your neck and protected him and yourself as the flames licked the ceiling in ribbons of light.

Suddenly the flame extinguished, the wind stopped and the sand rained down. It was completely still then the sound of cracking filled the silence. You slowly opened your eyes and eased up your hold on the hiccupping toddler. It was hard to distinguish anything as your eyes adjusted to the darkness. The torches along the wall lit up, unveiling a small black and red dragon. It looked like it was carved by a blacksmith with its lacquered scales. It was no bigger than the size of a raven. It crawled from its broken shell. The forearms were attached to its red, leathery wings as it crawled forward. It had two small horns on its head and its black eyes were the nearly larger than its skull. Soft murmurs came from the creature as it stumbled through the soot. As it reached the stone rise it hopped up and it looked directly at you and kept its eyes locked on you.

Your hands were trembling as you held onto the toddler. The beast, the destroyer, came to life! Your worst fear came to life. You took a step back on instinct, but a booming command to halt stopped you. You watched the small creature move closer and closer towards you. It reached your foot sniffing then it nuzzled you once before it began climbing your dress. Its sharp nails punched holes into the weak fabric, and you remained still as a statue, whining in your throat. You were unsure of what to do. It crawled up you, twisting up your leg to your hips, up your back before it perched itself on your shoulder. It paid little mind to the boy in your arms but passed the toddler a glance. It stood on its two back feet and flapped its wings as it stood proudly on your shoulder, tail twirling around your neck like an anchor.

The sorceress looked between you and the dragon, then smiled. The stone doors opened as the Mistress stepped into the room. You slowly turned around to face her. The sorceress came to stand next to you, “The boy, son of Valyrian blood, with dragon blood within him, has been chosen, Mistress.” The dragon shifted on your shoulder crouching in a protective manner towards the sorceress.

The Mistress smile bloomed like Spring. She proudly proclaimed, “My son will reign Valyria one day, our dragonlord.”

Your heartbeat loudly in your chest and the dragon tightened its grip around your neck. You side glanced over to it as it looked at you before it blinked slowly then back to the Mistress.

You turned back to the Mistress who had already begun walking away leaving you standing there with the next dragon lord in your arms and the dragon on your shoulders.

Raising the Lord’s son naturally brought you in contact with the dragon. However, the child had no interest in the dragon, not even a glimpse as he paid no mind to it. He was sweet, always kind, but when his mother began taking care of him his personality changed. The child was often interested in other toys or entertainment the other slaves provided.

You had not much interest in it to begin with either. Every time you’d look at it the image of the dragon you saw flying over the city all those years ago crossed your mind. Your palms were sweaty and a solid feeling in your gut to say no. However, the dragon always remained by you. It clung to you like a pup. The small creature would wag it’s tail like a canine as well. You overcame the initial fear of it, when it proved itself time after time to be gentle, but most shockingly, only towards you. It never allowed anyone else to touch it, even the Lord and Mistress weren’t able to approach it without it hissing.

The Mistress relinquishing responsibility to you, putting you in charge of taking care of it altogether. That is until her son will be old enough to take over. You decided that if it was yours to take care of you were going to try, with everything in your power, to keep it from that destiny. You weren’t going to try your best. You didn’t want any other city to end up like yours.

Change doesn’t come overnight, but hands aren’t supposed to be bend metal either. A mold takes times to case, hands take on calluses and yours grew thicker. It takes gentle hands even to manipulate clay, and an even more sensitive touch to break into the heart.

You weren’t going to change it, but you were sure to mold its heart, and you had nothing but time.

-years later-

At night, after your duties, you carried a torch with you to visit the dungeons below the pyramid. You passed the other empty cells until you reached the large iron gate. You unlatched the five locks and slipped inside. You docked the torch and turned around to an elephant-sized-dragon that had one of its eyes open, but it was still comfortably laying down. You giggled slowly approaching, “Oh look at that pout. Did you miss me, big baby?”

You received a huff in response. The dark scales, sharp horns, sharp jaw, and teeth didn't match his current behavior. You giggled, cooing at him scratching at his chin, “You know I have chores to do before I come see you. May I lay down with you?” The dragon opened up, its tail swinging out and you naturally found your spot as you leaned up against its belly careful of his wings. You enjoyed the heat; it eased your tired muscles. Oddly, you held up a conversation asking about his day and did he like his meal. In his way, he would respond to you with little huffs and nudges here and there. You had learned early on that he was intelligent.

Through an exhausted giggle you sighed, spurting out something that had weighed heavy on your mind. “I don’t like that they call you ‘dragon’. I don’t like calling you ‘dragon’ either.” Although you kept a lingering laugh in your tone, the truth of it pained you inside. You had grown overtly fond of the dragon; he wasn’t anything like you had expected. You never felt threatened, afraid, or that you had to be cautious around him. He had been nothing but accepting of you.

“I don’t like that they call me ‘Harpy’, my name is Y/n.” You had somewhere along the line picked up his tail and began stroking the scales. “Can I give you a name?”

The dragon turned his head around and tapped you on the shoulder with his chin as he used to when he was no bigger than a raven.

You perked up, scooting yourself up, thinking of all the names possible. Purposefully you teased, “Hmm, how about…Greg?”

Somehow you could tell he disapproved as he thwapped his tail in your hand. You laughed, “Easy now, easy now, or I may start calling you Greg for real.” He huffed, behaving himself as he calmed again.

You stared at the wall aimlessly, the flickering light catching your eyes. “Sun, you remind me of the sun.” Something I always wish was to spend more time in the sun. “When I was a little girl, and my family was still with me—my mother would tell me stories of when she lived in Meereen. She would tell me stories of the great harpy that would have the sun glowing behind it on the great pyramid. The morning sun behind it was a site to see according to her. She used to call me Harpy, after the statue, and I liked it, but then these…murderers took it. They took my name from me.”

You turned around to him, pausing for a moment, serious this time, ”But I won’t let them take that from you. You’re not their slave. Your name is…,” you sat for a moment, “Soleil.” You sat up seriously, “Your name will be Soleil.” You received a tap on your shoulder, and you knew that he approved. You laid back down and curled up next to him. Suddenly you felt tears brim up in your eyes, “Thank you Soleil.”

After giving Soleil his proper name, you never addressed him as such in front of your Masters. It felt important to keep it between you both, just like how your name had never been spoken in front of your Masters. You didn’t want them to have that.

That was your mold.

Things change over thirteen years. Their son was no longer a newborn, you were no longer a young girl and Soleil…Soleil wasn't what they had expected.

Upon routine you approached the chambers of the Lord and Mistress, closing off your duties for the night. As you raised your hand to knock on the door you heard shouting from inside. You stood still, with your hand raised afraid to move.

The Mistresses muffled shout rung in your ears, “We should kill it.”

The Lord sighed, “We can’t just kill it, it’s our ticket back.”

The Mistress screamed, “Don’t you get it? We’re never going back! That stupid thing, it’s not a dragon, it doesn’t shot out flames, or do anything!”

“What about our son, it’s his dragon.” The lord passed by the door and you held your breath.

The Mistress sighed, voice hoarse, “He could care less about it, he never has. We’ll just get him another dragon, maybe he’ll care about that one. I’m sure we can find one from a merchant or something.”

You lowered your fist and clutched onto your skirt tight. The murmuring continued back and forth but you had blocked out their voices. They were talking about Soleil. Your blood ran cold

No.

No.

No!

You slowly backed away crashing into the wall knocking over a Valyrian flag. Your ears were ringing as your feet took off and when you were far enough you ran for it. You ran hard, thighs burning and towards the warehouse without a second thought. You went through the back gate, traveling along the stairs. You ran through the near-empty streets, carelessly running until you twisted and turned through the streets that lead to the abandoned part of the city near the coastline. It had been too destroyed in the war to repair. You traveled through the rubble, but you knew it by heart at this point. You took more stairs towards the docks. In familiar darkness, you found the old storage warehouse for warships and barges that your father once used to have. Remains and partial pieces of ships still were there, but It had become Soleil’s new home as he quickly outgrew his old cell under the pyramid.

You unlatched the large iron bar and pushed the gate across with all your might. Running into the darkness your shoes pounded against the moist ground. “SOLEIL! SOLEIL!” You heard his chain dragging against the cement and followed your instincts towards it. You slammed into his thick neck, arms not being able to wrap around his neck anymore, but you still gripped onto him. You held him tight for a moment, hearting beating like crazy, breathing erratically. You eased up and with your shaky fingers you began moving up towards his skull, “Stay still Soleil.” You were going to break the chain they forced on him. You began searching for the pin, “Don’t move.” He obeyed and you twisted the metal pin out of the lock and the choker fell to the floor in a loud metallic crash echoing in the empty warehouse.

You ran towards the dim light pouring in from the cracks of the main barge door. You grabbed onto that light, grabbing onto the handle and struggling to push it open. Your adrenaline was running on high that you didn’t hear the thuds coming from behind you. Soleil stuck his head in between the slight gap you’ve been able to budge and pushed the gate open. You both kept going until it was completely open.

The warehouse had a ramp that led into the water, but it also had a cement dock that led to the beach. You bent your neck backward as Soleil stood upright, towering fifteen feet tall. He leaned down to nudge you cutely in a greeting, but you couldn’t manage to greet him properly. You grabbed onto a horn as he dipped towards your level, walking backward, your voice was tight, "Come on, Soleil. Stay low.” His tail wagged behind him as he followed you out to the beach in a crouched position.  

The cascading sound of waves welcomed you both on the empty beach. Soleil whined at you, his large body fumbled awkwardly as you let go of him, trusting him to follow. You stood at the edge of the water gazing towards the pyramid, which seemed small from this point. You turned and gazed at the vast horizon, a full moon in the sky. This was the edge.

You turned and urged Soleil with a small command for him to lower his head again. “Soleil, my good boy, “clearing your throat of building tension, “listen to me, listen to me good.” Your eyes were glassing up, voice unrecognizable. “You’re going to fly, fly far away!”

You hear in the distance the sound of the hounds echoing from the pyramid. The Lord must’ve given the orders out.

“Go! Soleil! Go!” You let go of him stepping away from him, getting wet as the waves crash around your ankles. He quirked his head to the side, for the first time not responding to you.

“Go! Don’t come back! GO!”

He shook his head and sat on his two hind legs. Tears were running down your face, “Idiot, you’re going to die! THEY’RE GOING TO KILL YOU!”

He refused to move just stared at you.

The sound of barking intensified; they were near the warehouse. You charged at him and fruitlessly began pushing at Soleil, but he wouldn’t budge. Your feet buried in the sand with each push. Pathetically you begged, “Please, please, Soleil. Just go.”

The barking was just around the corner, you could tell they were at the stairs.

He swooped his neck down and you couldn’t understand until he nudged you, remaining at your level. You looked at his eyes who were locked on yours. It was like he spoke your name to you calmly. The look in his eyes spoke greater to you than you had anticipated. You heard his message loud and clear.

You had nothing here. You weren’t even human to them here. This wasn’t your home and it hadn’t been for a long time. He leveled his head down completely, closing his eyes. You looked over your shoulder back at the pyramid. What were you staying for?

You grabbed on and climbed onto his back between his winged arms like you had seen that man ride that dragon. You held on tight to his spines as he shifted about. You were facing the sky vertically, then he squatted and lunging into the air. The sudden motion made your stomach sink, you were so terrified you were unable to breathe as you felt weightless. The cold wind was intense as Soleil soared up and up into the night sky. You kept your eyes closed until he evened out, body arching and falling as he graciously flew. You opened one eye at a time and looked over to his wings that expanded at least thirty feet. You dared to look at the sea below then behind and you could see the shoreline of Gorosh in the distance. The shore was lit up by torches and barking hounds. The pyramid was smaller as you barely saw the lights of the town.

Somehow, you didn’t feel a sense of emptiness. Freedom. You faced forward, with a big grin on your face. You’re never looking back. “Faster Soleil! Get us out of here.”

He flapped harder than before and you arched forward holding on tight.

You traveled for hours, sticking alongside the shore as you had no idea where you were heading. You had only known of Gorosh your whole life, all other cities mentioned were just that. Mentions. You didn’t stop for hours in fear of being found. When you felt you were far enough, and Soleil slowed down significantly, you spotted a small lagoon separated from the Summer sea and decided to stop there.

Slowly you slid yourself off his back, holding onto his spines still for dear life. Tumbling off him Soleil turned around instantly and helped prop you up with his stout. You laughed as you stood, thanking him none the less you had made it to the ground in one piece. You sought out a small dry patch of land and took camp there. Soleil was like a child, he rushed for the lagoon, enjoying the cool water after his body heated up from flying for hours. You had managed to create a small fire, a trick you had learned after working in the kitchen. Soleil hunted for fish in the lake, eating his fill then came out with a few extra he dropped for you. You thanked him, although, they were slightly mutilated from his teeth, giving him a good pet. You ate and enjoyed the warmth of the fire. You leaned up against a tree with a heavy sigh, and like a lap pet Soleil twirled around and found himself a spot next to you. Although he couldn’t fit his head in your lap anymore, he closely leaned up against you.

You breathed a heavy sigh, you stared up at the sky. You couldn’t remember the last time you had seen the stars. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this relaxed. Although, the adrenaline was wearing off and your body was feeling heavy with exhaustion. You ran your hand over his head gently and he lightly purred in content. Your eyes were falling and you let them feeling your body succumb to the exhaustion.

Your body stiffened automatically when the purring turned into a deep growl. It vibrated you awake as he lifted his head facing towards the tree line. You knew beast, creatures and other beings lived in the jungle of Sothoryos. As a child in Gorosh, you were never allowed out in the jungle for that reason.  You didn’t have time to interpret before you heard movement in the foliage and breakage amongst the trees. You attempting to mount Soleil discreetly. You needed to get out of here quick. Arrows sliced through the air, striking the tree you were leaning on. You ducked down avoiding another attempting to hurry and mount. “Soleil, let’s get out of here!” As soon as you had a good grip on his spines you felt him stiffen. An arrow struck Soleil on the leg. The reaction was quick as his eyes rolled and his body fell to the floor in a thud. You rolled away from his with the momentum of being flung. You screamed, “Soleil!”

As you turned around you were surrounded by men with mask covering their face. Blocking out the full moon one raised a bat and swung it a hard striking your head and all went black.

Stirring within, you felt the echoing vibrations of a muffled roar drum through you. It rung and rung through the darkness of your mind until the prickling, cold, unshaven stone digging into your arm brought you to consciousness. Your eyes shot open, ears buzzing, and every inch of your body tingled with a different degree of pain. The sound of chains rattling amplified the sharp pain in your head. You clutched at your temple, bringing both hands up unexpectedly. They were bound by handmade, silver chains. You inspected your hands, unregistering what you saw until your eyes widened once again.

When did this happen? What happened? Where were you?

The familiar sound of growling and screeching rung in your ears. It all came back to you. You weren’t dreaming, that wasn’t a nightmare. You were kidnapped.

You blinked away the dizziness, the sound of Soleil screeching resonated in your ears again. His pain ticked off yours sending a painful burn down your spine. You forced yourself off the wall into a sitting position only to be weighed down by the chains around your wrist. You tried again but felt a tug realizing you weren’t alone in your attachment. Ten other women dressed similarly to you in slave robes were connected to you, all huddled around one another in a cluster. Fear was evident in their eyes as they scurried away from you.

You scanned the room itself, noticing it was a large holding room with a single entrance or exit and no windows. The stone infrastructure was crumbling, and the planked ceiling had a hole in it allowing sunlight to pour in.  This room at some point must’ve been a storage room.

You heard a howling cry from Soleil that sent goosebumps all over you, and like a mother bear driven to protect her child, a fire sparked within you. You were going to escape.

You stood up swaying slight, body still lucid, head throbbing in pain but all those were secondary at the moment. Slowly you dragged your heavy body over to the makeshift door made of rotting planks. Squinting one eye closed you peered through a thick crack. Guards were posted around the door and as soon as they moved slightly you were able to see where you were. Various makeshift buildings were posted like a marketplace. The market seemed to be placed between two mountains. In the distance, you could see fog covered green and slate rocky mountains. Through the scattered palm trees in the plaza, you noticed across the busy plaza was a high, stone stage. It was surrounded by an audience of men, but as you looked closer at everyone you realized they weren’t ordinary men.

They were pirates.

You recognized the black attire of men, their barbaric shouts, and the black flag with a skull. On the stage your black and red dragon was center stage, his mouth muzzled by heavy chains and limbs chained by even thicker chains suppressing any movement.

The image of Soleil coming towards you for the first time, the time he first let you rest on him, flew, and when he lowering his head to you at the beach when you told him to leave crossed your mind. He wasn’t like them. Soleil never gave up on you…and you weren’t about to give up on him. Anger boiled within you, how dare they! How dare they treat him that way. He wasn’t a slave and he will never be!

You gazed around, the women murmuring and gasping as you moved about yanking on the chain occasionally. In your frantic stupor, you stumbled over a rock. You hissed when you hit the ground scrapping your palms and knees on the dry stone. On your knees you shakily wiped your wounded hands on your robe, then it hit you. Stone.

Without hesitation you grabbed the stone, disregarding the pain and blood, and began slamming it on your linkage to the next person. The sound was loud in your ears, but the roaring cheers outside were enough to cover what you were doing. A thick sheen of sweat was building up on your skin as you used all your strength.

You had to break the chain.

The janky metal bent with each strike and eventually it broke into pieces. Although you still had cuffs on, you were no longer bound to the gang. You tipped your head back towards the ceiling heaving as you tried catching your breath. You squinted as the heavy clouds passed and let warm sunlight pour into the room. It felt so nice for a second before the clouds came back. You stared at it, blinking hard before you were moving again.

There was no stopping there, you pushed discarded wooden crates under the hole in the ceiling. You stacked smaller empty ones on top until you were sure you could reach the top. You climbed the crates, thighs protesting as you pushed yourself up, hands burning, but you kept pushing up. You reached the hole in the ceiling and grabbed onto the splintering, water damaged wood ceiling. It cut into your hand as you pulled and yanked and broke it to pieces to create a big enough gap for yourself. You weren’t sure the wood was strong enough to support you, but you had no choice. This was your only way out.

You turned back to the women staring up at you with a harsh whisper, “It’s your choice if you leave or not.”

You gathering all the strength left in your arms and extended your hands as far as the cuffs would allow you. You held on tight as you pulled your body up with a groan. You pushed and pushed until you were sitting on the roof. You blinked against the harsh light but as soon as you looked back to the plaza you saw pirates gather closer around the stage and the crowd cheered. Soleil growled thrashing his head around and that was enough to get you scooching faster but still carefully to the back edge of the building. The alleyway behind was empty and below you was hay in a cart next to more crates. You weren’t sure if it was clean, but it was your best bet. Holding your breath, seeing Soleil behind your closed eyes you let yourself fall over the edge. Your stomach turned but it was over quick as you plopped onto the soft hay. A puff of hay floated about as you stared up at the grey sky. Tickling your peripheral, tattered curtains blew as the breeze picked. You huffed and groaned as you got out of the cart and walked over to it and yanked it from its abandoned home. It was large enough to wrap around you and over your head around you like a cloak. You made sure your face was covered.

Under disguise, your bare feet trod the cobblestone with a false sense of direction. You weaseled through the crumbling white buildings and as you rounded the corner you filtered into the crowd like a beggar.

You heard a loud growl surge from Soleil's through the crowd and pirates jolly hooting in a recall. The sound eventually was drowned out by the loud calls of shop owners with their sales pitch. An announcer on stage spoke over the hooting, “This beast was caught last night, and the first bid is going to be starting at 10,000 Gold.”

The crowd erupted into furry as shouts of different prices rang out. The number disgusted you as it kept increasing and increasing. The auctioneer shouted the numbers he heard them. You moved towards that voice. You groaned as you accidentally bumped into someone hard. You bowed in silent apology not bothering to look up and kept moving towards the stage.

You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t have a plan, but you knew you needed to stop this somehow.

You stopped near the edge of the stage; you were the stillness amongst chaos. You peered up for that somehow…that something. You had gotten this far, but now what?

You looked around you and focused on the arms that clearly hung from the waist of the pirates. Pirates were brutal men; they were men that collected skulls as an offering to their god. They pillaged and raped at will and were more than happy to leave you for dead. Your eyes caught a sharp reflection of light as it nearly prophesied itself. You weren’t sure where this courage kept coming from, but your legs were light and arms heavy. You peered at the blacksmith shop near the stage, an ax was sticking out of a log. You briskly walked over to it and with cuff and dangling chain clinking lightly. You pulled it from the wood with a hint of struggle before you turned around without detection. The ax was heavy in your hands, the wood was unpolished and it bit into your raw hand.

Your throat was dry as you readjusted the weight of the ax in your cuffed hands. You weren't sure with what you were about to do would do anything. You weren't sure you were going to live after. You looked at Soleil, the look in his eyes wasn't the confident one you saw last night. The need to change that is raw. As your hearing dies out and the sound of your panting fills that void you stride forward eyeing the stairs the lead up to the stage. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, you could feel the veins in your neck throbbing. You lunged up the short staircase then broke into a run as your makeshift cloak fluttered off you. You had your eyes set on a chain. You pushed past the auctioneer; his face full of surprise as you pushed him out of the way. You swung the ax around until it was twelve, men rushed onto the stage and went to lunge at you. When the ax was high in the sky you used that same momentum to slam it down with a guttural scream on the chain that was attached to his muzzle.

As soon as the ax slammed down the chain cracked and broke, the long chain attached to the muzzle and the muzzle itself loosened around Soleil and feel in a metallic crash. Soleil acted immediately and roared breaking the chains lingering on his mouth as the links rained down. The man who grabbed you knocked the ax out of your hands as he tackled you to the ground. Seconds later he was pulled off you by Soleil’s jaw and the horrid crunch was heard and rung through the crowd. He jerked his head sending the body sliding at the front of the crowd. The pirates backed away creating a gap from the dead body. Soleil with his chin he tugged you closer to him and under his chest protectively. You clutched onto him whispering his name in relief.

The stunned crowd was paralyzed, even though they were men notoriously perilous. A dragon could bring men to their knees.

A booming voice cut through the silence, “I’ll take the wyvern…and it’s rider.”

The heavy crowd parted down the center, splitting evenly as a man confidently walked towards the stage. He stepped over the body to stand just near the front of the stage. His white blouse was tucked into his black pants, with a black long coat. He was decorated in gold accessories, most notably his golden broach on his breast of a sun.

He stood confidently, unbothered by Soleil, “I’ll give you a few options girl.” His eyes gazed up to Soleil, Soleil arched his neck back further ready to strike.

In a clear voice, he drawled it out simply for you, “Join me, or die.”

The sweet smile he seemed to offered had suddenly translated as cynical. “I take you, girl, and the wyvern with me.”

You felt sick to your stomach. Another person wanting to hold you captive, a pirate at that. However, you were under the chest of a chained beast. You had no other way out, no plans. If you did, Soleil was still chained and you had no weapon, you didn’t even know how to fight. The pirates that seemed to be a part of his crew around him all looked ready to strike.

In a low voice, you gave your condition, “No one will touch my dragon, even you.”

Surprisingly, the man smiled and bowed. The man turned towards the auctioneer, who was shaking in his boots at the edge of the stage. In fact, the population that was once around the stage had disappeared except for the men following the pirate in the center. The man whose smile reminded you of the sun pointed with a single hand, "Release the wyvern.”

With trembling hands, each of the thick chains was undone. You were holding onto Soleil's neck, prepared for the next move of the pirate.

With a gesture of honor, he placed his hand over the sun brooch, “Wyvern rider, welcome aboard my ship.”

You clutched onto the horns of Soleil as he dipped low, soothing him and yourself as you started at the man who smiled so gently, but underneath if you weren't sure to trust it.

The auctioneer still stood near you cautiously watching Soleil for a sudden attack. You asked, “Who is he? The man who just—bought me?”

The man scoffed to keep his ego, yet still cautious. “Ignorant girl, you choose a death worse with that man.”

Your eyes shifted, as you tried to suppress your internal panic. You had grown up in a household of many tragic men and women, guest who’ve done horrible things, and served those who caused horror. You’ve seen a lot, but based on the contortion on this man’s face you had another thing coming. A small huff came from Soleil at the man. Almost to himself, he whispered, “I don’t know why he’s in the Summer’s sea. He never travels west. Something must be wrong.”

The man began retreating and down the stairs. He spoke as he retreated, a sick smile forming on his lips as he laughed through it, “No one knows who he is, or where he’s come from but everyone knows what he’s done. He’s a hope collector, light collector, and life collector. Anyone who was slain by his black sword suddenly became skeletons. The only man who sailed to Leng and survived the Old Ones. Some call him Jay the Sun Chaser, but he’s the Sun King of the Jade Sea.”

You had heard of that name before, amongst the maids and guards before. It was near impossible to be of Sothoryos and not know of the Sun Chaser. But what he’s done, or why he was king was a hushed conversation, never truly knowing who or where he came from.

As he stepped on the ground, “He's killed plenty, girl, and I'm sure you're next. His skull collection on Skull island blocks the Sun, quite fitting for the Sun King don’t you think? You’ll be the next offering along with your dragon too.”

Up until this point, you hadn’t felt fear. You did what you had to do yet, your blood ran cold.

The auctioneer vanished into an alley and you were alone in the center.

Your hands shook as you held onto Soleil. Just what did you do.

You hugged your knees close to your chest preserving any heat possible. The cell was cold as a breeze crept along the floor. Each time the boat rocked the wood protested in a haunting creek. Waves tirelessly hit the side of the boat. The only light was a lantern that hung in the hall outside your cell, but you knew it was out there.

You could hear footsteps from above going back and forth all day long. You were in the bowels of the ship, but you weren’t discarded. In fact, you always had visitors, two specifically. Because of that, you had been told vicariously that Soleil was still following.

The wooden stairs creaked one at a time as a heavy boots stride towards you. He was later than usual. You leaned up and kept your eyes straight on the bars, awaiting your visitor. The steps grew louder before they stopped in front of your cell, blocking the light. Slowly you tipped your head up and met the shadowed eyes of a man as he tilted his head down to look stoically down at you. The man was thin but slightly muscular; his feline-like demeanor and features were always hard to read. He was the one who picked you up from the stage that day. He took hold of your chain and escorted you, uncaring of Soleil. As you were about to board a small rowboat you turned towards Soleil and for the first time spoke up to your escort, "I had a condition. I won't go if he won't follow."

That was the first time you had seen the feline smile, “He will follow. I don’t doubt that.” You were picked up and placed into the smallest rowboat.

You turned around to Soleil, “Stay close. I promise it’s going to be alright.”

The feline man began rowing and you watched Soleil pace the shoreline whining, at that point you had to turn away. You didn’t doubt that man’s words either.

Soon, by slippage, you had found out his name was Yoongi, second hand to the omnipresent figure that ruled this ship. You had yet to see him, the Sun King, only having direct interaction with Yoongi or Taehyung, a mischievous crew member who pulled the short stick in having to take care of you.

Yoongi brought out a ring of keys and unlocked the cell. “He’s requested your audience.”  

You slowly got up, your legs prickling as they’ve gone numb from sitting too long. Your hands were still cuffed, and your wrist was raw and blistering. The moist air didn't make it any better egging on the sweaty friction.

Taehyung came trotting down the stairs in a bit of shambles, “I’m here, I’m here!” You kept a straight face, attempting to conceal a giggle at his clumsy behavior. He was a bit of happiness on this rig. Taehyung was the complete opposite of Yoongi, they always bickered, but you could still tell they were close. He would come down on his downtime and talk to you. It kept you sane. You had expressed to him your fear of his King. Ironically, he laughed, “I can’t confirm or deny what you heard, but just…be prepared. I recommend to just…be yourself when you see him. He doesn’t respond well to pretense.” His words didn’t ease your mind, but you figured if he accepted someone like Taehyung maybe you had a chance.

They escorted you up countless floors. You felt burning eyes on the back of your head, yet you didn’t pay them any mind. You already knew their eyes were staring at you intently and judgingly. In passing you heard them whisper, “A woman on board is going to get us all killed.” You chuckled a bit, finding them fearful of your gender but not your dragon. Then the laughter died down in your throat…they weren’t fearful of a dragon. They all looked clean kept, except the look in their eye was dirty, tainted and toughened up. You swallowed the thick saliva in your mouth and averted your eyes. Taehyung leaned in close to you, “Miss, don’t mind them. They’re not going to harm you. Especially not with me around.” You looked over your shoulder with a raised brow, his statements were questionable. You didn’t let Taehyung see you chuckle, but you were sure he knew.

You reached the top staircase ascending to the deck. The night sky was completely dark as you looked up. You stepped up to the deck and on first instinct, you took a breath of fresh air. The air was cold your dress that was paper thin, ripped in different places couldn’t protect you from the cold. The wind whipped your hair around, but it was refreshing.

You kept your eye to the sky, eyes focused on the big, billowing mast. You caught a glimpse of Soleil soaring instantly putting a smile on your face. He was fine. He followed you.

Yoongi pushed at your back slightly, “Keep going.” You had forgotten how large the ship you were on as the edge of the boat seemed far. Taehyung leads the way as you followed with Yoongi at your back. Surprisingly the deck was full of people working and doing things despite lanterns being the only thing lighting up the ship. The ship was made of light brown wood that was still bright even in the night; the mast were giant white sheets. When the wind slowed down enough you were able to pick up the big sun on the main mast. In all honesty, you didn’t want to meet the Sun Chaser. The auctioneer’s words still rung in your mind. Did he really want you dead? Were you just another offering to their God?

You were shoved from behind when you were gazing too long.

It took a while before you reached the back of the ship to the captain’s quarters. Yoongi approached double doors and knocked before stepping back. He must’ve received a response you couldn’t hear as he pushed open the door and allowed you in. Yoongi held a hand over his chest, a similar gesture you had seen their King do, as he held the door open. Your heart was in your throat, feet stiff and frozen, but you had no choice. You took a step forward then another into the lion’s den.

The feeling in the air changed as you walked in, a burst of hot air overcame you like a blanket. The wooden room had a golden glow about lighting up the bookcase and furniture around. Every instinct was on high alert and was warning you against settling into it. You jumped when the heavy door clicked behind you as you turned watching your only exit close.

“Spoked wyvern rider?” A gruff voice awakened your senses.

You whipped around finding him sitting behind his wide desk, feet crossed resting a top as he leaned back in his black stone throne. Across the back of the chair over his head, the rising sun in different stages was depicted in gold. He loosely twirled his sun brooch between his fingers as he observed you with a bored expression. The various stages of burnt candles that must’ve been on its mantle for ages at the edge of his desk flickered. The shadowing light lit up one half of his face. His strong features, sharp jaw naturally jutted in icy confidence. His hair was slicked back. It was darker than the light blonde you had seen him with a week prior.

He silently stood up rounding his desk like a predator holding the sun between his fingers. You noticed he was wearing intricate armory; it was unlike the casual wear you had seen him initially in. The deep emerald textile was underneath a thick metal armor. Plated mail graduated large to small plates from his shoulders down to his breast. Gold fabric cinched his small waist addressing below his tight black pants that were tucked into brown leather boots.

You cleared your throat to catch yourself from staring longer than necessary. He was gorgeous, that was something you’d admit. But that still didn’t change the fact that you still feared him. He must’ve caught you on though as he chuckled and stood tall before you. You caught a whiff of his rich citrus scent as he towered over you. His dangling long, golden earing caught your eye dragging your attention away from his intense stare.

He creased his eyes in a challenging taunt, “Must be difficult not riding your wyvern.”

You squinted, creasing your brows dragging your eyes back to his cheeky expression. You asked honestly, “Why do you call Soleil that? He’s a dragon not a…?”

You could see the a-ha moment cross his eyes as he repeated the name on his tongue. “Wyvern. Your wyvern, Soleil, isn’t a dragon. I would know, I’ve seen many in my days venturing near Valyria. I’ve seen Basilisk, but your beast is defiantly different. Wyvern different.”

You squinted still a bit confused, “Your beast’s wings are attached to his arms,“ he looked over you quizzically, “…and he doesn’t breathe fire.”

It hadn’t dawned on you. Yes, Soleil didn’t, or hadn’t ever, breathed fire.

He pulled out your hands taking in the cuffs on your hands. He tsked then pulled out his sword from its sheath. His eyes narrowed as he eyed the cuffs. You pulled your hands back to your chest backing up and bumping into a cabinet. You heard of that sword, the black stone sword that turned people into skeletons. In a moment the trust you had slightly built up was torn away. "Please, please don't kill me." Your heart was beating erratically out of your chest.  

“What?” His eyes widened taken back your sudden jump. He attempted to center you but you just thumped against the cabinet again.

“Please, please don’t turn me into a skeleton.” The chains rattled loudly as you trembled.

He stared at you for a moment in complete disbelief. His domineering aura died down as his eyes softened as a subtle laugh started before it turned into a roar as he hunched over laughing.

You stood there gazing at him awkwardly holding your hands to your chest, “You’re…you’re not going to turn me into a skeleton?”

He spoke through a laugh, “No, where did you hear that from?”

You looked away, a hot embarrassed flush filling you. You whispered, “At Barter Beach.”

“Their mouth’s run dry if it's not full of lies.” He gently took your hands back in his, eyeing you cautiously, asking you to trust him for a moment. You held your cuffed hands out, all-be-it shaking. He lifted his sword and easily cut through the cuffs like butter. They fell to the floor pilling at your feet.  

You thanked him lightly as he sheathed his sword back again. He eyed your blistering wrist, “Don’t thank me.”

He watched your mind work a million miles per hour. He brought a hand over his chest placing his brooch back in place, “Excuse me wyvern rider, I hope you know I have no intentions to hurt you. I apologize for keeping you in the cell, but you must understand my crew’s safety comes first. I merely did such to protect you and myself.”

You scoffed, “Protect me?”

A large shadow passed engulfing you both in darkness as Soleil covering the moonlighting pouring in from the wall to wall window. When the bright light returned you were both boldly staring at one another.

Instantly and evenly he responded, “I don’t believe in harming women…especially women with children, wyvern rider.”

“Y/n.” He paused for a moment taking in what you said. You don’t know why you gave him that. You’ve never given your name to anyone. You wanted him to know though, for some reason, you felt he would keep it.

“Y/n.” He sighed, “You are not my prisoner, but I will hold you on my ship until we are in safe waters. It isn’t safe here right now, so think of me as your escort.”

You raised a brow. It isn’t safe? And he’s going to be your…escort? You didn’t suppress the laugh this time, everything up until now felt so ridiculous. “Jay the Sun Chaser, the pirate king with the highest skull collection, my escort?”

He smirked, correcting you, “Please, call me Hoseok. You are not a pirate, nor crew, call me by my name.”

Rubbing your sore wrist, you started again, “Hoseok, I’m aware of the Pirate code. No debt or act goes unpaid, what do you want from me?”

He hummed twirling the sun brooch again as he stepped towards the window to observe Soleil. You cautiously approached the window to stand next to him.

“Nothing.”

You quirked a brow, “Nothing sounds like a heavy debt.”

Genuine laughter escaped his lungs, you even joined it a bit. He turned to you, “So it is.”

Copyright 2019 © by magicalsalamander. All rights reserved.

[whisker-biscuit]

Silent as the Grave: Chapter 1

Fandom: Sly Cooper

Summary: When Connor Cooper and his wife are found dead in their home, the result of a forced break-in and assault, Interpol is called in to find out who did it. The only witness is Cooper’s eight-year-old son, found in a closet with a full view of everything. Nobody is really sure what to do with the kid, but that’s just fine.Because young Sly Cooper doesn’t know what to do with himself either.

The first real thieving lesson Sly’s father ever taught him, when he was three years old, was how to be quiet. He’d thought this was dumb and not nearly as fun as robbing a bank, so he’d told his father exactly that. But instead of reprimanding his son, the elder Cooper only chuckled and sat him on his knee with the patience of a master parent.

“Silence is the language of thieves, kiddo,” he told him gently. “How can you rob a bank if everyone knows you’re coming? How can you steal someone’s wallet if he can hear you behind him? What do you do if he turns around?”

“Hit him,” Sly announced, chin held defiantly high. “Hit him and take it.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with McSweeney.”

“Nu-uh!”

Connor smiled at that. “Well, I suppose not. But if you were quiet, then he wouldn’t turn around at all, and then you wouldn’t have to hit him. Do you understand?”

Sly considered this point with solemnity only a toddler could manage. Then he blinked up at his father and nodded, mouth closed firmly.

“Good. Now it’s time for you to learn how to never make noise. Starting…NOW!”

Connor had taken this moment to grasp his son around the waist and suddenly lifted him high in the air above his head. Sly shrieked in delight and wriggled with his arms and legs. His tail flickered every which way as he collapsed into giggles.

“Come on kiddo, I thought you were going to be quiet!” His father was grinning up at him, hands steady as rocks.

“No fair, no fair,” Sly laughed, “Not ready!”

“Master thieves have to be ready for anything. If you get surprised or scared, and you make a lot of noise, then you get caught. I surprised you, but if you want to learn to be a master thief, you have to know when it’s okay to laugh and scream like that, alright?”

“Okay Daddy!”

“Good,” Connor brought his son down to his knee again. He grinned with all his teeth, and Sly mirrored the look with his own baby canines.

“Here we go.”

Five years later, Sly doesn’t remember much about that conversation except its most basic part; he has to be completely silent, right now, no matter what. Because that’s what master thieves do when they’re surprised, or scared, or hurting. That’s how they survive.

That’s how he will survive, in this little closet, as he watches his father get pinned down on their bloody living room carpet. As his mother’s horrible screaming from the dining room stops with three muffled bangs and a wet choke. As something bigger than anyone he’s ever seen taps iron claws against Connor’s back and flips him over.

Sly doesn’t make a sound as someone else breaks open the family safe and pulls out the Cooper family’s heritage, the Thievius Raccoonus. He doesn’t cry as the book is torn apart by five different sets of hands over his father’s struggling body.

Doesn’t scream when those talons decide his father shouldn’t struggle anymore.

All he does is stay still as a statue – don’t move kiddo, movement makes noise and we don’t want to be caught – as the five murderers leave just as swiftly as they came. He stays in that closet after that, not because he thinks they will come back, but because he knows now what death looks like, and if he steps out of his hiding place, he will have to acknowledge the reality of what has happened.

He’s not enough like his father to do that.

When the local police office gets the call about a night disturbance in a nearby suburban area, they’re mildly surprised. It’s always been a quiet neighborhood on the edge of town, and the most recent call from out there had been for an ailing older rabbit who needed a quick pick-up to the hospital. They’re even more surprised at the call’s contents.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I heard screaming next door!” The voice is almost hysterical. “And there was a big car in the street I’ve never seen before, and I saw, I saw something huge fly into the sky – it blocked out the moon!”

The operator gets their address and name immediately, and promptly sends two officers to go out while promising the distraught caller that everything will be fine and to expect someone to arrive to ask them a few questions in person.

“What do you think it is?” Fangmeyer asks as he opens the driver’s door, settling in behind the wheel.

“Dunno,” McHorn shrugs, squeezing into the passenger seat. They pull out of the station. “Might be a domestic disturbance, with the screaming. Someone probably had someone else come pick them up, if there was a strange car.”

“Yeah, sure, but what about the big flying thing? I’ve never heard of anything like that.” The tiger keeps his eyes on the road, on the lookout for street signs.

“Who knows. The caller probably psyched themselves out, you know how people get.” They both go silent for a moment and watch rows of houses pass by. “Don’t forget, it’s a blue house with gold trimmings. You got better night vision than me.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

They find the address of the caller with little trouble, then the house next door where the screaming supposedly took place. It’s a modest little home on the end of the street corner with a plastic swing set in the yard, colored just as McHorn described. Light spills through the front entrance, and the rhino cop assumes it must be one of those full-glass doors.

He starts to get out of the car but is stopped by a fuzzy paw on his shoulder. He turns to his partner, who is staring at the house with sudden intensity.

“McHorn, call in for backup.”

“What? Why?”

“The front door’s been ripped from its hinges.”

They call the station, backup is promised within five minutes, and the two officers step up to the doorway cautiously, on high alert. The door is lying on the floor just inside, and there’s immediate wreckage throughout the hallway. Hanging portraits have been smashed to the ground, littering broken glass everywhere. A coatrack is on its side with garments strewn about. A low bookcase along the wall has been overturned, its books scattered and torn.

The first room to the left seems to still have the lights on, so the two pull guns out of their holsters and sidle quietly over that way, peering in carefully. It’s the dining room.

There’s a raccoon, a woman, slumped on the ground against a chair leg with three bullet holes through her body. McHorn goes as rigid as a bowstring. Fangmeyer holds his paw to his mouth as bile threatens to come up his throat. They both rush up to her and the tiger checks her pulse. Nothing. One of them brings the radio up and manages to call in a 10-79 with a trembling voice.

This is when they see the next doorway leading to the living room.

And it’s here that they learn exactly whose house this belongs to, because the world-famous thief Connor Cooper is splayed out on the floor with his chest ripped open.

Fangmeyer can’t hold himself together any longer; he staggers to the farthest side of the room and retches, leaning against the doorframe of a coat closet. McHorn is about to call this in as well, to report that they’ve found the corpse of one of Interpol’s most wanted criminals, when he sees the tiger suddenly collapse to his knees.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“Fangmeyer, what is it? Did you find another body?”

His partner doesn’t respond except to shake his head without turning around. Instead he pulls open the closet door all the way, and the rhino forgets to breathe.

A child stares back at them with tear-stained fur and shell-shocked eyes.

After that, things move very quickly.

Backup arrives just in time to find two haunted officers coming out of the house. The tiger is green through his fur and staggers to the nearest cruiser to ask for water and a forensics team. The rhino behind him walks solemnly through the yard, carrying a raccoon kit who clutches a very recognizable cane to his chest and won’t look at anyone.

Within two minutes, the Police Chief orders the house to be sectioned off completely while they sort things out. Twenty minutes after that, he orders an evacuation of the whole street because curious neighbors and nosy townsfolk are drawing a crowd to gawk at this unusual occurrence. When a local news station pulls up just outside the evacuation zone, the chief calls for all present officers to declare an oath of silence until everything has been investigated thoroughly. Then the Force contacts Interpol.

Known only to the first few responders – and to the international detective they’re informing over the phone – is the presence of Cooper’s only child, who has been whisked to the nearest hospital in secret. He’s miraculously unharmed, but they keep him there, in a private room with an officer guard, for fear that whoever had it in for the Master Thief might come back to finish the job.

They don’t know his name or his age, but those are things easily found in records and birth certificates. What they’re really wondering is how he survived this horrific encounter, how he managed to sit in a little coat closet and not give himself away.

They won’t get this answer from him directly, but they’re getting an inkling of how it was possible anyway. Because Cooper’s son hasn’t said a word to anyone since he was found.

He hasn’t made any noise at all.

A/N: I'm very sorry. I'm not sorry. I don't know.

 This is probably going to be the worst chapter as far as violence goes, but I'm not making any promises. But here we are, the real kick-off of Sly's story. I'm super excited to get to Bentley and Murray, but there are a few other things that have to happen first. Interpol has yet to actually arrive, after all.

Thanks for reading!

[tomionekinkmeme]

Samhain 2k18 - my heart lingers in your hands - Smut and Violence

my heart lingers in your hands

by: ladynightangel18

tomione

[fae-witch au]

(hi, sorry, it’s long *blushes*)

(just a side note: the way hermione refers to tom is very important. you get to see how his mood changes from her pov.)

::

Not all nightmares go away over time. Sometimes they grow as we do and one day we look back and see that they have transcended all the limits we tried our best to put on them to keep them contained – restrained away from us.

And perhaps it’s better to have this constant throbbing fear to keep us going rather than biding our time and living fearfully, jumping at every shadow and waiting, with dread that cripples the lungs and atrophies the limps, for another nightmare to take the place of the one we’d just escaped.

Sometimes, there’s comfort in familiarity, no matter how dark and dangerous.

 ::

A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.

—Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects

 ::

The creature had horns when it came to her window.

She saw it first as the shadow of a tree, then she looked closer and it was a crouching figure.

Its face was bathed in darkness, only its outline was clear as it dug taloned feet into the frame of her window and peered into her room.

It did not enter and she soothed herself with the thought that it would not until she gave it permission, like one of those fae things Nana used to tell her about.

That thought led to a spiral of anger and grief and numbness that briefly made her forget about the creature hovering at her window. (She wanted very much to call out to Nana, but the woman would not respond – not to anyone other than a medium, that is.)

Hermione looked back at the creature and watched with wide eyes as its horns grew from a fist size to that of a forearm’s.

“Brat,” it said in a raspy, low voice. A voice that Hermione found both frightening and morbidly fascinating. (A voice that was so different from the one the creature had spoken in before.)

She couldn’t think; her breathing froze. Like the child she was, she ducked her head under the covers and willed the evil to go away. The creature growled menacingly, causing her to press her body deeper into the mattress, as if the stuffing and cloth might somehow absorb her into its fold and protect her.

The creature shrieked, and it was a blood-curdling sound that chilled her to her bones.

Where are her parents, she wondered desperately, surely they had heard that awful sound?

She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, repeating one word over and over again.

God, god, god, god.

It had grown silent. Feeling braver than the situation called for, she peeked one eye over the covers, not sure what to expect and not daring to hope.

The creature was gone.

She was still wide-eyed and trembling when the clock struck midnight and she turned nine – eight hours after the burial of her Nana.

 ::

There was a witch inside of her, and it wanted to come out.

 ::

Hermione had always known about her heritage and imminent power. She’d always known her Nana was the longest living witch in her family in the last three centuries. She’d always known that Nana’s death would transfer all the older woman’s powers onto her – the heir to the dwindling Northern Witch Coven – and make her near invincible (because Nana’s wasn’t the only ancient power she would he hosting then).

She knew all this, and she dreaded it.

Dreaded it because she also knew that Nana had made a pact with the fae prince when Hermione was seven and on her way to Death’s doorstep.

(Dreaded it because her protectors had denied her answers and not knowing the darkness she was to step into was worse than her darkest nightmares.)

It happened like this:

Since before she could form all the shapes of the words she was learning, Hermione had an innate curiosity and disregard for limitations that was not encouraged in witches, and she questioned everything.

Her little family of Mama, Papa, and Mione often visited her Nana at her large house by the woods. There, she and Nana went into the shed in the backyard that stretched on for ages and they practiced magic!

Mione learned how to float her favourite books and light candles and finally, finally, she fluttered her fledgling magic in the air between solids and rang the old bell that made an awful clanking sound. Nana was so proud of her, called her the Brightest Witch of Her Age. Mione beamed in pride.

“That’s a very clever thing you did, my sweet,” Nana said to Hermione, patting the young witch on her busy head. “What would you like for your reward?”

Hermione scrunched her eyebrows together in thought. She looked about the rusty shed for something of note. Her brown eyes landed on a shelf of dusty books that she wasn’t allowed to read (not yet, Nana said).

She thought about trying her luck and was about to open her mouth to ask when a flash of something impossibly pale and iridescent caught her eye.

“What’s that, Nana?” Hermione’s little pointer finger was trained on a shelf of objects opposite the door, specifically, on a long stick the colour of bone that was placed in a glass case and wedged between a cauldron and a gas lamp.

Nana grew quite as the proud smile on her face slid off. Her eyes were glazed as she walked to the shelf and removed the stick from its dusty case.

She held it reverently between her frail hands. “This is a very special wand,” she said quietly.

Hermione perked up in interest. “A wand? Like in the old stories? But I thought witches didn’t use wands anymore. Is it yours? Will I have it? Can I—”

“Slow down, my sweet,” Nana said with a laugh, expression lightened in the face of her granddaughter’s rapid-fire curiosity. 

Hermione stared up at the older woman expectantly.

With a shake of her head and a chuckle, she sat down and patted the seat next to her. Hermione scrambled into the chair, having to get on it on her knees before she straightened herself and sat properly.

“I’m going to tell you a very old story, darling, about our history. Would you like to hear it?”

Brown curls bounced and tangled as Hermione nodded her head fervently.

“First, you must promise not to tell your parents.”

Hermione made to nod her head but paused. Not tell Mama and Papa? But they said never to tell lies. She pursed her lips. It wouldn’t be lying, she thought, she’d only not be telling them something. There was a difference!

Smiling at her clever reasoning, she nodded her assent without hesitation.

Nana smiled fondly and began her tale.

“Once long ago, in a land not so far away, fae and witches lived alongside each other, separated only by a long line of ash trees and their own prejudice. They both had magic, same yet also different. The fae were wild creatures and their magic matched their essence. They were prone to magical outbursts spurred by strong emotions, and these outbursts sometimes breached the line of trees and impacted the lives of witches. The witches were still discovering all the possibilities of their magic and so could not protect themselves as well as we can now. Their numbers suffered greatly in those early days and they grew fearful of the careless fae. The Great Houses convened and decided they needed to strike against the fae, for the survival of the four Witch Covens.

“But the witches did not know their enemy, and so they devised a plan to send a brave, clever witch into the faelands to find their enemy’s weakness. They chose a young man of House Dumbledore, named Albus Percival Wulfric Brian. Albus was the most talented youth and eager to prove his worth to his Coven, therefore he was the perfect choice. The witches put their wands together and cast a glamour over Albus to make him appear fae, they then shrouded him in protective wards and sent him into the ash woods. Not much is said about his time with the fae, only that Albus did succeed – but not in the mission he was given.

“You see, my sweet, Albus was very clever. He saw and learned the ways of the fae, he drank their wine and ate their food and he befriended them till they loved him better than their own. He befriended the king, too. Gellert had been ruling for a century and he was wise, yes, but he was also rash and powerful and those two never went well together when it came to the fae. Gellert alone caused half of the outbursts. Albus performed many rituals to help keep his friend’s magic contained but nothing worked. One day, as Albus was cleaning his hut, he came across his wand, which had been hidden away for safekeeping. His quick mind realised that what the fae king needed was not a containment on his magic, but an anchor, something to channel his erratic magic through to make it easier to control.

“Albus traveled back to the witchlands and sought out Garrick Ollivander, the great wandmaker. With the knowledge Albus provided about the intended, the old maker created a unique and powerful wand – he named it the Elder Wand. Albus presented the wand to Gellert and at first Gellert felt betrayed that his closest friend would dare to present him with something clearly of a witch’s making, but because of the love he had for Albus, Gellert conceded and one swish of his new wand was all it took to convince him that this was what the fae had needed all along. King Gellert ordered Albus to have wands made for all the fae and Albus was overjoyed to have found a way to bring the magical groups together.

“Years passed, and the fae and witches grew less hostile. They were free to roam the lands of the other, so long as they did not harm anyone or enter with destructive intent. While the majority were happy, there were a group of fae who were not pleased by any of this – they called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis. Fae are wicked and spiteful by nature and these Knights were more so. They abducted Albus’s sister, Ariana, and cursed her into madness. Albus was devastated when he discovered this nefarious deed and, in his rage, he waged a great duel against Gellert. Gellert tried to reason with his closest friend but Albus was unreachable in his grief and anger. Albus struck down the fae king, took the Elder Wand for himself and fled to the witchlands.

“The fae were enraged beyond comprehension at the death of their king, many snapped their wands and let their magic run wild in hopes of harming the witches. Albus had arrived in time to warn the witches of what he’d done, so they had enough time to put up protective wards that barred the fae from breaching the ash trees. The fae grew angrier and more restless, but they could not directly retaliate against the witches because of the wards. The Knights of Walpurgis came up with a wicked plan and spread news of the existence of witches in every mortal village in the land and they used their magic to spur the hate of mortals. Thus, the despicable Witch Trials began.

“Witches had lived amongst mortals for ages in peace and autonomy; they’d never before been hunted so relentlessly. Wands were immediate identifiers and so they were discarded. The witches’ magic became erratic with no wands to channel them through, we lost many elders and our connection to the land grew weaker. It was the darkest years in our history.

“A decade after the hunts began, after we had lost nearly half of the With Covens, Albus took charge and led us into victory. He confronted and defeated the leader of the Knights of Walpurgis, Salazar Slytherin. Albus, as the winner of the duel, had a right to Slytherin’s wand and made to seize his battle spoil, but was intercepted by Slytherin’s grandson, Marvolo. Young Marvolo accepted the defeat on behalf of the fae and bargained the keep of Slytherin’s wand, Basilisk, for a promise that the Witch Trials would end. Albus accepted with the condition of an Unbreakable Vow and within a fortnight, the hunts ceased completely, and the mortals were eradiated of their unnatural hate for witches.

“Although the witches were no longer being hunted, the horrors they’d lived through haunted them for the rest of their days. Being away from their magic for so long had left severe consequences. They tried to bond with new wands to restore their magic to its former glory, but it would not take. The witches grew so desperate that they resorted to performing dark rituals – still nothing worked. Some kept trying but many had given up and moved on; magic would never again return to what it had once been.

“A year after the Defeat of Slytherin, a young woman of House Bones, Amelia, had given birth to a boy. He was sickly and the healers could do nothing more to save him; their potions were not strong enough to combat whatever ailed him, he was to die within a week. Amelia, in her desperation, trekked to the highest hill in the witchlands on the night of the next full moon. There she beseeched the old gods to help her son and offered her life blood in exchange for his health.

“There was a shift in the air as her rich, red blood touched the grass and stained it crimson. The moon rays shining down on that hill shone brighter than the sun for a moment, so bright it was seen for miles in every direction. Amelia believed the light was a sign from the gods and her spirits were lifted. She rushed back home to her son but when she got there, she was devastated to find that his condition had not changed. She cursed the old gods and cried and screamed herself hoarse. Finally, her fatigue caught up to her and she succumbed to the dark with her boy clutched to her bosom.

“The next morning, Amelia was woken by the loud cries of her son. This was a miracle, for the boy had been too weak to utter a sound since his birth. The healers were called at once and they declared him a perfectly healthy baby. The witches were amazed, but Amelia…she was just grateful. There was a lightness to her that hadn’t been seen in a witch since before the Trials began.

“Another young mother, this one called Agatha, of House Longbottom nee Prewett, was plagued by sleepless nights due to her ill daughter. Once again, the healers could do nothing for the child. Amelia took Agatha to the hill and instructed her to do what she had done a few moons ago. The two mothers waited anxiously for the girl to get better and, once again, she did. Soon after, every mother – and sometimes father – of a newborn child made the trip to the hilltop to offer their blood in exchange for the health of their babes.

“As the months went by, the witches found that the families who had performed the ritual were much more in tune with their magic, like in the days Before. And that is how the Ritual of Renewal was created. On the birth day of a witch family’s heir, the family’s paterfamilias or materfamilias offers a blood sacrifice and binds their magic to the heir’s core, so that when the head passes, the magic may be transferred to the heir and make them stronger. If the heir dies before the head, the next child becomes heir.

“But as the magic of the witches became more stable and powerful, Prince Marvolo of the fae could not contain the remaining knights of Walpurgis for long. The wards held them off, but consistent attacks made certain parts weaker. Centuries passed, the witches established great cities for witches and made advancements in the mortal world for the betterment of humankind. The fae grew stronger, too. The few that had kept their wands passed it onto their heir, similar to the Ritual of Renewal.

“One day, years and years later, when the words Witch Trials no longer caused a panic, an incredibly powerful fae slipped through a crack in the wards, on All Hallows’ Eve, when the veils are at their thinnest. Near the ash trees, two Ritual of Renewals were taking place. The witches were left vulnerable as they were too immersed in the ritual and had not cast protective wards around the spell circle, deeming it unnecessary since the trees were already warded. Three witches were lost that night. A young couple – whose son was one of the babes being blessed – and your grandfather.”

Hermione gasped, the first sound she’d made since Nana began the tale.

“He fought off the fae and managed to take his wand, expel the creature back to the faelands, and close the breach in the wards. Sadly, this great expenditure of magic was too much for him, and he died soon after. His magic passed to his heir, who was not yet one year old, immediately after his death. That had never before happened, and your parents and I were greatly concerned about what that amount of matured power would do to your developing core. Thankfully, as the years went by and you grew, no consequences presented themselves. We hope this continues until you are of age and have fully matured. This is why you must not tell your parents I told you all this. No doubt your mother will one day tell you a sugar-coated, shorter version of this tale. Not many are even aware that there is more to the history of witches than what Beedle the Bard has written in his nursery book.”

Hermione nodded her head, a frown twisting her lips as she thought how unfair it was that Mama had planned to keep something like this from her. Thank goodness she had Nana!

Her eyes alighted once again on the pale wand, still clutched between her grandmother’s fingers.

“Is that the wand Grandfather won, Nana?”

“Yes, darling. This is the rightful wand of the fae prince – the fae who attacked us. Originally made of yew wood and later infused with bone fragments of his mortal father, dipped in the silver blood of a unicorn and allegedly blessed by a phoenix bird. It used to belong to his ancestor, Salazar Slytherin.”

“The bad Knight?!”

Nana nodded, her lips pinched in displeasure at the very thought.

“What a horrid family they must be. And he’s a prince? Princes are not supposed to attack people, that’s so—so unprincely!” Hermione huffed and crossed her arms in indignation.

Nana chuckled, although it was more humorless than amused. “I quite agree, love.”

Hermione cocked her head in thought. “What about the king? Is he also evil?”

There was a pause before Nana said gently, “The fae prince killed him.” She didn’t want to tell the young witch such horrid things, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie to her granddaughter.

Hermione gasped. “He killed his father?”

Nana shook her head. “His uncle was king because his father was not fae. The fae prince killed King Morfin – son of Marvolo – in order to inherit the throne.”

Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste. “Why couldn’t he just wait? He was a prince, he would have been king soon!” Hermione was desperate for answers – none of this made sense to her. How could someone kill their father – or rather, their uncle!

Nana shook her head again. “Fae live for centuries and Morfin had barely begun his rule. The fae prince grew impatient, because he knew he would have to wait a long time before he became king.”

“Then why is he still just a prince?”

“He is not yet of fae age to be crowned king, but he rules nonetheless, because he is the last of his blood.”

Hermione turned that over in her head. This was a fairy tale story if ever she’d heard one. But it was one of those dark fairytales, with dragons that won and princes that turned out to be bad. However, there was still one tiny piece missing…

“Nana, you’ve told me about Gellert and Salazar and Marvolo and Morfin, but you didn’t say the fae prince’s name – why?”

Nana’s browns eyes, so much like Hermione’s, took on a pained look. “It is forbidden. There is a powerful taboo on it. The fae prince detests his given name because it was the name of his mortal father and the new name he fashioned for himself is dreadful and I refuse to use it,” she sneered with vehemence.

Hermione touched the woman’s arm lightly and looked up at her with wide eyes. “Then what do we call him?”

Nana sighed. “I suppose if you must, you can say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Hermione mouthed the words to herself and giggled. “That’s silly.”

Nana smiled and tapped Hermione’s nose, countenance finally brightening. “I know, my sweet.”

Hermione’s hand drifted down from their place on Nana’s arm until her fingers were just a breath away from touching the wand. There was something about that wand that called to her, like a siren’s song to a lonely sailor.

“Nana,” she began slowly, eyes fixed on the paleness of the wood. “May I touch it?”

Nana was looking down at her with a strange look in her eyes, one Hermione was sure she hadn’t learned the word to identify yet.

The old and young Granger held each other’s eyes for an unidentifiable time, until Nana gave the tiniest nod of her head.

Hermione’s heart leaped as her small fingers closed around the slim piece of wood and held it in front of her face. Something shifted in her. Shifted and slotted itself into its proper place, she could feel it.

This wand – it felt like hers.

(Somewhere, in a land not so far away, separated only by a long line of ash trees and protective wards, a fae prince lifted his raven head and fixed his dark eyes beyond the tree line.

I found you.)

::

Hermione was restless; she couldn’t sleep. It was well past her bedtime and even Mama and Papa were asleep in their bed (she’d checked).

Her eyes kept flitting to the window and the long line of shadows beyond. The ash trees.

Could those be the very same trees in Nana’s story? Could that be where she lost her grandpa, where Harry lost his parents?

Her heart beat erratically in her chest at the thought. She thought about the fae prince’s wand and how it had felt in her hand: right. Her fingers twitched against her lavender (because pink was for little girls and she was big now) sheets. Oh, how she wished to feel it in her hand again, the smooth wood catching on the lines on her palm, the slightly curved handle bumping against her wrist.

Her hands fisted. Hermione knew where the wand was kept, and Nana was sleeping. She could just go down to the shed and feel it for a few minutes, no one would have to know.

Hermione shook her head vehemently. No no, she couldn’t, she wasn’t a bad girl. 

No one would know.

No…

No one—

Hermione swung her legs down. Her feet were moving over her dark brown floors before she’d finished the thought.

Her hand grasped the cool, silver doorknob and stayed still. She shouldn’t do this, she should get back into bed and close her eyes and count sheep and—

She turned her wrist.

 ::

The trek to the shed had been cold. She’d forgotten a jacket so the only thing protecting her from the elements was a thin, cotton sleeping shirt with pandas on it. The imagery fur of the pandas did nothing for the wind making goosebumps appear on her arms.

The shed door was unlocked, like always. The room was dark but for a sliver of moonlight streaming through the only window. It was enough.

Hermione dragged the chair she’d sat on only that afternoon under the shelf opposite the door. She climbed on and stood on her tip toes, hand outstretched and feeling around blindly. There was the cauldron so the case was more to the left, yes – no, that was the gas lamp, okay more to the right and yes, there!

Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she tried to unhook the catch on the glass case. It wasn’t heavy at all, perhaps Nana had put a charm on it.

Thinking about Nana reminded her that she should not be doing this and her cheeks grew warm.

Click!

Too late now.

Hermione set the case down and lifted the wand out with both hands. A rush of something jolted through her from her fingertips to the tips of her toes.

She swished the wand and giggled when it gave off the faintest blue sparks.

She’d ask for the wand for her next birthday. Surely Nana would give it to her. It wasn’t like anyone else was using it. She nodded to herself. Yes, that’s what she’d do, she’d—

Come to me.

Hermione whirled around, eyes frantically searching for whoever had spoken. There was no one there.

“Hello?” her voice was small and wobbly.

Come to me.

“Nana?” Hermione called out, desperate, scared.

Come to me, little Granger.

Hermione’s gasp broke on the beginnings of a sob. She was standing so still she could have been mistaken for a wax sculpture. The wand buzzed in her hand

Now!

Startled and absolutely terrified, Hermione sprang into action. She hurtled through the shed door and made a mad dash for the house, her only thought on getting inside and curling up between her parents and apologizing to Nana and never, ever going to the shed alone.

She was almost to the back door when the voice came again, and it didn’t come alone. A fog descended on her mind. Wrong way, little one. Come to me, to the trees.

Hermione stopped running immediately and turned. The voice was so beautiful, so calming. She should listen. Her feet moved forward and her body followed.

Yes, bring it to me, the beautiful voice lulled. Bring me Basilisk.

Hermione’s brows furrowed. Basilisk?

The wand, brat, the voice snapped, impatient.

The fog lifted slightly. Hermione’s pace stuttered to a stop. What was she doing, why was she following such a rude voice?

Apologies, the voice crooned, I didn’t mean that. Darling child, bring me the wand and you can go back to bed.

Back to bed, yes, she was feeling sleepy. She should listen, then she could go back to bed. Eyes glazed and thoughts complacent, Hermione lifted her feet and started walking again.

The trees were in sight. She was almost there. She could go back to bed, soon. Curl up under her warm covers and sleep.

A voice shouted behind her, or was it the wind?

The voice came again, rushed, Quickly!

She started running, a stone caught under her sole and dug into her feet with every step but she was forced to ignore it. She was so close. Her hair brushed low hanging branches and then – she was in.

The fog lifted immediately and Hermione was left to take in her surroundings, body trembling, heart racing, feet sore.

Her eyes adjusted to the new darkness. It was a clearing, empty and lit sparsely by what little moonlight could get through the tall trees.

Why had she come here?

A shadow stepped away from its place against a tree. As it stepped towards her, its outline became clearer. It was a boy who looked barely older than her. He was beautiful. A head of thick dark hair partially covered two black stubs growing out the top of his forehead and his sharp cheekbones fit his youthful face perfectly.

“Hello, brat,” he greeted.

Hermione stumbled back and landed roughly on the ground. That voice! It was the one that led her here.

Her breaths puffed out in sporadic bursts. Her heart was thumping so loudly she was sure the boy could hear it.

He crouched in front of her, lips curled to the side in a sinister smirk, and held his hand out. “Give it,” he demanded.

Hermione stared at the pale, pale hand in confusion. Give what?

The hand shot forward and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. There was no pain, only a tugging on the fingers that clutched the wand. The wand, she realised.

Hermione look down at her hand, looked down at the pale wand and the pale hand that was trying to pull it away from her.

She panicked. “No!”

The boy stilled, lifted his head. “No?” he echoed incredulously.

Hermione gulped. This was what he wanted? Well, he couldn’t have it. Her grandfather had died for this wand, it was hers.

“No,” she repeated with more resolve, clenching her fingers tighter, pulling herself away from him.

“No?” he growled, dark eyes narrowing into near slits.

 “Y-you can’t have it,” she said, a tremor in her voice.

A sneer made its way onto his beautiful face. “And why not?”

“It’s,” she began, choked back a sob, stopped. “It’s mine.”

His eyes widened and his cheeks tinted a dark, angry red. “I assure you, brat, it most certainly is not,” he snapped at her, teeth clacking together. He made to take it again and her magic responded.

First it swirled inside her, just under her sternum, then it rushed through her like a whirlwind and when it manifested outside of her body, it sent the boy skidding across the dirt and ten feet away from her. 

She stared in shock at the tracks he’d left as he was pushed away by an invisible force.

She’d…she’d never done something like that before. There had been a mean little boy at school who’d grabbed her hair and pulled so hard he yanked some strands out, and her magic had given him a severe stomachache. But this – pushing away a being that was clearly magical so far without touching them and without an incantation – was not something she’d hoped to achieve for many years yet.

The boy got to his feet with a load snarl, beautiful face transformed into that of a creature’s. He bent his legs and Hermione detachedly watched him as he clearly prepared to lunge at her. The fog was back; she felt odd, like there was no need to move away.

The boy leaped, nails extended into deadly talons. The sharp points were a breath away from her throat when a boom rocked through the air and threw him off course. His talons missed her throat, but they slid right through her thin, cotton t-shirt and the vulnerable flesh over her heart.

Hermione screamed.

::

The pain was like nothing she’d experienced before. The broken arm she’d had when she’d jumped off the diving board and hit cement instead of water couldn’t even begin to compare to the way every inch of her cried out in agony.

She tried to bring her arms up to clutch at the pain, but they felt too heavy and would not respond. Tears leaked from her eyes in a constant stream, her nose ran and mingled with the salty downpour and dripped into her mouth and she did not care.

There was movement above her. Blearily, she gazed up at familiar brown eyes.

“Hermione! Oh, my child, my sweet child. It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be fine.”

“Nana,” Hermione tried to croak out, but the word caught in her clogged throat.

“Shh, shh, don’t speak. You’re going to be fine.” Hands fluttered gently over her chest and the pain lessened an inch.

Tears that were not her own dripped onto Hermione’s face. The brown in Nana’s eyes were dulled by the water pooling in them.

Leaves crunched off to the side. Hermione slanted her eyes as much as she could, only to see the boy rise to his feet gracefully and dust his tunic.

He’s hands made their way into pockets and he adopted a casual stance.

“Well, I was aiming for her throat, but I guess now you can say your goodbyes,” he said benevolently.

Nana’s body was draped over Hermione’s in the next second. “You monster!” she shouted, voice full of loathing and anger.

The boy cocked his head. “Come now, crone, you can do better than calling me out on what I am.”

“How?” Nana screamed. How did you find her, went unasked.

Don’t cry, Nana, Hermione wanted to say but her voice wasn’t working and her heart still hurt and oh god was she going to die?

“Blood of my blood,” he sneered. “My wand will forever know the touch of a Granger, thanks to your husband.”

Nana reared back and brought a hand up to her mouth to contain her gasp.

“Ah, I see you’ve figured it out. Your wards might be able to keep my physical body away but I’m much too powerful to be completely hindered. And what a shame your heir hasn’t learned to ward herself against mental attacks yet.”

“Why her? Why not me? I was there that day, too!” Nana cried, clutching one of Hermione’s hands so hard the young witch would have cried out if she hadn’t been too focused on other hurts.

The boy smiled condescendingly. “You might be a Granger, but she is a direct descendent and you know how finicky the duel rules are: to reclaim a wand, defeat the holder or the heir and such.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Nana looked back at Hermione’s ashen face and stroked her cheek with a trembling finger.

“I should have never—this is all my fault…”

“Yes, yes, you should have never brought your precious heir anywhere near Basilisk. Now, hand over my wand and you can be on your way,” he demanded impatiently, taking a step toward them.

Even through all the pain, Hermione heard his words and flexed her hand to check that she still had the wand in her grip. She would have breathed a sigh of relief if her lungs weren’t on fire.

Seeing the protective movement, Nana placed a comforting hand over the one that held Basilisk. “You’ll never have the wand if she dies, Voldemort.”

The boy – Voldemort – flinched as if struck when Nana said his name, but he recovered quickly, face like a storm. “I sincerely doubt that, crone,” he jeered.

“She has bonded with it, I’ve felt it,” Nana informed quietly, pressing a hand lightly over her granddaughter’s chest. Hermione’s wound was bleeding sluggishly, the flow having been slowed by one of Nana’s charms, but that did nothing for the heart wrenching pain she still felt.

Voldemort’s face took on a look of utter disgust. “Of all the witches to…” he trailed off. After a moment’s consideration, Voldemort smoothed his tunic and gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve gone this long without a wand, I’m sure I can manage until the next heir. Besides, her death will be worth it. That’ll be two Grangers now, and both in less than a decade. Happy deaths.”

He made to turn and walk away when Nana called out to him, “Wait!”

He stopped but did not turn.

“This is your doing, you can reverse it.” There was a note of desperation in the woman’s voice.

Voldemort fixed Nana with a smile full of mockery. “Why ever would I do that?”

Nana took a deep breath. “Save her heart—save her heart…and it’s yours.” She sounded so sad. Why? Didn’t she want Hermione to be saved? And her heart, it hurt so much, Hermione would give it away without a second thought if only it would take this horrible feeling with it.

“You would give up your heir so easily? What if I decide I want to kill her, after all?” His brows were drawn together in puzzlement.

“Fae don’t damage their possessions.” Nana cringed as the words left her mouth.

“Oh, but I’m only half fae,” he smiled wide, showing blunt teeth, showing that part of him that was human. “And you would be surprised how much the mortal part of me enjoys destruction.”

“You will honour this. You will save her,” Nana said in the firm voice Hermione recognized as her grandmother voice. 

Voldemort’s nostrils flared. “Will I?” he challenged.

“Or you won’t get Basilisk back. Ever. The wand has bonded with her and it will follow her into death.”

Voldemort loosed a loud snarl that made Hermione’s weakening heart thumb once in fear. He stood stock still as he thought the crone’s words over. He knew she was telling the truth, he’d learned the history of wands from his uncle. He knew, as all fae and witch did, that once a wand bonded with a magical being, it either needed to be claimed by another through a duel, or given willingly, otherwise the wand’s powers would dissipate when its bondmate died.

Voldemort didn’t need the wand, he was the most powerful fae since Gellert himself. But the wand had absorbed magic from a long line of fae and even some witches over the centuries, and he could only imagine how powerful he’d be when he possessed it. He could not let such a powerful and useful artefact be lost just because of a little girl.

He waved his hand and golden light shot forth from his fingers and dissolved into Hermione’s chest. The pain ebbed away instantly. She felt an itch over her heart and her skin began knitting itself back together. Nana sighed in relief and pressed a damp kiss to Hermione’s temple.

Another wave of Voldemort’s hand had Hermione levitating through the air toward him.

“Nana!” Hemione cried out, finally able to use her voice.

“You can’t take her now,” Nana protested, frantic.

Hermione hovered in the air but had stopped moving. “When?”

“When she’s of age.”

“And when is that?” He was growing impatient, both nana and Hermione could hear it in the rising octave of his beautiful voice.

“Ten years.”

“Ten human years,” Voldemort clarified.

Nana nodded her head stiffly, fighting the urge to grab Hermione and make a run for it.

Voldemort considered this before snorting. “A measly about of time. Take her,” he dismissed.

Nana released a stuttering breath. She ran to Hermione, clutched the girl to her chest and started toward the tree line.

Voldemort’s voice stopped her, “She is not to be touched until then.” His voice was firm, his demand unnegotiable. Nana’s shoulder hunched towards her ears as she tensed. She pursed her lips but did not respond.

Just before they broke through the tree line, Voldemort’s parting words were for Hermione’s ears only, “Goodbye, brat. For now.”

::

She’d been playing outside, being sure to never stray more than a few feet away from the house, when she saw him.

“Nana!” Hermione shouted, instantly fearful that he had come to take her away, come to collect the price he’d been promised for saving her heart.

Nana rushed out of the kitchen door, hands caked in flour and greying hair falling out of its bun. When she saw what had frightened her granddaughter so, she pushed the young witch behind her and created a physical barrier between the fae prince and Hermione.

The fae prince calmly weaved through the low hanging branches, surrounded by figures in dark clothing and masks depicting tortured animal faces.

The fae prince stepped forward out of the copse of trees he had claim over, arms laden with jewels and cloths of vibrant colours – colours that matched his robes and the circlet he wore in his raven tresses, a large, glittering emerald positioned between his small black horns.

 “Nana, what is he doing?” Hermione asked fearfully, clutching the skirts of her grandmother’s dress. Hermione’s small fingers twitched with the desire to snatch those jewels away and clutch them to her chest.

(She looked at her hands in horror. What was this feeling? Why was she thinking such thoughts? What was wrong with her?)

“He’s courting you,” Nana said in a strangled voice.

Voldemort laid the treasures where the wards began – where he could not cross – and left without a word. The tall men in horrific masks silently followed after him.

Hermione was forbidden to play outside for the rest of the summer. But the gifts still found their way on her window sill. She never told Nana or her parents or any of her friends about them, scared that the adults would take her things away. Because that’s what they were, hers – and they would remain so.

Hermione knew that these types of thoughts were accompanied by a frisson of that wretched fog, so she hid the treasures under a floorboard and pulled her bright rug over it.

Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she would pass her fingers over the trinkets and wonder how beautiful the faelands must be if they could produce such wondrous treasures.

Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she thought about asking the fae prince to take her there.

 :::

You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.

—Antoine de Saint-Exupery

 ::

Fae are stranger creatures, they latch onto things so quickly.

And no matter how he loathed to be compared to the simple, plebian fae that he ruled over, the fae prince cannot escape what he is: specifically, he cannot escape his fascination with this splendent slip of a girl that literally has a piece of him inside her.

When he saved the young Granger’s heart, he could only reverse the damage his talons had dealt by binding her waning life force to his immortal one. That kind of magic leaves a mark. And for the fae prince, the mark left behind took the form of a soul bond.

He’d captured a centaur afterward, to tell him of his future now that there was this new development. He hadn’t cared for the answer and, in a fit of rage, had severed the insolent centaur’s head from the rest of his body.

Tom did not at all need any type of distraction, not when he’d barely cemented his place as the first ever crown-less ruler of the fae. He did not at all need a soulmate to balance him. He certainly did not at all need to wait ten years – human years it might have been, but it was still more time than he’d ever have liked to wait – to reclaim what was rightfully his.

At first, he started watching the young witch so that he could learn her weaknesses and devise a plan to incapacitate her without killing her for the future.

Then he started leaving her little gifts because there was this very annoying voice in his head that sighed in dejection over the lack of finery his soulmate had. The fae prince could not fathom why the young witch was so content in her life when she had nary a jewel and kept wearing the same clothes every few days. Was she poor, or just tasteless?

But after the crone died, and he was left speechless for hours as the power transfer took place, Tom could not restrain himself from approaching her anymore. The biggest obstacle in his path had just been buried and he soon found that the wards around the ash trees could be overpowered by the new magic he shared with his soulmate.

He’d gone to her window in the form he’d assumed when they’d met in the clearing.

He’d wanted to say more, stay longer, but the little chit had been deathly scared of him, even going so far as to hide under her covers. He’d left with an ache in his chest that had been harder to ignore than he would ever admit.

He realised after that encounter that sometime during his two years of vigil she’d become the singular most important speck of anything in his life.

He had no intention of ever telling her that, though.

 ::

If ignorance is bliss, I must be ecstatic.

 ::

The creature had a red snarl when it came to her door.

(It had been almost six years since she last saw it. The last time being the night of Nana’s burial, when she had turned nine.)

Hermione did not notice the creature at first, too preoccupied with thoughts of the events that led to her current emotional conflict.

(The act was all slips and slides against sweat-slicked skin and heated kisses from the moment the first article of clothing hit the floor. Hermione clutched broad shoulders as an insistent mouth clamped around her nipple and suckled greedily. Her moans were forthcoming with no indication to stop.

His large hands grabbed her legs and split her thighs apart to reveal her center. A finger stroked her, and the male chest above her rumbled in appreciation at her wetness. A second finger joined the first and they both groaned as his digits sank into her most secret of places easily.

“Hermown-ninny,” Viktor growled into her ear. She clamped around his fingers in response.)

She liked Viktor, she truly did. He was kind and clever and broad and handsome and understanding and—

(Viktor collapsed next to her, harsh panting breaths tumbling from his lips.

Hermione lay still. She’d come – she could feel the evidence running down the inside of her thighs, mixed with Viktor’s own release – so why did she still feel so empty and dissatisfied?)

—and totally all wrong.

She paced around her room, hand tugging harshly on a curl as she chewed her lower lip.

“Brat.” The voice came from behind her door. Cold, angry, and inspiring instant dread in the brunette’s heart.

Hermione stopped pacing and stared at the brown piece of wood that was the only thing keeping her safe from whatever was on the other side. (She knew very well what that was, she would never be able to forget his voice, whether it be a beautiful baritone or a gravelly rasp.)

She stumbled back and fell to the floor in her haste to get away from the creature.

“You have defiled yourself,” it snarled. The voice was nearer, as if he were pressed right up against the door as he spoke.

Hermione’s breaths came out in erratic puffs, her heart pounded so hard in her chest she was sure a rib would break before this encounter was over.

There was a shimmering in the air and then the creature was standing in her room, having walked through the door as if it weren’t even there. Her muscles spasmed with the need to get away even as her limps were frozen in place.

“Well, brat, what do you have to say for yourself?” he snapped, baring teeth that had sharpened since the last time she’d seen them.

(He was just as beautiful as she remembered. Older, and perhaps sharper, but still of unearthly beauty.)

He growled as he stepped closer to her fallen figure. He crouched in front of her like that night in the clearing. And Hermione instinctively closed her eyes against the pain she knew was coming next.

Instead, there was a tingle on her face and she cracked one eye open to see that Voldemort had his pale hand resting on her cheek. Almost affectionately. Her stomach churned at the thought.

Adrenalin overcame her frozen limbs, and Hermione thrust a hand out to shove him away from her. Her hand went through him like he was just a hallucination.

“Tsk, tsk, little witch. You should have more faith in your grandfather’s wards. They still retain their pesky purpose of limiting my influence beyond the ash trees.” His mouth moved and words came out, but Hermione could only focus on the phantom hand at her face and the fear in her veins.

“Answer me, brat,” he bit out the word, intending to hurt her, humiliate her. Just as she had done to him. “Who was he?”

She finally found her voice. “W-what?”

“The boy who took you, who you allowed to soil you.” His teeth ground together, creating a grating sound that put her teeth on edge.

Hermione stared. This was why he was here? To gauge the identity of the one who had taken her virginity? Hermione would have laughed if she weren’t terrified of what the creature would do to Viktor if he found out.

“N-no one,” she stuttered out, unconvincingly.

“Really?” he sneered, beautiful face transformed into that of a predator’s.

Suddenly there was anger and it bolstered her confidence. “My body is my own. What I do with it is my business, who I allow to touch me is my business!”

Voldemort’s snarl grew and only then, faces inches apart and breaths ghosting over each other, did Hermione notice the dark, red stain over his mouth.

“What is that?” she asked, eyes wide.

Voldemort startled. “Nothing.” His denial was fast.

“Did you kill someone!” her voice was a shriek. She faintly heard footsteps outside her room but paid them no mind.

His intense gaze softened, and his guarded eyes made him harder to read. “That is none of your concern.”

“None of my concern? You come to my door with blood on you and demand to know who I’d given myself to, and you have the audacity to say that the identity of your victim is none of my concern.” Anger, rage, loathing and hate, that was all Hermione felt as she rose to her feet to tower over the creature.

Her breathing was labored as her mind raced a mile a minute. “Was it my parents?” she asked, fearing the answer.

She was given none.

Sparks flew though her brown mane. “Was it my parents!”

“No.” The reply was soft in the face of her raging storm, but that one syllable gave way to instantaneous relief.

Exhausted, she turned away from him. “Go away,” she mumbled, too drained to raise her voice.

In her peripheral vision she saw him reaching for her and prepared to use the last of her energy to distance herself when a flash of light hit his back.

Hermione and Voldemort simultaneously turned to the source.

Luna stood in the doorway, finger pointed at the creature, eyes hard and mouth a firm line. “Begone,” she intoned. “You are not welcome here, fae prince.”

Voldemort growled and Luna raised her finger higher; a threat, a promise.

With one last look at Hermione, Voldemort disappeared.

She didn’t see him again until years later, but she knew he was always there. And sometimes when she looked behind her, there was a shadow not her own following her footsteps.

::

The first time Hermione met Luna, it didn’t at all go the way she’d expected to meet another witch.

It went like this:

“You’re a witch,” the words were said in a melodic, excited voice.

Hermione tensed immediately but forced herself to relax, knowing that it was improbable that she was the one being addressed. Nonetheless, her curiosity got the better of her and she turned slightly to see the person who’d spoken. A pretty blue-eyed blonde stood directly behind her. She was wearing the most color blinding tie-dyed dress with actual baby turnips sewed onto it.

“Hi, I’m Luna.” The girl stuck out her hand.

Hermione blinked. She took the hand and shook it warily. “Hi.”

“You’re bonded, right? Usually, the bonds aren’t so obvious but yours are like fireworks at night.”

Hermione blinked again. “What.”

“Oh? Did you not know? I thought since you were a witch…” she trailed off and Hermione’s eyes widened in realization that this girl had, in fact, been talking to her.

“Who are you?” Hermione demanded. Her status was not something she’d planned on revealing to anyone. No matter how many centuries passed, it would always be dangerous for a witch to become exposed.

“I’m Luna,” Luna replied simply, looking at Hermione like she’d asked something silly.

Hermione leaned closer and lowered her voice. “How do you know I’m a witch? Did he send you?” she asked urgently.

Luna blinked owlishly. “I’m a Whisperer, we see things not even magical beings can. And the golden aura around you let me know you’re a witch. As for who sent me, well, I guess it was a he but I don’t think my father was who you meant.” Her tone was light and airy as she spoke, as if her words were of no particular consequence.

A Whisperer was a witch with the unique talent of being able to communicate with magical creatures, Nana had told Hermione, they were almost as rare as seers. To actually meet one…

Hermione sighed and ran a hand through her unruly curls. “I apologize for being so rude. I’m just, just, wary, I guess.”

Luna smiled brightly and grasped one of Hermione’s hands. “I understand. I’d be worried too if I was bonded to a fae.”

Hermione reared back, tearing her hand away from Luna’s. Her fingers splayed protectively over her hip where she kept Basilisk hidden. “How do you know that?”

Luna cocked her head to the side, blonde hair falling over one shoulder and catching the midday sunlight. “You don’t have any nargles around you and that only happens when nargles are very scared or when there is magic that repels them. You’re not at all a scary witch so it must be the remains of fae magic that once touched you – fae magic doesn’t care very much for nargles, you see.”

The brunette gaped. “You can tell all that just because there aren’t any, uh, nargles around?”

Luna nodded, bright smile in place. “I know a lot of things,” she chimed happily.

Hermione couldn’t control the smile that twitched her lips upward. “I’m sure you do.” This girl was like a ball of sunshine. She seemed odd at first, and perhaps she truly was in comparison to someone as down-to-earth and organized as Hermione, but there was this air around her that made it impossible to find her unappealing. Hermione wondered if it was some kind of magic or just Luna herself.

Unbeknownst to her – but predicted by Luna, if one were to ask the blonde – that was the start of a friendship of a lifetime.

 ::

“He’s been crowned king, you know.”

Hermione looked at Luna with a confused frown. “Who?”

The blonde’s eyes were the clearest she’d ever seen when she said, “Voldemort.”

(I’m coming for you, her dream had said. But perhaps it hadn’t been a dream.)

 ::

You are what I never knew I always wanted.

—Fools Rush In

 ::

The creature had ebony wings when she walked into her room and saw it standing at the foot of her bed.

Its wings were beautiful, all pitch black and downy feathers with sharp points on either end. They were more befitting of an angel than the devil she knew the creature to be.

(Perhaps it was another part of its allure, another part of the elaborate trap that is the creature itself.)

This form of his had to be the most breathtaking she’d seen. As she looked at its otherworldly face, she thought about Lavender. Her promiscuous honey blonde friend would have melted into a puddle at the very sight of those high cheekbones and dark, dark eyes and that mouthwatering lean physique.

“Brat,” he greeted, much warmer than any of the previous times they’d faced each other. (Not like Hermione had cared for those encounters so what did his new-found politeness matter?)

Hermione rolled her eyes and brushed past him to her desk. She’d been expecting a visit soon, but she was peeved to see that he was still every bit as annoying as he had always been. Fae were such stagnant creatures. “It’s ben ten years, I’d think you knew my name by now.” She dropped her bag and picked up her brush to keep her hands busy. She could feel the trembles starting to take hold of her but damn if she was going to cower and hide like the little girl she’d been at nine.

“I have always known your name, I just haven’t seen the need to use it.” (There was that warmth again. Did he have a fever or something? Could fae be affected by mortal sicknesses?)

The brunette rolled her eyes again but didn’t reply. He seemed to be awaiting an answer, but she was content to let the silence ensue.

Finally: “You know why I am here.”

Hermione’s hand stopped mid stroke. She swallowed, inhaled deeply, and continued running the brush through her curls. Stroke. “Uh, yeah,” she said condescendingly. Stroke. “I’ve known since that night in the clearing. Not to mention your grating voice in my dreams didn’t really give me a chance to forget – thanks for those, by the way.” Stroke. Keep calm, you can get through this.

Voldemort loosed a breath that grazed her turned back. Hermione suppressed shivers of an unwanted kind. “Your grandmother made a bargain. I have waited ten years and now I am here to collect.”

Hermione faced him in a flurry of wild hair and ice daggers. “Listen Voldemort,” she began, a hand pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Tom,” he interjected quickly.

The brunette narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“My name, it’s Tom.” His face was carefully blank as he said this.

“Tom,” She said slowly, unaware of the shudder that went through him at the sound of his name on her lips. “Like your mortal father.”

Voldem— Tom scowled. “My father is dead.”

“So it’s okay to claim the name you’ve avoided for years?”

His scowl deepened. “I am Voldemort to my court and enemies. My bride should refer to me more…intimately.”

Nostrils flaring and temper rising, Hermione stalked towards him. “I am no bride of yours,” Hermione seethed, jamming a finger into his chest in the heat of the moment. She gasped when her hand did not immediately pass through him.

“Not yet,” he said with a smirk, showing amusement at the terror that now coursed in her veins, whereas his chest ached that his mere physical presence had caused such a visceral reaction in her.

“You’re corporeal,” she spoke through gasps.

“Yes,” he replied, curt, irked. He needed to curb this irrational fear of him out of her.

“But—the wards, and the barriers and—how?” Hermione’s heart no longer resided in her ribcage, the organ had promptly dropped to the bottom of her stomach and remained there as stomach acids ate away at its outer wall.

“I’m king now, darling,” he responded, taking her trembling hand in his own. His eyes flashed as his grip tightened. “And nothing on this world can keep me from you.”

Crack!

A single feather floated down and rested where their feet had been a second earlier. 

::

She had been in the faelands for weeks, imprisoned in a lavish chamber and denied every time she requested to be let out.

Voldemort – Tom – visited her every day at least once. He’d bring lunch if he imposed on her around midday, or he’d come into her room, without permission, and sit in the highbacked chair and attempt to make conversation with her.

There were only so many excuses Hermione could concoct while stuck between four walls before she ran out of plausible things and resorted to blunt rejections (and he didn’t seem to take that well). 

He also brought bright jewelries set with rare stones. They lay collected on the dressing table, untouched. These were much more extravagant but she’d rather have the treasures that still lay hidden under her floorboard at home.

During the many days she’d been stuck there, her only consolation was the sight of the sprawling gardens under her window. She’d gaze out and focus on all the different exotic flowers when he visited, or sit on the sill as she read.

There was always bustling about, fae running around pruning and collecting and arranging the flowers into elaborate vases.

They were preparing for something, that much she could tell, but she did not yet know what the occasion was.

She’d asked the fae that attended her, but they would not answer. One bold fae with shining purple hair had suggested Hermione ask the fae king.

Hermione stood with her decision to not interact with him for all of one day before she gave in.

::

“Why am I here?” Hermione exploded as soon as the doors had closed behind him.

Tom gazed at her steadily, taking in the long, rose blush dress she wore and smiling slightly at the gardenias Narcissa had weaved into her hair. She was lovely to behold, and she didn’t even know it.

He walked to the small table and poured himself a glass of red wine before taking a seat in his customary chair.

“I assumed you knew why your presence is require in my lands,” he said, raising the glass in her direction.

“Don’t be vague!” Hermione snapped. “All I know is that you are collecting on my grandmother’s bargain. I have no idea what that entails.”

That brought Tom’s dark eyebrows together. “The crone never told you?” he asked, tone incredulous.

Teeth grinding together, the brunette bit out, “Told me what?”

“The bargain, what do you know of it?”

“I know that you saved me, after you shredded my heart, that is, and that my Nana promised you Basilisk.”

Raven tresses brushed his forehead as he shook his head. “No, that’s not it at all. Basilisk was my goal, but the crone promised me something much greater than my wand if I were to save her heir.”

Hermione’s heart thundered. She did not like where this was going. “What?”

Eyes as intense as liquid fire and pointed right at her, “You.” 

The thundering stopped. “Me?”

Tom stood and put his empty glass down. “You were there that night. How can you not remember?” He was no longer looking at her, but his question hit Hermione with the full force of his gaze.

“I was barely lucid and only seven. I had no idea what was going on except that I was in agony and a monster stood no less than five feet away from me!”

“A monster…is that truly what I am to you?”

“You kidnapped me!”

“I took what was rightfully mine!” he shouted, facing her.

Hermione stormed to the dressing table and pulled the top drawer open, rooting around inside until her hand clutched around what she was looking for.

She threw Basilisk at the fae king and he caught it in one hand. “There! I willingly give you back your ancestor’s wand, so mote it be.” A flash of light extended from the wand and latched onto Tom’s right hand, transferring ownership.

“You have what you were after, now let me go.”

Tom stood in silence as he relished in the feel of Basilisk in his hand for the first time since the night of the Ritual of Renewal seventeen years ago.

Hermione watched him close his eyes and soak in the feeling of the wand. How could someone so beautiful be responsible for such horrid things?

“This was unnecessary,” he said softly, eyes still closed. “I had accepted that Basilisk would remain yours.”

“Well know you have it back.” Hermione turned her head away. She’d grown to care for the wand as if it were a sentient being, and at times it seemed like it was. Although she had no need for a wand, Basilisk had been with her for the past ten years and to not have it anymore…

No matter, if relinquishing her claim would earn her freedom, she was glad she had done it.

“Thank you for the wand, but I’m afraid I can’t let you go.”

Hermione’s head whipped back to him. “What?”

“When I took you from your room, I told you, you were to be my bride. That still stands; you are mine.”

 “I DO NOT WANT TO BE YOUR ANYTHING!”

“Your personal feelings play no part in my decision. Like I said: you were promised to me and I am collecting.”

“I will fell you like a tree!” She screamed and her magic reacted, shoving him away.

He slid back a few steps but quickly regained his footing. “I don’t doubt that.”

That only made Hermione push harder. She drew on her grandfather’s and Nana’s magic to aid her own in surpassing the power of the fae king. It was a bad time to not have her trump card.

Hermione’s witchwind opened cuts in his exposed arms and face, still Tom persisted in his attempt to get closer to her.

In the blink of an eye, ropes shot out of Basilisk’s tip and restrained Hermione.

“I will drag you to the alter if I have to. You have no choice. Hermione.”

He slammed the door behind him and the ropes fell away.

Hermione slid to the floor and sobbed into her hands.

::

Tom pressed his back against Hemione’s door. He could hear her cries through the door.

The pain in his heart grew. It had been festering from the moment she’d confronted him and now it was agonizing, robbing him of his breath. He had to get away from here – her.

“My Lord!” Malfoy shouted in alarm as he came upon his king leaning heavily against the witch’s door. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tom snapped, batting away his knight’s hands. “Inform the others, I wed in two days.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to protest, but Tom fixed him with a stern look.

The blonde gulped, “Yes, my Lord, right away.”

Tom watched dispassionately as Malfoy scampered away. He leaned his head back against the door and listened to his heart’s despair be echoed from the woman in the room.

::

Hermione slept through dinner and most of the next morning. Even when she woke she lay despondent in bed and wondered when her life had gone so wrong.

She hadn’t spoken to her parents or friends in three weeks and she had no way of knowing whether they were looking for her. How worried they must be. She hoped Luna had told them where she was, if anyone knew, it would be her Whisperer friend.

Since the day before, the bustling outside her window had increased into a frenzy but she didn’t have the energy to observe the change.  

A striking blonde fae by the name of Narcissa, who had been her main attendant during her stay, tried to cajole her out of bed. It was a futile attempt.

Hermione was one the verge of falling asleep when another fae came in to talk to Narcissa.

“Have you fitted her dress, yet?”

“Not yet, Astoria.”

“We don’t have time, Mother. Draco is running around trying to make sure everything is in order and Lord King is nowhere to be seen. None of the knights can find him.”

“My son and your husband will make sure everything is in place, and Lord King will return at his own time. But I’m afraid my Lady is out of sorts, more so than she has been since her arrival.”

Astoria’s voice grew quieter. “Do you reckon she knows the wedding has been moved up? I hear Lord King had to bring her here by force.”

“Hush, Astoria! Begone with you. Send in Pansy with the Lady’s meal.”

“Yes, Mother.” Astoria curtsied and left.

“What did she mean?” Hermione croaked.

Narcissa startled. “My Lady, you’re awake!” She hurried to Hermione’s side and helped her sit up in bed.

“What did she say, about the wedding?”

Narcissa cast her eyes downward and seemed reluctant to answer.

Hermione grasped the fae’s hands tightly. “Please. I’ve been denied so much, don’t refuse me this as well.”

“Lord King,” Narcissa began but then stopped. She looked to the door nervously.

Hermione waved her hand. The door locked, and was silenced for extra measure. She tuned back to Narcissa expectantly.

“Lord King had planned to wed you a month after your arrival, but—” Narcissa stopped and wrung her hands.

“Go on,” Hermione encouraged although she knew no further news would be good news.

“But he instructed the planning to be hastened; you are to be wed tomorrow.”

Dizziness overcame Hermione and she roughly fell back against the headboard.

“My Lady! Are you alright.” Narcissa’s delicate hands fluttered over the witch.

Hermione settled under the covers gracelessly, more exhausted than she had been when she’d fallen asleep. “I would like to be left alone.”

Narcissa frowned. “My Lady, I do not think that is wise.”

“Please,” Hermione said, the word a plea on her lips.

The blonde’s frown became more pronounced, but she acquiesced. “As you wish.”

She bowed and left the room.

::

Tom returned to his castle in a worse state than he’d left.

His riding clothes were torn, his boots muddy and missing a sole, his skin was as pale as dolomite and his hair stuck up in places, and he stank of a slaughterhouse.

The fae king was a frightful sight for his subjects who knew him to be immaculate and in full control of his inhibitions. Fae are wild creatures by nature, but this king stalking through the halls made maid servants cower against the wall and the males stand protectively in front of their lovers.

No one dared intercept him as he made his way to his study where his knights waited.

He entered with a chilling breeze following on his footsteps. There was a new coldness in his eyes, a cold that did not bode well for any that crossed him. His knights knelt immediately in subservience.

“Avery.”

The knight jumped to his feet, head still bowed. “My Lord.”

“There is a mess in the eastern forest, clean it up.”

If Avery was confused he did not show it. “Yes, my Lord.” He nearly ran out of the room.

“Malfoy.”

The blonde stood and pressed a hand over his heart, head down. “Lord King, I am at your service.”

Tom ignored his arse-kissing. “How is my bride?”

Malfoy’s lips tipped down. “My Lord?”

Tom threw out his hand and Malfoy went flying into a wall. He slid to the floor with a thud.

“How is Hermione?” The fae king hissed.

“I don’t know, my Lord,” the blonde said honestly, trying and failing to sit upright. There was a sharp pain in his side every time he inhaled. “My mother tells me she sleeps most of he day and barely touches her meals. She only gets up to use the lavatory and read one book in the last two days, which I’m lead to believe is uncommon.”

Tom fell into his seat heavily. “Leave us,” he ordered the others. They silently filed out of the room and privacy wards fell into place as soon as the door closed behind them.

Tom waved his hand and Draco’s pain eased. At his king’s nod, he sat on a chair in front of the large desk.

“Apologies, Malfoy,” Tom sighed.

“There is no need,” Draco quickly appeased.

Tom’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Has she truly not eaten?” he asked softly.

Malfoy swallowed. “Not a full meal since you last visited her chamber.”

Not since you made her cry, Tom’s mind whispered.

“Am I doing the right thing?” he wondered out loud.

Draco startled at the sound of his lord’s question. “My Lord?”

“How did you get Astoria to marry you, Draco?”

Draco didn’t know what to focus on first. The fact that his king had just asked him such a personal question or called him by his given name.

“I-I courted her, my Lord,” he said.

“How?”

“Uh, first I sent her gifts to catch her interest and proclaim my intentions.”

“I have done that,” Tom mumbled to himself.

Draco looked at his king but when Tom said nothing, continued, “Then I asked her if she would be partial to my company.”

“Asked?” Tom interrupted.

Draco’s eyes furrowed. “Yes, of course. She is a highborn fae, a lady of repute, I could not just take her like a—oh, oh.” Draco made the connection and would have smiled if his lord’s stare did not slightly terrify him.

“What?”

“My Lord, I… what you are asking me, does it have anything to do with the witch.”

Tom’s jaw clenched, and he grudgingly replied, “Yes.”

Draco stifled a chuckle. “My Lord, witches are not the same as fae, our customs and traditions, they will not be enough to win your lady over.”

“The what do you suggest I do,” Tom snapped.

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know. Have you tried asking her what she wants?”

Tom’s lips jutted out in a pout that he hastily smoothed out. “She…she wants to leave. She wants nothing to do with me.”

“Do you know why?” Draco pressed.

Tom’s fisted is hands. “I will admit, I have not been the best when taking her feelings into consideration,” he relented.

Draco sent a quick prayer to the God of the Wild and pushed, “Why not? You care for her, right?”

“Of course I do!”

Draco pressed his back further into his seat and willed his heart to beat slower. “You know that, my Lord, but is the Lady aware? Have you made you intentions clear, have you made sure she understands how much you lo—uh, feel for her?”

Tom opened his mouth to reply but snapped it shut quickly. their last interaction replayed in his mind for the millionth time since he left her room, but this time he looked at it with new eyes.

“I took what was rightfully mine!”

By Slytherin, he’d spoken of her as if she were an object.

“You have what you were after, now let me go.”

She had been so adamant to leave she’d given him Basilisk. Although Hermione had only had the wand for ten years, that was more of her lifetime spent with it than without, and to just give it away…she must have been extremely desperate.

“I DO NOT WANT TO BE YOUR ANYTHING!”

She’d all but shouted her feelings and yet he still refused to listen.

“Your personal feelings play no part in my decision. Like I said: you were promised to me and I am collecting.”

Had he truly said that? By the Wild, he was tactless. Tom dropped his head in his hands, fingers fisted in his dark tresses. He had to fix this.

“My Lord,” Draco called tentatively.

Tom snapped out of his inner turmoil. “Gratitude, Malfoy. I will…take your advice consideration.”

That was clearly a dismissal. Draco bowed his head and stood. “Of course, my Lord. Anything you need.”

He had his hand on the door handle when Tom spoke, “Actually, Malfoy, would you gather the knights and Hermione and meet me in the great hall.” Though it was phrased as a request it was clearly anything but. 

“Now, my Lord?” Draco questioned, taking in his king’s appearance.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no, but, uh…” he trailed off and looked pointedly at Tom’s bloody tunic.

Tom’s face blanked. “Tonight,” he amended.

“Of course, my Lord.” Draco couldn’t help the small chuckle.

::

Her head was a mess; she couldn’t think.

When had her life gone so wrong?

Hermione laid prone in the large and luxurious bed. Since she’d dismissed Narcissa, the fae had sent in a dark-haired female to try and coax the witch out of her depressed state. She wasn’t successful.

“My Lady,” Narcissa’s sweet voice spoke through the door.

“Come in,” Hermione said, voice a rasp from disuse.

The door opened and Narcissa entered, a lovely figure in a pale lavender dress, and a guilty look.

Hermione’s heart thudded. “What is it?”

“My Lady, it’s the king.” She wouldn’t meet hermione eye’s eyes.

“What about him?” the witch asked breathily.

“He has returned, and he requests your presence. Now.”

Hermione’s head flopped back onto the pillows. “Do you know why?”

“I don’t mean to presume, but it might be to discuss vows.”

“Vows?” Hermione echoed.

“Your wedding vows for tomorrow,” the blonde fae said remorsefully.

Hermione closed her eyes against a torrent of fresh tears.

“Is that all?” she croaked.

Narcissa nodded.

“Okay,” Hermione said, resigned. “Okay.”

She gathered her strength and tossed the covers off her.

“Make me ready, Narcissa.” If she was going down, she was going down with one last fight.

::

She walked into a large hall with Narcissa at her side and two knights at her back.

The hall was sparsely decorated. Darks wall, a few portraits, a large candle chandelier and exactly one chair.

She saw him lounged on the single chair as if it were a throne. His knights were stationed around the room, there were twelve in total.

Narcissa curtsies and gestured a hand at Hermione.

“My Lady Hermione Granger,” she announced.

Hermione stepped forward, gait steady, eyes locked on the fae king.

Tom’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of her. His lips twitched, and he would have smiled if he were a lesser fae.

His joy was such a dichotomy to her infernal unhappiness. She hated it.

Tom stood from his seat and addressed his knights, Narcissa having departed immediately after announcing Hermione, leaving the witch as the sole female in a room of dangerous fae.

“Knights, behold Lady Hermione, my bride.” Modest clapping followed his words.

Hermione pressed her lips together, drew her shoulders back and steeled her nerves. She channeled all her negativity into single-minded determination. She would not lose her focus, she would remain calm, she would get out of here, she chanted to herself.

“I am no bride of yours,” she said clearly.

Tom’s eyes flashed to something darker for a second before they reverted to their charcoal grey.

“Of course, we are not yet married, but that will be amended soon enough.”

Hermione ground her teeth together to keep from retorting immediately. Control, she reminded herself. “I will never be you bride, not tomorrow and not ten years from now.”

Some of the knights placed a hand on their sword, baring teeth at the insolence of the witch.

Tom put up a hand and they eased back.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “We’ve had this conversation before, Tom,” she reminded him.

Tom stepped closer to her, leaning his head. “And I am willing to compromise, take your wishes into consideration, but we will be married.”

He made to walk back to his seat. Hermione darted a hand out to grab ahold of the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled.

He turned to her with wide, shocked eyes. His knights went still.

“There is nothing to consider, I will not marry you. Ever.”

He grasped the hand holding his hair, and forcefully removed it from his person.

“You will be my queen,” he told her, dark eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments.

“I won’t,” she said with a daring flare in her eyes.

His grip on her hand tightened until she felt her wrist bones grind together and had to clench her teeth to suppress a whimper.

“Then you will be my whore,” he hissed, the sounds sibilant and unintelligible to all but her ears.

She leaned closer, encroaching on his space and making his knights draw in a collective, horrified breath.

“No, I won’t,” she said again, the words as sharp as razors. Refusing to yield, to bend.

He snarled at her and pulled her into his body with a harsh tug. She crashed into him and it shouldn’t have made her stomach flutter the way it did, her hands shouldn’t have flattened themselves on his chest as naturally as they did, his eyes shouldn’t have strayed to her lips and stayed fixated as they did.

He dropped his head to the crook of her neck. She tensed, thinking he would rip out her throat like the savage nundus from Luna’s stories.

Yet she only felt the hot whisper of his breath on her sensitive skin. “Please,” he said – pleaded, as if he were a mere peasant on his knees before a god and not a king that ruled the most powerful and feared supernatural.

“You don’t need me, fae king,” she said not unkindly, although all her instincts were shouting at her to rip into him while his guard was lowered, to decimate him until there was nothing left but the wicked horns that had haunted her dreams for years. “You have your wand, let me go.”

His arms went around her and he held on tight. He was gripping onto her like a lifeline that would cease to hold him up if he let go; she pretended it was a restraint.

“Please,” he repeated, groaning as his tongue flicked out to taste her skin and made her exhale shakily.

She gathered every single shred of composure and shoved him hard enough to loosen his hold on her. “No,” she said firmly, still pushing on his chest.

That was all it took for him to become that snarling, mad creature again. This being in front of her, he was Tom no longer.

Voldemort captured Hermione’s wrists and held them tighter than ever. The witch couldn’t withhold her wince as she felt the beginnings of violet bruises take root on her skin.

“Malfoy!” the creature roared.  A blonde fae whose features she vaguely recognized almost stumbled in his haste to get to his king’s side.

“What am I doing wrong?”

The question took all by surprise, but none more than the brunette in the devil’s clutches.

Malfoy’s grew eyes (Narcissa’s grew eyes, Hermione realised) darted between the fae king and the witch. “I think you’re hurting her,” Malfoy mumbled.

“You think?” Voldemort seethed.

“You are,” Hermione said shortly.

“Be quiet, witch!”

Hermione’s cheeks colored at the scolding, she turned her eyes away and looked at the door. It was so far away and there were to large knights on either side. Could she make it if she ran?

“Advise me, Malfoy!” Voldemort commanded.

“I-I – my Lord, I—”

“Speak!” His breathing was labored and his finger’s pressed deeper into the wrists he was holding as he grew more agitated. Hermione cried out, Voldemort ignored her, Malfoy looked at her in alarm.

“My Lord, please, let her go.” The words were a plea but the effect they had on Voldemort was staggering.

The fae king released Hermione and reared back as if struck.

“Let her – go?” He sounded so very confused that a part of Hermione wanted to reach out and cradle him to her chest.

But that part was miniscule, negligible, so Hermione rubbed her bruised wrists and stepped well out of his reach.

“Yes, my Lord. It would be for the best,” Malfoy spoke softly, comfortingly. The other Knights of Walpurgis squirmed. They were clearly uncomfortable with the sight of their ruler so vulnerable. 

“I can’t,” Voldemort stressed. “I cannot, I will not.” He was no longer speaking to anyone, his ramblings were turned to himself but said aloud, not meant to be heard but uncontrollable in his distressed state.

“You must,” Malfoy urged.

Hermione watched all this with a blank face and cold eyes. She should toss him around on a witchwind, she should turn the swords of his knights on him, she should reach into him with her magic and shred his insides.

She did none of those, just watched as the most frightening creature in her life and dreams fell apart before her eyes – as he abandoned the Voldemort and retook the simple, mortal name Tom. And she relished it.

No more, she decided, no longer would she look over her shoulder on windy nights in paranoia. No longer would she wound her magic tight around her in preparation for another visit, another attack.

No longer would she be afraid.

She stepped towards Tom, each step a reckoning on her unbridled dauntlessness. He straightened when her chest brushed against his. She looked up at him and he down at her but their roles were reversed.

There was something broken in his eyes, a deep sadness that she would have never associated with him. And in her brown gaze, Tom saw fire and ice clashing and colliding, creating a fire so hot it felt cold. He shuddered.

When she spoke, it was controlled, collected, searing in its intent and intensity. “I will find a way to break this bond.”

He believed her. How could he not, when she was so brilliant and brave, so determined to rid herself o the monster. Tom felt as if he were swaying on his feet. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep for a long, long time, but he forced them open because this was the last time he was ever going to see her, he was sure of it.

“I am going to leave now, and you will not stop me – none of you will,” she addressed everyone in the room. “I am going to leave, and you will never, ever come after me again.”

She looked at him then, right into his eyes. Whatever she saw must have been enough, because the next moment she spun on her heel and walked, unhurried, to the doors.

He let her go.

And when the doors closed behind her, he whisked himself to the deepest part of his lands, far, far away from the line of ash trees. There, he fell apart.

::

Her parents were waiting for her when she broke through the tree line, accompanied by Luna.

Tears she’d suppressed flowed freely down her cheeks and Hermione ran to her parents, crashing into her mother’s arms and sobbing.

“You’re safe now. He won’t ever get you again,” her mother whispered. Her father was a steady presence at her back, a barrier between her and anything that might try to come after her.

Luna looked into the trees, a frown on her face. This wasn’t the way it was meant to be.

The blonde looked back at her crying friend. Distress, that was what she sensed, but it was hazy, blocked, like one side of a bridge closed off.

This wasn’t the way it was meant to be.

I will help you, Hermione, the Whisperer vowed. I promise.

 ::

Months passed, and Hermione settled back into her life before the faelands.

Her hand often strayed to her hip in search of Basilisk, and each time her heart broke a little more when she realised it was no longer hers.

Months passed, and Hermione grew more restless, weary, purposeless.

Her previous hobbies were a nuisance. It was days before she picked up a book, and even more days before she bore through and finished it. she rarely took visitors and mostly ensconced herself in her room and pulled opened that floorboard. Ashamed but unable to help herself, she caressed her hidden treasures and thought of him.

She was no longer afraid, as she’d promised herself she would not be – just broken. (Like him.)

At the urging of her worried parents and close friends, she visited a shrink and spun a tale that was as close to the truth as she dared.

She spoke of a boy that had hurt her in her childhood, a boy she’d been foolish enough to trust because he had a beautiful voice.

She spoke of the boy giving her gifts and making her feel special but still afraid. She recounted how frightened she’d been when he had confronted her when she was fifteen, how she’d thought he would hurt her and her friend. How he hadn’t and she’d been confused, but relived and grateful.

She told of the boy becoming a man and whisking her away to a far away place, giving her the best of everything and keeping her imprisoned in a gilded cage. His friend convinced him to let her go—

His friend convinced him to let her go…

She told of how he had let her go – and then she remembered.

 ::

Luna stood in the doorway of her best friend’s room, watching.

Hermione was in the process of zipping up her jacket when the blond spoke. “You’re going to him, aren’t you?”

Hermione paused, hands dropping to her sides. “Yes.” There was no point in lying.

Luna came to stand in front of her friend and squeezed the brunette’s hands. “I think you’re doing the right thing.”

Hermione blinked. “You do?”

Luna nodded enthusiastically. “This bond you two have, it would not have formed if you weren’t meant for each other.”

Hermione’s brows drew together. “But then that day in my room, when you zapped him with magic—”

“He wasn’t ready for you yet, and neither were you for him,” Luna pointed out.

“And now I am?”

Luna smiled. “You both are.”

::

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

—Emile Bronte

 ::

He stood half-shadowed in the ash trees when she arrived.

“You came back,” he observed, voice monotone.

“I did,” she responded, wringing her hands nervously.

She shuffled her feet and squirmed when minutes went by and he said nothing.

Then: “Why are you here? Have you come back to gloat?” his monotonous tone hadn’t changed.

“What?” Nervousness gave way to confusion and she looked at him directly for the first time. Illuminated by moonlight, his beauty seemed fragile in that moment. There were slight bags under his eyes, marring his perfect complexion, and his eyes were dull.

“I felt it, the bond, you’ve done something to it. You found a way to break it, didn’t you? And now you’ve come to torture me.” He sounded so resigned, so unlike that opprobrious king that had captured her.

“No, no,” Hermione shook her head. She walked closed the last few feet between them and crossed into the faelands, into the territory he had not left since shed asked out of his hall. She slowly lifted a hand and laid it on his cheek gently. He jolted and stared at her with wide eyes. “I came back because I missed you.”

“Missed me?” he echoed, unable for a moment to focus on anything but the warmth of her hand on his skin.

“Yes,” she breathed, rising up on her tip toes. She was drawn to him and, finally, she had no reason to deny it.

Tom reared back when her breath hit his lips. He put distance between them and leaned heavily against a tree.  “No no no. You rejected me, ran away from me, told me never to come after you. And now – why?”  his hands were clenched so hard his knuckles had turned paler than

Hermione’s heart cried out at the sight of him, at the sight she’d caused.  

“I wasn’t ready,” she said, a pathetic parody of Luna’s words.

Tom looked at her incredulously and her cheeks warmed in embarrassment. Why did it sound so much more believable when her dreamy friend said it?

“Ready for what?” Tom asked.

Hermione took a deep breath. This was it. She couldn’t rely on Luna’s words. She had to tell his what she’d realised that day in the shrink’s office. What she’d always felt but never knew until she remembered.

“Ready for this, the bond…us. You asked me once why I couldn’t remember that night you made the bargain, and some things are still fuzzy but I can recall the important parts now. Such as you saving me and the bond that formed.”

He was listening to her avidly, eyes never once straying from her face.

“Nana, she did a spell on me before she died. I didn’t even remember it until a few days ago. But when I did, all sorts of feelings and memories came rushing back and it took me awhile to make sense of them.”

“The crone blocked your memories?” he asked angrily.

“No! Nothing like that, but it was a sort of ward.”

“A ward, on a person?”

“Yes, it didn’t make much sense to me either, until I researched.”

“And what did you find?” He’d moved closer, whether intentionally or not she didn’t want to think about. She was just glad to have him nearer to her.

“I found that my fear of you was irrational, unfounded most of the times. I found that I never really hated you, that I forgot about that night in the clearing too quickly for it to be just time. I found that the ward enhanced my ability to suppress traumatizing events and focal points attached to it.”

“Your heart wound and me,” he connected, shame colouring his tone when he spoke of her past injury.

Hermione nodded. “Yes. I also became exceedingly angry in your presence, always had an intense need to get away.”

He turned his head away before she could see the pain in his eyes. “Was that the ward, too?” he asked bitterly.

“Partly. I – you did make me angry very easily, but the ward spurred it to illogical heights.”

“What was the purpose of all this?”

“To protect me, I guess. Nana never trusted you and she told me to never, either. She made the bargain because I was dying and she was desperate. She meant for my instincts to keep me away from you for as long as it could.”

“What does this all mean, Hermione?”

She shivered at the sound of her name on his lips. She stepped closer to him, putting her hand back on his face and turning it towards her. “It means that I don’t hate you, never have, in fact. It means that when you let me go, my magic saw that as your way of protecting me and it finally trusted you enough to relinquish the ward. It means that we were meant to be.”

He stared deep into her eyes, an unidentifiable emotion churning in his.

Hermione’s heart stuttered. Could she have been wrong? Did he no longer want her?

She opened her mouth to apologise and leave when he surged forward.

He crashed into her body and knocked the wind out of her. Her lips parted in surprise and he took that opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth, twisting and turning and exploring every inch of her. His hands grasped her hips and pressed her flush against him.

When he finally broke free to allow her to breathe, she gasped in lungful of air while he latched his mouth onto her pulse point.

“Never letting you go again,” he said between feverish kisses.

“Yes,” she moaned.

Tom placed his mouth by her ear and rasped, “Mine.”

“Yours,” Hermione immediately agreed.

He unfurled his wings to their full, glorious length.

He paused kissing her long enough to say, “Hang on.” She looped her arms around his neck and held him tight.

With one mighty stroke of his wings, they shot through the night sky.

::

They landed on a bed of sweet grass and wild rose petals. Hermione’s curls were sprawled in a dark halo around her moonlit face. Tom lost his breath. Mine. This is mine and only mine. She is mine. She is…magnificent.

His hands busied themselves unzipping her jacket as his mouth trailed her jawline.

“You are the sweetest thing I have ever tasted,” he said on a gasp, pressing his hips more firmly onto hers.

She sat up to help him rid her of the heavy clothing. As soon as her hands were free, they dove into his hair and pushed his face back onto hers. She pushed and pulled and he obligingly followed her rhythm. One hand remained in his hair as the other slipped under his tunic and splayed possessively over his lower stomach.

He growled at the feel of her satiny hand so close to where he needed her most. By the Wild, he’d been dreaming of this for years, even before he’d admitted to himself how much she meant to him.

Her hand edged his tunic higher and he helped her pull it over his head. He didn’t give her a chance to properly see him before he was at her throat again, nipping, biting, licking. That small taste he’d gotten in the hall had not been enough and now that he had her pliant underneath him he planned to sample every inch of her she allowed.

She dug blunt nails into his shoulder blades when he sucked just underneath her jaw and he hissed at the sensation.

“Tom,” she groaned deeply, making his cock twitch.

He pushed up on his elbows and hurriedly unbuttoned her blouse, needing to see more of her.

He parted the thin piece of silky material and pressed a straight line of kisses down her front, flicking his tongue over the pebbled peaks of her covered nipples every so often.

“Tom!” she mewled, and he did it again, just to hear that sound again. Impatient hands pushed his face away and her blouse went flying over his shoulder, landing with nary a rustle.

Hermione slid a hand between them and pressed it against the bulge in his trousers. “Hermione,” it was his turn to groan now.

He reached his hand under her and fumbled for a second before the hook of her bra unlatched. Her bra slid down her shoulders and the first thing he saw wasn’t her glistening breasts and dark areolas. His eyes fixed on the jagged scar over her heart and crippling shame crashed into him.

The muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together, eyes shining and cheeks crimson in anger directed at himself.

A hand touched his cheek and gently turned his face. Watery brown eyes filled with pain looked up at him. Tom swallowed loudly.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was the smallest it had ever been. Hermione bit her lip and nodded, eyes focused on a point over his shoulder, refusing to look at him and see the swirl of emotion in his eyes.

“I was young and foolish and angry, and I-I didn’t know what you meant to me. Hermione, I swear I would never—” he rambled until her finger pressed against his lips, quieting him.

“I won’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. But it was a long time ago and we were both very different then, so let’s just, forget about it for the moment. Please.”

Tom nodded. “Anything,” he said. “Anything for you.”

Her full lips crooked into a shaky smirk. “How about an orgasm?”

Tom’s eyes darkened and a pleased grumble bubbled up from his throat and spilled onto her lips as he leaned down to devour her mouth. “Anything for you.”

::

“You are the most beautiful thing in my life,” he declared, reverently stroking her soft skin. They were both naked now, and Hermione had stilled his wandering fingers so she could explore him at her leisure. Currently, he had batted her hands away from his chiseled chest to trace her round breast with the pad of his thumb.

“More beautiful than your crown,” she challenged with a cheeky smile, moaning softly when he flicked her nipple.

“I would give up my crown in a hearbeat if you asked,” he declared firmly, hand never stopping its journey.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Would you truly?” her tone was the lightest bit disbelieving.

He paused, thought, “Two heartbeats,” he amended, cheeks pink at his candor.

She laughed, and it was worth it.

 ::

“Slow down,” she laughed melodically, hands holding his shoulders to still his body.

He gave her a crooked grin that conveyed a sorry she knew he did not really mean.

He thrust again, slower this time, and they made a new rhythm, this one gentler and reaching deeper and in a few more moments, it would have her shattering around him as she came with a cry of his name.

Another gush of warmth flooded her lower stomach as she thought about how he’d look when he shattered along with her.

She clenched harder around him, willing his body into making that image in her head a reality.

Come to me, he’d whispered in her mind that first night they’d met.

Come for me, she now demanded of him with her lust-filled eyes.

Tom’s thrusts became erratic at the look in her eyes. He wanted nothing more than to see her come undone in that moment. He swiped his hand over her bundle of nerves and pressed down hard and she fell over the edge. She cried out his name, face twisted into the most primal of pleasure and magic singing in the few spaces that remained between them.

He pounded harder to reach euphoria with her. Her fluttering walls and clenching spasms delivered him and he came with her name on his lips like a prayer.

::

They lay facing each other, still linked more intimately than a simple joining of the bodies.

He moved slowly in and out of her and she matched his pace. Gazes locked, hearts laid bare, their magic an open channel between them, they complemented and completed each other like no two beings had ever before.

It was All Hallows’ Eve and the veils were at their thinnest. Ancient magic and spirits alike crossed the veil to witness the oldest wedding rites taking place between a fae and a witch.

“You are my ruin, my making, my benediction, my life,” the ancient words rolled past his lips like the most natural thing, like they were made for this moment, this moment with her in his arms and him enveloped in her and them in perfect harmony.

“In this life and every other, I am yours, as you are mine” she responded instinctively.

He looked at her with utter adoration in his eyes and her face reflected the same.

“With these words, I bind myself to thee and promise to cherish that which I have been blessed with,” he vowed.

“With these words, we become one soul, two bodies and a mind shared, for eternity,” she completed.

Tom leaned forward and they sealed their lives with a kiss.

When they shattered, they did it together, and it was the loveliest thing.

 ::

The End

::

[clearly, I didn’t get the memo because this isn’t spooky at all. oops.]

[first time posting harry potter, guys, but don’t hold back, I want to hear everything!]

[for anyone interested, this was 17,000+ words. if you made it to the end: thank you, truly.]

[also, i had a good plan in my head but 3,000 words in I got impatient for smut that clearly wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, and somewhere around 13,000 inspiration struck again. so, sorry for the dog-chewed middle

[solrika]

Prologue/bg. part one. part two. part three:

~

He moves safe houses that night, driving out of town and down the highway until the sun is high in the sky and he’s another state away. It’s painful leaving the food--waste not, want not, his parents always said--but he can’t trust it not to be poisoned. Though his body could theoretically handle it, he’s not in the mood to be out of commission for eight hours while his system beats the toxin into submission. 

He spends the drive trying to think of new ways to evade detection, rifling through one plan after another. This kind of thing was always Gabriel’s strong suit--

--Jack shakes the thought away, focuses on the traffic. That way leaves nothing but heartache. 

He holes up in a former Blackwatch hideout. The keypad flashes the old “not in use” signal up at him when he types in its code, but it’s obvious someone has been using it as an intermittent base. It smells faintly of candle smoke, and the pistol strapped under the mattress just came out this year. Pictures are taped up in the bathroom--flowers, the corner of a girl’s smile, gloved hands flashing peace signs. Nothing incriminating, but enough to make it feel lived-in. 

Jack makes sure to change the keypad signal to “occupied.” He’ll move out tomorrow, but for now he just wants to sleep. With luck, if the original occupants show up, they’ll remember 76 fondly. 

He’s just settling into bed when the phone beeps. He stares at it, wondering why he didn’t just throw the damn thing away. It beeps again, and then begins singing a cheerful little tune. “Eschúchame! Eschúchame!”

With a groan, Jack rolls over and flips it on. Luckily, it’s just a text. He doesn’t think he could stand listening to Sombra right now.

We have a file of our initial findings for you. It’s followed by an address and a helpful little map.

Not meeting you, Jack types back.

One hour meeting window. 400 to 500. 

Fuck you, Jack types, with perhaps more vehemence than necessary, and shoves the phone under the mattress. 

~

He decides to go anyway, cursing his curiosity. There’s a nonzero chance of it being a trap. 

At least being in a Blackwatch hideout means he’s not walking in blind.

There’s a little drone with a camera that Jack sends in around three am to map the area and send back initial recon information. The address turns out to be for a storage warehouse full of shrink wrapped palettes. There’s plenty of cover for a shootout, and the walls are flimsy enough that if needed, he could break his way out. Jack settles the drone in the rafters and falls back asleep for an hour.

When he wakes back up, there’s only one person waiting for him: the hooded shape of the Reaper, leaning casually against the wall and idly inspecting his claws. Jack narrows his eyes at the grainy figure and decides that the bastard can wait, and sleeps another half hour.

When he finally leaves the hideout, it’s looking like he’ll be late for the rendezvous. Some buried part of Jack protests the lack of punctuality, but he’s not Strike Commander anymore. 76 isn’t beholden to schedules unless he wants to be. 

The drive is spent turning potential tactics over in his head, and when that’s exhausted, he begins puzzling over the... cleaning thing. There’s no reason for two Talon operatives to tidy up his safe houses. No reason to bring him food or make his bed or organize the desk so everything is easy for him to find. Unless it’s their way of playing with his head, showing him how little of a threat he is, toying with him like a cat with a mouse...

Jack snarls to himself. This mouse has a pulse cannon and isn’t afraid to use it. 

Mind games are more Sombra’s field, though. Reaper tends to be as straightforwards as a shotgun blast to the face. There’s no benefit for him in this, as far as Jack can tell. 

Might as well ask the damned skeleton himself. Jack pulls into the warehouse’s parking lot and strides to its door, takes a moment to make sure his pulse cannon is fully charged, and shoulders his way inside. 

The Reaper is waiting, flipping a data stick from one hand to another. “You’re late,” he states, the mask staring unblinkingly up at Jack.

“Where’s your friend?” Jack shoots back, gaze flicking around the warehouse. 

“Busy.” Reaper holds out the data stick. “Here.”

Jack doesn’t take the file. Narrowing his eyes, he growls, “What’s your game here?”

“There’s no game.”

“Bullshit,” Jack snaps. “What’s your angle? What’re you getting out of this? You can’t tell me you’ve been cleaning my rooms out of the fucking goodness of your heart.”

The Reaper’s claws twitch on the file, but he keeps his arm outstretched. “We told you, our information pooled is better than--”

“Stop lying,” Jack hisses, and lunges forwards. Sue him--he’s running on six hours of sleep and his safe houses have been compromised and he wants some answers, dammit. “You really think I believe you turning on Talon after watching you do their dirty work for six years?” 

Reaper twists as they hit the ground, slipping out of Jack’s grasp and stepping back. “Gathering information for six years,” he hisses. “You don’t topple an organization like this overnight!” 

“You did pretty well with Overwatch,” Jack growls back.

Reaper's claws twitch, and the noise that comes out of him is barely human. “I did not cause Zurich.” 

“Tell that to the dead,” and Jack ducks under those claws, manages to get his hands around Reaper’s neck. It’s easier than it should be to lift him in the air--he’s lighter than expected, but he also doesn’t fight back, just snarls through a tightening windpipe.

“You idiot,” Reaper rasps. “I didn’t cause Zurich.” He claws at the mask, and when it falls free the sight is--

“Told you,” Reaper grins, all fangs and flayed muscle, single eye smoldering like a live coal. “Zurich caused me.” 

“Fuck,” Jack breathes, staring at the raw flesh in front of him. He almost loses his grip, and Reaper seems to notice--eye flicks down and then up again, grin widening. Jack growls, and tightens his hands around Reaper’s neck. “So you messed up and got caught in your own blast--”

“They took everything from me!” 

There’s a silence. Jack’s head rings from Reaper’s howl.  Reaper himself looks surprised at his own outburst. 

“They took everything,” Reaper repeats, quieter. His claws twitch against his mask. His single eye darts to the side and back and away again, as if searching for a way to change the subject. He finally glances down at 76 and huffs a mirthless laugh, mutters, “You’re still so sloppy. Emotion gets ahold of you and you lose your gun.�� 

The comment stings, but more than that-- “Still?”

Reaper freezes, and without the mask, it’s easier to read the mangled expression as a flash of panic. It smoothes out in a second, and Reaper says, “I knew you. Before.” He cocks his head, a growl winding through his voice. “You want to know why I want to take down Talon, 76? They took my--they took Overwatch from me. And it was my life.”

Jack feels a slow, dawning realization. “You were an agent.” But to have known him as 76 and not the Strike Commander, to have been in Zurich and immediately chosen to go undercover as a double agent-- “You were a Blackwatch agent.” 

“Once.” Reaper finally slips his mask back on. 

Belatedly, Jack lowers him down to the ground. He stares at Reaper’s figure, trying to place the wide shoulders and narrow waist (Gabriel, part of him sings, but Gabriel is dead and gone). “You said you knew me?”

“You worked with us.” Reaper’s mask focuses somewhere to the left of Jack′s face, as if he’s searching for something. “You worked with Overwatch--”

“I’m not a part of Overwatch,” Jack snaps, reflexively.

“Someone called you mother hen,” Reaper continues, almost to himself. The old nickname sparks right at the sore spot in Jack’s heart, and makes him glad the visor hides his eyes. “You helped us. You...” His mask refocuses. “You can help us now.”

"I don’t know you,” Jack manages. But he does know mother hen, knows the memory of Blackwatch’s junior agents teasing 76 just to make their commander laugh at his lover’s mock-frustration. It feels like centuries ago. He swallows. “Which agent were you? I can’t--”

“I don’t know.” Reaper huffs a mirthless laugh, gestures at his face. “Things got lost, after Zurich.” 

Jack should know. Jack should recognize this agent, probably laughed with him, might have even dragged him back onto a plane after a mission went wrong, might have been teased by him after a mission went right and he and Gabe-- 

“The housekeeping,” he croaks. “You all-- you’d take turns doing that for each other. Ga--the commander would walk into a room and just start tidying. Is that why--”

This time, Reaper’s laugh is a little more genuine. “Old habits die hard, I guess.” He cocks his head. Jack gets the feeling he’s staring hard at the visor, trying to read his expression. “You believe me now.”

“Yeah.” Jack bends down, picks up the file. “Yeah, I do."

“You’ll help us?” 

It’s what Gabriel would have wanted. It’s what 76 would have done, all those years ago. “Yeah,” Jack says, and offers his hand. Reaper takes it, cool leather against his palm, claws curling carefully around his wrist. They shake, and it feels--

( we got a deal, Jackie, Gabe laughs, warm fingers against his) 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I’ll help.” 

[ms-maj]

whatever tomorrow brings

So, @weheartscorose is an absolute gem. Which I’m sure most of you already know, but, she’s been nudging me to get back to writing and today she gave me a prompt, and this is what came out. 

Cara, thank you for being you. <3

Prompt: “I’ve been driving for hours and wound up at your door.”

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

Jughead Jones picked up and looked at the black screen of his too quiet phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. Gently sitting it back on the coffee table, he let out a heavy sigh, letting his head fall into his hands. He sat like that for a minute, heels of his hands pressing against his eyes, hoping against hope that he’d be able to relieve the pressure building inside his head.

It didn’t work.

It had been seven hours, eight minutes and eleven seconds since they’d hung up. Her voice hung heavy in his ears even now. The catch in her throat when she pushed the words through her lips, as if she couldn’t believe she had to say them. The tremble of tears he could practically feel spilling down her cheeks, as she hiccupped through.

With an audible groan and fistfuls of his own hair, he stood from the couch, no longer content to sit and wait for the shrill ring to pierce the air. He paced the small space, surely wearing tracks in the already threadbare carpeting.

He’d known, for the last week or so, that this was a possibility. That at the exact moment when everything was coming together, in ways Jughead had never even dared let himself dream, it would all crumble spectacularly at his feet.

Pain shot down his neck and he swallowed thickly, forcing the muscles of his jaw to relax even if the rest of him couldn’t. His jaw unclenched as a familiar sting moved its way up his face, taking root in his eyes.

He’d willed himself not to cry too many times in his life; he’d thought this night would be no different, but he fought against the instinct and let the tears fall.

 “Hey, Betty, what’s going on?”

“Juggie…” her voice was hoarser than it had been when they spoke the day before. “I—I’m so scared.”

In all the years they’d known each other—been together—she’d never sounded so pitiful. His heart constricted at the thought. Until that very moment, he’d have never imagined those two thoughts would ever intersect in his mind. “What’s happening, Betts?”

He waited through her tears, and the half-garbled quasi-sentences until her breathing evened out and the words took shape. And weight.

“It doesn’t look good, Jug,” is all she’d said before she promised to call him back and was hurried off by a cacophony of voices he didn’t recognize.

 Sighing again, he picked the phone off the table.

No new notifications, it mocked. It sat like a brick in his hand. The urge to throw the device against the wall rippled through him. With what barely could pass for a chuckle, he clutched it tighter in his hand instead and pulled it against his chest.

He knew he was getting ahead of himself, that he had no reason to be in panic mode. But aside from a few dalliances in separation through their nearly ten-year tenure, they didn’t go this long without speaking. It had been a good ten years. They struggled and fought and almost—almost—gave up, but neither could let go. And since that fateful week their senior year of college, they’d plowed a steady path through adulthood.

But that didn’t stop the thoughts from echoing through his skull. He was worried. Not about them; about her. But the thing about worry, no matter how righteously placed, was that it bred anxiety. It’s needle-like talons pierced his lungs, filling him with a chill he couldn’t escape. He felt it in his bones, the despair. Her voice had been riddled with it. Knowing he had to get in control of his faculties if Betty called…

When, he reminded himself. When she calls. Betty would call. He pulled the chair out from the dining room table, its heavy legs scraping the pocked hardwood.

Jughead looked around the room. It was sparse, old and not a little decrepit, but it was home. The walls were white but not bright. It was dull and worn, absorbing more of the light than reflecting it. It felt like him.

The grayscale between two values.

Heaving a sigh, he sat, throwing his phone on the table before his head collapsed onto his crossed arms. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there before soft rapping at his door roused him.

Jughead rose slowly, taking only a few cautious steps before the knocking started again. This time with more urgency.

He crossed the room in three large steps, throwing the door open without checking who may be on the other side.

She stood haloed by the porch light, her hair haphazardly pulled back, smudges of black under her impossibly red eyes. “Betts? What are you doing?”

“I’ve been driving for hours and wound up at your door,” her lips turned to the ghost of a smile before dropping again.

“You know I don’t mean what are you doing here,” his voiced trailed as he followed the path to keys she held in her shaking hands.

“There’s so many keys on here,” she muttered lowly. “I couldn’t find the right one. Juggie, I can’t remember which key opens the front door of our house.” And there she broke, his arms reaching to catch her before she could collapse. He held her close while her tears soaked through the cotton of his shirt, pressing kisses in to her hair that seemed to glow under the artificial incandescence.

Betty shivered against him, the brisk night and fragile state taking its toll. Without thinking, he swept her legs from under her, and carried her through the door bridal style. Jughead kicked the door closed behind them before turning toward the living room.

“You know,” her muffled voice came from where her face was nestled against his chest, “we skipped a pretty big step for that antiquated tradition, Mr. Jones.”

He smiled for the first time that day. “All in good time, beautiful.”

Jughead went to set her on the couch but felt her head shake against him as the arms that encircled his neck gripped tighter. He sat down carefully, settling her into his lap as he collapsed against the cushions.

When she started to cry again he rubbed her back, and tried to keep the hair from sticking to her eyes with clumsy hands. They seemed to shake more with every passing second she didn’t speak.

“Baby, please tell me what’s going on,” he pleaded when she’d stopped crying the second time.

She sniffled and sat up, turning so she could face him fully. “It’s Avery.”

Polly’s daughter. He could feel his brows knit together. Betty reached up, the sleeve of his flannel shirt that she was wearing practically covered her whole hand, but her thumb stretched out to try and rub away the lines from his forehead. His face relaxed but his eyes never left hers. Jughead had seen so many emotions flicker through them in the course of the twenty minutes since she’d gotten back. He felt her fingers slide over his cheek and trace his jaw. He grabbed her hand before she could pull it away, pressed kisses to each of her fingertips and held their laced hands between them.

“She’s sick, Juggie.”

Jughead pressed his lips together quickly before choosing his words. “Av’s been sick before, she got through it once. She��ll do it again. She is a Cooper after all.”

Betty tried to smile, but the tears were faster. Her eyes looked positively painful, yet still the most mesmerizing shade of green he knew he’d ever see.

“She’s also a Blossom. Which, unfortunately, means not but bad luck,” she paused and squeezed his hand tighter. “It’s back. Worse than before, and not likely to respond to treatment. Cheryl has insisted on the best care, on her dime, but Avery isn’t sure she wants to do it.”

That was the exact moment his heart shattered. The broken woman crying in his arms; her tough-as-nails niece who’d already endured way more than anyone should; the realization that he could do absolutely nothing to help any of it.

“What do you mean she doesn’t want to do it? She’s ten, Betty. Does anybody know what they want at ten?”

“She said to the doctor: ‘I don’t think that course of action suits me. I will fight with all I have, but I don’t think I can go through that again.’ Of course he looked at her like she had three heads, he looked at Polly and asked her: who talks like that?” She smirked up at him. “Avery laughed, and she may have mentioned her too-cool Uncle Jughead being a writer and teaching her how to use her words when she was sick the first time. She might physically be ten, Jug, but not in here,” she tapped his temple with her free hand and smiled. “Avery could have a couple of good months before she…before, but with the treatment her chance of survival increases, just not enough for her to condemn her last few months of life to waste away in a hospice, away from all the things that make life worth living.”

He could feel the tears threatening again and this time, he didn’t even try to stop them, letting them cascade down his face and catching on their still tightly entwined hand. “Jesus, Betty. How’s Polly handling that? And Alice? Oh fuck, how’s Caleb taking it?”

“No one is coping well. Except Avery. She’s not resigned, she seems at peace. I don’t know. Polly and Mom aren’t going to accept it. And most of me is totally okay with that, you know? She’s a baby; she has a chance! Make her fight! But then I look at her, and though I never, ever, ever want to let her go…I just want what’s best.”

He brushed his thumb under her eye gently, careful not to irritate the delicate skin more than tears and tissues have already done.

“Of course you want what’s best; you’re Betty Cooper. No matter what happens—now, in the future, whenever—I will be right beside you. We’ll get through this, together. Always.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jug. I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, but it was a lot to process and I knew I didn’t just need to hear your voice. I had to see you, feel your arms around me.” Without preamble, he leaned into her space and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t a particularly passionate kiss, but the kind of steady pressure meant to reassure and convey things that words always seem to fail.

Betty pulled away abruptly, a yawn escaping her past her lips. “Let’s get you to bed. We can talk in the morning.” He kissed her quickly before securing her against him, and this time as he carried her through the house, he felt a semblance of peace.

“I can’t believe we closed on this house a week ago and this is the first night I get to sleep here,” Betty mumbled after she’d shucked her clothes and curled up under the covers with Jughead.

“The first night of many, baby,” he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He felt, rather than heard, the contended sigh against his chest. “Every tomorrow is a new day, and we’ll take them all on together. No matter what they may hold.”

Betty was quickly snoring softly, wrapped in the safe cocoon of his arms and their faux-down comforter. Even though she was here, now, in his arms, he couldn’t help the litany of self-destructive thoughts from earlier that came rushing back. But he could finally breathe through it as long as the air carried her scent. Yes, everything was collapsing, but it was around their feet, not just his. And they would have each other to pick up the pieces.

[thelittlestkitsune]

CEO: chapter eight [A]

A/N; Don’t worry 8B should be with you soon, for now though, please enjoy and come scream at me! xoxo Lau

Pairing: StilesxReader

Author: thelittlestkitsune

Warnings: NSFW.

Word count: 7,088

Part One  Part Two  Part Three Part Four.  Part Five. Part Six. Part Seven.

Red eyes plagued you in your sleep, the hissing and snapping of jaws on your ankles as you ran through woods like the ones you were in now. You dared to look back at what was on your trail as you ran, your head whipping around only to be faced with something bigger than a truck, a snarling mouth and a deadly roar. Claws reached for you, the sharp talon tearing into your skin as the monster picked you up, pulling you closer to its rank mouth. “Millie….” It rippled, the noise deafening as it growled at you. “Millie…” It roared again, a howl ripping through its chest as it raised its head to the sky. “Come to me.”  

Sunlight pierced your eyes as you awoke, your body covered in a cold sweat, your heart racing. You covered your eyes quickly, the sunlight making your eyes water even though you had yet to open them. Your fingers were warm on your freezing skin as you pulled the sheets up over your cold body, sinking into the soft fabric as you rolled over. You half expected to feel Stiles beside you, but the distinct smell of coffee wafted upstairs as you heard him pace the floorboards in the kitchen. You lay in his bed for a moment, your eyes cracking open as you stared at the ceiling, your eyes following every crack as you adjusted to the light, the blinds barely keeping any of it at bay. You sighed as you rolled over, the bed cold where Stiles would have been as you traced over the sheets, your fingers rolling over peaks in the mattress as your mind raced. You knew Stiles was keeping something from you, but you didn’t know how much he knew. There was that book, the book that led you to the woods weeks ago. It was all a blur and now you had no idea where you stood. You needed answers to questions Stiles had made you think of. What did he mean by he’s the reason I’m not human? You thought to yourself as you sat up, your bones cracking as you stretched out your burning muscles. What does the bestiary have to do with anything? You smacked your lips as you stood, your eyes falling over the decorations in Stiles’ room. Who the fuck was Peter Hale? You shook your head as you walked forwards, your muscles tense as you ran your fingers over the sideboard, your lips pursed as you looked at pictures of a younger Stiles, a goofy smile on his face as he sat between Scott and Lydia.  

Your lips curled into a frown as you caught sight of Malia, her lips pulled back over her teeth in a smile, something not quite right with the ferocity of her smile. You pulled away, tugging at the material of Stiles’ old lacrosse jersey. Walking to the bathroom, you passed by the mirror your body shuddering as you remembered your reflection, your usually brown eyes glowing almost fluorescent blue. You paused examining your eyes, pulling at the lid only to see your normal brown staring back at you. Nothing was adding up and it was leaving you dizzy, feeling like you were part of this big conspiracy that even you weren’t to know about. You pulled back, letting your hair loose from its messy bun. You combed through it with your fingers, the curls fighting against your fingertips as you heard Stiles sigh downstairs. You busied yourself, not ready yet to face him and hopefully learn about what the hell was going on. What felt like an age later you left the bathroom, your stomach filled with dread as you walked out of his room, lingering at the top step. Something stopped you going down the stairs as you picked up Stiles whispering, his voice clear as day. “- it’s not that easy Malia, I can’t just straight up tell her about this. What if she passes out like she did last night?” He sounded stressed as you could almost imagine him pacing the kitchen. He went silent as you heard Malia speak, her voice booming as it echoed against the walls.  

“You have to be straight with her. You were with me?!” She whined as Stiles sighed, placing something on the side. “You already knew. You just found everything else out after a while.” Your heart raced as you heard someone cough, the noise too gruff to be Stiles. “Yes Derek, do you have something useful to add? Or are you just going to say Malia’s, right?” Stiles sassed as you sat on the top step. “I was just going to say we have an audience. She’s awake.” He responded, his voice deadpan as you clambered to your feet. How did he hear you? Your brow furrowed as you scurried back to Stiles’ room, hoping you weren’t slamming your feet as you climbed between the sheets. You lay your head on the pillow, your body curling up as you buried yourself in the duvet, pulling it over your head as the door creaked open behind you. You stilled, your breath catching in your throat as you felt Stiles sit on the end of the bed, his hands reaching over to touch you. You groaned, knowing he was going to want to talk to you. “Millie? Are you awake?” You heard him ask softly, his hands shaking you out of the duvet, your eyes glaring at him. “I am now.” You responded, sitting up in the sheets, your eyes connecting with his. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry.” He looked downcast as he fiddled with his thumbs. “I’m fucking with you Stiles, I’ve been awake for a little while. I didn’t come downstairs cause I heard voices and I didn’t want to interrupt.” You bent the truth a little as he smiled. “You were hiding up here cause of a few people?” he chuckled as you looked at him.  

“I heard Malia and Derek and I'm pretty sure if I came downstairs in the equivalent of my fucking birthday suit they’d put two and two together? You know seeing as though we’re fucking private investigators?!” You whisper shouted at him, your voice getting hysterical as he sat there with a smug smile on his face. “What?!” you asked as he gave you a knowing look. “Let it click, we’re all private investigators and we weren’t exactly sneaking around-” He trailed off as you sat there stunned at your own stupidity. “Everyone knows.” You dead panned. “Yeah, everyone’s known for a while. We weren’t as subtle as we thought we were.” He chuckled, his lips curling into a smirk. “Are you two going to come downstairs? Some of us need more coffee!” You heard Derek shout, your ears ringing at the sudden noise. “SHUT UP DEREK.” You shouted back, your arms crossed over your chest. “I’m not going downstairs until I’m dressed properly.” You looked around the room deftly, remembering that you had nothing here. “Fuck, Stiles?” You looked at him with a pleading look as he reached into his drawers, reaching for a shirt and a pair of loose shorts. “It’s the best we got until Lydia comes.” You glared at him, shoving the t-shirt over your head as you pulled on the shorts. You shivered at the cold fabric, quickly wrapping your arms over your chest. “My guesses are Lydia knows as well?” You rolled your eyes as he pulled you from his bedroom towards the stairs. “Well she does have the office next to yours and you’re not exactly quiet.” He winked, his tongue sliding over his lips as he smirked.  

“I think I'm quiet enough! Not like I wail like a banshee or anything?” You responded grumpily, a chill settling into your bones as you walked down the stairs, your feet slapping against the wooden floorboards. Stiles chuckled under his breath. “Lydia’s going to love that.” You continued down the steps, your mood becoming more fearful with every step. “She has arisen from her grave!” You heard Kira shout from the couch, Isaac sat by her side the same way they would always be. You scowled in their general direction, weakly flipping them off as you trudged through to Stiles’ kitchen, reaching eagerly for the coffee pot. Stiles walked behind you, his arms snaking underneath yours as he grasped it, muttering that he would do it. You cleared your throat as you looked over at the small gathering of people, your arms still huddled around your chest, your body feeling more exposed than ever in Stiles’ oversized tee. “So, you’re a stud muffin, Millie?” Isaac broke the silence, his baby blues raking over the t-shirt that clung to you as you laughed awkwardly. “Yeah obviously!” You trailed off, your heart hammering in your chest as you felt everyone’s eyes on you. “Can I ask you guys something?” You worked up the nerve to continue, your voice shaky as they all nodded, the smell of coffee filling the air. “Why didn’t you tell Stiles and I that we were about as subtle as a brick through a glasshouse?” You finished, your eyes hurriedly scanning over everyone’s faces as they suppressed smiles. “We thought it was best to let you guys do your own thing.” Kira shrugged, her head nodding in agreement with everyone else’s. Apart from Malia’s, she remained stony faced and cold and you resented the fact that she was here.  

Part of you was glad that she was here, that petty, passive aggressive side of you mentally killing her. You smirked as Derek spoke, his hand reaching over to the counter to swipe one of the coffees. “Stiles you have to be the slowest coffee maker in the world. You’d make a shit barista.” he scoffed as Stiles stood there offended. “Okay sour wolf, actually taste it and then come at me?” He mocked Derek as he handed the cups around, Malia refusing it as she turned her nose up. Rude. You cradled your cup as you leant against the counter tops, the air in the house stale and thick with dread. “So, what is everyone doing here?” You piped up, the silence becoming uncomfortable in the small kitchen. “We’re waiting on Scott and Allison and Lydia.” Stiles responded, pushing off from the counter as he headed to sit at the dining room table. You followed suit, pulling out a chair as you curled yourself on the cushioned seat, your knees hitting against your chest as you cupped your ankles. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, why are we waiting on them?” You probed, your question going unanswered as everyone stared into their coffee cups as if the steaming liquid would answer your question. “We have something we needed to tell you forever ago.” Kira piped up, everyone shooting daggers at her as they sat there, their fingers laced through handles and overlapping on the other side. Malia’s nails rapped against the ceramic, the noise grating against your last nerve as your body rushed with anticipation.  

“Kira, not until Scott gets here.” Stiles scolded, his eyes darting towards the door an expectant look on his face. He grimaced as the door didn’t open, turning back to his coffee, his usually smirking lips set in a hard line. “Why not now?” You asked, pressing into the table more as you looked over everyone’s face. “Why not tell me without Scott?” You pressed for information, each of them avoiding your eyes. You sighed out of frustration, your patience wearing thin as you sipped the coffee, your mood darkening as you pulled at the strings hanging from Stiles’ shirt. No one spoke as you sat there, your body curled against itself as your mind ran rampant. You held your tongue though knowing that no one would tell you a word until the others arrived. “If the whole office has to be here then why didn’t we do this at the office? You know, where I can be dressed?!” You suddenly exploded, unable to bite back the words any longer. “We couldn’t wait, we had to make sure you knew.” Stiles spoke softly, defeat on his lips as his eyes trained on the table. Malia never stopped tapping her nails, the noise setting the hairs on the back of your neck on edge as you felt your blood boil. “Malia. Fuck off with the noise?!” You snapped, your eyes flickering to hers as she smirked, setting the cup on the table before dragging her chair back. Everyone in the room flinched as she stood, picking up the cup before walking back to the kitchen. If looks could kill then the look you gave her was venomous.  

You turned to Stiles, your glare softening some as you asked him what he meant. “Haven’t we literally just been sat here waiting? If we can’t wait then why are we sat here doing nothing.” You tried so hard to control your voice, your pitch climbing higher as Isaac cleared his throat. “Millie, it’s harder to understand on our part. We had people know what you need to know in the past. It drove us from our homes. Forced us to come together and also tore us apart. It’s not just something you blurt out.” He whispered a despondent look on his face as Kira latched her arm around his shoulders. “We lost people. Some people were never the same.” He barely mouthed the words, tears pricking his eyes. Stiles gave him a weary smile, his head bowing at Isaac’s words. Malia walked through to where you all sat, her eyes wide as she looked over you all. “You’re not ever going to grow a pair of balls Stilinski. Neither are you Isaac, you’re just as bad as each other. You hide behind Scott because you won’t do anything for yourself.” She sighed, sinking into the chair. “Why don’t you just fucking tell her she’s a werewolf?! I don’t see what the big deal is?” You listened intently to her words, your vision blurring as the anger in your system flooded your entire body. You don’t know what came over you as you launched from your chair, your hands at her throat in mere moments.  

“You know what Malia? I’m sick to death of hearing you bitch and complain and tap your stupid fucking acrylics against everything. You’re making a joke when one of your friends is upset?! Are you fucking insane or is your head just so far up your own ass that you can’t see that this is kind of serious?!” You barely took a breath as you pressed your palm tighter against the column of her neck; her lips parting as she inhaled sharply. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m working an impossible case that makes literally no sense to anyone and the other night I turned up at Stiles’ door completely naked having no idea how I fucking got here. But no, instead you sit here and have the fucking audacity to make a joke? You’re lucky I’m not actually capable of taking a life.” You released her throat, fingers latching around your arms as Malia gasped for breath. She looked at you with smug contentment, her eyes narrowing as a growl ripped through the room. All the hair on your body stood on end as you felt Stiles’ fingers grip around your wrist. “Millie.” You heard Stiles speak, his hands guiding you back to your seat as you sat, your body numbing as your eyes glazed over. Tears tracked down your cheeks as Stiles pulled you to his chest, his chair screeching over the wooden floor as his fingers carded through your hair.  

“Millie, just breathe okay? Everything will be okay.” Stiles whispered against your hair, his words vibrating through you as he pressed his hands on your shoulders. Your breaths came staggered, your whole body shaking as you buried into the cotton of his shirt. Wrapping your arms around his waist you steadied yourself, your chest heaving as tears continued to fall. “Please don’t lie to me.” You spoke softly, unsure he’d even heard you. “Please don’t tell me everything is going to be okay, that I’ll be fine. I can tell when you lie Stiles.” You pulled away from him, your eyes finding his as he looked over you. “You can feel my heartbeat, can’t you?” He asked, his tone questioning as he searched for answers on your face. You sighed, pushing away from him further, your fingers gripping onto the hem of your shirt. “No, Stiles I can’t hear your heartbeat. You’ve just lied to me so much that now I can’t trust a word you say?! Your name probably isn’t even Stiles. I can’t do this right now. I can’t sit and wait in silence as you wait for someone to tell me something I don’t want to hear.” The words spilled from your mouth as you stood, your head whipping around to look at the door you had found yourself at the night before. “Come get me when Scott is here, until then, please just leave me alone. All of you.” You looked over Kira and Isaac as they nodded, the looks on their faces solemn. Malia didn’t even glance in your direction as you scowled, turning towards the door.  

“Millie-” Stiles tried to capture your attention but you remained stoic, heading towards the door. It clicked open with ease as you rolled it shut behind you, the cool air running over your bare legs. You looked over the small garden, spotting a bench in the corner beneath a tree the size of the house. Wrapping your arms over your chest you stepped forwards onto the grass, the ground giving way underneath you as you crossed the overgrown terrain. Only Stiles would let it get this bad. You thought to yourself as you made your way to the bench, your foot colliding with a warped baseball bat. He’s probably too busy with the company to even tend to his own garden. You sighed as you sat on the decaying bench, the wood creaking beneath your weight. For once the skies were bright, the sun shining on the bleached out blue fence that separated the house and garden from the rest of Beacon Hills. You sat there for a moment, lost in the sounds of cars rolling past before you were joined by another. “Millie?” You heard Stiles speak, his words soft as he settled on the bench next to you. “There’s a million things I want to say to you but I don’t know how to say them-” He paused taking a deep breath as he hunched forwards, burying his face in his hands. “-I can start with an easy one. I’m sorry. Sorry doesn’t even cover it, but I know I mean it. You may not see it right now, but I did this to protect you. We all did.-”

He trailed off as you ignored him, staring off at the trees at the end of the garden. “-the other? It’s more of a confession. I have lied to you, so many times. It’s killed me every damn time and knowing that you won’t believe a word out my mouth now breaks my heart. I swear I never meant to hurt you. That was the last thing I wanted.” You blinked slowly, tears falling down your cheeks as you stayed frozen, your head not even turning to him as he talked. “I really am sorry Millie. Before I go, there is one more thing. You were right, my name isn’t Stiles. It’s Mieczyslaw.” You could almost feel hear his heartbeat as it stilled before hammering against his rib cage. You sat in silence, running your tongue over your teeth, chewing on what you should say. He broke the silence, a sigh leaving his lips as he stood, smoothing his fingers over his khakis. “I’ll leave you now, I just hope you can see I did this for you. Not to hurt you.” You nodded, your lips pressed together as you looked over him. “I’m sorry too Stiles.” You gave him a weary smile as he turned, heading back inside as you returned back to your thoughts. You sat there until a chill settled in your bones, all the hair on your body stood on end until you were joined again.  

“Hey.” You heard her speak, her voice soft as she crouched down in front of you. You barely registered her, too lost in your own thoughts to fully comprehend what was going on. “Millie, you’re freezing.” Lydia spoke, her fingers briefly connecting with your skin. You blinked, shaking your head slightly as you looked at her, her flame red hair almost shining in the late afternoon sun. “Stiles said I would find you here. You need to come inside now.” She spoke as if you were made of glass, fragile to the touch and ready to break at any moment. At least that was accurate. You nodded to her, your lips remaining still as she thrust a bag into your arms before pulling you inside. “I had to guess your size and everything, but it’s better than what you’re wearing.” She looked over you, her eyebrows raised at the stud muffin t-shirt. “-and Stiles needs to get rid of that shirt, he’s had it since he was like 15.” She laughed as you gave her a weak side smile, your lids heavy. “Go get changed, take as long as you need. Okay?” A brief smile fluttered over her red lips as she spun on one heel, heading off towards the kitchen. You gripped the bag to your chest as you walked up the stairs, your feet almost leaden. Pressing the door to Stiles’ room closed you placed the bag on the bed, settling down next to it. Your head swam with too many thoughts as you rifled through the bag. You acted on auto pilot; your hands reaching for the first thing it touched as you tore Stiles’ clothes from your body.

Lydia had thought of everything as you dressed in each item, pulling on jeans and a hooded flannel. You felt more yourself as you readjusted your hair, thanking Lydia internally as you found a hairbrush nestled in the bottom of the bag. You parted your hair without looking at it, knowing that pretty much nothing you did would make it look better. You rushed the brush through your strands, wincing as it pulled on knots. The knots in your hair paled in comparison to those in your stomach as you dreaded heading back downstairs. But I need to know. You glanced over to the bathroom deciding that you didn’t care what you looked like much.  You walked from Stiles’ room, your feet light on the floor as you poised yourself at the top of the stairs, your heart heavy as you dropped to the next step. It took all you had to descend those stairs, your hands fumbling with the cuffs of the flannel as you stepped into the dining room. No one was around as you looked around in confusion, your head peering around the corner into the kitchen. Your head spun with the idea of leaving, not facing whatever lay ahead of you. Uncertainty churned in your stomach, your mind in a state of flux as you walked towards the door, your fingers lightly brushing the handle as you paused. I need to face this.  

You stepped backwards, the boards beneath your feet creaking as you saw Stiles pop his head around the door. “We’re in here Millie.” He smiled as you gave him a half nod, heading over to where he was. The small room was crowded, people on seemingly every surface; your breathing hitched as you walked in, every person turning to look at you. “Guys, you’re making her anxious.” Scott interjected as they turned back to the way they were. “Thanks Scott” You said in a small voice, your heart beating a mile a minute as you found a space on the floor. “Don’t thank me yet Millie.” He blinked slowly, licking over his lips slightly as Allison squeezed his arm lightly. You looked over everyone in the room, the tension in the air so thick you could slice it like butter. “Don’t lie to me. What’s happening to me?” Everyone paused for a moment as Stiles cleared his throat, leaning forwards his hands on his knees. “There’s more than meets the eye in Beacon Hills, sure it’s a nice town, but it’s not always been nice. Back in 2011 something happened to Scott-” You furrowed your brows, looking over the tanned boy in front of you. “- obviously he survived, but something happened that changed everyone’s life. It changed the town.” He struggled to find the words as Scott spoke instead.  

“Werewolves exist Millie. They are as real as you and me.” He spoke, his words clear as you reeled back. “They’re myths Scott, the same way that vampires are myths. The same way Harry Potter isn’t real.” Stiles chuckled, the noise light as he looked at you in shock. “That means Star Wars isn’t real by proxy and that’s not a universe I want to live in.” He giggled, his eyes lighting up as Lydia glared from the seat in the corner. “You won’t be living in any universe soon if you carry on Stiles. It’s not the time.” She raised her brow, giving a knowing smile to you as you mulled over your words. “You guys are joking right?! You have to be joking. I mean sure, yeah the amount of animal attacks in this town is ridiculous but werewolves?!” You near shouted, your voice reaching hysterics as you stood. “If you think I’m going to sit here and listen to you lie to me yet again then you  don’t know me as well as you think you did.” You weaved past Derek as you made your way to the door, his hand reaching out to grab you as a growl ripped through the room. “Millie.” Derek spoke, his voice deeper than you had ever heard before. You whipped around, your heart slamming against your rib cage as you looked over his face. His brow was furrowed as he lifted his head to look at you, his eyes glowing blue in the sunlight. Teeth protruded from his bared lips, his jaw pushed forwards to cater for the extended tips. “We exist.” He spoke, a slight lisp in his voice as you pulled away from him.  

You wanted to scream, you wanted to run but part of you knew that they couldn’t lie about this. You felt something shift in the air as he blinked, turning his head back towards the floor. He faced you again, his features back to normal as he nodded back towards where you had sat previously. You gulped, returning back to your spot, curling your legs underneath yourself as you stared at the floor. Your mind raced with images and memories, the simple act of a look almost unravelling your case before your eyes. It was as if one sentence had been the answer all along. You sat there staring at the floor as you pondered what to say and how to feel as you picked at the hem of your jeans. Silence filled the room as Stiles cleared his throat for the umpteenth time in mere minutes. “Millie?” Scott spoke suddenly, your head whipping up at the sudden noise. You looked over his face, his brown eyes wide as he tried to read how you were feeling. “We know it’s a lot to process and it must be killing you that we didn-” You cut him off, shaking your head. “I get it. I do. Doesn’t stop me being pissed off at you but now you can’t just leave it there.” You sat a little straighter, leaning your back against the fireplace as you glanced around the small room. Drawing in a deep breath you exhaled slowly, your breath staggered as you spoke. “Tell me everything.”  

“So, let me see if I have this right. Scott is a true alpha, meaning he didn’t have to kill. That’s why his eyes are red right?” You let the words roll from your tongue, trying your hardest to make it sound natural, but the words tasted foreign on your lips. “Nearly, his eyes are red because he’s an alpha. All alpha’s have red eyes, no matter what colour they were before they became alpha’s.” Stiles explained patiently, his long fingers laced together as you sat there still confused. “Beta’s have yellow eyes?” You asked as he smiled. “Now you’re getting it!” You smiled weakly, still trying to wrap your head around the sudden onslaught of information. Your mind grew foggy as you asked a question you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer to. “Then why are mine blue? I mean surely, we’ve assumed by now that i’m like you guys. You’re all werewolves, right?” You cast your eyes to the group, watching as Lydia smacked her lips together, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Not quite sweetie-” She pointed to herself. “-I’m a banshee. Kira’s a kitsune and Malia’s-” She paused, looking over to see Malia flicking down her phone. “-not listening. But she’s a were coyote.” You sighed in frustration, dragging your fingers through your hair. “But no one has blue eyes.” You asked again, your heart dropping as you realised that something was wrong with you still. You didn’t fit in. “I do.” Derek spoke softly, startling you as you turned to him. “Yeah, sorry Derek, it’s all a bit much. What are you then?” You knitted your brows together as he gave you a small smile. “I’m a werewolf. Just like Scott.” You nodded looking over at Stiles. “-and Stiles, right?” You added, your tone inquisitive. “No, Stiles is human.” He explained, shooting a look over to the amber eyed boy. “Might I say I’m the only human?!” He joked as you returned to Derek. “So why are your eyes blue?” You probed, Derek's eyes falling.  

“When a werewolf takes the life of an innocent, a part of their soul goes dark. Cold even-” You cut him off. “Almost like ice. Ice blue.” you whispered, tears pricking in your eyes as you stood to your feet. You shook, your fingers grabbing at the hem of your jumper as you stepped over Kira’s outstretched legs. “I can’t be in here right now.” you admitted, pulling the door open as you almost spilled out into the hallway. Tears fell from your eyes freely as you felt your heart constrict in your chest, suppressed memories of Seattle rising to the surface from where you buried them. You cantered forwards, grasping your chest as you heaved pressing against a wall as you tried to calm yourself. Take the life of an innocent. The words played in your mind as you stared numbly at the wall in front of you. “Millie?” You heard Stiles speak as he leant against the wall beside you. “What’s wrong?” You shook your head, sobs wracking your chest as you buried your face in his chest for the second time that day. “I can’t tell you. You’ll never look at me the same way Stiles. It was an accident. I never meant to hurt anyone and-” Your words fell from your mouth, muffled by the fabric of Stiles’ shirt. “Millie, nothing you can say can make me hate you or turn me against you.” Stiles’ voice was soft as he pushed you from him, his whiskey eyes finding yours. “My eyes are blue because of Seattle. Because of a reason I left town.” You admitted, tearing your gaze from his. “Millie, you need to tell me more.” He asked as you crumbled to the floor, wrapping your arms over your knees as you rest your head backwards.  “It’s a long story.” You near whispered, biting your lip as he crouched next to you. “I have time.”  

“Back in Seattle I was working this case, right? It was pretty cut and dry, husbands cheating on wife, you know the usual. But this case was long and I hadn’t slept all night.” You paused taking a shaky breath before continuing. “I was on a stakeout and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Mainly because I didn’t want to. It was my anniversary and I wanted to be at home eating Chinese and watching crappy reality TV with my then boyfriend-” Stiles winced as you shook your head. “I shouldn’t have gone. I needed coffee as I was sat there and it was dark. I was texting as I crossed the road, desperately trying to keep my eyes open and I didn’t check if the road was clear.” Your eyes met his as you uttered the words you swore you would never tell another person. “This guy came out of nowhere as I was in the middle of the road and he had to swerve. It was over before I even knew what was happening.” Stiles looked at you as if you were broken, fragile and needing put together again. “They said he died on impact. Not surprising considering the survival rate of totalling your car into a telephone pole is pretty much non-existent.” You tore at the beds of your fingernails as you sighed. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone to get coffee, it was my fault. He died and it was all because of me.” You sniffed, your heart slamming within you as Stiles sat in stunned silence. “So that’s why you left Seattle?” You nodded, wiping your nose as you avoided his gaze.  

“I couldn’t live with myself. I drew back from everything. My boyfriend left me, my mom became worried sick and everything hurt. I grew up in Beacon Hills when I was young before I made any mistakes. I wanted to return to a time where I wasn’t who I am now.” Stiles shook his head as he pulled you to him. “Who are you now? Are you not still Millie?” He asked, his words moving over you as you latched your arms around his waist. “I’m still Millie, but not the person I was before. When I came to Beacon Hills I was broken Stiles. I didn’t know if I could ever put myself back together.” You admitted, pulling from him as you stood again. “But if that’s why my eyes are blue, then you now you know. I would never intentionally hurt someone Stiles. I couldn’t do it. I can’t even live with myself because of an accident.” You swallowed thickly. “Millie, everyone has darkness, everyone is broken okay?” Stiles’ hands covered your own, his fingers lacing with yours. “No one ever wants to admit it.” he added, forcing your eyes to meet his. “So, don’t ever apologise for needing to talk. I won’t judge you because I know you wouldn’t judge me.” You nodded, his grip on your hand getting tighter as he nodded towards the living room once more. “You got this. We can get through this.” He squeezed you reassuringly as he pushed the door open. Wiping the tears from your eyes you followed him back through, your lips caught between your teeth as you returned to your spot on the floor.  

“Sorry you guys.” You spoke as your voice cracked, the noise now coming as a whisper. “Never apologise Millie, it’s a lot to deal with.” Derek smiled, his usually stony face contorting in a way that made you see him in a different light. “Derek, you said that taking the life of an innocent makes your eyes blue?” You asked, finding your voice again, your fingers knotting themselves together. “Yeah, why?” He asked, already knowing the answer. “It doesn’t have to be since you turned does it?” You swallowed as you waited for a response, your heart suspended as he mulled it over. “I don’t think it matters when it happened. If your eyes are blue, then they are blue. We’ll still accept you. Hell, even Malia’s eyes are blue.” He pointed to her as you stopped yourself from scoffing. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. “Thanks Derek.” You smiled, your eyes still not quite meeting his. “Don’t worry about it. Now we just have to figure out how you got bit.” He spoke, a worried glance flashing over his face as he looked at Stiles. “Stiles you reek of guilt.” He stated as Stiles shifted in his seat, rubbing his hands nervously over his thigh, one hand placed at his mouth. “I know exactly who bit her, the only one who we haven’t been able to keep an eye on?” Stiles said it like everyone would know, that it was obvious. But the blank stares on everyone’s face said differently.  

“Peter.” He stated, his tone dry as he gestured with his arms, almost coming off the seat entirely. “You mean Peter Hale?” You asked, the name familiar as you remembered your case file on your coffee table. “Yeah, how do you know Peter Hale?” Stiles asked, his brows furrowed as he chewed on his fingertips. “Derek told me about him, I don’t know much but I think he has something to do with my case?” You were unsure of your words, doubting you’d even remembered correctly as Stiles looked at you. “Do you remember anything from that file?” He asked, his eyes scrunched up as he ran his fingers over his forehead. “Not really, apart from the fire and his family-” You trailed off, looking over to Derek the final barrel clicking on in your mind. “-he was your uncle right Derek?” The words shot out of your mouth like a bullet fired from a gun as he nodded. “But he’s my dad.” you heard Malia talk behind you, her voice dull as she pulled away from her phone. “You have a dad? I thought you just hatched out from underneath a rock somewhere.” You drawled, your voice dry as you realised the words that left your mouth. Malia shot you a look of pure menace, her lips drawn back over bared teeth if you could even call them teeth at this point. “Watch your mouth Omega.” Malia spat as you looked at her confused. “Malia!” Scott roared as Malia returned back a sarcastic look, her brows raised over her eyes as she settled back into her seat. “Sorry.” her eyes widened, rolling back as she spoke unapologetically. “Whatever, you said Peter was your dad?” You asked her as she nodded. “Estranged. But yeah, biologically or whatever.” She added, her eyes never leaving her phone screen.

“So, what would Peter want in Beacon Hills?” You asked, looking over at Scott as he scratched his chin nervously. “He wants revenge most likely.” Stiles interrupted, looking over at Scott as he leant forwards. “Most likely this is 2017 catching up with us.” He said, his eyes scanning the room as everyone appeared downcast. “5 years is a long time to hold a grudge. What could you have possibly done that made him so fucking mad?” You asked, settling back against the wood of the fireplace behind you. “It wasn’t me. It was Scott-” Stiles blinked slowly, running his tongue over his lips. “-and Allison. For you to understand why he would do this we need to tell you of what happened in 2017. There was a war and lives were lost.” You looked at him in confusion, your eyes narrowing. “What do you mean a war?” You implored, hunching forwards on your knees as you watched him squirm. “What you need to understand is things haven’t been easy for us. We’ve fought literal tooth and nail for peace, sometimes paying with our lives. It wasn’t easy but we won. The people that stood against us backed down and we were able to create a peace treaty. As long as the supernatural didn’t harm a human we could co-exist in peace.” He paused a small smile on his face. “We told them that anything to do with the supernatural would be handled by us. Any case would be passed from the sheriff's office straight onto Scott and myself and we’d figure it out. Then it became too much, there was too many cases for just us. Naturally we set up Emissary Investigations, might as well make some money from it right?” He chuckled, his eyes going dark as he changed the subject.  

“Everyone we know signed the truce, the deal was done but we always had suspicions. There were some we knew would break it, some we hoped wouldn’t. Most of them kept out of our way, settling elsewhere. So, we set up in cities all over the world. So far, we have 2 offices in the states. Scott’s beta Liam and his friends are in New York, keeping an eye on the east coast. Isaac’s on loan from the Paris office where he runs the show with Allison’s dad. We have an office in central London, led by two of the world's biggest fucking-” Lydia shot Stiles a look, her eyebrows raised as Stiles’ voice dropped, his tone a lot calmer. “-Sorry, I mean ONE of the world's biggest fucking assholes. Names Jackson, I hope you never have to meet him.” He trailed off, giving Lydia a small smile. “Anyway, we were keeping an eye on everyone until Peter dropped off the grid, the last time we saw him was back after the war. He was pretty pissed that we now had to keep an eye on him. He was always jealous of Scott’s status and when Scott became the poster child for not being an asshole Peter just dropped off the deep end. They got in a huge fight before Peter fucked off somewhere. We’ve been searching for him ever since.” You chewed on your lip as you thought of what he could want. “So, what, he’s pissed because Scott wanted peace?” You asked as Stiles nodded. “Peter wanted this hunters head on a stick Game of Thrones Joffrey style. Scott wouldn’t allow it.” He winked at Scott as you directed a look over at Scott. “He’s coming back to fight you then.” Your eyes connected with Scott's as Allison gripped his arm reassuringly.  

                “No Millie, he’s coming back to kill me.”  

                                            Tell me what you think? 

[jflashandclash]

Attrition of Peace

Twenty-Eight: Kalypso

I Do Target Practice with an Angry Eagle

 Author’s note: Finally back on normal posting track. Thanks for reading guys! If you celebrate, I hope you’re ready for Halloween this year :D Now, stayed tuned to see the Heroes of Olympus face off against the Traitors of Olympus!

 When the hail cleared, Kally peeked over her hiding spot by the trench and saw Pax needed help. Euna had immediately gone into battle, but now Kally had to make a decision: help Calex keep Merry from hyperventilating, or save Pax.

A giant eagle—that Kally could only assume was Frank or a close personal friend of Frank’s—snatched the Silver-Tongued Snake off the lawn, lifted him into the air, then dropped into a free fall with him. During this freefall, the eagle morphed into a black bear to bat the reptilian monster around. Right before they hit the ground, Frank morphed back into an eagle and snatched him back into the air.

Kally had a strange feeling Frank knew about the whole Pax-making-out-with-him-as-Hazel thing.[1]

She had to wonder how betrayed and violated Frank felt to have Pax pretend to be someone he liked to make out with him and steal something important.

Kally growled. Thinking about Nico Di Angelo and her Oath to the River Styx, she didn’t need to imagine it. For a split second, Kally sincerely considered letting Frank continue to pulverize him.

There must have been a demigod or godly help group for that right? I’m sorry, I turned into _____’s husband/wife again. I have gotta stop doing that. If not, she was going to make Pax start it.[2]

Despite her frustration, Kally rose to her feet. She fingered her Argonaut statue as she stepped closer. This would have to be a careful shot, considering she needed the discus to hit her target but not do permanent damage.

As she approached, she could see Pax’s desperation.

Initially, the eagle’s prey looked like a human and a drakon had a baby, and that serpentine baby was writhing and thrashing. The more Kally watched them soar higher, the more her friend came into focus. Kally could see Pax scramble to use his acrobatics—to kick Frank, or flip up to attack the talons digging into his pauldrons.

But nothing worked. Pax couldn’t get enough leverage to dislodge the Frank’s claws.

And they were dropping into another dive.

Kally had to time this perfectly.

When they were almost at the end of the descent, Pax doing what little he could to block the bear’s attacks, Kally took her steps to wind up. Like when fighting the Silver Festus, or Python, she let instinct take over. Energy pulsed through her body, following her twist and releasing through her finger tips.

Just as Frank shifted back into an eagle, latching his talons back into Pax’s shoulders and pumping his wings once to stop their descent, Kally’s discus nailed him.

Frank and Pax collapsed onto the grass with a thud. Fortunately, the drop shouldn’t have been too bad, since Kally timed it right when Frank started to ascend. That physics should work out, right? To not equal murdering the praetor and her friend?

The giant eagle flopped onto the Silver-Tongued Snake and morphed back into Frank.

Naked Frank.

Kally already felt bad knocking Camp Jupiter’s heroic bear out of the sky, considering he was normally more of a teddy bear and less a dangerous one. Now she was mortified. Through all the Mist and hail earlier, she had no idea the praetor would be naked or why he’d be naked.

Pax crawled out from under Frank. “Thanks, Kally!” he called, “That was super hot—er—the you-having-amazing-aim—not the Frank-falling-on-me-naked—”

“Shut up and go help your brother!” she snapped, feeling her cheeks heat up.

Trying not to look at Pax—had he been taller?—or anything else on the battlefield, Kally turned back to Calex and Merry. Calex had one hand pressed between Merry’s collarbones, gently lifting and pressing while saying, “It’s okay. Breathe in. Breathe out,” rhythmically.

Tears streaked down Merry’s cheeks as she shook her head, gasping for air. In all the years Kally had known Merry, she’d never seen her like this. Even after fights with her father where, Kally now knew, Merry’s father had been beating her and her little brother, Merry could always put on a mask and make a joke.

Here, Merry was panicking. “N-no! These aren’t baddies… these are… our friends. Gotta… make ‘em… stop…” she rasped between gasps, “What if… someone else… dies?”

The “what if” was shockingly comforting. If this was Merry’s nightmare-prophecy, at least there wasn’t a definitive, additional death forecasted. Just a what if.

Kally felt like she was reaching a new low when “if someone dies” was a positive.

           Kally clasped Merry’s arm, trying to ignore the shouts and yelps behind them. “Merry, I’m going to drag Frank and Jason out of the battlefield and heal them up as best I can. I’m going to try to get Vinyl Scratch over here, so you guys can make it back to camp to warn Chiron about Eris,” Kally’s voice broke, “I need you to be able to do that, Merry.”

           Calex nodded when Kally faltered, his grey eyes ablaze. Kally could almost see the calculations happening in his head. In the past, Kally remembered Calex fearing he was a coward. He didn’t look like a coward now. He looked scared, but in control, calm, and aware of every consequence, like he’d been studying Axel. This was the boy who had protected his mother from drugged up ex-soldiers in Kakata before Thanatos broke his confidence.

“That’s the source of all of this rubbish. Merry, we can save a lot of campers from violence if we get to them before Eris. Are you ready to help us get this sorted?” he asked.

Merry trembled. She reached up, and took the hand Kally had on her arm and the one Calex had on her collarbone. The sight almost made Kally give a hysterical laugh, seeing how pale and small Merry’s hands looked in Calex’s and how tan and strong Merry’s fingers looked in Kally’s.

Merry’s breathing became more regular as she nodded her head. “You guys,” she managed.  

After all this was over, Kally would need to remember to tease Merry about Calex the same way Merry always teased her about Pax. If Kally could ever work up the courage, considering Merry could tear apart anyone outside of physical battle and considering Merry would immediately do so after.

With that, Kally raced away from the trench into the yard. Fortunately, she didn’t need to dodge much other than charred tree roots and weird stones to get to Frank. She hoped Alabaster didn’t recast that hail spell while she was out here, since she wouldn’t know which way would be back to safety.

Kally tried to keep her focus on Frank for now, before she could let herself think about the others.

Regardless of her concentration, she felt her eyes wander. Watching Alabaster, Euna, and Hazel’s fight was difficult. Not because she liked all three of those people—though that didn’t help either—but Hazel and Alabaster seemed to keep disappearing. Hazel kept shifting in and out of shadows to dodge the vines twisting and snaking around her feet and her opponent’s attacks. Euna kept pivoting to follow Hazel’s movement. She’d extended Kronos’s xiphos into a full scythe again, something that made Kally shiver to see against a good person like Hazel.

Mist kept warping and changing Alabaster’s form. Green runes would glow on his black armor as he trailed Hazel. He and Euna clearly didn’t know how to function as a team yet, which was fortunate for the Roman. Their staff and scythe combo outdistanced Hazel’s spatha, but the Roman seemed to know this, driving in close when she could.

Maybe fifteen feet away from them, Percy was on his feet, facing off the Pax brothers. Well, sort of on his feet. Instead of balancing Percy’s weight on what must have been a torn ligament, Kally could make out a watery bubble encasing Percy’s injured limb; he’d made himself a liquid leg cast.

Practical. Will would applaud if…

Kally tried not to tear up. True, she’d only known her half-brother for a few months, but…

She skidded to a stop when she reached Frank. Somehow, she’d forgotten he was naked. Keeping her eyes above waist level—or at least trying—she fumbled to withdraw an ambrosia square from her messenger bag. When Kally knelt down and tilted his head back to give it to him, she could feel the knot forming on his skull.

He would have a nasty concussion.[3] There were cuts all over him from Pax’s daggers and bruises from the fall. He shivered in the cold.

Maybe she could sing while dragging Frank to the side of the house. She thought she’d seen Annabeth, Calypso, and Piper there. It would be safer than leaving him out here, within ten feet of the fight.

But, carrying the large Chinese Canadian—

Kally almost yelped when Calex appeared at her side. The son of Eros had taken the time to sling Merry across his back. Unlike his usual bridal sweep, he’d picked her up fireman style, with Merry’s stomach and face down across his shoulders, one of his arms laced through her legs and the other lacing through one arm. Much less graceful, but more mobile.  

Although Kally couldn’t imagine how, he let go of Merry’s arm to lean down and take Frank’s just below the elbow. “You got the other arm, Kal?” he asked.

Kally nodded, grabbing Frank’s other arm at the same spot.

As smoothly as possible, they dragged Frank towards the side of the house. Kally breathed out the words to any song about sunshine she could think of, knowing she had to keep Frank from any more brain damage. Kally wished they had a towel or something they could wrap him in. When she glanced ahead—

Kally dropped Frank.  

“Kallybae, I know Calex is a big teddybear but he can’t—”

She ignored Merry’s mumbles and sprinted ahead.

Where she could see her namesake smothering Annabeth with Percy’s hoodie.

No one but them would have been able to see her. Calypso, Annabeth, and Piper were further towards the front of the yard, where Calypso or someone must have dragged them away to keep them safe from Festus, Leo, and the weasels.

Instinct completely took over as Kally closed in.

Calypso teared up while shoving the material into the unconscious girl’s face. She didn’t hear Kally or notice her until Kally nailed her foot into Calypso’s chest, the same way she might kick a soccer ball for a final goal.

Calypso flopped backwards with a gasp of air. Kally could envision Pax shouting, “GOAL!” while running in circles, if he wasn’t off helping his brother.

Once done, Kally tore the hoodie from Annabeth’s face. She exhaled in relief to find the daughter of Athena still breathing without assistance. Annabeth’s face was just flushed.

Calypso gasped on the ground. Kally had to wonder if she’d broken a few of the girl’s ribs. She didn’t look mad, just startled. “I—I was supposed… supposed to be healing…” she gaped. “Thought about… being alone on the island…. Another hundred years… and…”

Calypso released another sob.

Kally couldn’t tell if this was an act or not. She didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, Calex stepped up beside them. He’d set Merry down near Annabeth, so he could pick up Calypso.

She squirmed and struggled. “No!” she tried to shout, though she was still winded. “Put me down! Leo! Help!”

With a quiet rage, Calex carried her to the edge of the trench. One stretch of the ditch ended by the border of the property. He knelt down and said, softly, “If you ever try something like that again, or if Annabeth ever gets hurt, and I think it might have been your doing, so help me God, I’ll assure no one ever loves you again.”

Calypso stopped struggling. Her almond eyes went wide. The tangles of her cinnamon hair looked dramatic fluttering in the wind with Calex’s black scarf.

“Trust me. I’m a son of Eros. I can do that,” he stated.

Then Calex dropped her into the trench.

Calypso let out a breathy scream before a subtle thump hit somewhere ten feet down.

Calex rose, flipped his scarf back over one shoulder, adjusted his black-and-red Arsenal beanie, and walked back towards them.

Merry spoke for both of them when saying, “Boy, you can be a much scarier teddy when your fan crush is on the line.”

“That’s sorted,” he said as a we’re not talking about this response. “How about it, Captain? What’s next?”

Kally almost gawked to realize he was talking to her. Instead, she felt her mouth moving of her own accord, like he hadn’t just signed over their metaphorical sailing ship to get hit by a train by some slip of cruel and unlikely fate. “You and Merry should still take Vinyl—”

He put two fingers into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle.

“—get to Camp Half-Blood—”

Galloping erupted from the other side of the house. A blast of sparks appeared beside her, and she was startled to see a black and crimson stallion huffing there with an unconscious weasel in its teeth.

She reached out and gently took the weasel from Vinyl, who huffed again, probably to say, Take it before I eat it for a midnight snack. The California Long-Tailed Weasel had a patch of black spots—Hunnie. She tried not to tear up at how singed the weasel was.

“—and still warn them. Chiron and Dionysus trust you. I’ll stay here and try to heal who I can. They—they don’t have a healer anymore—s-so…”

Kally had to stop or else she knew she’d cry. This situation had gotten so chaotic. She wanted to say she’d stop the fighting, but she didn’t know how to do that. And she wanted to say that she would heal everyone as best she could, but Will had been a far better and more experienced healer than she was, and he was dead.

As Calex picked up Merry to lift her onto Vinyl Scratch’s back, she gave Kally a warm grin. “You got this, Kallybae. Look at how much you can do when you’re not being a doormat.”

That sapped the tears right out of Kally. She scowled at Merry while Calex saddled up behind her. “Shut up and get back to camp,” Kally snapped, the words coming out as easy as if she were scolding Pax.

“Oh! Fiesty. The new Kallydear has no end to her sass,” Merry continued.

Kally could tell she was trying to cheer her up. It just hit her that Merry was probably as scared of leaving Kally as Kally was of staying. Merry should be okay with Calex and Vinyl though, right?  

“Kal,” Calex said, putting a hand to Vinyl’s mane, “I trust Axel, and—Hades, I can’t believe I’m saying this about that dodgy perv—but I trust Pax enough not to be a complete idiot. I don’t trust that Alabaster bloke. I know you think he’s fit, but he’s wrong in the head. Broken and angry. Be careful around him.”

Kally felt like she should have been offended or confused by Calex’s assertion, but he was a son of Eros. And, she knew what he meant.

Merry managed to give her a brief thumbs up before they heard someone say, “Are you three trying to escape from Commander Toolbelt? Because I have some pretty strict orders from an unconscious eagle, and I’ve still got a bone to pick with you for the Leo and Calypso House Party Incident of October uh—whatever year this is!”

Kally turned to see Leo Valdez standing beside the house. His impish features were contorted into a scowl that seemed unfamiliar to his face. He scanned the area, like he was looking for their big red self-destruct buttons or whatever machinists did. Kally swallowed when she realized he was looking for Calypso and checking to assure they hadn’t killed anymore of his downed friends. A small makeshift cage containing a white weasel dangled from his belt and banged against his thigh.

“Where’s Calypso? And what did you—scratch that. I don’t want to know what’s going on with Frank’s clothing.”

Leo shoved a hand to the side.

Fire extended in a wall, meeting up with the end of Hazel’s trench. Either they needed to run through that or turn back towards the battle.

Calex huffed, raising his chin. “She’s gone mental, mate.” He turned back to Kally. “You still got this, Kal?”

Kally nodded her head, uncomfortable with how much confidence he had in her to “still have this.” Whatever that meant when facing someone that could make this yard look like the Fourth of July with the snap of his fingers.

“Go,” she said.

“Leo!” Calypso’s voice came from over the edge of the trench.

Leo flinched and searched for the source of her voice.

“Vinyl,” Calex called.

Instead of rushing towards the fire, or back towards the battle, the unicorn took off towards the trench in a rainbow blur. Although Kally couldn’t see well enough to tell, the blur didn’t seem to break stride while hopping over the gap.

Leo’s fire sizzled to smoke at their escape. “Hey! No rainbows or unicorns allowed!” he shouted.

Kally fumbled inside her messenger pack, shoving Hunnie inside for now. She should have picked up her discus when she was dragging Frank. There was an imperial gold knife in her bag, but she didn’t want to go flaming-sledgehammer to knife. Leo already had a slight one-up on her in being flame resistant and the whole human torch thing. And, for some weird reason, the knife kept pressing into the side of the bag, like it wanted to fly towards the battle. She should really keep that blade away from Hunnie.

Leo turned to face her dead on, a crazed smile coming to his face as he shifted his steam-punk goggles down over his eyes. She’d once heard Will describe him as a rogue Santa’s helper that was high on sugar. That summed it up.

This fight hadn’t even started and Kally knew who would win.

           Then a gigantic snake rose from the grass beside her—or what Kally thought was a snake initially. Both Leo and she flinched before recognizing the serpentine helm of the Silver-Tongued Snake as the humanoid figure stood to its full height.

           “This is Alabaster’s property, and, I assure you, he welcomes both unicorns and rainbows. You speciest and colorist,” the monster hissed.[4]

           For an instant, Kally forgot it wasn’t a monster. The bronze scales of his breastplate seemed to blend in as skin in the Mist. A tail flickered in and out of her line of sight, twisting about the grass and shadows. This couldn’t have been Pax. This monster was… was…

           “Dude, weren’t you like way shorter before?” Leo demanded. He’d taken a step back in alarm, mirroring Kally.

           “Pax?” she squeaked to second Leo’s confusion.

           Pax loomed several feet above both Kally and Leo.

           A hissing laugh slithered from his helm. “Oh, I only grow more powerful and influential in the midst and heat of chaos and war. Ha—ha! Heat. It’s funny because Leo’s hands were on fire.”

           “Over explaining it, hombre,” Leo said, “To think I thought you were fun at the party. Augh, two out of ten for a lazy joke, and that two is just out of pity.”

He fidgeted his fingers along the sledgehammer. His eyes flicked to the side of the house, where the others must have still been battling. Judging by the way the wind whipped a blast of salty rain into them, Kally had a feeling Percy hadn’t been taken out yet.

           She frowned and shoved some of the golden hair out of her eyes. “Pax, Axel needs you to help fight Percy. You don’t need to—”

           “That’s why I’m here. We’re losing but it’s not a party without Leo there. He’s our backup plan,” the way Pax said it disheartened Kally. He sounded tired and… sad.

“You and I are a lot alike,” Pax said to Leo. The words were more… personal and light-hearted than his prior comment. Pax stepped forward and angled his body to shut Kally out of the conversation, like he wanted Leo to forget she was there. Between his tone and body language, Kally felt like an intruder.

“I think the comparisons stop at the bat belt and hot accents,” Leo disagreed, fingering his tool belt with one hand. Absently, he’d withdrawn some wires and began to fiddle with them.

Pax shrugged, holding his hands up helplessly. No weapons drawn. “And an appreciation for beautiful women named Calypso. Both C and K respectively.”

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Kally said, “but keep me out of it.” She suddenly hoped he’d go back to ignoring her. The way he was moving and talking, Kally wasn’t sure what Pax wanted her to do: if he had this fight and she could go back to get Frank, or was intentionally making a distraction so Kally could retrieve her discus for a double heroicide.

“And we also both want to switch out all the Diet Pepsi for Diet Coke in the camp and film Mr. D’s reaction to get the best soft drink trailer that Mount Olympus has ever seen,” Pax said.

“You know we’re fighting right? Not just listing off things that definitely are going to happen at camp in the near future?” Leo asked. The wires in Leo’s hand were suspiciously forming some kind of trap-like object. Kally wanted to warn Pax, but he seemed to know.

Kally took a step backwards. If nothing else, she’d need her discus, and maybe Calex and she had dropped Frank far enough away from the battle to heal him.

Pax laughed. The hysteria in his voice made her pause.

“A machinist and an information broker. When you and I are panicking during a fight, it means we haven’t done our jobs right at the beginning. We can’t heal people. We can’t make people do what we want with our voices. We can’t really seem to help without blowing something up… literally…” Pax gestured towards Leo. “Emotionally.” He gestured towards himself.

“Hades, your dragon is in pieces on the other side of this house, and my weasel is missing. Here we both are, scrambling to pick up the pieces, because we fucked up. You knew about the Leonis Caput, since he attacked you, but you were too worried about Calypso and Percy to take the proper anti-kitty precautions. I wanted a hug so bad that I wouldn’t go inside. We could have prevented this.”

The trap-mechanism looked complete in Leo’s hands, almost like a hybrid between a leg cage and a bear trap. But his fingers were slowing down as Leo’s expression soured.

“Um, are you surrendering or something? Because, while I applaud your creativity, a traditional white flag will do over this inspiring speech.”

Kally understood Leo’s hesitation. There was a desperation in Pax’s voice, like it was about to pinpoint the single incident in Leo’s life that—if he’d made a different choice—would have left the world perfect. She felt like she couldn’t move until the Silver-Tongued Snake finished talking.

“You see, we’re the people who… when those that we love start to die, can’t do anything but make jokes… fake a smile, and pretend to be okay. Because what better way to mourn someone than to force a smile?”

Leo’s lip twitched.

Kally felt sick to her stomach. She remembered Howe’s Cavern, when she thought Python was going to kill her and Will, and a rage inside her set off a weird sun blast. Pax triggered it. He had spoken like he knew what happened to her mother, like he’d peeled her fears from the corner edges of her brain and forced her to confront them.

As though reading her thoughts now, the serpentine monster hissed, “Kally, go heal Frank. I don’t want you to see me do this again.”

Footnotes!

[1] Mel’s beta notes: “And a whole list of other shit Pax has done to him personally!”

[2] But that means Pax would need to spend time around Zeus, and that has bad idea written ALL over it.

[3] If you’ve read my first two stories, you’ve probably heard me say this before, but I wince when head injuries are used as knock outs for shows, movies, and books. I had to rewrite this line three times because I kept writing “nauseous” instead of “massive” concussion. Stupid Freudian slips!

[4] A colorist is actually an artist who uses colors in a special way, like a hairdresser that works with dyes. I’m not sure Pax has ever seen a hairdresser, of—if he has—the hairdresser could live through the shock of dealing with his hair, so excuse his misuse of the word.

[thescholarlystrumpet]

Covenant Rated Explicit

Gold didn't know why she'd come that first day. Boredom. Curiosity, maybe. It wasn't just to lure the eyes of pious men or else she wouldn't have made her way to his confessional, filled his burning ears with her filthy secrets. He'd sent her away with a stern admonishment and enough Hail Marys to keep her dirty mouth occupied until the next Sunday service.

And then she returned. Week after week. Another barely appropriate dress, another crimson lipped smile, another session on that wooden bench. Her sweet, liquor-scented voice filling the closed-in space, ripe with new temptations.

Escort!Lacey x Priest!Gold

On AO3 HERE

***

He knew the moment she'd entered the confessional booth. Before that, really. The unsteady tapping of her heels as she approached was a dead giveaway, hips rolling in that exaggerated figure eight. No one else in town walked like that. Even here, she'd be advertising.

Who was he kidding? Especially here.

Her spicy perfume wafted toward him and his mouth went dry. There was a greeting he'd have given anyone else on the other side of that screen. It was traditional and stoic and he could recite it in his sleep. Had probably done just that, in the hazier summer months, when his head and eyelids began to droop in that claustrophobic little cubby.

Offering an ear to sinners was a surprisingly monotonous way to pass the time.

So it had seemed, until Lacey French came click-clacking into his church. He'd seen her in the pews that very first morning and known, instinctively, that she wasn't looking for absolution. There was something too keenly predatory in her gaze, a defensive steeliness of her spine. She was dangerously lovely.

An old lady in a feathered hat had whispered to him. “That's the French girl. Pity what happened there. She used to be a nice girl.”

Father Gold had surveyed the French girl's demure dress, high necked and falling just above the knee. A contrast to her red painted mouth, the corners curling upward at other townsfolk in a smile that was more challenge than greeting.  

Despite his desire to appear uninterested in town gossip, he found himself asking what had happened. He had only come to Storybrooke parish a little while ago and this woman in the ridiculous hat was all too happy to indulge his curiosity.

With malicious glee, the old woman recounted the fall of the town hussy. “Used to be she was just hustling pool down by the harbor. Wasn't bad enough, I ‘spose. Now she's selling something else, entirely.” The woman made a tutting sound. “Disgraceful, touting her wares in a house of God.”

Gold’s lips had pressed thin, teeth gnashing back an unexpected ire. “It seems to me that Miss French has as much right to be here as any of His children. And if she is what you say, would you have me turn away the Magdalene, come humbly to His house?”

The woman’s face had turned a satisfactory shade of puce before she bowed her head in false contrition.

Of course, Lacey wasn't really here humbly. Not when she caught his eye, boldly and deliberately, and winked. Not when she stood from the pew and turned, revealing her pale, smooth back left completely uncovered by the turquoise fabric of her dress.

Gold didn't know why she'd come that first day. Boredom. Curiosity, maybe. It wasn't just to lure the eyes of pious men or else she wouldn't have made her way to his confessional, filled his burning ears with her filthy secrets. He'd sent her away with a stern admonishment and enough Hail Marys to keep her dirty mouth occupied until the next Sunday service.

And then she returned. Week after week. Another barely appropriate dress, another crimson lipped smile, another session on that wooden bench. Her sweet, liquor-scented voice filling the closed-in space, ripe with new temptations.

It was different today, when she slithered into the dim little box. There was an air of breathless anticipation to her. He could practically hear her panting from the other side of the latticed window.

He'd already gone too long without speaking those scripted words, this time. Too long with the silence stretching and twisting around his bowstring taut limbs. Tension coiling, serpentine in his belly. No matter. She'd heard it dozens of times, by now. She could have greeted him the same way for all the words had any substance in these moments.

“Miss French,” he said, at last, feeling like an echo, a hollow sound carried over from when the formality still meant something.

“A new customer came to see me last night,” she spoke without greeting, without preamble, as though picking up the thread of a previous conversation. “He... reminded me of you. Same height and build. Same sort of… gentility. I guess you might call it ‘grace.’” She shifted in her seat, the fabric of her skirt rustling as she exhaled slowly. “He had that same lost, wild look in his eye. The one you get when you think no one is looking.”

Gold felt his face grow hot.

“But he couldn't be you, could he, Father ?” She wielded his title in her mouth like a weapon, loaded and precise. “No white collar. Nothing to bind him or hold him back. And he wore blue. Rich and deep blue, a… a sumptuous color, I could almost call it.” Her fingers pressed against the latticework covering the window between them. He could feel her watching him.

Gold willed himself not to look up, not to meet those bright blue eyes peering through the mesh, piercing and forceful as an ocean wave. One look from her would be the undertow, pulling him down down down. He could face the thought of drowning. What he hated was how badly he wanted it.

“You always wear black,” she continued, conversationally. “Black as night - the kind without stars. The witching hour where secrets can hide in plain sight.” A slightly dramatic pause.  “Black as sin.”

Lacey always had a way with words. She could have been a poet, in another life. For all he knew, she was one already. He knew nothing of her beyond what passed between them, the way her voice whispered over his flesh, a caress with razor-sharp talons.

“But you wouldn't know anything about Sin, now would you Father? I mean, not from personal experience anyway. Not that visceral, hands on kind of education.” She hummed, a sad little sound that mocked the idea of pity. Lacey didn't take pity on him. If she did, she'd have stopped coming back.

Gold said nothing. What could he say to that, after all? It wasn’t really a question.

“This man… he barely said a word when I let him in the door. Could hardly meet my eye. But we don't always need words in my profession. They're only useful to a point.” Lacey leaned back, her hand falling away to smooth her skirt over her lap.

Gold allowed himself to watch this, to let hungry eyes drink their fill so long as she was pretending not to see him. The unobserved observer.

Shameful voyeur that he was.

She heaved a long sigh, chest rising and falling slowly beneath a pink satin top “He watched me undress…” her hand toyed with the top button, just above the slope of her breasts, “and the way he looked at me…. oh, Father…” another deep breath, her knees falling apart. “It was like prayer, like holy contemplation. Of my breasts and my waist, my hips, my legs.” Her hand slid the length of her body as she spoke, stroking each area as she gave its name. “But he couldn't quite bring himself to look directly at it. The thing he wanted most. The reason he'd brought himself to my door in dark of night.”

She hitched her skirt, up past lean thighs that spread open with the movement. Of course she’d gone bare beneath it.

Gold reminded himself to breathe. Then sucked in a lungful of air so sharply it burned. He savored the hurt.

Lacey's eyes were heavy lidded, one hand skimming the length of exposed thigh, trailing red tipped fingers up and back. “I feel no shame in the naked form, you - of all people - know that. Maybe I never inherited that lingering taste of apple, I don't know. I make my living with this body and I thought I knew it's worth, by now. Plenty of men have looked at me before, but none of them like that. I felt venerated, adored, and devoured all at once. In his eyes, I felt like I didn't have a price, anymore.”

Gold’s eyes closed, just briefly, savoring the slick scent that now joined her perfume. He took long greedy breaths, coating his tongue in her taste.

“I watched him get hard, watched him decide if he would take himself in hand or let me. And I wanted him to let me. In that moment, I was moved. I've never been like that before. Not with a customer. Not even with a casual lover. But last night, I was consumed with the thought of how this man would taste, how he'd feel moving inside me.” Lacey laughed softly, “And he hadn't even removed his suit jacket.”

Gold clenched both hands, letting his nails bite little half moons into his palms. His body was flushed and trembling, straining at his zipper, painfully confined.

“Do you know what I did next, Father? I think you do. I think you know exactly how I undressed him. How I sucked him until he moaned my name. I think you know how I laid him back onto my bed and let him touch me all over with those tender, shaking hands. Like he’d never been with a woman before. Or at least not in a very, very long time.” Her eyes met his at last, one brow arching high.

Gold swallowed a whimper, feeling the sweat lick a path down his spine. This was madness. The tortuous and tantalizing edge of Hell. His body moving step by step down a path swept clear by a that lipsticked mouth and those swiveling hips. It was his choice to make - to choose faith or the Fall. Safer to stay put (because if they switched seats, he’d have to admit he’d already chosen.) He looked away.

“He made me come on his fingers. Twice. I didn’t even have to fake it.” Another little laugh, wryer than the last time. “I was soaked the moment he touched me, the moment he made it real.” She released a shaky sigh, her voice lowering to a whisper as she leaned forward. “Is that what worship feels like?” When he still did not reply, Lacey slapped her hand against the latticed window, just hard enough to make him jump. “Tell me, Father! Because you would be the one to know: Was I the golden calf or the sacrificial lamb?”

His eyes flicked back to hers, just over her rounded fingertips. Their gazes locked, hers filled with wildfire and a million unanswered questions. His… he could only imagine what she read there.

Lacey’s lower lip shook and she sunk her teeth into it. When she spoke again, it was with the softness of a lover, raw silk wrapped around her hidden bleeding heart. “I kissed that man, Father. I never kiss. Not on the lips. But I needed him to know... “ her tongue traced the seam of her lips. “When he kissed back, it tasted like goodbye.” She exhaled slowly, her throat working soundlessly.

Gold licked his own lips, searching out that phantom kiss, one hand reaching toward the window of its own volition.  “Lacey,” he breathed, seeking the warmth of her palm through the mesh and wood.

Lacey blinked rapidly and shook her head. “Please…. just tell me that’s not what it meant.”

It was a rarity to see her so unguarded, a jewel in the rough that cut him deeper than any veiled barb could reach. Slicing through his defensive wall of silence.

“A man should make no promises he cannot keep.” His voice was low and rasping from lack of use, pressed flat by the lump now residing at the back of his throat.

Lacey was very still, her eyes sliding closed. “Then don’t make me any promises.” Her eyes opened again and caught his, holding them for a long moment. “Until next week, Father.”

Father Gold nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

[deathprincess98]

OCwatch Week day 2/3

So here is my days two and three for Ocwatch week, Sorry it starts out kinda angsty, the begining really probably should be part of day 5 whatever, I hope you enjoy, more of Jack Morrison and Astra Veli 

Day 2 and day 3 mix Prompt: Domestic and Laughter.

Five years, Jack had never been happier, the days of the Overwatch recall behind him now, the world still wasn’t fully safe but it was better since the omnic-sapien treaty was put into effect. Jack had decided that he would go back to Indiana with the love of his life Astra Veli, she twenty-five and he forty-eight, the age difference didn’t matter to them because Jack had never felt younger, she was the light in his life and helped him through the tough nights when the battles of the first and second omnic crisis came back to haunt him.

Astra had been one of the agents that had joined up after the recall, a brilliant hacker that had cracked the code in the bastions systems and found a way to shut them down, saving many lives, but she didn’t like to stay at the base and give directions and information to ground units, knowing her place was right beside the soldiers she gave information to, and too many times Jack had watched her nearly die from being peppered with bullet holes. Mercy had told her that she was pushing her luck thin, Astra never listened, she’d draw fire to herself to give others time to retreat or take cover, Jack believed she would have been a good SEP soldier, but she wasn’t enhanced in any way, just an ordinary girl from Kings Row who didn’t like letting those around her die.

Her luck did run out, Astra was engaged in a firefight with a bastion unit, stranded when Jack had called a retreat she couldn’t make it and the team couldn’t get to her, having run out of bullets Astra made a run for it, the Bastion was faster and launched  helix rockets right into her, that day Jack had never been more scared, only one rocket had hit its mark, Astra lost her left leg at the hip, when the bastion moved on, Jack and the team moved in, there was so much blood, Mercy didn’t believe she would make it, they got her back to base and into the infirmary, Genji carrying her since he was the fastest, Jack and mercy right behind him.

After ten grueling hours and many scares, she was stabilized. Jack was told that she still may not make it, she lost way too much blood if she did she’d never be able to fight again, prosthetic or not it would take too much time for her to learn to walk again.

The buzz of the coffee machine pulled jack from his thoughts and memories, he walked across the hardwood floors to the machine and poured himself a cup of coffee, sighing softly and picking up his cup, Jack walked out to the front porch, it was mid summer now and the morning air was warm, the sun was just peeking above the horizon, Astra would be asleep for a few more hours yet.

After the accident Astra had been fitted with a prosthetic leg, only problem was that she was too stubborn and too prideful for her own good, she never wanted to wear it, after an incident where she had been on the firing range, leaning  too heavily on her crutch to shoot properly and being knocked down by the kick of the rifle she’d been shooting with. Frustrated and upset she had been found by Gabriel Reyes, ex Blackwatch commander and ex-Talon agent known as reaper, he picked her up, picked up her crutch and carried her back to her room, the man had always been a father figure to her every since they met when she was just nine years old. Gabriel had sat her down and gave her the same speech he gave to Jesse Mccree when he lost his arm, Jack had only heard part of it because he had been coming to see Astra.

“You are not any less of an agent because of this injury, do you understand me baby girl? I know you are stronger than this, so stop moping around and start getting back on your feet”

Gabriel had always been good with words, he had gotten through to her cause the next day she was wearing her prosthetic and training with both Lucio and Genji.

Jack felt arms slide around his waist and the warm body of his lover pressed against his back, her face pressed into his shirt as she inhaled his scent.

Astra loved how Jack smelled, but she couldn’t describe it, something along the mix of soft worn leather, fresh rain and cinnamon, it was an odd combination but she loved it and she loved him.

“Good Morning” Jack deep voice rumbled into her ears, smiling she stepped around him gingerly and looked at him, lifting her hand to run a finger over the long scar that cut across his face, Jack caught her hand in his and kissed the back of it “You’re not yet awake fully are you dear?”  he asked, only getting a hum in return, Astra was never a morning person, chuckling he guided her back into the house and got her a cup of ginger orange tea, two tablespoons of sugar and a splash of lemon, she wasn’t a coffee drinker either, but he didn’t care, once she was settled he sat at the dining room table with her and watched her slowly wake up, even half asleep she could be silent when walking, a perk of training with the Shimada Brothers Genji and Hanzo, neither the cyborg or yakuza heir had scared her, more memories danced across Jack’s mind.

Astra learning how to move silently from Genji, her learning how to put the silence to her skills, for both stealth, and in combat, the pair had pushed her past breaking point then put her back together in a matter of months, it was both incredible and terrifying that she could learn, pick up and adapt to training that had taken them years to learn.

“We should cook breakfast this morning, pancakes sound rather yummy, don’t you think?”  Jack blinked and looked at Astra, her dark green eyes more awake and alert than they had been moments ago.

“Pancakes?” Jack thought about it and nodded “Sounds good” when Astra smiled Jack chuckled, neither of them was really breakfast eaters but he could never say no to her, even back in overwatch Astra had him wrapped around her pretty little fingers.

So the pair got up and started to get the ingredients out for pancakes, flour, eggs, milk, butter, sugar…etc, everything was going fine until Astra turned quickly with the flour and had to duck to avoid jack who was right behind her, the sudden movement cause the flour to poof up and cover them both in white dust.

Jack blinked the flour from his eyes and looked down at Astra, she had a large innocent grin on her face as she tried not to laugh, a smile cracked on jack’s lips as he started to laugh, Astra blushed listening to his laughter, she could never get enough of it.

Holding the flour still in her arms she grabbed a little handful and threw it at jack, when it hit him, he looked at her with a raised eyebrow, Astra fled and threw more flour at him, laughing as she went, they ended up outside throwing flour at each other until they were covered head to toe in it. 

The sun was mid way into the sky now, Jack and Astra sat in the grass holding hands, smiles on their faces, something so simple could cause so much laughter between them.

Astra looked at Jack then leaned over and kissed his cheek “I love you, Jack, it looks like we will have to make something else for breakfast”

Jack chuckled and looked at her “I love you too, and it appears that way, so what would you like?”

Astra hummed as she thought “maybe something less messy..like scrambled eggs?”

Nodding to her request Jack stood then helped her to her feet and they started back towards the house, hand in hand.

[hathorahbrightwing]

Whisked Away

Slowly he awoke, her keen sense of hearing noticed his yawn and stretch as he woke. She smirked, knowing it would not be long before he joined her on the terrace of her private estate. An estate that she had somehow managed to keep a secret from everyone…even Jan. Tempakuron was not even aware of it until a few weeks after their first kiss. She smiled with a softness that seemed so unlike her as she recalled that afternoon, though in all truth these past few months he had changed her in ways she never would have thought possible.

“Where in the light are you taking me woman?” he shouted over the whipping wind as his teeth chattered from the cold. All his plate and furs proving inadequate for the coldest reaches of the Storm Peaks. Her refuge, her sanctuary away from the world she now knew, her safe house, and her chosen location for solitude. When she had heard of the fall of Arthas, she practically ran here, as if she needed proof of his demise. While scourge still peppered the landscapes and terrorized the creatures they would easily fall and posed little to no real threat. She could not contain her smile as they marched closer and closer to her hidden home. Nestled high above the snowy plains just east of the Terrace of the Makers and North of Camp Tunak’lo she found it to be a perfect location. Though Tempakuron seemed to disagree as he mumbled complaints under his breath, he hated the cold but she loved it. Something about the delicate flakes of snow falling from so high, undamaged and creating a blanket over everything in sight to make it all the same. Making everything…equal.

After a hike of nearly half an hour they reached the gates. Gates standing only about eight feet high, made of what seemed pure dark iron and steel, embellished with small cobalt blue stones hidden within the curls of the iron work.

“We’re here…” she took in a deep breath, she had never even told anyone of this place much less brought them here but they were in a rather precarious situation. She a death Knight, him a paladin and engaged to a High Priestess. IF anyone were to discover them who knows what punishments might befall them both. As they approached the front doors two men came out from the shadows, startling Tempakuron. As he went to draw his blade she held out her hand sternly telling him to stop, and of course he paid attention slowly fed the long golden sword back into it’s sheath.

“Have the preparations been made?” she asked the man on the left

“Yes, my lady, preparations have been made and you have provisions to last upwards of a month.” He bowed his head and kept it down.

“Very good, none are to pass those gates without my say so. Put up the wards and have Velnnah oversee it all. Nobody leaves, nobody enters is that clear?” she said sternly.

“Yes madam”

Tempakuron stood in surprise…” My lady...?” he asked her inquisitively as he raised a brow. This was news to him, she had always been so reserved and private, he never had known much about who she had been before her undeath. She simply gave him a glance over her shoulder with a small shrug, as if this was nothing. As he looked about slowly forms and buildings revealed themselves from the shadows. Rangers and hunters on the rooftops and terraces with bows, rogues along the perimeter, various plate wearing men and women patrolling the expansive grounds. To his right a small Mage Tower could be seen, standing maybe four stories tall. Such unique architecture, the building itself made with dark blue stones, though on each new level there was one ring of red. Frost and Fire perhaps? As they walked forward many buildings could now be seen. To his left what looked like a large greenhouse…here in the Storm Peaks! An intricate stone walk way below his feet lead to an estate greater than his own, standing only three stories tall but made with large black stones, peppered with more blue stones. Various terraces seeming to connect to rooms on the inside with beautifully made rod iron bars, that seem to copy the great gate with their intricate design and gems. Smoke billowing from 3 different stacks from the roof of the estate, that signify fires burning inside to shelter the inhabitants from the cold. As they approached the front doors he noted a crest to the right laid in stone. Fantastically made honestly, work like this would have taken many weeks. Two phoenixes are depicted, with a large shield in the middle hiding the point where the bodies of the two mythical birds’ bodies connect. The bird on the left is a bright red, with cobalt blue eyes. The face depicted as almost angry or in pain, and as he looked down he noticed the talons, the one on the left held a single rose with black petals. Homage to the name Hathorah had once taken. The bird on the right however was different, blacker but still with red hues mixed in. It’s eye fel green like most other Sin’Dorei, and in it’s talon it holds a small rose stem covered in black thorns. On the shield in the middle was the crest itself, a traditional depiction of a proper and noble house. One that would only be bestowed to those with noble blood in their veins, there was no mistaking. This was the crest of Brightwing. The letter B in the middle of the shield in gold, with a dark blood red background and back outline written in an old English style. How she managed to keep this place so hidden even from him was beyond him, though he had come to learn she was never one to be predictable.

With one forceful push she flung open the doors of the estate, warmth escaping into the cold air as the snows blew in to the foyer. As they entered a woman he had not even seen closed the doors. Hathorah walked past the grand staircase and into a room on the left, as he walked in he was welcomed by the warmth of a fire.

Quickly he took a seat in front of the fire and opened his furs to let in the welcome sensation of warmth. The numbness of the cold fading. The cold of course did not affect her in such a way, she was after all undead and had spent much time in Northrend while under the command of the Lich King. As he warmed by the fire she watched as he took in the room. This was her study, a place she would often write. A place she had often written of him.

“Hathorah…how long have you had this place?” he asked quietly as he looked over his shoulder.

“About a year now, since before my attack. “she replied quickly.

“And the crest…who is the other half?” he pointed to the same crest that had been outside that was also above the fire he sat in front of. She sighed heavily, even though it was him she hated to give out her secrets.

“My brother…younger brother. While I was known as the Black Rose he is known as the Black Thorn. We are very close him and I, you will meet him with time. He isn’t one for the cold. He is back in Eversong.”

“Well you are always full of surprises aren’t you. Here I thought you came from a quaint house and came back after your liberation to nothing…. now I find that is rather far from the truth.” He looked around in awe. Finally, stopping as his eyes fell on to her.

“My Father was Erovan Brightwing” she said hesitantly “My real name is Lor’Nei, and I now hold the entire Brightwing estate aside from what my Great Uncle holds as Ranger General.”

Tempakuron sat there a moment as if he had no words to say. Of course, being in the order of light he had heard the name Erovan Brightwing, he had been well known for his feats of courage in the face of such incredible odds. Facing down the scourge with only a single battalion and his daughter at his side. His daughter as well had made a name for herself, though she had not made it into the order, she had great promise and had she lived she would have rivaled Lady Liandrin herself in due time. In the great hall there was a plaque that had been commissioned in honor of those servants of the light that had fallen to Arthas and the scourge as their death and dismay over ran the Sin’Dorei. Her name and that of her father had been on that list.  She will never forget the look on his face as he learned her true heritage.

“Daydreaming again I see” he quipped as he walked out to the terrace wrapped in heavy furs.

“Just memories is all…did you sleep well?”

“I did thank you, will you be alright up here alone?”

She scoffed “Alone? Temp I have a damn battalion with me. I will be fine. I will be back in a week.”

They had agreed to return separately so they did not raise suspicion. They had to be cautious. Jan had some ceremony for the priesthood in Silvermoon to attend with Tempakuron at her side. While it pained Hathorah to know they would be reunited she was content that nobody knew where he had actually been these past three weeks. For all anyone else knew he had been on a meditative training excursion in the Northern reaches of Winterspring. By now most people were used to Hathorah disappearing for weeks at a time, she was after all quite private.

As she re-entered her master bedroom he has just latching the last bits of his armor on. These past few weeks had been so wonderful, they both hated that it had to end. Now they would be back to sneaking about, exchanges coded letters and private messages. Watching Jan enjoy her fiancé in public while Hathorah was left to only to private hideaways and lies. She hated lying to her friend, but in the end, he had given her a piece of herself back. She felt more like Lor’Nei with him. More like the living.

He placed a soft kiss on her cold lips and lay his forehead to hers.

“I will see you in a weeks’ time…for the love of the gods woman do not make me track up here alone to get you.” He teased playfully. After a few moments he tore himself away and walked out the door, meeting with Velnnah, her best magister in the mage tower to be transported back to Eversong. Now left to her own devices for a week. What would she do? She sighed heavily, as she walked back onto the terrace and sat silently.